Today, Monday, overly generous people at the University praised me to high heaven for my performance of this and one other song last Wednesday for Navrez (which was also, apparently, shown on the Tatar television hour - and they're including it in tomorrow's newspaper! And, I've been invited to sing again tomorrow between acts of the "Miss Beautiful Tatar" contest at the University.)
People especially liked to flatter my accent-less delivery of Tatar, but truthfully, I say the vowels kind of funny. And I can't get the "k'h" sounds to be quite severe-but-still-somehow-delicate enough. And maybe I can't just take a compliment either. Anyway, you get the idea of how a beautiful Crimean Tatar song sounds when accompanied by a mediocre banjo player.
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Saturday, March 22
Misunderstandings abound. In less than eight hours spent in the coastal resort town of Yevpatoria today, I managed to get into more than a day’s share of misunderstandings, stuttered questions, clumsy exchanges, and even outright spats.
I even lost my temper today! It happened in the car that drove me from Simferopol to Yevpatoria. I had allowed the cab driver to believe that I was a student from Western Ukraine - which he had assumed when he quoted me the very fair price, less than a mashrutka, because he was eager to go and had already lined up three other passengers that he was overcharging. And then, in keeping up the charade that I was from L'viv, I smiled when they asked me if I was «orange». The car full of strangers seemed to scowl in unison. (I swear.) Then followed a 35 minute sermon from the man in the backseat about the stupidity and incompetence of the Yushchenko administration, and anyway, all hail Russia, aren't they smart for figuring out how to keep Putin in charge, and did you know that in Russia everyone has a microwave and Russians this and Russians that and now the world will fear Russia again and soon they will all have Land Rovers and I bit my tongue and bit my tongue and then I bit my tongue and then the I saw red and I YELLED AT HIM VERY LOUDLY. ABOUT CORRUPTION. AND SOULLESS OIL CORPORATIONS. AND KGB AGENTS REVAMPED AS PRESIDENTS AND THEN PRIME MINISTERS. And about how I am a reasonable person who thinks that a brighter future rests on having a representative democracy in Ukraine because that seems to be the best option we've got and really, I just hope that soon we'll have a democracy that represents me too (in the USA, cough cough tee hee). And though I agree that the law that mandates that all movies be subtitled or dubbed in Ukrainian is not good for Russian speakers (and yes, I know you're the majority in Crimea) and agree that it might just polarize Eastern/Western Russian/Ukrainian factions more, I don't think it proves that Ukraine is a bust and we should all salute the Russian flag just yet. And yes, I think those t-shirts at the L'viv bazaars that say «kiss me, I'm not Russian» are not helping anyone. But neither are all the folks in Crimea who spit on the floor and sneer or laugh when they hear Ukrainian. I looked intently out the window at the sea.
And then I asked him to change the subject. The cab driver and the backseat man's waifish lady-friend asked me neutral questions about my imaginary life in L'viv. When I hopped out of the cab later, the man in the backseat reassured me that it would all be ok and that he's sorry if his words seemed harsh. I said goodbye in Russian.
They had dropped me of at the Dzuma Khan Dzami mosque in Yevpatoria, where I was fortunate to be able to tag along on a free tour that had just started. I was pleasantly surprised to follow my tour guide Refat’s compassionate logic as he explained about the misunderstandings of the term “jihad”, the historical reasoning behind Muslim sanctioned polygamy, and how wisdom lies in being able to enter every human interaction mindfully, to ask every question respectfully.
When the tour ended, I stuck around to ask him some questions. We were interrupted by an elderly pale-skinned man – an ethnic Ukrainian, it turned out – who wanted to know what time the tours were going to be give on Sunday. He explained his interest in Crimean Tatar history and in trying to untangle Soviet and contemporary propaganda from objective truth. Refat engaged him in what he called his “subjective truth.” And then ensued one of the most informative dialogues on which I have ever had the privilege to eavesdrop. They covered the Golden Horde, the Tatar Khanate, the Crimean War, the Romanovs, Catherine II, World War II, the deportation, the Black Sea Fleet, and the Russian Empire's historical obsession with strategic ports. The gentleman would thank Refat for his stimulating and well-balanced opinions and then apologize to me for the interruption, but then he would ask another question and the dialogue would start up again. You wish these two men could debate in a public forum - on Ukrainian television, let them debate in Russian, hell! – as they were both so knowledgeable about historical facts and discrepancies and finely tuned to the many reasons why Russians, Ukrainians, Tatars, Jews, etc are historically positioned to be suspicious or hateful of one another. They talked for almost an hour, looking to me every few minutes to see if I seemed to mind that my conversation in broken Russian had been co-opted, and I assured them that this was much more interesting. (It made me realize that my Russian comprehension is quite good at this point, but my self-conscious spoken impression of Russian is a struggle.) They talked about the damage and utility of generalizations about physical anthropology/physiognomy and accompanying cultural behavioral stereotypes, why and how to protect difference without allowing it to breed misunderstanding.
I even lost my temper today! It happened in the car that drove me from Simferopol to Yevpatoria. I had allowed the cab driver to believe that I was a student from Western Ukraine - which he had assumed when he quoted me the very fair price, less than a mashrutka, because he was eager to go and had already lined up three other passengers that he was overcharging. And then, in keeping up the charade that I was from L'viv, I smiled when they asked me if I was «orange». The car full of strangers seemed to scowl in unison. (I swear.) Then followed a 35 minute sermon from the man in the backseat about the stupidity and incompetence of the Yushchenko administration, and anyway, all hail Russia, aren't they smart for figuring out how to keep Putin in charge, and did you know that in Russia everyone has a microwave and Russians this and Russians that and now the world will fear Russia again and soon they will all have Land Rovers and I bit my tongue and bit my tongue and then I bit my tongue and then the I saw red and I YELLED AT HIM VERY LOUDLY. ABOUT CORRUPTION. AND SOULLESS OIL CORPORATIONS. AND KGB AGENTS REVAMPED AS PRESIDENTS AND THEN PRIME MINISTERS. And about how I am a reasonable person who thinks that a brighter future rests on having a representative democracy in Ukraine because that seems to be the best option we've got and really, I just hope that soon we'll have a democracy that represents me too (in the USA, cough cough tee hee). And though I agree that the law that mandates that all movies be subtitled or dubbed in Ukrainian is not good for Russian speakers (and yes, I know you're the majority in Crimea) and agree that it might just polarize Eastern/Western Russian/Ukrainian factions more, I don't think it proves that Ukraine is a bust and we should all salute the Russian flag just yet. And yes, I think those t-shirts at the L'viv bazaars that say «kiss me, I'm not Russian» are not helping anyone. But neither are all the folks in Crimea who spit on the floor and sneer or laugh when they hear Ukrainian. I looked intently out the window at the sea.
And then I asked him to change the subject. The cab driver and the backseat man's waifish lady-friend asked me neutral questions about my imaginary life in L'viv. When I hopped out of the cab later, the man in the backseat reassured me that it would all be ok and that he's sorry if his words seemed harsh. I said goodbye in Russian.
They had dropped me of at the Dzuma Khan Dzami mosque in Yevpatoria, where I was fortunate to be able to tag along on a free tour that had just started. I was pleasantly surprised to follow my tour guide Refat’s compassionate logic as he explained about the misunderstandings of the term “jihad”, the historical reasoning behind Muslim sanctioned polygamy, and how wisdom lies in being able to enter every human interaction mindfully, to ask every question respectfully.
When the tour ended, I stuck around to ask him some questions. We were interrupted by an elderly pale-skinned man – an ethnic Ukrainian, it turned out – who wanted to know what time the tours were going to be give on Sunday. He explained his interest in Crimean Tatar history and in trying to untangle Soviet and contemporary propaganda from objective truth. Refat engaged him in what he called his “subjective truth.” And then ensued one of the most informative dialogues on which I have ever had the privilege to eavesdrop. They covered the Golden Horde, the Tatar Khanate, the Crimean War, the Romanovs, Catherine II, World War II, the deportation, the Black Sea Fleet, and the Russian Empire's historical obsession with strategic ports. The gentleman would thank Refat for his stimulating and well-balanced opinions and then apologize to me for the interruption, but then he would ask another question and the dialogue would start up again. You wish these two men could debate in a public forum - on Ukrainian television, let them debate in Russian, hell! – as they were both so knowledgeable about historical facts and discrepancies and finely tuned to the many reasons why Russians, Ukrainians, Tatars, Jews, etc are historically positioned to be suspicious or hateful of one another. They talked for almost an hour, looking to me every few minutes to see if I seemed to mind that my conversation in broken Russian had been co-opted, and I assured them that this was much more interesting. (It made me realize that my Russian comprehension is quite good at this point, but my self-conscious spoken impression of Russian is a struggle.) They talked about the damage and utility of generalizations about physical anthropology/physiognomy and accompanying cultural behavioral stereotypes, why and how to protect difference without allowing it to breed misunderstanding.
(And, this was not nearly the most profound point made, but I found it particularly interesting, somehow: the Turkic-language term “white ears” – used mostly for Slavs, but also Europeans – is an inversion of the Slavic pejorative for the indistinguishable huddle of those Caucasian and Central Asian and Tatar “black asses.” Did you know that?)
After the impromptu meeting of minds outside of the mosque, I followed the recommendations of Refat and Milara-odzha and visited three other sites in Yevpatoria.
The first, the old gate to the stariy gorod, where a museum of Tatar culture and a highly recommended kofeyina is housed, was closed for renovations.
The second was the site of my most frustrating misunderstanding of the day: the Tekye Dervish Museum, where a very elderly Tatar woman banished me from the premises of the ethnographic museum. Even now, in tranquil recollection, I am not sure what I did that was so criminally wrong to provoke the blind rage that it apparently did in this woman. My crime: I didn’t ring the bell as the tiny little sign outside the big (and open) wooden doors instructed visitors to do. I didn’t see the sign. And, since the museum doors were open, I entered. The woman was gardening on the other side of the yard so I smilingly said, «Селям Алейкум!» and waved and then, all of a sudden, she was threatening to sic the guard dog on me. She approached me hollering, yelling at me to get back on the street, and literally pushing me out the doors. The large tour group of schoolchildren assembling outside the museum doors found this amusing, and their teacher tried to mediate between me and the old lady. The old lady told her I had been climbing up and down the floors of the museum, poking around disrespectfully. («Not true.») As the teacher told her pre-teens smoking outside the doors to the museum that they «were not normal» and to come inside, she shrugged her shoulders at me. There's too much respect for elders – even ones apparently teetering on the brink of sanity – to challenge their authority in the Tatar community, so I watched the door close and decided not to push it. I'll go back some other day and make sure to ring the bell. Two sites down, one to go.
My final stop included the clumsiest and most random interaction of the day. I visited the beautifully restored site of the 15th century Karaite Kenasa, where the man at the door assumed I was Polish and began telling me facts about our Polish poet-hero Mickiewizc before I even recall opening my mouth.
After strolling the grounds, I decided to have my late lunch at the Cafe Karaman before catching the elektrichka back to Simferopol. All the tables at the small café were occupied, so I asked a rather sophisticated middle-aged woman sitting alone if I could join her. She kindly said «yes, of course» then asked where I was from. She spoke half a sentence in English, and then switched into very fast Moskovskiy Russian. She told me her story. Ira is a retired Russian journalist who is one of the «refugees» - as she put it – from Putin's Russia. She didn't vote in the recent Russian election. She supports Kasparov's «Other Russia» which was, as you may know, blocked from participating. Her growing disgust at witnessing Putin's «authoriarian hold» on «a country of information-starved people» and the «xenophobic attitudes that she witnessed daily on the streets of Moscow», led her to decide to sell her apartment and move to Yevpatoria. She had moved two weeks ago. She ended up walking me to the train station, talking almost the entire way in her smoky rapid-fire Russian. I concentrated hard on listening.
So though I did not get to see two of the main four sites of Tatar and indigenous Crimean culture that I had come to see, I sure did get some information - many stories from an array of strangers. On the elektrichka back to the strange little city where I find myself now, I thought about how those people in that much smaller town will probably never get to talk, to hear each other's stories. But what if the man who believes that life is so much better in Russia could hear Ira's story. (Would he believe it?) What if the cab driver, who nonchalantly dismissed the Tatar squatter's plots as mafia corruption, could hear Refat's subjective truth. What if that old woman had just let me speak. What if all those superior little ears of ours just opened up for a while to listen.
After the impromptu meeting of minds outside of the mosque, I followed the recommendations of Refat and Milara-odzha and visited three other sites in Yevpatoria.
The first, the old gate to the stariy gorod, where a museum of Tatar culture and a highly recommended kofeyina is housed, was closed for renovations.
The second was the site of my most frustrating misunderstanding of the day: the Tekye Dervish Museum, where a very elderly Tatar woman banished me from the premises of the ethnographic museum. Even now, in tranquil recollection, I am not sure what I did that was so criminally wrong to provoke the blind rage that it apparently did in this woman. My crime: I didn’t ring the bell as the tiny little sign outside the big (and open) wooden doors instructed visitors to do. I didn’t see the sign. And, since the museum doors were open, I entered. The woman was gardening on the other side of the yard so I smilingly said, «Селям Алейкум!» and waved and then, all of a sudden, she was threatening to sic the guard dog on me. She approached me hollering, yelling at me to get back on the street, and literally pushing me out the doors. The large tour group of schoolchildren assembling outside the museum doors found this amusing, and their teacher tried to mediate between me and the old lady. The old lady told her I had been climbing up and down the floors of the museum, poking around disrespectfully. («Not true.») As the teacher told her pre-teens smoking outside the doors to the museum that they «were not normal» and to come inside, she shrugged her shoulders at me. There's too much respect for elders – even ones apparently teetering on the brink of sanity – to challenge their authority in the Tatar community, so I watched the door close and decided not to push it. I'll go back some other day and make sure to ring the bell. Two sites down, one to go.
My final stop included the clumsiest and most random interaction of the day. I visited the beautifully restored site of the 15th century Karaite Kenasa, where the man at the door assumed I was Polish and began telling me facts about our Polish poet-hero Mickiewizc before I even recall opening my mouth.
After strolling the grounds, I decided to have my late lunch at the Cafe Karaman before catching the elektrichka back to Simferopol. All the tables at the small café were occupied, so I asked a rather sophisticated middle-aged woman sitting alone if I could join her. She kindly said «yes, of course» then asked where I was from. She spoke half a sentence in English, and then switched into very fast Moskovskiy Russian. She told me her story. Ira is a retired Russian journalist who is one of the «refugees» - as she put it – from Putin's Russia. She didn't vote in the recent Russian election. She supports Kasparov's «Other Russia» which was, as you may know, blocked from participating. Her growing disgust at witnessing Putin's «authoriarian hold» on «a country of information-starved people» and the «xenophobic attitudes that she witnessed daily on the streets of Moscow», led her to decide to sell her apartment and move to Yevpatoria. She had moved two weeks ago. She ended up walking me to the train station, talking almost the entire way in her smoky rapid-fire Russian. I concentrated hard on listening.
So though I did not get to see two of the main four sites of Tatar and indigenous Crimean culture that I had come to see, I sure did get some information - many stories from an array of strangers. On the elektrichka back to the strange little city where I find myself now, I thought about how those people in that much smaller town will probably never get to talk, to hear each other's stories. But what if the man who believes that life is so much better in Russia could hear Ira's story. (Would he believe it?) What if the cab driver, who nonchalantly dismissed the Tatar squatter's plots as mafia corruption, could hear Refat's subjective truth. What if that old woman had just let me speak. What if all those superior little ears of ours just opened up for a while to listen.
Oy, I'm getting sentimental.
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