This isn’t just our story

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“This is my father’s house. They came at five in the morning on 18th May: three Soviet soldiers burst in with guns. It’s just the same as now. They come in the night or the early morning, when you’re asleep and you’re not prepared, you can’t understand what’s happening…

Back then, it was still wartime. Dad was 12 in 1944 and he remembers: all the men had been mobilised in 1941 and sent away, so that when the Germans came in 1942 there were only women and old people and children who grew up for two years under the Germans. The boys, 16, 17 years old, were all put into German uniform; they were taken from their homes and given German uniforms in return for flour and sugar, or else they were told if they didn’t wear it their families would be shot. They had little choice.

When the Soviets took back Crimea pilots were flying over and shot through his house roof. Dad remembered when he came back to Crimea in the 1970s he saw the same bullet holes still there in the roof, covered over with stones. When people asked how he knew which house was his, he said: it’s the one with the bullet holes, and they let him in to look at it. But they never let him have the house back. I’ve never even been inside the courtyard.

Instead when we came back in 1993 dad fought to get an official land plot to build a new house. He always insisted on doing everything according to the law. We lived in a damp container for three years, we all got hepatitis. Me and my brother built the house together with our parents. I was 15, my brother was 17.

This isn’t just our story; practically every Crimean Tatar went through this. No one helped us, no one gave us jobs or land or rights. At school when kids pointed at us we had to say: we’re not immigrants overrunning Crimea, we’ve come home. People were scared that we’d demand our houses and property back, but in fact none of us had documents to prove ownership, because we’d had to leave in such a hurry in 1944. We were sent away as traitors and forced to live in reservations behind barbed wire, having to sign in and out, like we were under house arrest…

Our father was born in 1932. He died in June 2015. My brother’s detention destroyed him. He only lived for two months after that. He was so strong, but the disappointment, what they did to his son, ate up his strength, he just dried up and crumbled away in front of our eyes… After they tried to kidnap my brother, and then beat him up and detained him, dad went to the Russian security services in Yalta. It was a young officer who until 2014 was serving under Ukraine’s security service. Dad said: aren’t you ashamed? He called him a fascist. The officer pretended it was nothing to do with him and it wasn’t his fault…

My father was asked to collaborate with the authorities in Soviet times. He refused. He went to prison for two years; he was in the Crimean Tatar national movement but they couldn’t prove that so they arrested him for hooliganism. Then in 2015 they came to my brother at work before and after they detained him for the first time. They said: we need you, you have to work with us. My brother refused, just as my father had refused even though they offered many times. They said: if you won’t help us then you’ll go to prison. My brother was a human rights defender, he was trying to find out what had happened to the Crimean Tatars who have gone missing since 2014. They couldn’t arrest him for working in human rights or for refusing to cooperate with them, so they arrested him for terrorism. They’ve got no witnesses, no victims, no case. All they have is the desire to put him in prison. And they found a way to put him there, just as they did with our father…

What my father wanted most was autonomy and rehabilitation for the Crimean Tatars, because this stain against us as supposed traitors from 1944 has never been removed. He wanted full rehabilitation, not just a signed piece of paper but restoration of all our property and rights. And when Putin really did sign a law on rehabilitation in 2014, for a short time he was actually as happy as a child. He said that in two months Russia had done what Ukraine had not done in 20 years.

But other than a piece of paper that says we are not traitors, there is nothing. Now my brother is in prison, and my father is dead.”

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The Crimean social contract

The Crimean Tatar civic organisation Kyrym (established after Russian annexation in 2014) has appealed to the Russian Crimean authorities for permission to put up a monument commemorating the Crimean Tatar oath of allegiance to the Russian empire, made in 1783. That was the year Russia first annexed Crimea, and the beginning of the decline of the Crimean Tatars on the peninsula.

However you view the ‘good’ or ‘bad’ of historical events, to whichever side you ascribe ‘civilization’ or ‘barbarity’ (see Ruslan Balbek’s quote to Russian media: ‘[the oath] confirms the civilised route that Crimean Tatars along with all residents of the peninsula, the Kuban, Taman, and the Azov region took nearly 300 years ago”), it does seem absolutely extraordinary for representatives of a nation which, from being independent majority rulers of Crimea in 1783, has shrunk under Russian and Soviet rule to a current minority of less than 300,000 recent returnees trying to rebuild their lives and language from scratch, to not only want to put up such a monument, but to ask for permission from Russia to do so.

Extraordinary is not quite the word.

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A pre-2014 monument to Haci Geray Han, who ruled Crimea as an independent Crimean Tatar state in the 15th century. Stary Krym, Crimea

A story: one day in Crimea in 2016 I got into an almost argument with a Crimean Tatar woman who said – a very common thing to hear from Crimean Tatars and Ukrainians – that “Russians have always been slaves and serfs, they don’t know how to be free”.

“Russians came and took our houses and got up on their hind legs and danced for the Soviet authorities to show how happy they were,” she said. She repeated a biblical quote used by a Crimean Tatar writer in one of his books: ‘Do to others as you would have done to you’ – meaning it to reflect on those Russians who moved into Crimean Tatar houses left empty when the Crimean Tatars were deported by the Soviets for alleged treason in 1944.

I told her the story (which I retold in Dream Land) of the Crimean Tatar who came back in the 1990s to find his old home taken by Russians, only to realise that in fact his own family had only begun to live there in the 1920s; they took the empty house themselves when the previous owner was sent to Siberia or executed.

The woman thought I was quoting a story told by prejudiced Russians. I told her that I had heard it from a Crimean Tatar. She said “Well if it did happen those people weren’t real Crimean Tatars. They were the ones who went over to Communism, who let themselves become like slaves.”

I quoted the bible back at her: ‘let those without sin cast the first stone.’

She said “Why are we talking about sin, when a whole nation was deported in an act of genocide?”

I had no answer, and didn’t know why I was arguing with her anyway; probably because I had failed to argue with the Russians who told me earlier that day and every day that all Crimean Tatars are traitors. Probably because I was so sick of the anger and stereotyping and racial discrimination which is Crimea these days.

Later I went to visit Crimean Tatar friends, and we tried to talk about peaceful friend and family matters until one of them – let’s call him Ayder – suddenly burst out: “I just can’t stand it! Sorry, but I have to share how I’m feeling, I can’t keep it in. You’ve seen it, right? These people! This dignified, respected, grown man, begging the tsar for mercy for Sentsov.”

He was talking about Russian film director Aleksandr Sokurov’s public appeal to Putin to release Crimean political prisoner Oleg Sentsov, sentenced to 20 years on perfectly obviously fake charges of terrorism. Sokurov: “Let’s try to resolve the problem of Oleg Sentsov… Even if he has a different political point of view, he shouldn’t be detained in our northern, practically arctic prison. It feels so painful and bitter that we have to talk about it.”

Putin responds that the court sentenced Sentsov to twenty years and therefore he can do nothing.

Sokurov: “In a Russian, in a good Christian fashion, mercy is above justice. I beg you. Mercy is above justice. Please.”

Once again, extraordinary is not quite the word.

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A picture of Nikolai II, last emperor of Russia, in a Crimean monastery, 2016.  

Somehow most Crimean Tatars, like my friend Ayder, still have the idea that a government should be elected by its citizens to serve them, and is itself governed by a system of justice, rule of law, and a social contract. Recent elections in Ukraine, I would say, show that most Ukrainians have the same idea. And of course the reality disappoints them. But in Russia, well-known public figures beg their country’s leader to intervene in a case of obvious miscarriage of justice, ordered from the very top, by placing mercy above justice. “These people will always be serfs,” Ayder ranted. “They don’t know how to be free.”

I haven’t asked Ayder what he thinks about Kyrym’s appeal to the authorities to allow them to erect a monument commemorating his people’s sworn fealty to the Russian empire. Kyrym prefaces the request thus: “bearing in mind that representatives of the Crimean Tatar people, on an equal level with other national minorities, made a worthy contribution to the historical chronicle of Russia…”. The same document also requests that Crimean authorities accept 1000 candidates from Kyrym to the ruling ‘United Russia’ party, and that Crimean Tatar language get some state support.

In response to the request for the monument, someone posted online the Crimean Tatar national anthem, Ant Etkenmen. The verses were written by Noman Çelebicihan, leader of the short-lived Crimean Tatar national republic. He was shot by the Bolsheviks in 1918.

I’ve pledged to give my life for my nation
What’s death to me, if I can’t dry my people’s tears?
What’s life to me, even a thousand years as king?
Still one day I will answer only to the grave

The more things change

Ended up walking from Ukrainian president elect Zelensky’s glitzy, fashionable and ecstatic election HQ (in former president Yanukovych’s helicopter landing spot, symbol of Ukraine’s corruption) through busy downtown Kyiv and then past the ‘memory wall’ to soldiers and volunteer fighters killed in the war in east Ukraine. The only people there were a group of foreigners; someone was explaining in approximate English that it was a monument to “police and people on Maidan.”

kyiv memory wall

I keep reading that Ukrainians voted for Zelensky (or against incumbent Poroshenko) because they are ‘sick of the war’. But as a friend pointed out to me this week, most Ukrainians are practically unaware of the war these days. It’s never on the news. It never really reached beyond the army and the confines of half of two regions in the east where no one ever went anyway unless they absolutely had to. On the way though central Kyiv to this wall I’d passed Ukrainians out with their kids in nice pushchairs or riding scooters; people in cool expensive clothes hanging out in great bars. It’s unrecognisable from Kyiv twenty or even ten years ago. It’s unrecognisable from Kyiv in 2014, when the air still smelled of smoke and shops had collecting boxes for bullet-proof vests for soldiers and there were newly painted ‘bomb shelter’ signs everywhere.

Kyiv is a bubble of course, a world within Ukraine. But the friend who said this to me doesn’t live in Kyiv, she lives in a village. Her neighbour still lugs out her old Soviet twin tub to the garden to do the washing once a week because there’s no running water in the house. On the other side the neighbour recently drank himself to death. The body was taken away for a post-mortem; when it was brought back in an old bus the driver refused to unload it until his family, alcoholics all, paid for the services of the morgue with money they didn’t have. My friend and other neighbours had to run along the street collecting contributions to get the body back. The Ukrainian Orthodox priest wouldn’t bury it without being paid. The evangelical pastor, who most of the village despises, did it for free.

The street was recently renamed for another neighbour who was killed fighting in east Ukraine. No one calls it by the new name; the only sign that indicates it is on the house of the bereaved family.

The other thing I keep reading is that Ukrainians are ‘desperate for change’. The village is a decentralised ‘hromada’ (amalgamated community) now, with its own budget and decision-making powers. It’s not so easy for a hromada to blame corrupt distant oligarchs and politicians and the president for everything that’s wrong. The roads in this village are still awful. The (awful) hospital has closed down. The school has been rebuilt though, and got indoor toilets for the first time in history. There are new gates, house repairs, even new houses everywhere. Even new bird houses.

bird houses

The east Ukraine war has cost about 13,000 lives over five years – the vast majority in 2014 – and has settled into an intractable, dreary, utterly miserable low-level conflict a long way away from most of the country. Over 4000 Ukrainians died preventable deaths in road accidents in 2017. More than 3,700 people in Ukraine die annually of tuberculosis, also preventable. About 8000 people each year die alcohol-related deaths. All this is largely independent of east and west, Ukrainian and Russian, peremoha or zrada. It’s largely invisible – you don’t see monuments to any of the victims. They don’t feature in presidential election campaigns. Neither did decentralisation, or the number of families in Kyiv who can now afford to hang out in nice bars and buy scooters for their kids to ride around on.

The East Ukraine war memorial wall is out of date; the last deaths it records are from June 2018.

Quixotic

Five years ago today Reshat Ametov was buried in Crimea. His body had been found near a village called Wild Strawberry and another called Russian. He’d been tortured over ten days before being killed. Now around the anniversary of his death his last Facebook post pops up in my time-line, ghost-fashion: Going on Monday to the Cabinet of Ministers to stand in protest. Have you got the guts???

And the video keeps showing up. Shot in central Simferopol on that Monday, 3rd March 2014, it shows Reshat standing alone in front of Russian soldiers in unmarked uniform guarding the Crimean Cabinet of Ministers. Passersby, journalists and camouflage-clad members of the ‘Crimean self-defence’ mill around; police sirens wail. For over an hour, Reshat Ametov just stands there. He doesn’t say or do anything. He hasn’t even got a protest sign. Then some of the men in camouflage take him to a black car and drive him away.

The people who saw him alive after that, who are clearly visible in the film, and the people who killed him, have not been charged. It’s as if they didn’t do anything, just as Reshat didn’t do anything.

Reshat’s brother Refat talked to me once about Don Quixote when he described Reshat. Honestly, he sounds a bit impossible in ordinary, peaceful times, always picking up on obscure laws and regulations and trying to get them implemented because he was so sure he had the right, and this was the way the world should be. And when the times stopped being ordinary and peaceful, he went and stood there by the cabmin “because he was convinced he had a right to. Why didn’t he have a right to be there? He’d always had that right,” Refat said. “You know Don Quixote tilting at windmills. It was something like that.”

I never knew Reshat. I feel Refat is a bit quixotic though, the way he’s doggedly trying to bring those people who killed his brother to justice, after five years of nothing happening to further the investigation in Russian-ruled Crimea. Five years of the myth of the Crimean Spring when never a drop of blood was shed as Crimea ‘returned’ to Russia.

I think about Reshat and Refat whenever I see photos of single pickets, which is the only way people in Crimea can still register their protest (Russian bans any kind of group meeting or demonstration that isn’t in support of the authorities, and has detained people for having unsanctioned football matches or carrying ‘unsanctioned flying devices’ – otherwise known as balloons). A single picket is where you stand alone somewhere holding a sign saying, for example, Crimean Tatars are not extremists. Such picketers have been detained and fined; it is now apparently a extremist offence to say that you’re not an extremist.

Reshat Ametov didn’t even do that of course, he didn’t even have a sign.

You can read Don Quixote as comedy, as tragedy, as social commentary, as metafiction and even fake news – in book 2, (fictional) Quixote sets forth on new adventures in order to debunk a fake (real work of fiction by a rival author) Quixote.

You can read in it the wonderful, awful ability of people to create their own reality in the face of violence, ridicule, disbelief, historical memory, international law, common sense and facts on the ground.

You could call ‘Crimean Spring’ quixotic, in that sense. The adherents of Crimea Spring are fortunate though: all local information channels and most facts on the ground in Crimea do everything to confirm their reality, even if the rest of the world doesn’t.

For quixotic people like the Ametovs it’s harder. These are people desperately trying to live in one reality when everything around tells them they are living in another. There are lots of them in Crimea. Mostly they stay at home, talking to their families and to a dwindling circle of acquaintances they can trust. They’ve turned their backs on any kind of public, civic life, because there is no place for this in Crimea anymore. Their reality, where there is international law, where there are alternative narratives, where there is justice for the disappeared and the murdered, and simply the possibility to stand in silent protest, gets smaller and smaller.

I remember what a Crimean Tatar told me in 2015, back when he still thought he could play a public, civic role in Crimea. “If I say what I think they’ll put me in prison or exile me,” he said. “So I’ve learned to control not just my words, but my thoughts.”

The dictionary tells me quixotic means extremely idealistic; unrealistic and impractical. That’s not exactly my definition here. Nor exactly the one I think Refat Ametov had in mind.

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Don Quixote and Sancho Panza on a Crimean Tatar gate in Stariy Krym, Crimea. (Cervantes metafictionally alleged that the story of Don Quixote was originally written by the Muslim author Cide Hamete Benengeli).

Not about nostalgia

I rarely talk about Crimea with my Crimean (Crimean Tatar, mostly) friends who have moved away from there. Or rather, we talk a lot, about the political situation, recent events (often arrests and house searches), the people who are still there… but rarely about how we feel, in ourselves, about this place it’s so difficult for us to get to now.

It’s unusually warm and bright in Kyiv, but this time of year is hard – nothing growing yet, and won’t be for weeks. This used to be the time I’d jump on a train and go to Crimea, for snowdrops and crocuses up in the mountains. Soon there will be tissue-thin almond blossom on the slopes below the Crimean war panorama in Sevastopol. Downy pasque flowers all along the sunlit rims of the plateaux around Mangup Kalye, those sleepy purple flowers yawning straight into the clearest, wide-awake, scouring wind and light.

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Crimea isn’t where I’m from, or where I grew up. It doesn’t belong to me in any way, or I to it. It’s not home. I just miss it.

That’s one reason why we don’t talk about it, I suppose. All I do is miss it.

There’s not much cosy nostalgia in my missing Crimea. I can’t just jump on a train anymore but I have been back since 2014, through a difficult, arbitrary process of visas and permissions and buses and border crossings. I can (so far) still do it. Some of my Crimean friends can still, so far, go back too. It’s always under question now though, because without having changed their citizenship or gone off to fight for a foreign country and betrayed their own, they have nevertheless lost the right to freely go home. The right has been taken away. Now when they return from trips to Crimea our inevitable talk is about ‘How was it on the border? Any problems? Are your family ok?’ There isn’t much ‘What did you think, how did you feel about Crimea now?’ Most of them spend the time with their families and hardly stir out of doors; maybe one or two trips to the sea side, or the mountains.

Some friends won’t go back, out of principle and fear. Some already can’t go back, even though it’s part of their country, it’s where they grew up and it belongs to them and they to it in a way that’s much more than a passport or a birth certificate, that’s difficult to put into words.

Some who left long ago, or after annexation, I think have realised they never really want to go back. I sometimes wonder if there’s a feeling of guilt about that.

Lots of us leave behind the place where we were born or grew up. Maybe we miss it, or feel a bit nostalgic, or we feel guilt and relief and achievement at making the choice to leave. But many Crimeans have lost that choice. Without changing their citizenship or betraying their country or otherwise doing something that might be worthy of banishment, they have had the choice, and their home, taken away.

And for what? So that Crimea could become Russian. Ukraine did not take Crimea from the Russians in 1991, as supporters of Russian annexation say it did. Anyone in Russia who felt a nostalgia for Crimea, a longing to see snowdrops or the place where they were born, could easily go there. They didn’t need visas or permissions, or to worry about being arrested or banned on the border. They could speak Russian in Crimea, they could buy property if they wanted, they could go and live there. It wasn’t part of their country anymore, but then, their country didn’t exist anyway by 1991 – not the Soviet Union, not the Russian empire. Those were countries they could only feel nostalgia for, like the nostalgia for the Crimea of their childhood holidays.

Yet when I’ve been to Crimea since annexation, wondering “for what?”, people there have talked to me of their feelings about Crimea. How they feel at home now, the way they never did when it was part of Ukraine. How they feel they belong to Crimea, and it to them, as it never did before. It’s odd; the people who told me these feelings were generally strangers met on buses, on park benches.

These were not the only feelings people told me, but they were the public ones. Perhaps it’s easier to repeat in a public place to a stranger an accepted national narrative that chimes with and reinforces your happy feelings, than to voice to a friend an unspeakable loss that you somehow have to live with.

It’s five years since Russia officially began annexation: 20 February 2014 is written on the medals later distributed by the Russian government ‘for the return of Crimea’.

crimea return medal orig.sm

 

Building bridges, burning bridges

I was in Kerch this summer, in the east of Crimea. That was before the college shooting; before Ukrainian ships were fired on and arrested in the Kerch straits, triggering (more) talk of (more) war and imposition of martial law in half of Ukraine. The biggest news in town then was the Kerch bridge, built by Russia across the Kerch straits in a 200 billion rouble Fuck You to international law, and a scandal about the disappearance of a chunk of budget money that had been allocated to rebuild the derelict steps up Mithridates hill.

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Kerch bridge fridge magnets for sale on Mithridates hill

I met two men, let’s call them Tolya and Ivan, who had worked on building the bridge, and earned themselves very nice wages thankyou. Tolya was absolutely opposed to Russian annexation; Ivan supported it.

Tolya’s world, and world view, had fallen apart in 2014. He couldn’t understand what was happening, how was it possible that Russia just came and took Crimea? What happened to justice, to fairness?

He had considered joining the Ukrainian army. He had considered emigrating, and even tried it for several months before concluding that life as a second class citizen in Europe was no solution.

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grafitti on Mithridates hill

In Tolya I could see bewilderment and an almost self-mocking despair – it had been nearly five years already since annexation; it’s hard to keep up the principles, the pure overwhelming emotions, over all that time. He mentioned the soldiers and tanks in the streets in 2014, coming back to them again and again in our conversations. They had clearly been like a hole torn in his entire view of the world – the possibility that war might come into his life, literally, here in Kerch where he’d had a successful business providing fun activities for tourists.

He talked a lot about his grandfather, an army man who had been arrested for ‘anti-soviet activity’ (for complaining about lack of rations and arms) and during world war 2 was put in charge of a unit of convicts – cannon fodder in the most literal sense.

And Tolya talked about the Kerch bridge. How well it was built (he had seen the process close up), its spectacular dimensions, what it had brought to isolated Kerch. “A bridge is always a good thing, isn’t it?” he said. “A bridge joins things together, rather than separating them. It connects people, trade, ideas.”  

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Tourists on Mithridates hill taking photos with a Kerch bridge background

Later Ivan took me out on a boat to see the bridge close up. Unlike Tolya, Ivan did not strike me as an introspective or romantic person. Everything in Russian Crimea was fantastic, including the bridge whose vital statistics he knew off by heart. Many people in Kerch mentioned the economic disaster that was the near-closure of the Kerch shipyard since 2014 when international shipping stopped; Vanya said cheerfully that it would soon be reopened and extended as a ‘strategic object’ – a military shipyard building warships.

In his late twenties, he wanted to be a commercial ship’s captain, travelling the world. I asked if he thought his Russian Crimean passport (not recognised by many countries issuing visas) might be a problem; he didn’t understand what I was talking about.  

He was one of the few Crimeans I met who apparently had no doubts at all about Russian annexation being a good thing. A practical, active young man who did not remember the Soviet Union, his life ahead of him. I asked him what concrete benefits Russian rule had brought him. I thought at the very least he’d mention the high wages he’d earned building that bridge that connects, that divides.

He didn’t. He said, “Peace. It’s important to be confident that behind you stands a great power that is ready to fight for you.”   

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Love and remembrance

“We all love Vanya,” says Vika, smiling across the table at the young man opposite. “All the women love to have him round for dinner. He’s our hope.”

Vanya seems nice enough, fair and twitchy, with thin skin stretched tight over his skull. Probably no more or less lovable than a thousand other young men who got caught up in the war between the government and Russian-backed ‘republics’ in east Ukraine. Vika and all the women love him not for his blue eyes and scattershot attention, for what he did or didn’t do in the war, for the prejudices and inherited responses and experiences and fantasies that make up his personality. They love him as we’d probably all want to be loved: simply because he’s alive.

No, not quite that. Because he was lost, and is found. Because he came back from the dead.

“Our Vanya’s unique,” Vika told me, when she suggested I meet him.

After 8 May 2016 when he was taken off a bus at a checkpoint of the unrecognised ‘DNR’ in east Ukraine, Vanya was one of the war’s many missing.

The ‘DNR’ security services said he was dead, when they put a gun muzzle to Vanya’s head. They called his mother and told her that. Then they stopped calling.

The Ukrainian security services told his mother to stop looking for him, or hoping for him to come home, because he was dead.

There is nothing unique in this story. Vanya’s mother didn’t believe it and kept hoping, and in that she was not unique either, she was the same as Vika, whose brother went missing at a checkpoint in 2014; as Yadviga and Svetlana, whose sons vanished at the battle of Ilovaisk; as Lilya whose son went missing in Debaltsevo in January 2015.

DNA matches, photographs of bodies, gunshots heard over a telephone connection – none of it is enough to make these women give up hope. Not when there are psychics to tell them their loved ones are alive, and social media messages with photos showing them alive. Not when there are conflicting lists of dead and missing and prisoners. Not when the DNA samples get mixed up, the body parts, the names; when police dump identifying clothing and belongings from the war dead in fields. Not when there are basements and building sites and brick factories and illegal coal mines where hostages and slave labourers could be imprisoned for years. Not when there is Vanya.

In early 2017 the Ukrainian pilot Nadia Savchenko – captured in east Ukraine, sentenced in Russia then freed in an exchange – crossed the frontline to visit a ‘DNR’ prison. She shouted “Slava Ukraini!” (Glory to Ukraine) in a corridor. From a cell someone shouted back “Heroim Slava!” (Glory to the heroes).

It was like a magic password back to the land of the living.

“I’d written a letter to the ‘DNR’ security services, asking them to shoot me,” Vanya says, matter-of-factly. He’d been in so many different basements and cells by then. “I wasn’t right in the head any more. I couldn’t see any way out. I never got any parcels. All the others there got humanitarian aid parcels, except me. I never got any because I wasn’t there.”

And then, suddenly, he shouted two words and he was there. Savchenko published his name. He was added to the Ukrainian official list of prisoners held by the other side. In December last year he was exchanged for ‘DNR’ prisoners held by Ukraine, and came home to his mother.

There are many more details to Vanya’s story. Not all of them make sense. I could do the fact-checking, as much as is possible in Ukraine’s murky and brutal war where everyone lies about everything. But this is a story about love.

Vika wanted me to meet Vanya because he was found after being missing, alive after being dead – and that means they all can be found alive. Vika’s brother Sergey, Sveta’s son Maxim, Yadviga’s Andrey, Lilya’s Sasha. All the sons, all the brothers, the loved ones.

“Our Vanya’s unique,” said Vika. He tells the women he isn’t unique, there could be many more like him. He heard them, in neighbouring cells and dark basement rooms. Love never gives up, and neither does the desire to nurture hope.

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Waiting and war memorials. Kyiv, 2015


previous posts

A novel about the Crimean Tatars' return to their homeland

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