During the 1990s, a strange trend developed in Kyiv. Every year, there would be a massive series of auctions of Socialist-Realist paintings and the occasional sculpture. Expats would flock with their Ben Franklins (no checkbooks in Ukraine, and, at most galleries, no credit cards, either, back then) to these auctions, buzzing as though they were going to see newly-discovered Van Goghs or the Spring collection from John Galliano. It was dismaying to watch people plump down thousands of dollars for the rosy-colored canvases of dead artists while the most wonderful, intense, individual works of young, living artists collected dust on the walls of the same galleries.
Now this trend is hitting some of the country's fanciest hotels, one of which, with its elegant, sumptuous ritzy decor and 100- year-old history, is bragging about its collection of nearly 300 Socialist-Realist paintings. Dusty soviet movies, as 'realistic' as any Doris Day-Rock Hudson film from the 1950s, are being promoted at Metro Cash-n-Carry. Socialist-Realist posters are considered hip by advertisers.
There are more than a few things that I despise about Socialist Realism, better known as “Soats-Ray-a-leezm” in Ukraine and Russia. This is the school of art that became the state-approved style under Josef Stalin: The super-men and super-women of the Workers’ Paradise that can still be found in most cities that were once behind the Iron Curtain, intimidating bronze behemoths marching grim-faced or fanatically wide-eyed, chest forward into a future that no longer exists. This was the art that Mr. Stalin deemed politically correct. Everything else was bourgeois and subversive. First of all, Socialist-Realism epitomizes all that is bad about Art as Propaganda. When art stoops to propaganda, it simplifies, limits and browbeats. It is filled with the banalities of the billboard white-washer, the political sound-bite writer, the politically correct civil servant. Issues become the guiding principle, rather than exploration, and if the issue is to perpetrate a lie, then lying becomes the guiding principle. Which is the second reason why I despise Socialist-Realism: most Socialist-Realist art is a Big Fat Lie. When mediaeval and renaissance artists painted Madonnas and saints ad infinitum, one could say that they were victims of a propaganda machine, the Catholic Church. But, first of all, they did not propagate a lie. They did not pretend that crucifixion was fun or that being poor or sick was something for humans to aspire to. Instead, they took the framework of Christian mythology, sets and symbols, and aspired to create the best possible rendition while pushing the envelope of artistic perception and interpretation of the world as they knew. The result was centuries’ worth of incredibly rich art, exploring the world of the imagination through the metaphors of religion, and inspiring viewers for hundreds of years afterwards. Communism, on the other hand, perpetrated murder on the minds of human beings. It pretended that the high should aspire to be low, that cleaning toilets, working in a coal pit, and standing on an interminable, earsplitting assembly line were holy and wonderful things. This is a lie. I was in a pulp and paper mill when I was 24, for three days only. And when I left, I could not rid my clothes of the sulphur smell for a week. The whole time I was there, I thought, This is a factory of death. Dark and slippery metal stairs, dripping with corrosive acids, wrapped their rickety ways up the sides of causticizing tanks and vats filled with nasty stuff. The work areas were lit by dim and dirty lightbulbs dangling from frayed electrical cords. The noise level was unbelievable. People not only did not look happy working there, but they smelled the hell of their workplace all year round. I was there in the dead of winter and it was piercing; I could not imagine what it would be like in the hot summer. And three generations of Canadians had worked in that mill. Luckily, Canada was not communist, and over the years, regulations improved and the environment in and around these mills was improved. This is the right approach to making the lives of workers better. Since we always will need people to do dirty work, we should try to make it less dirty and pay them well. Communism did the opposite: it glorified the ugly and brought beauty down to its own level. Instead of a garbage collector aspiring to a white-collar job and a home of his own, college professors degraded into rubbies: uncouth, unkempt and impoverished. This is a travesty. It makes the life of the low better in the meanest possible way: through schadenfreude – exultation in the misery of others – rather than through genuine progress in the overall quality of all human life. And this travesty is what Socialist Realism largely portrayed. Pictures of rosy-cheeked peasants and miners carrying red banners and having picnics in vast sunny fields. Show that to the miners who are dying of black lung at 35 and have lost half their high-school classmates to accidents. Pictures of the myriad steelmills, papermills, chemical refineries, all crisp and correct, in the bright blue air. Sanitized, disinfected and in total denial of their true meaning in the lives of the people who suffered there every day for their entire working lives. Perhaps it should be called Socialist-Idealism. Except that that, too, would be a lie. The rare Socialist-Realist artist found a way to treat the constraints of political painting somewhat like the mediaeval artist did religious painting. Evading lies, this artist sought out interesting people or awe-inspiring landscapes. In the painting of a family paying respects to its dead by breaking bread over the Dnipro, the scene is suffused with an unbelievable back-lit sunshine that comes close to resembling holy light, and the serenity of the family sitting around a sad and resigned grandmother becomes nearly iconic in the most spiritual sense of the word, so that the viewer hardly notices the shape of the tombstone. No fake bonhomie, no bathos – and no lies. So why do collectors love Socialist Realism? It’s simple. There are no grey areas in Socialist Realism, there are no abstractions, there is no hidden meaning. What you see is what you get, and for people who do not understand art much, that’s perfect. People with no artistic bent can look at a Sots-Realizm painting and “get it.” And because they want to “get it” above all, they get these paintings. They’re just like the brown schooners on stormy turquoise seas, the cosy cottages in the forest, the vases of lilacs on a universal table that a certain kind of collector looks for, to match the colors in the bedroom. Except that they’re also politically hip. That is the third reason why I despise Socialist-Realism. The lie of Communism has become politically hip. People have forgotten the reality behind the façade: the crushed miners behind the neatly painted smokestacks against the stripped hillsides, the murdered artists behind the group portraits of distinguished academics, the famine holocaust behind the rosy-cheeked grain girls in their white kerchiefs and bright-colored skirts. It makes me want to shout to my friends: Stop buying the Lie! • |
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
A Meditation on Socialist Realism
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
RC#68: The public bad
published in Eastern Economist #464, December 26, 2002
I’ve
been thinking lately that the capitalists in this country are anything but
reluctant. They’re as aggressive and monopolistic as Microsoft. It’s the guys that
are supposed to defend the public good that are reluctant. The lawmakers, the
prosecutors, the police. I may even have to change the name of this column.
Here’s something passed along to me by a Canadian friend in Kyiv:
“Last
weekend, I had planned to spend a day in L’viv, but I never got on the train. I
wasn’t going there for the happiest of reasons. It was the eighth anniversary
of the death of a very good friend.
“Each
year, a group of us visit Orest’s grave so as not to forget what he meant to
each of us. And each year, fewer and fewer of us show up. This time, I was one
of the drop-outs.
“Since
Sept. 16, 2000, when Georgiy Gongadze disappeared, and even more recently, when
the body of Mykhailo Kolomiets was found in Belarus, one question continues to
nag me. What exactly is the role of public prosecutors in Ukraine? Do they ever
actually solve any serious crimes? When it comes to suspicious deaths, my
experience in Ukraine says ‘No, they don’t.’
“When
I met him on my first trip to Ukraine in 1990, Orest was a student leader. Head
of World Ukrainian Student Organization, he also ran the Studentske
Bratstvo, a fraternity in L’viv.
A charasmatic and honest man who was always ready to help the next guy, Orest
was that most rare of creatures among soviet citizens, a straight shooter.
“We
immediately took to each other and he joined me on my first pilgrimage to my
father’s village. There, we spent a few evenings seated outside my aunt’s
house, singing sentimental songs about Ukraine. My aunt and cousin listened
with tears in their eyes.
“Only
a couple of years earlier, such a ‘display of nationalism’ could have led to
Orest’s prompt arrest and my immediate whisking away to the nearest airport by
an Intourist ‘guide.’
“Our
friendship grew over four years.
“Then
one evening in mid-December 1994, back in Montreal, I came home to find my
answering machine blinking furiously. There was an unusual number of messages.
I listened to the first one. ‘Hi, this is Slavko from Cleveland. I’m calling to
find out about the situation with Orest?’ The caller hadn’t left his number,
and I couldn’t recall a Slavko from Cleveland.
“The
rest of the messages were similar. One after another, they asked about Orest.
They came from all over North America and there were several more whom I didn’t
know.
“What
was going on? I quickly made some calls of my own and tried to get back to some
of those who had called me. No luck.
“Before
giving up, I decided to try one more number. I dialed an NGO in Kyiv that Orest
had been affliated with. The tense voice of a young woman answer at the other
end of the line. After I explained who I was and why I was calling, there was a
long pause. With a tremble in her voice, she finally said, 'Orest is dead.'
“I
was stunned. I had spoken to him only four days earlier. ‘How? What happened?’
“‘It
seems he was poisoned,’ the young woman replied. ‘The prosecutor’s office
hasn’t stated any clear cause of death, but they’re not considering foul play.’
“I
felt icy shock and my heart began to race. A week earlier, a former professor
and a long-time friend had died of heart failure. But this was different. Orest
was 28. A young, vital, healthy person. My best friend in Ukraine was dead, for
no apparent reason. And there wasn’t a thing I could do.
“Mutual
friends later reported that the official story was he died of alcohol
poisoning. Yet, his widow insisted that when Orest had arrived home the last
night, he was totally sober. Not only that, she told me, he had had over US
$400 in his breast pocket and it was still there when he came home. She thought
someone must have slipped something into Orest’s drink, because he was in a
great deal of pain.
“At
the time I tried to keep track of the futile investigation thousands of
kilometers away, in L’viv. Like everyone else who knew Orest, I wanted concrete
answers. But officials either suggested he had drunk himself to death or that
he had had an enlarged heart. (Prosecutors in Ukraine love that one.)
“Curiously,
at the time of his death Orest was also responsible for the Ukrainian branch of
an American humanitarian aid society that provided medical supplies for
orphanages and hospitals in Western Ukraine. There were rumors at the time that
some local racketeers wanted in on the supplies he was getting. The idea was
that he would pilfer some, they could sell it on the black market, and he would
get a cut.
“It
wasn’t exactly an original set-up. Many aid organizations found themselves in
the same situation. Many succumbed to the temptation – or the threat. But Orest
would never have agreed to such an arrangement.
“Whatever
had really happened, none of us would ever know. The years passed. Together
with Orest’s other friends and his family, I came to accept that he was dead.
His widow eventually remarried. To this day, we keep in touch, as do many of
the others I met through Orest.
“I
see some of these friends more than others. Some are journalists, some are
lawyers, a few are even politicians. We’re always analysing the state of the
country. And when somebody suddenly dies, we just look at each other as if to
say, 'There’s another Orest. We’ll never know the truth about that one!'
“But
you know what? It shouldn’t be that way.” •
–thanks to Liubko M.
RC#67: Reluctant lawmakers
published in Eastern Economist #463, December 19, 2002
On Nov. 28, the Verkhovna
Rada surprised everybody by refusing to replace the current very competent
governor of the National Bank of Ukraine by a deputy who is also the head of a
commercial banking group. Mr. Tihipko originally ran Dnipropetrovsk-based
PrivatBank. Last year, he set up a new group called TAS (the initials
supposedly stand for Tihipko Anna Serhiyivna, his 16-year old daughter). They
bought out Société Générale’s investment branch in Kyiv when the French packed
it in.
The
conflict of interest issue has had everyone on their ear. Even the IMF and the
World Bank have had their say about Mr. Kuchma’s candidate.
This
is a partial transcription of what took place in the Verkhovna Rada of Ukraine
on Dec. 12, thanks to my trusty dictaphone. The matter of dismissing Mr. Stelmakh was brought up a second time
at the request of President Kuchma. The session started out normally enough.
10:01
Speaker
Lytvyn: Good morning, honorable deputies,
guests and visitors to the VR… 429 deputies have registered. I hereby declare
this session open… Mr. Ostash please.
Deputy
Ostash: My fellow deputies, I would like
to draw your attention to the fact that we are in violation of our own
procedures here today. Bills and resolutions rejected by the VR or those that
essentially repeat bills that have been rejected, cannot be entered into the
agenda during the same sitting of the legislature. According to this rule, we
cannot today examine the question of removing the governor of the National Bank
of Ukraine. We therefore request that this item be struck from the agenda.
Lytvyn: Thank you.
Deputy
Matvienko: Mr. Speaker and Mr. Premier, I
have a question to both of you. Could you please explain what is happening
here? We’re violating VR regulations. No new circumstances have appeared, yet
we have the dismissal of Mr. Stelmakh on our agenda again. The VR has already
made its position clear regarding the president’s request.
Lytvyn: I can answer your question right now, Mr. Matvienko.
We’re not in violation.
Noise
errupts in the hall.
Deputy
Lutsenko: My honorable deputies and the
not-so-honorable Presidium. I would like to move that we give the podium to
Deputy Sas.
Lyvtyn: Mr. Sas, please take the podium.
More
noise in the hall.
Lytvyn: Please step forward. Deputy Sas from the VR
procedures committee.
Deputy
Sas: Thank you, Mr. Speaker… (goes on to
explain the procedural details) … The second appeal of the President can’t be
considered during the current VR session, according to VR rules.
Lytvyn: Thank you. Please finish. My fellow deputies, please
take your places. Please. The procedures committee has made its position clear.
Let’s move along, please. What else is needed? My fellow deputies, please take
your places. Are we going to have to toss someone out?
More
noise in the hall.
Lytvyn: Please, my fellow deputies. There are two draft
resolutions regarding this issue–
More
noise in the hall.
Lytvyn: Are you going to let me talk or not? I repeat. There
are two – come on, now. I will make an announcement and then you can talk. Will
you please quiet down or not? There’s a draft resolution put forward by
Deputies Yushchenko, Moroz and Tymoshenko, about the unacceptability of this
resolution. We will put this first one to a vote, about the unacceptability of
the second resolution according to VR regulations, correct? And then we will
put the other resolution to the vote, if necessary.
More
noise in the hall.
Lytvyn: My fellow deputies, I declare this session adjourned
until 10:45.
10:46
Lytvyn: My fellow deputies, let’s agree to one thing. I just
met with the heads of all the factions. We agreed that first we will all take
our places and then–
Noise
errupts in the hall.
Lytvyn: Hold on a minute, my fellow colleagues, this won’t
do! Please listen! If it’s necessary, I will tell you when to come to the
podium. Please, take your seats and then you can come up one by one. We
discussed the matter and came to – my fellow deputies – we came to the
conclusion that–
More
noise in the hall.
Lytvyn: My fellow deputies, the question is not so much a
procedural one since it has taken on political overtones. As Mr. Yushchenko
rightly said, there is a conflict of interests. So that there isn’t any further
conflict of interests among us, and so that we can work in a civilized manner,
I ask you to please take your seats. Mr. Stelmakh would like the right to speak
and explain his position.
More
noise in the hall.
Lytvyn: My fellow deputies, please! We agreed, if you – my
fellow deputies – if you’re not prepared to listen – if you’re not prepared to
listen to what the leaders of your factions – We agreed that you would all take your seats. I’m asking you
once more. My fellow deputies, I told you what happened during the last recess.
Now we have a motion that we can’t really turn down. There’s a motion that we
adjourn in order to consult with the NDP faction and the Industrialists. This
session is hereby adjourned until 11:40.
11:41.
Lytvyn: My fellow deputies, during the last recess, we tried
to – please, I ask you, what are you doing here? Are you going to knock me
over? I’m state property… We had a constructive discussion but neither side was
willing to change their position. Mr. Stelmakh tendered his resignation and
this is what it says:
“Please
accept my resignation from the position of Governor of the NBU –”
Noise
errupts in the hall.
Lytvyn: Hold on, I’m still reading – come on, folks, what’s
going on here? His letter is being reviewed now, so I think this question has
to be postponed. Now, so you all can calm down, I move that we all start
working properly at 12:30. After that, I would appreciate if everyone put their
minds to working seriously, productively and quickly. We have an entire list of
documents to review. Are there any objections to this motion? I announce this
session adjourned until 12:30… (etc etc, ad nauseam)
There
were two more adjournment and in the end, all that happened was a few
microphones were broken, a few noses were out of joint, and Mr. Stelmakh kept
his job. Makes you wonder why anyone would pay hundreds of thousands of dollars
to be elected to such a thankless post… •
RC#66: A democratic birthday party
published in Eastern Economist #461, December 5, 2002
I was pretty busy Friday night, thinking that I’d go off to
Baraban as usual to frolic with friends. But about 20 to seven, Ilko called me
at work and said, “Be there or be square, bud. We have a party tonight!”
I’d
completely forgotten Democratic Initiatives was celebrating their 10th
anniversary. Enough time has gone by for quite a few people and organizations
to be turning 10 in Ukraine, I thought. And these guys have some serious
milestones to their credit.
Like
the first exit poll at an election in Ukraine. That was during the last
election to the Verkhovna Rada, back in 1998. There’ve been two more elections
since then, and DI’s been busy little bees. (The only national elections before
that were four years earlier, when the technology and legislation weren’t in
place to handle exit polls.)
I
got to the Hotel Kyiv just as things were really getting into swing. A band was
playing, flowers everywhere, and a couple of hundred people scarfing food. I
heard someone complain that they felt underdressed. Looking at my own fairly
tired sweater and wrinkled trousers, I shrugged. If
they’re underdressed, I’m Joe Hobo, I thought. Do I care?
A
happy Ilko was already making his speech.
“I
never planned to be president of the Democratic Initiatives Foundation,” he
said, “but here we are, 10 years later.”
Glasses
clinked right and left although no one had actually made a toast yet. That
honor went to Les, a playwright and a deputy since before Ukraine even became
independent. Les is one of the people who helped the Foundation get going. A
fine, square-jawed lad from Kyivska oblast who’s real name is Leonid, oddly
enough. (Usually Les is short for Oles, which is less short for Oleksandr in
Ukrainian. Sasha is the Russian variant.)
“DI
was formed after the honeymoon of achieving independence was over in Ukraine,”
said Les, raising his glass. “Its initiatives have been both democratic
and…interesting. Here’s the first toast!”
Les
later introduced me to Serhiy, one of the first people EE worked with, too,
back in 1994 – before my time – when he began to operate a small news agency
called UNIAR. Serhiy’s drifted on to bigger and better things since then.
The
head of SOCIS Ukraine, Gallup’s partner, presented Ilko with a handsome wall
clock and kidded him that things at Democratic Initiatives always run on time.
“Even if we do the polling and surveys together,” he said. “the initiative is
really always from DI.”
Bouncing
in the door came Mykola, a man with a plan, if I ever saw one. “I love you
guys, I think you’re great,” he told Yevhen from the Committee of Voters of
Ukraine. “But my committee’s upset with what’s going on with the press in the
regions. We’re ready tackle this with any other organization that’s ready to deal
with press freedom issues in the oblasts.”
“No
politics, Kolya, this is a PARTY!” said someone, pressing a shot glass into his
hand.
“Yeah,
yeah. I’m only going to do 25 grams tonight anyway. I’ve gotta play tennis
tomorrow morning.”
“Tennis?”
Outside, it was getting mighty cold and I couldn’t imagine any indoor courts
being particularly well heated.
“Yeah,
we’ve got a tournament going among the deputies… just a friendly thing.”
Just
then a bubbly brunette with orange streaks in her hair came up. Inna runs the
Europe XXI Foundation, another NGO. Somebody had hauled out a camera, and soon
a bunch of partygoers gathered around to pose. Inna towered a head taller than
Mykola. I thought they looked kinda cute.
Liubko,
one of those diehard Canadians working on a UN clean-up project, was getting
into the band, glass in hand. The boys were playing some rock ’n’ roll
classics. “You know, this country has great talent,” he said to me,
“particularly the musicians.” He was right. The guys even had the accents down,
and all the nuances.
Somebody’s
girlfriend wandered over, another Canadian.
“They
really don’t have much of a vegetarian culture here,” she complained, looking
at a sea of canapés with smothered in kovbasa, salo and liver paté.
Personally,
I wasn’t having too hard a time of it. I rather liked the paté.
“But
it’s getting better,” said Liubko, consolingly. “And there’s definitely a
drinking culture,” he said sweeping his hand at a table-full of Nemiroff,
champagnske and wine bottles.
“You
know?” Ksenia piped in, who freelances as a translator, “I was in the Karpaty
with some Scottish friends this summer, both of them vegetarians, and we all
went out for dinner with a bunch of the locals I know. Afterwards, Rachel said
she was amazed that no one at the table had ordered a single meat dish the
entire evening.”
“You’re
kidding! What did they order?”
“Well,
we had borscht, salads, varenyky, banosh, and a bunch of different mushroom
dishes,” said Ksenia. “I have to admit, I didn’t even notice it until Rachel
pointed it out.”
About
an hour later, I noticed Mykola doing his fifth 25 grams with yet another
partier… He was definitely unwinding, and I had the feeling his game would be
pretty loose the next morning.
Just
then Vlad from the Freedom of Choice Coalition came by and Inna offered him a
drink. “Naah, just give me a juice. Advent’s already started.” Everybody rolled
their eyes and Inna got him the juice.
That
was my cue to go home before I was too soused to find my way. Happy Birthday,
DI! •
RC#65: "And the greatest of these is charity"
published in Eastern Economist #460, November 28, 2002
Ellis Island is more of a tourist drop these days, standing at times in the shadow of the Statue of Liberty. The hope that this island port-of-entry offered cannot be underestimated. Despite the many humiliations, ranging from misspelled or just plain wrong names, to intimidation, suspicion, and even de-lousing, crossing its threshold meant that the exhausted wanderer had reached a new home.
Ellis Island is more of a tourist drop these days, standing at times in the shadow of the Statue of Liberty. The hope that this island port-of-entry offered cannot be underestimated. Despite the many humiliations, ranging from misspelled or just plain wrong names, to intimidation, suspicion, and even de-lousing, crossing its threshold meant that the exhausted wanderer had reached a new home.
Canada
never had a point of entry that captured the imagination of immigrants and
citizens the world over. But those who landed on its shores, mostly in Halifax
after World War II, breathed the same sigh of relief.
I’ve
seen many photos of families at Ellis Island. The immigrants of the late
1800’s: startled-looking Ukrainian girls in their village costumes standing in
a row while someone takes their picture. Possibly for the first time in their
lives. The men stand behind them, scowling in flat dark hats. Pre-World War I,
between the wars, and the final huge wave, after WWII.
There
weren’t any more costumes in this last immigration. The picture I’m looking at
right now was taken in the winter of 1950. The father stands, hands behind his
back, in heavy overcoat, fedora and whiskers. He’s a little
disgruntled-looking, possibly over the baggage-style tag pinned to his lapel.
Possibly just because he’s tired and scared, wondering if he’ll be able to work
as a doctor in this new country. He looks about 45.
His
wife, a pretty brunette in a good fur coat and 1948 vintage hat, has her hands
up her sleeves. It looks cold. Still, she’s smiling –the only one in the
picture smiling, as it happens– her Slavic cheeks prominent in the tiny
black-and-white picture. There’s a tag pinned to her coat as well.
In
front of them stand two dark-haired girls, aged about five and two. The older
one is holding a doll with a 1920’s bob, staring at the camera suspiciously.
She’s wearing a long coat. The younger one is standing akimbo in a fluffy
spotted coat, leaning on a pile of luggage.
Both
look a little wary. Maybe even cranky. Their lapels also sport big white
baggage tags.
The
pile of belongings is modest, when you realize it’s this family’s entire
worldly goods. Four leather satchels bursting to the gills, every sidepocket
bulging. But how much can you put into a satchel, after all? A towel? a pair of
shoes? some favorite books? They couldn’t even have fit a collapsible baby
buggy into the large white box standing under the satchels. In front of the box
is a leather case with the one possession of value: a bandura.
In
the background are dozens of other people in overcoats, with briefcases and
valises standing beside them. There are no peasants in this picture, no
starving toddlers, no third-world people. These are Europeans fleeing the
aftermath of a European war.
There
were some very critical differences between this picture and these people, and
most of the previous waves of immigrants.
These
were mostly already displaced people. They had lost their homes, their
possessions, and often their native lands during the war. Many had wandered
over hell’s frontiers for three or four years, hungry, brutalized, often in
mortal fear. Families were separated over and over again. They never knew until
they actually saw each other again through some miracle, months later, if that
wasn’t the last good-bye.
A
wife might have given birth to her first baby in one place while her husband
worked hundreds of miles away, close to enemy lines, as a night watchman in a
tobacco plant. While there were enemies on all fronts, there were also friends
in unexpected places. Over and over again, against a backdrop of unspeakable
inhumanity, people were saved by the individual bonds with individual people
that transcend nationality, religion and politics.
When
the cannons stopped firing, those who were unlucky found themselves taken by
soviet troops. Most of them were sent to Siberia. At least they weren’t shot,
like the prisoners of war.
Those
who were lucky found themselves in an Allied sector. They were collected into
shanty towns called DP camps. They weren’t prisoners, they weren’t refugees.
They were simply “displaced persons.”
In
these camps, which were organized territorially, people were sometimes reunited
with friends and relatives. Others met for the first time and fell in love.
They married and had babies. Life slowly got back to normal. Except it wasn’t.
The
country they were staying in had been devastated. Most of the cities had been
mercilessly shelled by either retreating or advancing troops. Unemployment was
massive. This country could not absorb them all.
The
DPs were still displaced. Slowly a new migration began. Some went Down Under,
some to Britain. Many hundreds of thousands went to Ellis Island, to the land
of the free and the home of the brave. Many other hundreds of thousands went to
the True North, strong and free.
There
was another difference between these immigrants and earlier waves. They were
mostly well-educated. Teachers, doctors, engineers. They had skills. Many even
had languages. In fact, there was a special name given to them by other groups
of immigrants: the intelligentsia.
Some
were able to keep working in their professions. Many more ended up as night
watchmen and cleaning ladies because they didn’t know the language.
The
war took its toll in other ways, too. The man in this picture, for instance,
was barely 35. Most of that generation looked 10 years older than they were.
But they didn’t mind. They had found freedom.
Three
things had kept them going.
Faith
that there was a place for them in a war-torn world. Hope that they would make
it there somehow. And the charity of the New World in opening its doors so
generously to them. •
RC#64: “First we kill all the lawyers”
published in Eastern Economist #458, November 12, 2002
This is a famous line from a Shakespearean play. I even know
a few lawyers, most of them in Washington, who wear nifty T-shirts with this
written on them.
In
Ukraine, though, I can only pity them. No one need kill lawyers here. The
system is doing it for them.
The
other day, I was talking to a friend who happens to be a lawyer. He said, “When
I taught law back in 1992-3, I remember asking my students, which they were
planning to do. To get a government job, or to get a job in private business.
All but two raised their hands for private business.”
A
couple of years ago, he went back into teaching. “When I asked my students the
same question, all but two raised their hands for the government job. ‘What’s
happened,’ I asked them? Nobody said anything. Then finally one guy, a kind of
insolent dude, drawled: “Well, you know… corruption is eternal.”
This
brought to mind the story another lawyer friend told me a not long ago. We were
talking about the difficulty of doing things legally here and she began to tell
me the story of her first experience practicing law.
“When
I first started as a lawyer, I had a job with one of the ministries. I had a
lot to learn, and it wasn’t long before I got my first taste.
“Our
office had received a skarha,
a formal complaint from an accountant that her director had violated a number
of regulations. The letter detailed the violations and they were pretty
serious.
“My
boss called me in and said, ‘I want you to go down to Uman and look into these
accusations. Do you understand your task?’ ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I have to go
through all their operations and check whether what the accountant says is
true.’ ‘Go for it,’ said my boss.
“So
I went down to Uman and began investigating. Sure enough, I found evidence that
every one of the accountants accusations were true. This was my first real
assignment, so I was careful to note every detail of the evidence in my report.
I went back to Kyiv feeling happy that I had done my job properly.
“The
next morning, my boss called me in. ‘This is your report on the Uman office?’
‘Yes.’ ‘I see that you found evidence that the director did all these things
that the accountant claimed.’ ‘Yes,’ I said, feeling pleased with myself.
“‘But
what about this?” asked my boss. He proceeded to describe an illegal
transaction not mentioned in the complaint. ‘Are you sure this director didn’t
also do this?’ ‘Well, no, I’m not.’ ‘Then go back there and investigate a
little more.’
“So
I took the train back to Uman and began digging around some more. Sure enough,
the director had done these things as well. I put together a new report and
brought it into my boss, feeling even more pleased with myself.
“‘So
you discovered that he did that as well?’ ‘Yes, he did.’ ‘But what about this?’
(My boss described another illegal operation.) ‘Did you not check into whether
he might have done this as well?’ ‘No, I didn’t.’ ‘Well, what are you waiting
for? Get down there and look into it.’
“Feeling
a little surprised, I went down to Uman again. Sure enough, there was plenty of
evidence that the director had done this illegal operation. How did my boss
know about all this wrongdoing? I gathered together all the evidence, put it
into a thoroughly damning report and presented it.
“‘Fine,
you got even more evidence of wrongdoing. But did you consider that he’s
probably done this as well?’ (My boss described yet another misdemeanor.) ‘What
do we pay you for? Get down there and find out.’
“Feeling
a little put out, I went down to Uman a fourth time. Sure enough, there was
plenty of evidence pinning even more misdeeds on the director. I gathered
together all the evidence, put it minute detail in a ten-page report and
presented it to my boss.
“‘So
you got evidence of that as well. But he’s probably done this as well.’ (My
boss described yet another violation.) ‘Look, you don’t seem to be thinking
much. This time, you’re going to have to pay your own travel expenses.’
“Sitting
in a barren hotel room in Uman, I got to thinking. What was really going on? At
last, it began to dawn on me. I did my research, then I went back to Kyiv and
wrote up a bland little report saying not much of anything.
“The
next day my boss called me in. He was smiling. ‘Now I see you understand your
job. Let me tell you one thing, young lady. Everybody breaks the law, every
day. That’s just the way it is. But
if you toe the line, nobody cares. When you step out of line, that’s when
someone’s going to use it against you.'
“I
waited, sensing there was more to come. 'Now, when someone complains formally,
like this accountant, it usually means they know what’s been going on and
they’re doing it themselves. So, go down there and investigate the accountant.'
“I
soon found out that the accountant was renovating her house, using thousands of
hryvnia of building materials and so on. On a salary of about 400 hryvnia a
month. When I started asking her about that, she understood she had lost. She
withdrew her complaint.”
And
that’s how it is in Ukraine. God have mercy on the lawyers. •
RC#63: Good news/Bad news
published in Eastern Economist #457, November 5, 2002
The last few weeks have been tough. In Ukraine, the president is doing battle with some tapes that make a crook out of him. The US has cut aid to Ukraine by US $50mn because of this. A US congressman has asked President Bush not to meet with Mr. Kuchma. NATO has downgraded its summit in Prague so as not to consort with him.
The last few weeks have been tough. In Ukraine, the president is doing battle with some tapes that make a crook out of him. The US has cut aid to Ukraine by US $50mn because of this. A US congressman has asked President Bush not to meet with Mr. Kuchma. NATO has downgraded its summit in Prague so as not to consort with him.
An
appeals court judge accepted statements pertaining to Mr. Kuchma and submitted
a request for a criminal investigation against him. A retiring Supreme Court
Chief Justice admitted that there was regularly “telephone pressure” from
upstairs to favor certain decisions.
Meanwhile,
the Speaker revealed that the Tax Administration and Interior Ministry have
been using “charitable funds” to subsidize their budgets to the tune of between
80 and a couple of hundred million hryvnia. Apparently this is where taxpayers and
others are “encouraged” to contribute if they want certain things done – or not
done, as the case may be.
Two
men were arrested out of the blue. One a lawyer who defended people Mr. Kuchma
doesn’t seem to like. The other, a former partner of his Chief-of-Staff’s best
buddy. Both men were released soon after, without much explanation. The five
cops who arrested the businessman are being investigated.
The
legislature is in gridlock because the forced majority just won’t stay put.
Some deputies who were friends of the arrested former partner walked this week,
spoiling the quorum.
The
Verkhovna Rada failed to pass a money-laundering bill. Opposition members who
boycotted the vote say there are too many loopholes.
What
do all these developments have in common? They all have to do with democratic
process and rule of law.
And
they all mean good news for Ukraine.
Take
Mr. Kuchma’s problem with the tapes. He’s been caught red-handed talking about
selling weapons to an off-limits country that he agreed not to deal with just
months before the conversation was taped, back in summer 2000. His foreign
minister tried to pooh-pooh the whole affair by saying, “So what, nothing was
actually sold.” No one was impressed. That’s good news.
Unlike
the original tape scandal, there’s been little effort on the part of Mr.
Kuchma’s administration to deny that the tapes contain a conversation that
really took place. That’s definitely good news.
The
conversation did not seem to involve security service, law enforcement,
administration, legislative or judiciary officials. It was between Mr. Kuchma
and his arms trader. A man who found himself DOA after a strange car accident
just as rumors began to surface in March. That’s definitely very bad news. But
it seems that this was a private affair, not a state decision. That’s excellent
news. For Ukraine, if not for Mr. Kuchma.
US
experts say the tape is authentic and cut the aid. But they sent an
investigative team over anyway. That’s also good news for Ukraine. It’s called
due process.
The
two whistle-blowing judges, given the condition of the judiciary in Ukraine, deserve
medals. They both have high-profile positions and they decided to take a
stance. That is great news. Maybe more judges will take a stance and maybe
Ukraine’s judiciary will become a little more independent of political
pressure.
The
congressman and NATO are saying, “Mr. Kuchma, you can’t mix it up. Either
govern properly and above-board, or you don’t deserve your position as
head-of-state.” Isn’t that good news? The pressure is for the right reasons –
not to humiliate Ukraine or to protect vested interests.
Everybody
assumed Speaker Lytvyn was bought and sold by the president. It ain’t
necessarily so. He seems to be taking his job as Speaker fairly seriously. And
decided that his position requires some amount of accountability and
responsibility towards more than just his own petty ambitions. Ukraine should
have a few more of those in elected office. That’s good news for sure.
There
was a lot of brouhaha about the two arrests, which happened within 12 hours of
each other. The fact is that reaction to both arrests was swift and condemning.
And they were both swiftly released. Not that long ago, one or the other – or
both men – might just have wound up dead somehow. This time, the people who
ordered the arrests are on the defensive. The cops are being held to account,
too. How’s that for good news?
Whatever
fair and unfair means have been used to kludge together the legislature’s
majority, it isn’t working. The truth is, the country needs party politics, and
that’s going to take time. Meanwhile, threats, bribes and whatever is not
enough to get deputies to work together. The bad news is that it’s gridlocking
the VR. The good news is, people are going to have to start thinking in terms
of parties. Real parties, like the Communists and the Socialists. We may not
like or agree with what they stand for, but we at least know what it is. What
does NDP stand for, other than No Damned Platform? Or SDPU(o) – Some Dangerous
Political Underworld (off limits)? Even Nasha Ukraina has no platform. It’s the
Yushchenko support bloc, which is all fine and dandy. But that doesn’t make it
a political party.
The
bad news about the stonewalling is that the FATF could blacklist Ukraine after
Dec. 15. The good news is, the opposition is probably completely right. The
bill that was presented has loopholes and they have to be closed up. It should
go back to committee. That’s democratic process. That’s also rule of law. I
don’t know about the rest of the world, but Ukraine’s had a good week. •
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