Posts Tagged 'east Ukraine conflict'

War photography

Mira and Liza, 15 and 16 years old, with hair down to their waists and the whites of their eyes as clear as fine bone china. Eyes on the future; all their lives ahead of them. Mira and Liza from Krasnohorivka.

There used to be a disco. Three years ago there were cafes. There were places where you could just hang out with your friends. There was a park. Well there’s still a park, but it’s always empty in the evenings now. At night there’s just stars and shelling, shelling and stars. In the morning there’s still the park, you can go running – but the shelling starts again and all there is to do is to go home again, go back to bed, just go back to sleep.

We feel like it will last forever. But sooner or later it will end. It has to, because we believe it so much, we want it so much. It’s really sad. Three years ago we were just running around, thinking it would all be like this forever, it’d be like life, living – and instead it’s this picture, you’re running around and you get caught in shelling and you’re sitting in a basement and there’s no life.

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21.7.17 in Mariinka, Toma, 3 years old, Vanya, 14, Anya, 19, injured by shrapnel

Mira and Liza are in Kyiv, showing their photographs of their hometown on the frontline in the east to a city that wants to forget about the war. At first, when they were invited to join the Mariinka Media Centre photography project, they thought someone wanted them to be models, longhaired brighteyed posing in ruined buildings. Instead they took photos themselves of the ruins. Of each other’s faces, laughing. Now they dream of going to college to study photography and journalism. We know there are problems with our education, it keeps getting interrupted. But we’ll finish, we’ll graduate, we’ll get away.

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Girls with dreams, Mariinka and Krasnohorivka

Today: one soldier killed, eight wounded in Krasnohorivka. Today Mira and Liza go home.

 

A picture and a thousand words

So in one of those interesting social media juxtapositions, I’ve have these two posts by and about (two different) photographers popping up next to each other in my facebook timeline:
“A Russian photographer of a Russian state propaganda agency gets a World Press Photo for some “conflict between self-proclaimed republics and the official Ukrainian authorities” […] The “funny” thing is, this war (and it is a full-scale war) would have never happened without Russian propaganda (in other words, his employer). Moreover, the agency and the separatists are funded from the same pocket (in other words, Kremlin).”
“The series of pictures I have submitted do explain the fanaticism that has driven the largest war in Europe in a generation, the transformative effects of war on both the pro-government and separatist fighters, and the tragedy of the most vulnerable – those civilians trapped on both sides of demarcation zone – technically frontline. I document three groups’ experiences: those workers and other civilians living on the ‘cease-fire line’, collectively punished by Kiev, which has imposed a pitiless economic embargo, those fighters from Ukrainian battalions, a mix of moderate supporters of a Western leaning Ukraine, as well as Ukrainian nationalists, and the pro-Russian rebels, frustrated by Putin, who led them to believe in a bright future of close ties to the Russian world, but has not delivered what he promised.”
I’m not going to link, because I don’t know either of the photographers whose work is discussed and couldn’t begin to judge their merit or motivations. I’m just going to make a few remarks from the depths of my cynical soul.
These two posts about pictures are in fact all about words. Consider, for example, ‘Russian’, ‘pitiless’, ‘rebel’ and, indeed, ‘war’.
Neither Ukraine, Russia or any other country officially calls the east Ukraine conflict a war. You might say that’s a technicality when approaching 10,000 people have died in it and humanitarian photographers are busy documenting the fallout. But even from a humanitarian point of view it does really matter to – in just one example – the 700 plus detainees on both sides who because this is not a war, have no protection whatsoever as war prisoners.
Words really, really matter. I wish I could take ‘humanitarian’ pictures and feel good about myself and win a few awards. Hell, I wish I could feel good about writing stories to ‘give a human face’ or some such cliche. But this conflict has a history, semantic and visual and political and yes, humanitarian. Or should that be human.
Few photographers and writers are experts in neutrality. We don’t just throw our work out into the world like a naked babe. We clothe it in assumption, insinuation, association – because we’re just human too.
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While we’re on the subject of contextless war photos… (Preparation for 9 May WW2 commemorations, Kyiv 2015)

The truth about war II

It used to be that with each fresh bout of violence in east Ukraine, with each shelled trolleybus or school or ambulance, every new batch of civilian casualties, each side would rush to blame the other.

Ths time, as fighting has flared up again, I am hearing people saying that it doesn’t matter who started firing first; which side kicked off the latest surge in artillery and tank barrages.

That was my own opinion more than two years ago, for reasons explained here. Now people are saying it for another reason. They are saying it is irrelevant to talk at all about two sides in this war, because there is only one side.

In pro-Ukrainian media and discourse, the warring side is Russia. In Russia, the warring side is Ukraine.

This I think is the first time in Ukraine (and largely in western media) there has been really no mention of another side to the deaths and heroics of the last week. Coverage is all of Avdiivka (on Ukraine controlled territory) and the damage done there by artillery  provided by Russia. You wouldn’t think from the reports that the Ukrainian army is actually firing at anything. Because Ukraine isn’t a side in this war. The only side is Russia, but Russia is also not literally there, not in terms of houses and people and pet dogs over in non-Ukraine controlled Donetsk and Makiivka where Ukrainian grad rockets are landing across the not-legally-there border into the non-existent republic of the ‘DNR’. I suppose it’s pretty hard to cause any damage when the only warring side isn’t officially there.

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Ukrainian collection of war ‘souvenirs’, Dnipro 2015

Vice-versa, Russia media continues to cover the war as though it owned it, at the same time as insisting that the people fighting and dying are all from the one side, Ukraine; Ukrainian houses and people and pet dogs in Donetsk and Makiivka being shot at by their own Ukrainian army and soldiers based around Avdiivka. Those official Russian organisations of Russian veterans of the east Ukraine war represent only volunteers, of course; obviously nothing is crossing the miles of non-Ukraine controlled border between the non-recognised ‘DNR’/’LNR’ and Russia except humanitarian aid; ‘I hope they have enough ammunition’, said Putin spokesman Dmitry Peskov last week of the ‘DNR’ army, in one of the more disgusting pieces of mendacity – and the bar is already sky-high – in this conflict’s vile lying history.

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‘LNR’ roadside collection of war ‘souvenirs’. Luhansk 2014

And if you read all the comments made by everyone, from the politicians to the soldiers to the media pundits to, even, the civilians getting killed, the really amazing thing is that this one-sided war is in fact not about either Ukraine or Russia. It is all about America and the new US president.

I used to think that war, stripped to the essentials, was a matter of A killing B before B kills A.

Then I came to understand that war is a matter of A (or B) killing C in order to made D believe that B (or A) is worse than A (or B).

This last week my understanding of war has evolved again. War is a matter of AB engaging in some jointly inaccurate, inefficient and wildy expensive game of heavy artillery for the purpose of trying to work out if and what D might be thinking (and, might D join A/B in some killing elsewhere, of E perhaps).

C meanwhile gets killed just because of being in the way. C is barely relevant anymore even for the purposes of war propaganda.

C is Diana from Makiivka, a born rescuer, who rescued a corgi when the streets were full of shelling and put a pink bow round its neck; despite her care the dog escaped on another night of shelling, came back pregnant and provided an unexpected windfall when Diana sold the pups over the internet, in the middle of a war.

C is Svetlana, a born warrior who nevertheless stayed at home while her gentle poet brother went and joined the ‘DNR’ militants and came home in a coffin; Svetlana hoards her ‘DNR’ flags in her flat in a frontline town like Avdiivka, dreaming of the day she can leave her husband and son and hospital job, and ride away to the wars.

C is baba Lyuba, who moved into a bomb shelter two years ago in Donetsk and is probably still there because it provided her with a new home, a family she’d never known; watching Russian TV together on a tiny screen underground, teaching her 5-year-old adopted son to hate Ukrainian fascists.

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Home in a bomb shelter, Donetsk 2014

C is Dima, whose house in Donetsk is like a treasure chest, full of mosaic and woodcarving that his father began and he carried on, whose garage is home to a gleaming pale-blue 1950s Volga and a flutter of crooning fan-tailed pigeons; with every crash of artillery the mosaics tremble, those decades of loving work of father and son to create something beautiful are so very fragile.

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Pigeons. Donetsk, 2015

(PS Both sides in East Ukraine collude in making coverage of this war one-sided. In particular it is now almost imposssible for non-Russian journalists to get to the ‘DNR’, as this article makes clear; while those who have been there have ended up on a Ukrainian list of so-called terrorist sympathisers. So this is not an attack on journalists.)

Catch 22

Since this piece on exchange of prisoners in Ukraine was published in March, not a thing has changed. Since I first met Natasha Lazorenko and Natasha Gerasimenko back in August 2015, not a thing has changed for their husbands, mobilised Ukrainian soldiers who have been prisoners in the ‘Donetsk People’s Republic’ (‘DNR’) since January 2015.

I say ‘not a thing’: Ukrainian volunteer fighter Nadia Savchenko got released from imprisonment in Russia (presidential plane, international interviews, bouquets of flowers), and for a few days there was talk of this being the first of many exchanges, until the latest contact group meeting over implementation of the Minsk protocols (supposed to resolve the east Ukraine war) announced that no progress could be made on freeing ‘hostages’.

I say ‘not a thing’: Sasha Lazorenko’s mother Ludmila gets more enraged and bitter (“I got angry with the whole world”). Natasha Gerasimenko accepts she is yet another day, week, month, year away from any possibility of conceiving the child she and her husband Kolya so wanted to have. Natasha and Sasha, married just a week before he was called back to the frontline last January, have less and less to say to each other on the phone when Sasha calls.

(He never knows when, or if he’ll be able to call; whether some more friendly guard will decide to lend a phone. He never knows if he’s going to get fed again. If he’s going to be sent to do unpaid labour today, or sent back to the lightless basement he spent three months in when no one knew if he was alive or dead. If he’s ever going to get out alive. If he comes home; if he’ll recognise his wife anymore when he does).

Last summer when I first met her,  Natasha recounted the phone conversations when Sasha talked about new recipes for fish soup he wanted to try, and plans to rebuild the balcony when he came back. Those conversations are long past – Hard to still have plans for balconies and ideas for recipes, after all this time. “Now his first question is always: When? What have you heard, what’s new? I could lie and say it’ll be in the nearest future, but he’s been there a year already; what nearest future? Or tell the truth, that he’s been forgotten – because sometimes that’s what it feels like.”

Meanwhile the two Natashas, modest clear-eyed young women working in ordinary dull low-paid jobs  in Kriviy Rih, the kind of town and the kind of women Kyiv and history ignores, get more involved in a life they could never have imagined for themselves.

As their husbands’ world got smaller, theirs got paradoxically larger. They are ‘hostages’ wives’ now, endlessly trekking to Kyiv with posters of their husband’s faces, to try and make someone take notice and do something. “I hardly recognise myself; I’m completely used to photographers and TV cameras now, I’m used to talking to government officials as if they were my friends.”

But they aren’t, those officials playing an incomprehensible game with the lives of the Sashas and Kolyas and Natashas of this world. The pilgrimages to Kyiv can feel like a pointless game too. “Every time we go to Kyiv we say we won’t go again. It’s just to tick a box, so we can tell ourselves we aren’t just sitting and waiting and doing nothing.”

The Natashas know they aren’t important. They aren’t even in the worst situation – Sasha and Kolya are in fairly good health, unlike some prisoners; they are not being beaten or tortured anymore; everyone knows where they are even if the ICRC still has no access to them.

But they worry about what their men are eating, whether they’re getting medical care, what’s going on inside their heads.  What they’ll be like when they are finally released. How angry are they going to be, how disappointed in a country that apparently abandoned them. “I don’t think he’ll be able to go back to being a taxi driver. He’ll end up shooting his passengers.”

Whether they have all become different people now.

Savchenko was exchanged after she was tried and sentenced in Russia, then pardoned and exchanged for two Russian officers tried and sentenced and pardoned in Ukraine. This process was a lengthy piece of theatre of the absurd, complete with murdered lawyer, hunger strikes, public admission then retraction (Yes, OSCE monitor, we are acting Russian officers; no we’re not, world, we’re retired Russian officers…), magnanimous petitioning victims’ relatives, memorable semi-mythical analogies (Joan of Arc of Ukraine…)

They were show trials, while the real show that is the war grinds on in the background, the thing everyone knows but no one can admit.

War is never mentioned in the Minsk protocols, which call for ‘release and exchange of all hostages and illegally held persons, based on the principle of “all for all”’, and – which the ‘DNR’ and ‘LNR’ in Luhansk insist must be implemented before any exchanges – ‘pardon and amnesty by way of enacting a law that forbids persecution and punishment of persons in relation to events that took place in particular departments of Donetsk and Luhansk Oblasts of Ukraine.’

(What does ‘all-for-all’ mean when neither side can even agree how many it is holding or how many it accuses the other side of holding? What the hell does amnesty of ‘persons in relation to events in particular departments’ mean?)

No country or organisation calls what’s happening in East Ukraine an international armed conflict, not even Ukraine. So at the same time as Ukrainian government officials talk about Russian aggression, they can’t actually say that those people they sent to flight and who are now being held in Donetsk and Luhansk, or those Ukraine is holding prisoner on Ukraine-held territory, are prisoners of war.

Instead “There’s no war, there are no prisoners, there’s no nothing,” says Natasha, wife of one of those ordinary Ukrainian soldiers few bother to write about or support campaigns for their release because they’re not martyrs or medieval saints; no one would notice if they went on hunger strike since no one is obliged to feed them anyway; they have no lawyers; they’re not in Russia; they’re not prisoners of war; they haven’t been charged or sentenced; they aren’t even actually literally in prison.

They’re down the rabbit hole in Donetsk listening to ‘DNR’ radio and reading old books about Ukrainian independence from the SBU (Ukrainian security service) archive. They’re sleeping on the Donetsk SBU’s archive metal filing shelves like sardines in tins, day in day out for days and months and already years. They’re guilty of being soldiers, but at the same time they have none of the legal protections that soldiers should have in war.

They’re guilty of being sent to a war that isn’t a war, and leaving their wives behind.

free gerasimenko

Before he was moved to Donetsk, when Kolya Gerasimenko was unearthed from that lightless cellar he’d been kept in with Sasha for three months when no one knew if they were alive or dead, he said to his wife over the phone, “In these three months I thought you’d have already buried me.” He and Natasha got married in August 2014, when he was on leave from the front: “I wanted to be his wife in case he got injured or killed and then I’d be no one.”

And now who is she? The wife of a soldier who is and is not a prisoner of war; who may or may not even be an ‘illegally held person’ since the unrecognised ‘DNR’ and ‘LNR’ – following Kyiv’s example – have begun to try their prisoners under their criminal code.  That code is the Soviet criminal code – laws from a country that no longer exists.

 

Someone’s child

It is borderguards day today in Ukraine. This is for Oleh Kislitsky and his family, espcially his mother Nadezhda. Oleh disappeared near Ukraine’s eastern border with Russia in August 2014, when his Bilhorod-Dnistrovsky borderguard unit was retreating from a Russian and seperatist offensive. A body was found and buried by local people in Luhansk region; it was exhumed by volunteers a year later, and identified by DNA matching as Oleh.

Now he lies in his local cemetery alongside his grandparents, and today the borderguards will put up a new monument for him.

oleh grave2

“I don’t believe it’s him,” Nadezhda told me in November last year. “I don’t know if my son’s buried or not buried.”

We were standing by the grave in the grey, leafless cemetery, two weeks after the funeral. “I think I did the right thing, because in years to come maybe they will find out who he is, and his family will thank me. He’s someone’s child. And I’m grateful to those people in [Luhansk region] who gave him to the earth, so that the crows didn’t pick him to pieces and he could never be found…”

We stood together contemplating the great mound of plastic flowers, and I suppose she was imagining in my place her tall son standing beside her. Nadezhda, whose name means ‘hope’, said “I’ll wait and hope as long as this earth carries me. I hope I’ll live for it, for when he comes back and says, ‘Mum, why did you do this? I’m alive!’”

Oleh is one of eleven Ukrainian borderguards who went missing in that retreat in August 2014.

Thicker than water

It’s time for collecting birch sap in the woods round the village. Pulled from deep underground the sap runs quick under the trees’ skin, just a little thicker than water, a touch sweeter, a bit more green, a bit more gold. Tastes like nothing; like things growing. Like every year.

Eight-year-old Styopka has a big sloshing bottle of sap he’s collected, hung from the bicycle handlebars. As we walk along the village main street he shows me the plinth where Lenin was standing last time I was here. “Dad cut him down, before he left. Got his saw and sliced him right off.”

Like many men here Styopka’s dad Tolik is a monumental mason, trained in the granite quarries nearby that turned out Soviet monuments and war memorials and gravestones. For the last few years he’s joined the thousands of Ukrainians working in Moscow, where he can earn enough to keep his three children back home fed and clothed, buy crocuses and lilies for the garden and a wrought iron gate of great pretension with lions on the gateposts. His wife divorced him a couple of years ago but he still stays with her and the children when he comes back, in the house with the fancy gate (both gate and divorce a great topic of village gossip).

When he’s back he teaches Styopka how to collect birch sap, where to pick mushrooms: things Tolik’s great grandfather would have known, and that Tolik learned when he was Styopka’s age, when Lenin was up on the classroom wall and great-grandpa was the one no one talked about.

Tolik is as patriotically Ukrainian as can be. He teaches Styopka things he never learned himself when he was Styopka’s age: that great-grandfather, arrested in 1937, was a machine gunner in a local resistance movement that fought against the Soviet collectivisation of their lands. The family has relatives in Russia – who in Ukraine hasn’t? – but they don’t really speak anymore; blood is thicker than water but politics are thicker than blood. In Moscow Tolik lives with other ostarbeiters, speaking village Ukrainian, earning money carving memorials for dead Russians.

“Dad’s going to look for work in Poland,” Styopka tells me. I assume it’s for political reasons – and it turns out it is, in a way. “His boss in Moscow said that because of the crisis, people have even stopped dying.”

People haven’t stopped dying in Ukraine. The plan is to replace Lenin with a monument to the ‘Heavenly Hundred’ who died on Maidan. The village cemetery has just extended into a new patch of earth levelled ready for the next deaths from illness and alcoholism and old age and war. There might not be enough well-paid work for Tolik but the monuments get bigger and fancier every year; great slabs of the local granite with portraits engraved on the front and pictures on the back of a dream car, a favourite birch grove, a machine gun.

Last time I was here, over 200 call-up papers had just been delivered to local men, Styopka’s mother Natasha told me. I thought she’d be worried about Tolik going to fight in the ATO (Anti-Terrorism Operation: Kyiv’s official name for the war). “It doesn’t matter to me,” she said. “Firstly, Tolik’s in Moscow. Secondly, he’s not registered anywhere. And thirdly, we’re divorced.”

This time, I noticed billboards in the neighbouring town centre showing the faces of three local men who’ve died in east Ukraine. Heroes Never Die. Next to them there’s a billboard for ‘Paris boutique’ selling cheap perfume, and another advertising swimwear.

heroes never die

The village has two returned war heroes from the east, brothers. Sasha drinks most of the time, and cries in his sleep. He came back to find his job had been taken by someone else; after three attempts he gave up trying to get the papers confirming he’s an ‘ATOshnik’ (one of those strange new words that’s entered the language, it means a participant in the ATO, entitled to benefits). His brother Serhiy is in the ‘spetsnaz’ – special forces – who stood for months on Maidan in Kyiv fighting protesters, until they killed the Heavenly Hundred – and got killed themselves, some of them. When Serhiy’s division came back from Maidan local people gave them funeral wreaths, and spat at them. Serhiy went straight from that to become an ATOshnik fighting ‘separatists’ in east Ukraine. Heroes Never Die.

I wonder what pictures those brothers would have on the back of their gravestones, when the time comes for them to go down into the ground. Hope that time doesn’t come soon. They can’t afford to die; both have small children, younger than Styopka.

All the village children are collecting plastic bottle tops to make prosthetics for wounded Ukrainian soldiers. I wonder what kind of prosthetic you could make for Sasha’s wounds. Styopka has collected 120 tops so far. Another boy in his class collected 600! Have I got any bottle tops? Have I got any English coins? Styopka collects coins too. All children like collecting things; I remember how satisfying it is, like building a world that’s only yours.

Now Styopka’s collecting facts about England. “Are there lots of castles?” Yes, I tell him, some are ruined, some are like museums, some are still lived in… “Is there a lot of traffic in London?” I tell him about double decker buses, and how if you sit at the front of the top deck it looks like you’re going to crash when you go round corners.  “Are there horses on the streets?” I tell him about mounted police. “Are there carriages?” No, I say; well, every now and again, when the queen is going somewhere…

London sounds like a fairytale. In the next village to this one, children still go to school every day by horse and cart. When I first tried birch sap, it was like a fairytale. Horses and carts too. The tale of the great-grandfather, which changes a little every time I hear it. He was arrested in 1937 and the family never found out what had happened to him until the 1990s. His children looking up at the windows of the prison in the neighbouring town for years afterwards, wondering if he was still in there, never knowing he’d been shot three days after his arrest.

Now he’s in a romantic Ukrainian novel about that local resistance movement, a predecessor of the Heavenly Hundred and the ATOshniky. Heroes Never Die. I guess no one will ever know where he’s buried, under what uncut stone for a gravemarker, birch trees for a shelter. Birch roots pulling up the sap each year from under the ground where he lies.

For now, the ATO is like a fairytale for Styopka; something you can fix by collecting bottle tops, like his dad can fix history by chopping down a statue of Lenin with his stone cutting tools.

For just for a week each year the sap runs quick under the birch trees’ skin, a little thicker than water. Tastes like nothing, like things growing. Like every year.

Living memory II

In August 2014 I wrote this piece about Slavyansk museum in east Ukraine, where staff were collecting artefacts from the three months the town lived under pro-Russian/separatist/rebel/insurgent/take-your-pick rule before being retaken by the Ukrainian army.

With director Lilya Zander I discussed the difficulties of making any coherent historical narrative out of recent events, and the problematic labelling of objects when opinion is so freshly, painfully divided and words are weapons more effective than bullets. And I asked her what the exhibition would be called.

Over a year later, I visited the completed, untitled exhibition. The museum has got round the problem of narrative by scarcely offering any narrative at all, and the problem of labelling by providing consistently inconsistent labelling. This is a war exhibition which never mentions the word ‘war’; an ‘Anti-Terrorist Operation’ exhibition which calls the object of the operation ‘fighters’ or ‘separatists’ more often than ‘terrorists’, an exhibition of occupation and liberation which lines up the most deadly weapons on the side of the ‘liberators’ and calls the dead simply ‘victims of armed conflict’.

“Where are the pictures of civilian casualties?” one of the museum staff said, when I told her about the article I wrote.

There were no such images in the exhibition. “Has the museum collected such pictures?” I asked.

“Oh yes. We can’t show them. No one knows how many died, they say around 120 but no one knows, no one wants to admit it. And no one will ever get any compensation.”

I tried to ask her whose decision it had been not to show pictures of casualties, and if the exhibition had divided the staff. “Are you asking me my opinion of what happened?” she said sharply. “My opinion is that they had no right to bomb us.”

slavyansk museum hall

An elderly woman was visiting the exhibition with her grandson. “This is what they shot with,” she said to him, as they wandered from left (covering the Ukrainian army’s period of retaking the city) to right (about the other side, and the time leading up to that) and back again. “This is what they wore.” “These are the leaflets they printed.” “This is what they ate.” It was a weirdly pointless and neutral commentary. I asked where she was from – Lisichansk, on Ukraine controlled territory of Luhansk, near the line that increasingly separates one reality from another.

“What do you think of the exhibition?”

“I always visit the museum first in every town I visit. It’s important to know history,” she said.

Her grandson took pictures of the dummy dressed in ‘separatist’ uniform, practically identical to the dummy in Ukrainian army uniform in the opposite corner. “Pray god all this never happens again,” said the woman, the only comment with any emotion or opinion in it I heard her make.

‘Badges and chevrons of the Ukrainian armed forces and volunteer divisions’

‘badges and chevrons of seperatist formations’

I tried to imagine what a visitor from the future, or from another country, uninformed about these events, would learn from the exhibition. I had to conclude they would learn pretty much nothing.

Some unnumbered and unnamed people held a referendum for confused anti-European reasons which their own leaflets do not make at all clear; there is some mention of fascists; they built barricades with portraits of Lenin and Orthodox icons and Russian flags; they used Russian army medical supplies and soviet-era rifles, and produced militant recruitment fliers copied from the posters of Hollywood action flicks. On the opposite side the Ukrainian army and unexplained ‘volunteer brigades’, eating American army rations and firing gigantic Soviet ‘hurricane’ rockets, lost in some unexplained way a helicopter, lost named men, gave out bread and soup and produced anti-propaganda propaganda leaflets. Someone put up a small monument somewhere, to unnumbered and unnamed civilian casualties ‘of armed conflict’.

I don’t mean all this as a criticism of the exhibition, exactly. History is written by the victors, but in Slavyansk museum I sense that no one is sure who the victors are, only who are the losers. No information, no certainty, scarcely any judgement. Just objects.

When I asked the director last year what the exhibition could be called, she said, “Trophies from an incomprehensible war.”

'In memory of the peaceful citizens of Slavyansk, Nikolaevka and Slavyansk region who died during the period of armed conflict April-July 2014

‘In memory of the peaceful citizens of Slavyansk, Nikolaevka and Slavyansk region who died during the period of armed conflict April-July 2014’

 


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A novel about the Crimean Tatars' return to their homeland


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