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karpitskyMorawiecki J. The Thaw in Russia’s Periphery // New Eastern Europe. Religion, Politics and Power. – 2015. – № 3-4 (XVII) May-August. – P. 87-96.
The Thaw in Russia’s Periphery
JEDRZEJ MORAWIECKI
For ages Russia has been building projects which in the 21st century have been repacked again. Two products are being offered at the same time, with two dominating identity concepts. The first is the Orthodox identity. It protects conservative values, defends Kremlin policies, but also does not stay away from the lights of shopping malls, the glamour and consumption joys. The second concept is quite different. On the surface, it seems quite icy and unattractive. But when you get a closer look at the post-Soviet cities, remotely located from Moscow or St Petersburg, you will understand that this second Russia speaks with multiple voices and is very polyphonic.
“Go ahead. Forward! Try again. Exactly here. Soft. Can you feel the vibrations? This is your energy. It is still numb, but waking up.” A young squaddie of the Russian Federation’s border guard, Alexei Zarubin, obediently digs his hands in the bluish snow. A moustachioed captain nods his head and mumbles with approval, like a bear.
Then he asks: “Do you understand now? You can heal other soldiers with your hands. Three times a day you dig your hands in the snow and that is it. I was in Tibet once and this is how the monks train there. Thanks to this method you will
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cure any illness, any injury. It is all very simple. People just do not know about it. Human beings collect energy in themselves….”
I see these soldiers only a screen. I am in Tomsk. I am at a student dormitory on Komsomolsky Prospect. I am writing down and translating the raw material for a film, directed by Michal Marczak, entitled At the Edge of Russia. This documentary is to tell the story of Russian border patrols who are protecting a base near the Arctic Circle that nobody really needs. In parallel to translating, I write about religious life in urban Siberia. I take breaks and make occasional trips to Krasnoyarsk, or Buryatia, and sometimes Moscow. Then I return to the dorm and my cold, spacious room which is located on the ground level of the building. My room is decorated with a touching sign that reads “Welcome to Tomsk”, which every day is lit up by the light coming from the headlights of the refuse lorry parked right across from my window.
Omnipresent
When I finally surface from my room, I listen to numerous conversations taking place outside on the street. I feel as if my hearing has been numbed. I realise that I am toughening up like the locals who are tired of the humidity and the frost. At times, I also grumble and yell at bus drivers who miss their stops. In most cases, though, I remain silent. I write. I sleep. And dream about Europe. I miss western music, low street curbs, zebra crossings, cheap airlines, and wine from a discount shop. You can indeed get fed up with the cheesy dance music from the local Siberian bistros.
And yet, in spite all of it, Tomsk still surprises me. There are things that you will never take for granted. For example, the impression that religion seems omnipresent: it sneaks into conversations in the most bizarre and least expected situations, such as the dialogues quoted above between the border patrol officers, or during day-long conversations on the Trans-Siberian railway. Or even during interviews and meetings with academics and local journalists.
Since 1991 religion here has not been so willingly pushed to the private sphere as is the case in Europe. Esotericism can easily be found on bookshop shelves. Intimate spirituality clashes with cyber-religions and powerful media productions. A producer of the Russian rip off of Dr House preaches patriotic Orthodox sermons at stadiums, while in a popular reality show fortune tellers, witches and gaudily dressed shamans confront each other. With a bit of luck we can even come across
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a political commentary programme with a few preachers trying to prove which one of them is another incarnation of Christ.
A truly Orthodox man
In my search for interesting religious figures to interview I was told about Professor Karpitski. He was mentioned by several people in different cities. I heard statements like: “He is the first truly Orthodox man. He lived in the students’ dormitory. He did it to be closer to the students.” When I meet Nikolai* Karpitski [*the text was a typo, fixed] he does not live in the dormitory anymore. I sit with him and his wife in a wooden hut located in the city centre. In our conversation we first touch upon very current events; the professor is deeply engaged in pre-election fever. He is a candidate for the position of director at the faculty of philosophy. The decision will be made in a few days.
My interlocutor starts talking about Satan. About his vision of hell, which he claims he almost touched physically. There everything seemed ordinary. But everything, every being, was hollowed-out. Because hell is earth deprived of God.
On Sunday I attend a Catholic mass in Tomsk. The service is very Polish, and different from those in Krasnoyarsk, and even more different from the ones in Buryatia where there is a handful of Catholics. In Tomsk, conversely, Catholics are numerous. They have blended with the locals and established relations with the local authorities. They have also entered into a dialogue with Eastern Orthodoxy. After the mass, we start talking with the priest – Father Andrzej Duklewski. He tells us about his love for Russia, which in the beginning he could not tame. He talks about the assistance he receives from the local administration, the meetings with other religious groups, and their volunteer work in the psychiatric hospital. They have been working there together with a group of Eastern Orthodox led by Father Alexander Piechurkin. I am told that Father Alexander is someone else who I must meet. He is an open-minded and highly spiritual man, not assigned to any parish. Maybe because he became too close to the Catholics?
“It has become more and more difficult to talk to the Orthodox hierarchy,” the Catholic Father Duklewski tells us. “There was a time when they would meet for tea and dumplings. Now everything has changed. Such a meeting could be costly today.”
Two identities
Back in my room in Tomsk I try to put together all the pieces of the Russian religious mosaic. I am writing an article about religious repackaging: For ages Rus-
90 Opinion & Analysis The Thaw in Russia’s Periphery, Jedrzej Morawiecki
sia has been building projects which in the 21st century have been repacked again. Two products are being offered at the same time, with two dominating identity concepts. The first is the Orthodox identity. It protects conservative values, defends Kremlin policies, but also does not stay away from the lights of shopping malls, the glamour and consumption joys which have been so desired and awaited by the Russians who not only remember the Soviet Union but also the chaos of the Yeltsin era.
The second concept is quite different. On the surface, this different Russia seems quite icy and unattractive. It is indeed the Siberian Russia. When you get a closer look at these post-Soviet cities, remotely located from Moscow or St Petersburg, you will understand that this second Russia speaks with multiple voices and is very polyphonic. It buzzes with a dazzling multi-denominational mosaic. It tempts with spiritual utopias.
The hallways of the dormitory where I live spit out frost that has been collected over winter. I sleep as long as possible. During breaks between sleep I continue translating the raw material for the documentary movie. The conversations of the border patrol from the Arctic Circle region are beginning to sound stranger and stranger. At one point, the soldiers organise a Passover celebration. They arrange the order of the ceremony and fight over the Lent rules. In the end, the issue is resolved by the moustachioed captain. And then it gets even stranger. The border patrol officers prepare a poetry evening. They recite poems about Rus’. About grain. And about Eastern Orthodoxy. Then the soldiers drink vodka from tin cups and sing patriotic songs.
A Pharisee?
“You have to just go with the low,” says the charismatic Orthodox priest in a sad voice. This is Father Mikhail, the very same one whom the Catholic priest would meet regularly not so long ago. Many of my contacts, not only in Tomsk but also in Krasnoyarsk, Abakan and Ulan-Ude, recommended it to me that I visit him.
“I have found that it is easier for me to meet with businessmen, even shady ones, than with Catholics,” he continues. “I have a wife. I have a family. I cannot lose my parish. Or leave the parish.” We are sitting in a small room in the rectory. The walls smell of fresh wood. Behind the windows, snow slowly slides down from the church. The new golden dome shines in the sun.
Later I join an Orthodox congregational meeting. Father Alexander Piechurkin, the priest that has better relations with the Catholics, arrives on a bike. He leaves his bike in front of a cosy hut, near the brewery. The congregation has already
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gathered. The Orthodox community are making pryaniki – spice cookies. Later we read a story about the vineyard workers. Twice. After the reading there is silence.
“How could God have allowed that,” asks one of the participants of the meeting as he cannot hold it in any more. “This was a sheer provocation.”
“I also worked many times in the field in the heat, I know what it is like,” agrees Yuri who informally chairs the meeting. “Does this mean that God is a provocateur? He indeed differentiated people.”
Father Alexander shakes his head. “He did this to show us something. To free us from our pride,” he explains. “He did the same to the Pharisees, by turning to tax collectors and harlots. This made the clergy furious. Notice that back then he was beaten up too; it was not that people were fighting with each other, they held grudges against him. In the same way, we now hold grudges against heaven for the injustice on earth.”
We are sitting on a large sofa. In front of us is a coffee table with lingonberry and tea from taiga with pine needles. We are eating and talking about pre-historical issues. And the conversation moves to the beginning of the world. How could all people come from Adam and Eve, somebody wonders aloud, this is nothing but incest.
“But back then there was an extremely strong chromosome bank … back then it was possible,” comes a reply. “The Bible is an allegory. Adam and Eve are only images,” says another member of the congregation.
Father Alexander again tries to give order to the discussion: “he Earth was created, which with God’s help underwent such a change that a man emerged. Religion tells us what we are for and not what we are like nor what the world is like. The latter is explained by science.”
After a while the group starts talking about the German philosopher Bert Hellinger. They are very interested in the constellations. “We are constantly on the road, we will see where we arrive and what will happen to our group,” the priest says.
When the priest leaves the room, the congregation discusses the issue of a lat for him. Something has to be done. He himself is to write to the bishop. But who knows what answer he will get. At the end of the day, they decide to have a collection for the priest once a month.
Outside, Father Alexander switches on his bike lamp and gets ready to leave. He says that he is scared. Isn’t he becoming too similar to a Pharisee? He advises people on how to live. And this advice can indeed bring help and relief. But that is
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not the point. That is not where Christ is. Harlots will experience salvation before those who give advice.
Cleaning up the square
Unexpectedly the coldness returns to Tomsk. The wind is chilling and cold. On TV, however, Russians find joy from the military reality shows, which are gaining popularity on national Russian TV stations. The shows depict laughing soldiers, male and female, jumping over burning rings, while other TV series present brave KGB officers in leather jackets.
We ride a pink tram which howls with sadness. The driver slams the doors when the inside gets flooded by a crowd from Soviet Street. This is the tram to take in order to get to the amusement park with the Ferris wheel. We get of the tram not far away and head to a wooden Lutheran church. We await the pastor. It was not that long ago that Angela Merkel paid a visit here. Now this place stinks of “the rotten West”. The times that have come are not easy. Reforms are one thing, but allowing homosexuals to get married? The pastor lowers his voice. He himself cannot really imagine what he would feel if he was forced to take communion from a woman. “At least the Russian Orthodox Church guards its values.
This is our hope,” he says. The media growl from Moscow. Ivan Otrakovsky, the leader of Holy Rus’, a group of Russian Orthodox vigilantes, wants to create “Orthodox patrol squads” in the capital. They are to protect morality on Moscow’s streets. He calls on the Eastern Orthodox to “prepare for the physical defence of faith”. The Russia Public Opinion Research Centre (WCIOM) reports that this idea is supported by two thirds of the Russians. The mayor of Moscow calls it “terrible”. The Ministry of Internal Affairs believes the initiative is “premature”. In the meantime some Muftis are convinced that the idea is by all means justified: “he faithful should have a right to protect their churches or temples.” In turn – as the Levada Centre reports – 55 per cent of Muscovites are of the opinion that the greatest problems are related to the immigrants coming from the Caucuses and Central Asia.
At the same time, the Kremlin puts pressure on the media. Phrases such as “cleaning up the square” are entering common discourse. Alexey Venediktov, editor-in-chief of Echo of Moscow, in which Gazprom has a controlling share, is of the opinion that the square is not empty yet. However, he also compares the existence of journalists to a “zombie existence”. He says: “Freedom of expression
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is indeed shrinking.” And it may soon happen that some books, including classic 19th century novels, will be treated like porno mags. They contain too many bad words. Film and theatre actors can only use “literary swear words”. Their “literary nature” is to be determined by an “independent commission”.
Isolation is unavoidable
Back in Tomsk at the supermarket across from the dormitory where I live, I could not buy beer. I was late by five minutes. Today is the first day of a new prohibition law. Hence I arrive to the house of Professor Karpitski empty-handed. The atmosphere is bleak. Karpitski lost the elections for the director position at the faculty of philosophy by a thin margin. The professor mentions that he predicts that Russia will head towards autarky and believes that isolation is unavoidable for the country. Later Karpitski talks about a court case that is taking place in Tomsk. Bhagavad Gita is about to be regarded as an extremist publication. The Hare Krishnas are trying to defend themselves by appealing to international organisations. Karpitski is sceptical: “The system works in such a way that a stupid government official cannot be blocked, not even from above. Even from Moscow. His blows cannot yet be parried. They need to be responded to. This is the only way. Here all government officials do whatever they want as long as they do not slip. When they fall out of the system, nobody helps them. It resembles a criminal structure in a state of decay.”
As consolation, a piece of good news comes from abroad. Marczak’s film At the Edge of Russia received the Planete Doc Festival award. It is time to pack up. I am heading to St Petersburg. It is high time I meet the soldiers who are in the film. We will be talking about Eastern Orthodoxy, cosmic energy and healings.
On my way I make a stop in Moscow. I pick up film discs sent by Marczak. I am to deliver them to the film’s protagonists. I stop by a book shop on Lubyanka Street. There I meet Boris, a friend who is also a religious studies specialist. We speak for a brief moment of the latest developments regarding the Orthodox Church and its role in politics.
Russia’s Eastern Orthodoxy has emerged as a key political player. Patriarch Kirill has achieved what his predecessor feared. He came closer to the Kremlin. He began appearing in the media. Priests no longer avoid talk and reality shows; they get involved in arguments and scream on camera. An ultra-conservative celebrity,
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Vsevolod Chaplin, the chairman of the Synodal Department for the Co-operation of Church and Society of the Moscow Patriarchate gets into fights on TV. He shouts that today’s Russia is “the only remaining Christian civilisation”.
St Petersburg
After Moscow, I head to St Petersburg by train. I am to meet the protagonists of the film I worked on. But there are no border patrol officers from the Arctic Circle. I cannot find the military base, the one which I watched the whole time I was working on the raw material. The moustachioed captain built it solely for the film. Yes, he indeed was a solider. But those times are long gone. He now organises survival expeditions, while Alexei Zarubin, the guy who was taught to emit cosmic energy, does not know a thing about the army. He only put on a costume. He became involved in the film after he was chosen at the casting call. I learn about all this while talking to my protagonists. They think I know it was all a fake and I pretend I know. As I listen, my eyes get wider and wider. The film’s soldiers look the same. They speak in the same way and joke the same. The only thing is: they are not who they were supposed to have been. Reality starts to set in. I look at Anatoliy Kondyubov, one of the Film’s protagonists. I still cannot comprehend that I did not recognise him when I was working on the film’s raw material. He is a well-known Russian actor. I even have a film with him in it on my laptop.
“Playing scenes can lead to istina,” says Kondyubov. “This film could have led to it. But it did not work out. Marczak could not do it. I could not do it. I could not get the spirituality to the surface.”
After the meeting with the film actors, I head to my Petersburg hostel. Unfortunately, my experience there is no better. I should not have been tempted by the cheapest offer. Boys from the Caucuses dressed in white t-shirts feel very comfortable in our shared room. The hang their underwear on the heaters and cover the window with a green blanket. Nobody wants to give me a bed. “Go away. All the beds are taken, our buddy left but he’s coming back and that is his bed; if he doesn’t come back today, then maybe he’ll be back next week.” After some time, a sleepy concierge assigns me to a different room.
In the morning black rain is pouring down. I take the first metro to the Novodevichy Convent. I am to meet with an Orthodox nun who was previously in a Catholic order: a dramatic conversion and a very difficult spiritual path. I have to talk to her, I was told in Tomsk. This is important for her and me: our meeting is to put new light on the mosaic. “A meeting? What for?” I am asked by her superior. Still she makes me wait.
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The Church is black. I can hear some strong, clear singing. Small, microscopic candles are blinking. In the side aisle there is a morning service. And later everything suddenly ends. After four thousand kilometres of travel, I have the shortest interview I have ever made in my life. Sister Anastasia is very quiet and humble. She has very narrow eyes, one of which is constantly turned towards the altar. She does not want to talk. She cannot. We sit on a bench together in silence.
Russian Spring
Later the real spring comes. It is 2014. Our TV screens again show soldiers – many soldiers. This time they are not pretending to be somebody else. They are real. Or are they? Little green men? Regular divisions? Is truth on the screen or outside it? Why would the scenes played by actors have to be less authentic? Where is reality?
Be that as it may – the city has been taken with a fever. Passers-by shout on the phones that Russia has finally risen from its knees. Liberal academics grab me by my hand and order me to support the federalisation of Ukraine. They tell me that Ukraine in all its history has never experienced any harm from Russia. And wars are unleashed by Satan.
Kirill, the current Patriarch of Moscow and All Rus’ is of the opinion that the collapse of the Soviet Union was a tragedy, Rossiyskaya Gazeta reports. “May God save us from the temptations that we succumbed to in the 1990s.” The Patriarch is also convinced that one of the causes of the USSR’s collapse was spiritual degradation and also the loss of national pride, which has to be painstakingly nurtured.
On Skype, my friend Boris, the religious studies specialist from Moscow, talks about shame and depression and how intellectuals are quitting Facebook. Professor Karpitski, however, does not suffer from depression. He has not quit Facebook. He fights on, but not in Tomsk. He got a job at the Yurga State University. He lives in Khanty-Mansi Autonomous Okrug in Siberia. He is trying to establish a Polish-Russian-Ukrainian platform of dialogue. Meanwhile, Donbas is on fire and the Russian media are publishing the first reports of zinc coins and secret burials of Russian soldiers who died in east Ukraine.
Russian nationalism consumes everyday life and finds its way into offices, coffee shops and kitchens. It announces its presence via a national spring, a spring that
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is difficult to hide, even in Siberia – even in Khanty-Mansi Autonomous Okrug where Professor Karpitski soon loses his job with the Yurgy State University. He was dismissed for participating in an academic conference in Ukraine. The voting took place behind closed doors. He was not let in to the council; he had classes at that time and was not allowed to reschedule them.
Boris’s Facebook page revives. There I find a link to a popular speech delivered by the Archpriest Dmitry Klimov, one that reflects very differently the mood of most in the country: “I am telling you, not only as a clergyman, but also as a historian; when a majority of the nation agrees to the possibility of war, a war will take place … We are taken by a wave of national hatred and this is an ascending wave. There has been much talk about patriotism, about a specifically understood national consolidation. Can someone be a patriot because he or she hates others? We hated different people at different stages. In the 1990s we hated the oligarchs. Later we learned how to hate people of different nationalities. Now we hate Americans and Europe. Patriotism is love for the homeland, for culture. Patriotism needs to arise from love. From love for history and respect towards it. When we start feeding ourselves with myths that Russia has never lost any wars, and that it has never started any wars, this only says that we do not know our own history.”
Translated by Iwona Reichardt
Jedrzej Morawiecki is a co-founder of a group and a magazine titled Dziennikarze Wedrowni (Wandering Journalists). He is a writer and a lecturer with the Institute of Journalism and Social Communication with Wroclaw University. He is also an author of books on Russia, including: “Luskanie swiatla”, “Glubinka” and a co-author of other works, including “Krasnojarsk zero” and “Cztery zachodnie staruchy. Reportaz o duchach i szamanach” (together with Bartosz Jastrzebski). Their new book ”Jutro spadna gromy” is to be published this year.
The Thaw in Russia’s Periphery
JEDRZEJ MORAWIECKI
For ages Russia has been building projects which in the 21st century have been repacked again. Two products are being offered at the same time, with two dominating identity concepts. The first is the Orthodox identity. It protects conservative values, defends Kremlin policies, but also does not stay away from the lights of shopping malls, the glamour and consumption joys. The second concept is quite different. On the surface, it seems quite icy and unattractive. But when you get a closer look at the post-Soviet cities, remotely located from Moscow or St Petersburg, you will understand that this second Russia speaks with multiple voices and is very polyphonic.
“Go ahead. Forward! Try again. Exactly here. Soft. Can you feel the vibrations? This is your energy. It is still numb, but waking up.” A young squaddie of the Russian Federation’s border guard, Alexei Zarubin, obediently digs his hands in the bluish snow. A moustachioed captain nods his head and mumbles with approval, like a bear.
Then he asks: “Do you understand now? You can heal other soldiers with your hands. Three times a day you dig your hands in the snow and that is it. I was in Tibet once and this is how the monks train there. Thanks to this method you will
88 Opinion & Analysis The Thaw in Russia’s Periphery, Jedrzej Morawiecki
cure any illness, any injury. It is all very simple. People just do not know about it. Human beings collect energy in themselves….”
I see these soldiers only a screen. I am in Tomsk. I am at a student dormitory on Komsomolsky Prospect. I am writing down and translating the raw material for a film, directed by Michal Marczak, entitled At the Edge of Russia. This documentary is to tell the story of Russian border patrols who are protecting a base near the Arctic Circle that nobody really needs. In parallel to translating, I write about religious life in urban Siberia. I take breaks and make occasional trips to Krasnoyarsk, or Buryatia, and sometimes Moscow. Then I return to the dorm and my cold, spacious room which is located on the ground level of the building. My room is decorated with a touching sign that reads “Welcome to Tomsk”, which every day is lit up by the light coming from the headlights of the refuse lorry parked right across from my window.
Omnipresent
When I finally surface from my room, I listen to numerous conversations taking place outside on the street. I feel as if my hearing has been numbed. I realise that I am toughening up like the locals who are tired of the humidity and the frost. At times, I also grumble and yell at bus drivers who miss their stops. In most cases, though, I remain silent. I write. I sleep. And dream about Europe. I miss western music, low street curbs, zebra crossings, cheap airlines, and wine from a discount shop. You can indeed get fed up with the cheesy dance music from the local Siberian bistros.
And yet, in spite all of it, Tomsk still surprises me. There are things that you will never take for granted. For example, the impression that religion seems omnipresent: it sneaks into conversations in the most bizarre and least expected situations, such as the dialogues quoted above between the border patrol officers, or during day-long conversations on the Trans-Siberian railway. Or even during interviews and meetings with academics and local journalists.
Since 1991 religion here has not been so willingly pushed to the private sphere as is the case in Europe. Esotericism can easily be found on bookshop shelves. Intimate spirituality clashes with cyber-religions and powerful media productions. A producer of the Russian rip off of Dr House preaches patriotic Orthodox sermons at stadiums, while in a popular reality show fortune tellers, witches and gaudily dressed shamans confront each other. With a bit of luck we can even come across
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a political commentary programme with a few preachers trying to prove which one of them is another incarnation of Christ.
A truly Orthodox man
In my search for interesting religious figures to interview I was told about Professor Karpitski. He was mentioned by several people in different cities. I heard statements like: “He is the first truly Orthodox man. He lived in the students’ dormitory. He did it to be closer to the students.” When I meet Nikolai* Karpitski [*the text was a typo, fixed] he does not live in the dormitory anymore. I sit with him and his wife in a wooden hut located in the city centre. In our conversation we first touch upon very current events; the professor is deeply engaged in pre-election fever. He is a candidate for the position of director at the faculty of philosophy. The decision will be made in a few days.
My interlocutor starts talking about Satan. About his vision of hell, which he claims he almost touched physically. There everything seemed ordinary. But everything, every being, was hollowed-out. Because hell is earth deprived of God.
On Sunday I attend a Catholic mass in Tomsk. The service is very Polish, and different from those in Krasnoyarsk, and even more different from the ones in Buryatia where there is a handful of Catholics. In Tomsk, conversely, Catholics are numerous. They have blended with the locals and established relations with the local authorities. They have also entered into a dialogue with Eastern Orthodoxy. After the mass, we start talking with the priest – Father Andrzej Duklewski. He tells us about his love for Russia, which in the beginning he could not tame. He talks about the assistance he receives from the local administration, the meetings with other religious groups, and their volunteer work in the psychiatric hospital. They have been working there together with a group of Eastern Orthodox led by Father Alexander Piechurkin. I am told that Father Alexander is someone else who I must meet. He is an open-minded and highly spiritual man, not assigned to any parish. Maybe because he became too close to the Catholics?
“It has become more and more difficult to talk to the Orthodox hierarchy,” the Catholic Father Duklewski tells us. “There was a time when they would meet for tea and dumplings. Now everything has changed. Such a meeting could be costly today.”
Two identities
Back in my room in Tomsk I try to put together all the pieces of the Russian religious mosaic. I am writing an article about religious repackaging: For ages Rus-
90 Opinion & Analysis The Thaw in Russia’s Periphery, Jedrzej Morawiecki
sia has been building projects which in the 21st century have been repacked again. Two products are being offered at the same time, with two dominating identity concepts. The first is the Orthodox identity. It protects conservative values, defends Kremlin policies, but also does not stay away from the lights of shopping malls, the glamour and consumption joys which have been so desired and awaited by the Russians who not only remember the Soviet Union but also the chaos of the Yeltsin era.
The second concept is quite different. On the surface, this different Russia seems quite icy and unattractive. It is indeed the Siberian Russia. When you get a closer look at these post-Soviet cities, remotely located from Moscow or St Petersburg, you will understand that this second Russia speaks with multiple voices and is very polyphonic. It buzzes with a dazzling multi-denominational mosaic. It tempts with spiritual utopias.
The hallways of the dormitory where I live spit out frost that has been collected over winter. I sleep as long as possible. During breaks between sleep I continue translating the raw material for the documentary movie. The conversations of the border patrol from the Arctic Circle region are beginning to sound stranger and stranger. At one point, the soldiers organise a Passover celebration. They arrange the order of the ceremony and fight over the Lent rules. In the end, the issue is resolved by the moustachioed captain. And then it gets even stranger. The border patrol officers prepare a poetry evening. They recite poems about Rus’. About grain. And about Eastern Orthodoxy. Then the soldiers drink vodka from tin cups and sing patriotic songs.
A Pharisee?
“You have to just go with the low,” says the charismatic Orthodox priest in a sad voice. This is Father Mikhail, the very same one whom the Catholic priest would meet regularly not so long ago. Many of my contacts, not only in Tomsk but also in Krasnoyarsk, Abakan and Ulan-Ude, recommended it to me that I visit him.
“I have found that it is easier for me to meet with businessmen, even shady ones, than with Catholics,” he continues. “I have a wife. I have a family. I cannot lose my parish. Or leave the parish.” We are sitting in a small room in the rectory. The walls smell of fresh wood. Behind the windows, snow slowly slides down from the church. The new golden dome shines in the sun.
Later I join an Orthodox congregational meeting. Father Alexander Piechurkin, the priest that has better relations with the Catholics, arrives on a bike. He leaves his bike in front of a cosy hut, near the brewery. The congregation has already
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gathered. The Orthodox community are making pryaniki – spice cookies. Later we read a story about the vineyard workers. Twice. After the reading there is silence.
“How could God have allowed that,” asks one of the participants of the meeting as he cannot hold it in any more. “This was a sheer provocation.”
“I also worked many times in the field in the heat, I know what it is like,” agrees Yuri who informally chairs the meeting. “Does this mean that God is a provocateur? He indeed differentiated people.”
Father Alexander shakes his head. “He did this to show us something. To free us from our pride,” he explains. “He did the same to the Pharisees, by turning to tax collectors and harlots. This made the clergy furious. Notice that back then he was beaten up too; it was not that people were fighting with each other, they held grudges against him. In the same way, we now hold grudges against heaven for the injustice on earth.”
We are sitting on a large sofa. In front of us is a coffee table with lingonberry and tea from taiga with pine needles. We are eating and talking about pre-historical issues. And the conversation moves to the beginning of the world. How could all people come from Adam and Eve, somebody wonders aloud, this is nothing but incest.
“But back then there was an extremely strong chromosome bank … back then it was possible,” comes a reply. “The Bible is an allegory. Adam and Eve are only images,” says another member of the congregation.
Father Alexander again tries to give order to the discussion: “he Earth was created, which with God’s help underwent such a change that a man emerged. Religion tells us what we are for and not what we are like nor what the world is like. The latter is explained by science.”
After a while the group starts talking about the German philosopher Bert Hellinger. They are very interested in the constellations. “We are constantly on the road, we will see where we arrive and what will happen to our group,” the priest says.
When the priest leaves the room, the congregation discusses the issue of a lat for him. Something has to be done. He himself is to write to the bishop. But who knows what answer he will get. At the end of the day, they decide to have a collection for the priest once a month.
Outside, Father Alexander switches on his bike lamp and gets ready to leave. He says that he is scared. Isn’t he becoming too similar to a Pharisee? He advises people on how to live. And this advice can indeed bring help and relief. But that is
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not the point. That is not where Christ is. Harlots will experience salvation before those who give advice.
Cleaning up the square
Unexpectedly the coldness returns to Tomsk. The wind is chilling and cold. On TV, however, Russians find joy from the military reality shows, which are gaining popularity on national Russian TV stations. The shows depict laughing soldiers, male and female, jumping over burning rings, while other TV series present brave KGB officers in leather jackets.
We ride a pink tram which howls with sadness. The driver slams the doors when the inside gets flooded by a crowd from Soviet Street. This is the tram to take in order to get to the amusement park with the Ferris wheel. We get of the tram not far away and head to a wooden Lutheran church. We await the pastor. It was not that long ago that Angela Merkel paid a visit here. Now this place stinks of “the rotten West”. The times that have come are not easy. Reforms are one thing, but allowing homosexuals to get married? The pastor lowers his voice. He himself cannot really imagine what he would feel if he was forced to take communion from a woman. “At least the Russian Orthodox Church guards its values.
This is our hope,” he says. The media growl from Moscow. Ivan Otrakovsky, the leader of Holy Rus’, a group of Russian Orthodox vigilantes, wants to create “Orthodox patrol squads” in the capital. They are to protect morality on Moscow’s streets. He calls on the Eastern Orthodox to “prepare for the physical defence of faith”. The Russia Public Opinion Research Centre (WCIOM) reports that this idea is supported by two thirds of the Russians. The mayor of Moscow calls it “terrible”. The Ministry of Internal Affairs believes the initiative is “premature”. In the meantime some Muftis are convinced that the idea is by all means justified: “he faithful should have a right to protect their churches or temples.” In turn – as the Levada Centre reports – 55 per cent of Muscovites are of the opinion that the greatest problems are related to the immigrants coming from the Caucuses and Central Asia.
At the same time, the Kremlin puts pressure on the media. Phrases such as “cleaning up the square” are entering common discourse. Alexey Venediktov, editor-in-chief of Echo of Moscow, in which Gazprom has a controlling share, is of the opinion that the square is not empty yet. However, he also compares the existence of journalists to a “zombie existence”. He says: “Freedom of expression
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is indeed shrinking.” And it may soon happen that some books, including classic 19th century novels, will be treated like porno mags. They contain too many bad words. Film and theatre actors can only use “literary swear words”. Their “literary nature” is to be determined by an “independent commission”.
Isolation is unavoidable
Back in Tomsk at the supermarket across from the dormitory where I live, I could not buy beer. I was late by five minutes. Today is the first day of a new prohibition law. Hence I arrive to the house of Professor Karpitski empty-handed. The atmosphere is bleak. Karpitski lost the elections for the director position at the faculty of philosophy by a thin margin. The professor mentions that he predicts that Russia will head towards autarky and believes that isolation is unavoidable for the country. Later Karpitski talks about a court case that is taking place in Tomsk. Bhagavad Gita is about to be regarded as an extremist publication. The Hare Krishnas are trying to defend themselves by appealing to international organisations. Karpitski is sceptical: “The system works in such a way that a stupid government official cannot be blocked, not even from above. Even from Moscow. His blows cannot yet be parried. They need to be responded to. This is the only way. Here all government officials do whatever they want as long as they do not slip. When they fall out of the system, nobody helps them. It resembles a criminal structure in a state of decay.”
As consolation, a piece of good news comes from abroad. Marczak’s film At the Edge of Russia received the Planete Doc Festival award. It is time to pack up. I am heading to St Petersburg. It is high time I meet the soldiers who are in the film. We will be talking about Eastern Orthodoxy, cosmic energy and healings.
On my way I make a stop in Moscow. I pick up film discs sent by Marczak. I am to deliver them to the film’s protagonists. I stop by a book shop on Lubyanka Street. There I meet Boris, a friend who is also a religious studies specialist. We speak for a brief moment of the latest developments regarding the Orthodox Church and its role in politics.
Russia’s Eastern Orthodoxy has emerged as a key political player. Patriarch Kirill has achieved what his predecessor feared. He came closer to the Kremlin. He began appearing in the media. Priests no longer avoid talk and reality shows; they get involved in arguments and scream on camera. An ultra-conservative celebrity,
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Vsevolod Chaplin, the chairman of the Synodal Department for the Co-operation of Church and Society of the Moscow Patriarchate gets into fights on TV. He shouts that today’s Russia is “the only remaining Christian civilisation”.
St Petersburg
After Moscow, I head to St Petersburg by train. I am to meet the protagonists of the film I worked on. But there are no border patrol officers from the Arctic Circle. I cannot find the military base, the one which I watched the whole time I was working on the raw material. The moustachioed captain built it solely for the film. Yes, he indeed was a solider. But those times are long gone. He now organises survival expeditions, while Alexei Zarubin, the guy who was taught to emit cosmic energy, does not know a thing about the army. He only put on a costume. He became involved in the film after he was chosen at the casting call. I learn about all this while talking to my protagonists. They think I know it was all a fake and I pretend I know. As I listen, my eyes get wider and wider. The film’s soldiers look the same. They speak in the same way and joke the same. The only thing is: they are not who they were supposed to have been. Reality starts to set in. I look at Anatoliy Kondyubov, one of the Film’s protagonists. I still cannot comprehend that I did not recognise him when I was working on the film’s raw material. He is a well-known Russian actor. I even have a film with him in it on my laptop.
“Playing scenes can lead to istina,” says Kondyubov. “This film could have led to it. But it did not work out. Marczak could not do it. I could not do it. I could not get the spirituality to the surface.”
After the meeting with the film actors, I head to my Petersburg hostel. Unfortunately, my experience there is no better. I should not have been tempted by the cheapest offer. Boys from the Caucuses dressed in white t-shirts feel very comfortable in our shared room. The hang their underwear on the heaters and cover the window with a green blanket. Nobody wants to give me a bed. “Go away. All the beds are taken, our buddy left but he’s coming back and that is his bed; if he doesn’t come back today, then maybe he’ll be back next week.” After some time, a sleepy concierge assigns me to a different room.
In the morning black rain is pouring down. I take the first metro to the Novodevichy Convent. I am to meet with an Orthodox nun who was previously in a Catholic order: a dramatic conversion and a very difficult spiritual path. I have to talk to her, I was told in Tomsk. This is important for her and me: our meeting is to put new light on the mosaic. “A meeting? What for?” I am asked by her superior. Still she makes me wait.
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The Church is black. I can hear some strong, clear singing. Small, microscopic candles are blinking. In the side aisle there is a morning service. And later everything suddenly ends. After four thousand kilometres of travel, I have the shortest interview I have ever made in my life. Sister Anastasia is very quiet and humble. She has very narrow eyes, one of which is constantly turned towards the altar. She does not want to talk. She cannot. We sit on a bench together in silence.
Russian Spring
Later the real spring comes. It is 2014. Our TV screens again show soldiers – many soldiers. This time they are not pretending to be somebody else. They are real. Or are they? Little green men? Regular divisions? Is truth on the screen or outside it? Why would the scenes played by actors have to be less authentic? Where is reality?
Be that as it may – the city has been taken with a fever. Passers-by shout on the phones that Russia has finally risen from its knees. Liberal academics grab me by my hand and order me to support the federalisation of Ukraine. They tell me that Ukraine in all its history has never experienced any harm from Russia. And wars are unleashed by Satan.
Kirill, the current Patriarch of Moscow and All Rus’ is of the opinion that the collapse of the Soviet Union was a tragedy, Rossiyskaya Gazeta reports. “May God save us from the temptations that we succumbed to in the 1990s.” The Patriarch is also convinced that one of the causes of the USSR’s collapse was spiritual degradation and also the loss of national pride, which has to be painstakingly nurtured.
On Skype, my friend Boris, the religious studies specialist from Moscow, talks about shame and depression and how intellectuals are quitting Facebook. Professor Karpitski, however, does not suffer from depression. He has not quit Facebook. He fights on, but not in Tomsk. He got a job at the Yurga State University. He lives in Khanty-Mansi Autonomous Okrug in Siberia. He is trying to establish a Polish-Russian-Ukrainian platform of dialogue. Meanwhile, Donbas is on fire and the Russian media are publishing the first reports of zinc coins and secret burials of Russian soldiers who died in east Ukraine.
Russian nationalism consumes everyday life and finds its way into offices, coffee shops and kitchens. It announces its presence via a national spring, a spring that
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is difficult to hide, even in Siberia – even in Khanty-Mansi Autonomous Okrug where Professor Karpitski soon loses his job with the Yurgy State University. He was dismissed for participating in an academic conference in Ukraine. The voting took place behind closed doors. He was not let in to the council; he had classes at that time and was not allowed to reschedule them.
Boris’s Facebook page revives. There I find a link to a popular speech delivered by the Archpriest Dmitry Klimov, one that reflects very differently the mood of most in the country: “I am telling you, not only as a clergyman, but also as a historian; when a majority of the nation agrees to the possibility of war, a war will take place … We are taken by a wave of national hatred and this is an ascending wave. There has been much talk about patriotism, about a specifically understood national consolidation. Can someone be a patriot because he or she hates others? We hated different people at different stages. In the 1990s we hated the oligarchs. Later we learned how to hate people of different nationalities. Now we hate Americans and Europe. Patriotism is love for the homeland, for culture. Patriotism needs to arise from love. From love for history and respect towards it. When we start feeding ourselves with myths that Russia has never lost any wars, and that it has never started any wars, this only says that we do not know our own history.”
Translated by Iwona Reichardt
Jedrzej Morawiecki is a co-founder of a group and a magazine titled Dziennikarze Wedrowni (Wandering Journalists). He is a writer and a lecturer with the Institute of Journalism and Social Communication with Wroclaw University. He is also an author of books on Russia, including: “Luskanie swiatla”, “Glubinka” and a co-author of other works, including “Krasnojarsk zero” and “Cztery zachodnie staruchy. Reportaz o duchach i szamanach” (together with Bartosz Jastrzebski). Their new book ”Jutro spadna gromy” is to be published this year.
