tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2781106191714955192024-03-06T21:04:45.387+02:00My Simferopol HomeMaria Sonevytskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07593904559215438311noreply@blogger.comBlogger56125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278110619171495519.post-41355986822071888782011-05-14T01:47:00.005+03:002011-05-14T02:07:19.705+03:00Introducing virtual Maria SonevytskyHey internet, I've made a website called <a href="http://www.mariasonevytsky.com/">mariasonevytsky.com</a> where I'll be logging all of my current and past projects. Please visit me there!
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<br />In other fabulous news, I am all set to distribute my dissertation this coming Monday. I cannot express how happy this makes me. I spent a few hours today culling through my photos and collected archival images from 2008-2009, feeling intensely nostalgic. I share with you a few at my random and impetuous choice.
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<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyOXn-zO7E8FyN9iAt_88WB_xM7xYCfQMppGLyCIkq70PqOpVZvoh8klRmyxWK9o9TDaSOBp8j3nA3Bf0KJRPAPI3kkurXaaefwhEWijCUQ2vPT1QRgbDrsW-qHkX3Pk0Hb2jNVkfghsIr/s1600/DSCN3248.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyOXn-zO7E8FyN9iAt_88WB_xM7xYCfQMppGLyCIkq70PqOpVZvoh8klRmyxWK9o9TDaSOBp8j3nA3Bf0KJRPAPI3kkurXaaefwhEWijCUQ2vPT1QRgbDrsW-qHkX3Pk0Hb2jNVkfghsIr/s320/DSCN3248.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606338168117257522" /></a>
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<br />Former PCV Scott Slankard and me on a midsummer hike in Mangup Kale, Crimea.
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<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7x_UTkxqU_IfvTg-O2aJlxhyphenhyphen2O5-Q6wwlgJtrQsp6fIe5zd8Cw4j-BZ8LEzTJEilc2IG6rVyKFH4KdsoyZI3LlZV8t3SvWLLdqM45wdz6iirFIp-0vVg43-l2HTukuDcD3YlSk0eVhSs4/s1600/IMG_0274.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7x_UTkxqU_IfvTg-O2aJlxhyphenhyphen2O5-Q6wwlgJtrQsp6fIe5zd8Cw4j-BZ8LEzTJEilc2IG6rVyKFH4KdsoyZI3LlZV8t3SvWLLdqM45wdz6iirFIp-0vVg43-l2HTukuDcD3YlSk0eVhSs4/s320/IMG_0274.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606338165730632754" /></a>
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<br /><div>Me, Franz, and Mykhailo Tafiychuk on our first trip to the Tafiychuk homestead in May 2008. (Photo by Roman Pechizhak)</div><div>
<br /></div><div><meta charset="utf-8"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaFPZ_A8sQ8QLjgpV0-_HqhI9lp6XWRCm0q4UJbeLYYkUvkmQkePjW5css8N4_FLK4rjx2v6GP7VzlMaxE2KmsriVNLyhxnN7SipNT5URIp5x5p3_IfKT2FZRIRi6p1S-3ms1kmllWEPX2/s320/DSCN2196_2.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606340878334154690" style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></div><div>
<br /></div><div>Milara and I relax on May Day.
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<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwxZYbo5j4GuxcsbBJMHeEiixDlfV58wXIIF6bxdH80HzSDFfOJ4pOjNuxFv61dmtyFruLnz1qs0IX-ZK5sOVcuuGdjx_GRzoKVUWQWcpx6hh-RziZT6AdzBa23H-TUFya6_X-AekN5Rr_/s1600/DSC03963.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwxZYbo5j4GuxcsbBJMHeEiixDlfV58wXIIF6bxdH80HzSDFfOJ4pOjNuxFv61dmtyFruLnz1qs0IX-ZK5sOVcuuGdjx_GRzoKVUWQWcpx6hh-RziZT6AdzBa23H-TUFya6_X-AekN5Rr_/s320/DSC03963.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606338159275572450" /></a></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwxZYbo5j4GuxcsbBJMHeEiixDlfV58wXIIF6bxdH80HzSDFfOJ4pOjNuxFv61dmtyFruLnz1qs0IX-ZK5sOVcuuGdjx_GRzoKVUWQWcpx6hh-RziZT6AdzBa23H-TUFya6_X-AekN5Rr_/s1600/DSC03963.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a>Visiting Odosia Plytka-Sorokhan in Kryvorivnia (photo by Oksana Susyak)
<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHWSzYQZye2cuKdQP5hlZHyM-0B2o2ANJdS8g5K2mi9Dz7HDp2JdAXQX6SLw4TPXk0ofhKDzZPy5JgbrPJ92COZLhrsEI5HzyRGS-ZCFc7RKXL6SD-kOy-UxYTDQe3bbicSKXmNMdfsmqJ/s1600/%25D0%25A2%25D0%25B0%25D1%2580%25D0%25BD%25D0%25B0%25D0%25B2%25D1%2581%25D1%258C%25D0%25BA%25D0%25B8%25D0%25B9.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 190px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHWSzYQZye2cuKdQP5hlZHyM-0B2o2ANJdS8g5K2mi9Dz7HDp2JdAXQX6SLw4TPXk0ofhKDzZPy5JgbrPJ92COZLhrsEI5HzyRGS-ZCFc7RKXL6SD-kOy-UxYTDQe3bbicSKXmNMdfsmqJ/s320/%25D0%25A2%25D0%25B0%25D1%2580%25D0%25BD%25D0%25B0%25D0%25B2%25D1%2581%25D1%258C%25D0%25BA%25D0%25B8%25D0%25B9.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606338158353107010" /></a></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHWSzYQZye2cuKdQP5hlZHyM-0B2o2ANJdS8g5K2mi9Dz7HDp2JdAXQX6SLw4TPXk0ofhKDzZPy5JgbrPJ92COZLhrsEI5HzyRGS-ZCFc7RKXL6SD-kOy-UxYTDQe3bbicSKXmNMdfsmqJ/s1600/%25D0%25A2%25D0%25B0%25D1%2580%25D0%25BD%25D0%25B0%25D0%25B2%25D1%2581%25D1%258C%25D0%25BA%25D0%25B8%25D0%25B9.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a>An old Polish postcard advertising a kolyba in Hutsul'shchyna. Calisthenics!
<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6_wo6cqRgjS64ygUybw9Jh5dDFJBXhFL8CEpIdt77OsHsyusxOJkx5S7MUZeGDfMkFUZkKwBdtLxAyYz2aCngDG9jegzKLagPm982wi2tvpHvcrpJhalcWQBKalRQZDCiJp_VEYDq8AGl/s1600/%25D0%25B0%25D0%25BD%25D1%2581%25D0%25B0%25D0%25BC%25D0%25B1%25D0%25BB%25D1%258C.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6_wo6cqRgjS64ygUybw9Jh5dDFJBXhFL8CEpIdt77OsHsyusxOJkx5S7MUZeGDfMkFUZkKwBdtLxAyYz2aCngDG9jegzKLagPm982wi2tvpHvcrpJhalcWQBKalRQZDCiJp_VEYDq8AGl/s320/%25D0%25B0%25D0%25BD%25D1%2581%25D0%25B0%25D0%25BC%25D0%25B1%25D0%25BB%25D1%258C.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606338156442116386" /></a></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6_wo6cqRgjS64ygUybw9Jh5dDFJBXhFL8CEpIdt77OsHsyusxOJkx5S7MUZeGDfMkFUZkKwBdtLxAyYz2aCngDG9jegzKLagPm982wi2tvpHvcrpJhalcWQBKalRQZDCiJp_VEYDq8AGl/s1600/%25D0%25B0%25D0%25BD%25D1%2581%25D0%25B0%25D0%25BC%25D0%25B1%25D0%25BB%25D1%258C.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a>An amazing archival image given to me by Rustem Eminov of the Khan's Palace in Bakhchisaray - of a student Crimean Tatar ensemble (that included his grandmother, Zeyneb Lumanova) in 1933 in Simferopol.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>There are a billion more, but you'll have to read the diss to see those. Ha! I dare you.</div><div>
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<br />Maria Sonevytskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07593904559215438311noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278110619171495519.post-32265813024817244802009-06-20T13:01:00.003+03:002009-06-25T15:29:50.684+03:00Last (Field)notesThis may be the last I write for some time, since I left Ukraine yesterday and hope to achieve some distance between the last frenzied months of fieldwork and the process of digesting and writing up all the data that will begin next semester back in New York, back at Columbia (and because our 2009 summer <a href="http://www.myspace.com/debutantehour">Debutante Tour</a> commences tomorrow in the UK!). I’m typing these thoughts as the sun sets behind Wawel Castle in rainy Krakow, in the comfort of my distant cousin’s comfortable 5th floor flat. When I finally crossed the EU border yesterday, I will admit I experienced a rush of relief, and not only because the roads were suddenly free of the potholes that have nearly ruined the shocks on my weathered car. But it was a bittersweet crossing - I left fully aware that my life is moving forward and now away from the dear friends and adopted family that filled up my life over the last eighteen months.<br /><br />In the last few days, both Ostap and Oksana, two of my closest friends and informants, independent of one another, confronted me about my role as an observer, <i>just </i>an observer. Just an ethnographer. Someone who stays for a while, ingratiates herself in communities of people, then leaves, writes a book in a faraway country in a foreign language to further her career. To what end? they both asked. Their words stung a little, and hit an old but still raw nerve for me, the place where my struggles about how to be a person of action, creating change, making things happen, should intersect with the academic work I do, which often feels too far away from everyday life, too serious or analytical to have an impact on the way the world works. <div><br /></div><div>But I’m grateful that these two managed to strike that nerve again in my last days, because it reminded me of the responsibility that I have to the people whose courage, creativity, and perseverance inspired me over the course of my 18 months of fieldwork, people whose opportunities have been thwarted by the outrageously corrupt system that they live in, yet people who still manage to introduce beauty and art and justice into the world. And their confrontations reminded me of my belief in the power of stories, in the powerful act of creating an archive, a repertoire, a book. Personal, powerful stories can topple history and shape the future. Now it's my job to make them heard.<br /></div>Maria Sonevytskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07593904559215438311noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278110619171495519.post-43015887484745700032009-06-18T08:00:00.000+03:002009-06-25T14:57:55.331+03:00Lady Ethnographer, or, Why The Cossack Didn’t Punch MeI was sharing a late night tea recently in Rakhiv, a Carpathian town on the Romanian border, with a Peace Corps volunteer, a Fulbrighter based in L’viv, and Vasyl, a Rakhivite eager to try out his English language skills on us three native speakers. He had spent some studying English in America after he won the greencard lottery. We got onto the topic of differences between educational methodologies in Ukraine and the US, which segued onto the topic of patronymics, the formal way that teachers in Ukraine are addressed, i.e. “Hello, Maria Rostyslavivna! (“Maria, daughter of Rostyslav.”) The US contingent complained about the confusion that this breeds in schools where identical names are common, as in Rakhiv school no. 2, where three different Maria Ivanivna’s teach. In America, Vasyl told us, since this patronymic system wasn’t used, he preferred to address his teacher as “Lady Teacher.” To him a sign of respect, to us, somehow funny. “Hello, lady teacher.” He seemed confused at our laughter, so, as we dug deeper into an explanation, we came to the conclusion that it seemed misguidedly flirtatious to American ears. Redundant and idiomatically clumsy, “Lady Teacher” sounds like a vague come on, especially the way he was saying it. Vasyl blinked and smiled mischievously, “Well, what’s wrong with that?” Innocent enough.<br /><br />I’ve been thinking a lot, in my waning fieldwork days, about the challenges and benefits of being an American “Lady Ethnographer” in Ukraine. My two field sites – Crimea and the Western Ukrainian Carpathians - presented their specific sets of different challenges. But more often than not, the mix of off-color wisecracks, blatant verging on aggressive passes, remarks about the un-lady-like nature of the work I do and the work I should be doing (seemingly alone in the world, 28 years old with no babies to show), the way I drive my beat up car (fast), and so on, made me feel uncomfortable at times, occasionally bemused, pissed off at others. It is too simple to say that I objected to being cast as the weaker sex, because women’s roles in these traditional societies are complex and too demanding to be weak – witness any wrinkled babushka hauling firewood like a lumberjack to understand. And it’s too easy to say that I simply resisted the popular belief that Americans are incompetent at basic life skills, because everything we own comes ready pre-packaged, everything we eat is microwavable, and everything that breaks is disposable and replaceable. But some combination of being cast as a delicate flower and as a helpless Americanka usually made me all the more determined to show that I was tough too, to push to the mountaintop faster, to get plenty of dirt under my fingernails, to cook dinner for the whole family. This led to a few absurdist spectacles - as when I spent three long early spring days doggedly tilling and planting a potato patch in Verkhovyna, pointedly alone, albeit publicly observed and teased by the neighbors and their friends (“Hey, look at the Amerikanka dig!”) - and a few frightening situations, as when I found myself mouthing off against men who held some bigoted or ignorant belief in harsh enough terms that, if I had been a man myself, the final punctuation on the hostile exchange would almost certainly have been my broken nose.<br /><br />But I am a lady, after all, and you do not hit a lady. (At least, not in public – domestic violence is an entirely separate, ugly fact of gender relations in large segments of Ukrainian traditional societies.)<br /><br />In the year and a half that I have spent in Ukraine, there have been numerous confrontations in which I have butted heads with worldviews predicated on hate, suspicion, or misinformation. Sometimes these confrontations are productive, carried through by both parties with diplomacy, to where I think I can feel the earth move slightly under my opponent’s feet. But sometimes they are not: they escalate to a fever pitch, to where the stakes seem high enough and the hurt runs deep enough that I can imagine how words might lead to physical violence. The two scariest episodes of such were both in Crimea, both surrounding my response to propaganda against the Crimean Tatars. In both cases, I was relieved to be a lady.<br /><br />About a month ago, I got into it with a man in Cossack uniform. The setting for our verbal brawl was spectacular: at the foot of the Uspensky Monastery, which is carved into the gravity-defying cliffs above Bakhchisaray. A colleague from Turkey had come to Crimea to attend the World Congress of Crimean Tatars, and following the high-falutin’ “peace and harmony and a brighter future” rhetoric of the opening ceremony at the Khan’s Palace, we decided to blow off the banquet lunch and go, instead, on a hike up past the Russian Orthodox Monastery to the ancient cave city of Chufut-Kale. I stayed behind as he went up to the sanctuary in the caves because I was curious to speak to the “Cossacks” who I had noticed guarding the monastery in recent months. On that day, there were two men wearing military-style uniforms and berets, with badges and insignia linking them to the “KHY” – one of the xenophonic self-appointed “security forces” that are cropping up in various parts of Ukraine. I started up a conversation with the beefier, clearly more senior, of the two. Our exchange went something like this:<br /><br />MS: [in Ukrainian] Hello, I’ve noticed you here the last few times I’ve visited, and I’m wondering who you are, who sent you…<br /><br />Cossack: [in Russian] We were invited by the monks to defend their monastery.<br /><br />MS: Did you invite yourselves or did they reach out to you?<br /><br />C: We offered our services, and then they invited us.<br /><br />MS: What is your purpose as an organization?<br /><br />C: To defend our Motherland, Mother Rus,’ and our glorious religion.<br /><br />MS: Your badge says you are Ukrainian Cossacks.<br /><br />C: That’s right, we are. We defend the Ukrainian territory from foreigners, in the name of Mother Rus’. <br /><br />MS: I’m confused. Do you speak Ukrainian?<br /><br />C: [visibly annoyed, attempting to speak Ukrainian, but really speaking Russian with a Ukrainian accent.] Yes, but it’s not the language used here. You don’t understand anything, little girl. <br /><br />MS: Who are you defending the monastery from?<br /><br />C: [red-faced] You wouldn’t understand, little girl.<br /><br />MS: I think I might understand, I know a little about this. Can you tell me from whom you’re defending the monastery?<br /><br />C: [pause, sigh] From the Crimean Tatars. They want to steal it from us. <br /><br />MS: Really? Who in particular wants to steal the monastery?<br /><br />C: You don’t understand anything, little girl. You have to have lived here your whole life to understand. Many of their organizations are plotting…<br /><br />MS: Can you name one such organization?<br /><br />C: [long pause] The Meijlis.<br /><br />MS: Ha! The Meijlis wants to steal the monastery! That’s simply not true, sir. You are misinformed.<br /><br />C: [He is red-faced, a crowd of listeners has gathered around us.] Girlie, you don’t understand anything, They want to steal and take everything, those traitors, as they’ve done for centuries. They want to transform our Crimea into an extremist Islamic caliphate.<br /><br />MS: [I lose it] Sir, you are operating under a set of xenophobic delusions. Your organization is breeding mistrust and hatred for no reason. This is Slavic supremacy. This is racism, plain and simple.<br /><br />C: Devotchka! You don’t understand anything!<br />[He is steaming mad, looks like he wants to hit something, and storms away, starts telling sympathetic ears about the unjust abuse I have heaped upon him. They glare at me, the head-scarved Orthodox women selling honey and the Cossacks. My Turkish friend comes down the stair and I quickly steal him away from the scene, explain what happened down the road and fume for another twenty minutes.]<br /><br />In retrospect, as in every situation where I’ve lost my cool and angrily confronted a scary (male) bigot, I regret it, because I know that my outburst led to nothing positive, just a rush of adrenaline and a pounding heart. But no change of heart in my opponent - probably just increased irrational hostility towards the perceived enemy and, for those that have known of my citizenship, toward the US, which is largely believed to be churning out its own anti-Russian, pro-NATO and pro-EU propaganda. (Which, to be fair, it was doing openly under the Bush administration. We’re still waiting to see what Obama’s strategy toward Ukraine is.) <br /><br />Ukraine today is caught between two warring accounts of history, as it is caught between two different attitudes towards otherness, be it gendered, ethnic or raced otherness. In Russia today, Medvedev has taken some alarming steps to institutionalize the revisionism of Soviet history initiated by Putin. In the new revised version, Stalin is rehabilitated as a hero, Hitler’s attempt to take Gdansk is seen as “reasonable” and the fear and terror of the purge eras is underplayed. The flat-out refusal to acknowledge the genocidal Ukrainian Holodomor that took over ten million lives in 1932-33 goes along with the implicit denial of Ukraine as a viable nation. Russian blockbuster epic films like this year’s “Taras Bulba” simplify Gogol’s telling of history to preach a transparently throwback pan-Slavic message: there is no difference between Ukrainian Cossacks and Russian freedom-fighters, we are all Slavic brothers, fighting against the same (Polish/Muslim/NATO/US) enemy. The effect of seeing so many heroicized fallen warriors adhering to a Soviet ideal of masculinity, gurgling blood while they shout “Glory to Mother Rus’! Glory to Russian Orthodoxy!” seems to have had a mild brainwashing effect on many of the film critics whose reviews I read after seeing the bombastic film for myself, since they all seemed to repeat a variation on a theme: we are all Slavic brothers, Ukrainians should realize that. Commercials on Ukrainian television showed enthusiastic viewers proclaiming similar (19th century) visions of pan-Slavic unity after seeing the film.<br /><br />Isn’t this as eerily transparent as it is familiar? Propaganda is an insidious but also necessarily blunt tool to serve its function of clubbing masses into alternate worldviews. But shouldn’t this also make it easier to dismantle, to deflate the delusion? How do you battle against blatant distortion of the historical record without risking violence, nevermind the obvious conflict of an outsider coming in preaching her own ideological worldview? When do we step back and throw up our hands and feel guilt at our privilege and the entitlements of our citizenship and our attempts to ideologically dominate in a foreign place, and when do we fight for the truth to come to light, for the historical fact to be, at the very least, acknowledged?Maria Sonevytskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07593904559215438311noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278110619171495519.post-88505754203430622272009-05-18T11:57:00.005+03:002009-05-18T19:26:54.126+03:00Deportation Day, 65 Years<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKviD6STKI9xkubb_nBwMPJ4-6Tdu2fhxiDQiV1_mwa3XQIrzSDhbYYdvumT00hASi0OPbNSszNvzsAlKzK-Qlm4IMQz7231H4BIB9vW5cnPatPJvaTLXrIACrgmSYmZusY17eqsHTuprU/s1600-h/DSCN6001.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKviD6STKI9xkubb_nBwMPJ4-6Tdu2fhxiDQiV1_mwa3XQIrzSDhbYYdvumT00hASi0OPbNSszNvzsAlKzK-Qlm4IMQz7231H4BIB9vW5cnPatPJvaTLXrIACrgmSYmZusY17eqsHTuprU/s320/DSCN6001.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337200862546380242" /></a><br /><br />Over dinner in Simferopol with my adopted Crimean Tatar family last week, Ayder, a veteran of the Crimean Tatar human rights war against the USSR, used the term "genocide" to describe the present Ukrainian non-policy towards Crimean Tatars. He cited the attacks by militia groups on Crimean Tatar businesses and homes over the last twenty years, the inadequate implementation of protections for the indigenous people and the minority population, the alarmist attitude towards their Muslim minority group, framed without cause for extremism and denied land permits to build a new sobornaya mechet’, and so on. In my cautious academic way, I suggested that genocide was perhaps too strong a term: as careless and irresponsible as the Ukrainian government has been towards the Crimean Tatars, an indigenous people of Crimea, genocide implies a systematic, violent destruction of an entire ethnic group. It is more sinister than the bumbling indifference of the Ukrainian state. No, he asserted: "we are uncomprehending witnesses to a subtler form of genocide. The Crimean Tatars are being choked out of existence."<br /> <br />No one will dispute that Ukrainians, ethnic or not, face an Augean stable's worth of dirty and seemingly insurmountable problems in their country. Perhaps the struggle of the Crimean Tatars seems marginal. Emphasis goes to the geo-political rifts that have widened again between East and West, Russia and Europe: Westerners stereotyped as rabid Ukrainian nationalists are weary of Easterners depicted as Russian chauvinists. Crimean Tatars - remarkably loyal to the Ukrainian state since they were allowed to return to their ancestral homeland after 50 years in Central Asian exile – are nowhere in the debate. It would do Ukraine well to act in solidarity with the Crimean Tatars. To the essentialists, solidarity with others smells of capitulation, when it is actually a source of strength and communion.<br /> <br />Contrary to the simpleminded slogans of some factions of the Ukrainian right, Ukraine never had a simple purely Slavic story of ethnogenesis. Just like every other nation, it never had only one language, one religion, one monolithic culture. Ukraine is and has always been multi-ethnic. Retrograde policies of essentialist nationalism that exclude precisely the groups that are trying to contribute to and build the Ukrainian state are, sooner or later, going to embitter the excluded. A multi-ethnic Ukraine must exist, and its ideal should not be for stalemate, a platitudinous tolerance; Ukraine must seek a deep acceptance and respect for its diverse minority and indigenous groups. A propos to the Crimean Tatar situation, the Ukrainian government should finally approve a law to grant the indigenous people of the Crimean peninsula rights and protections as a threatened, indigenous people of their ancestral homeland: land rights, education in the native language, an end to religious discrimination, and ultimately, a right to self-determination within the territory of Ukraine. <br /> <br />We can learn from a Hutsul musician who I spoke to a few weeks ago, during the Easter holidays. We sat in his ancient Volga as he played me old cassette tapes and told me his deportation story. His family had been deported to Siberia during the war and not allowed to resettle in the Ivano-Frankivsk oblast until the 1970s. Reading about the Crimean Tatar non-violent resistance of the 20th century, their fierce support of the Orange revolution in 2004, and their annual celebration of Taras Shevchenko's birthday, he asked me for a recording of a Crimean Tatar violinist from whom he could learn some traditional melodies. I asked him why, and he said, "to show my respect, as they’ve been showing it to us." In place of fear, respect. In place of dim hostility, a desire to understand. In place of ignorance, education.<br /> <br />The policies of the Soviet Union brutally uprooted and ended countless human lives across the map of the former USSR. To his credit, Yushchenko has worked to promote awareness of the Holodomor against the grain of Soviet (and some post-Soviet) accounts of Stalinist history. But, in the 20th century, there were other genocides on the territory of contemporary Ukraine. Today, let us not be witnesses to other, albeit more casual, acts of destruction. <br /><br />Today, May 18th, Crimean Tatars from all over the world will gather in Lenin Square in Simferopol on the 65th anniversary of their day of their deportation. They will mark their darkest day with somber music and a call for no more genocide. Tomorrow, they will commence the first World Congress of Crimean Tatars - the first meeting in history to bring the massive and diverse Crimean Tatar diasporas and the Crimean population together – at the Khan’s Palace in Bakhchisaray. They will make a renewed commitment to persevere, and a call - to the Ukrainian government, the UN, the Council of Europe, and the international human rights community - for support and assistance as they struggle to build back their community in Crimea.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf6uPcaeI5SGpg8yIwQh7mDoQF4eIo_PAb8GUo4ut8My-sJIKZ6lR5TZBzsGtR3hKkMTCA8eCrRtiShfzXlhCOQPNCSNECaEyGIC_lrgO4QDkZglVYGOGsLf0Ad7VOfRNsNpmtgCDGF2-y/s1600-h/DSCN5991.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf6uPcaeI5SGpg8yIwQh7mDoQF4eIo_PAb8GUo4ut8My-sJIKZ6lR5TZBzsGtR3hKkMTCA8eCrRtiShfzXlhCOQPNCSNECaEyGIC_lrgO4QDkZglVYGOGsLf0Ad7VOfRNsNpmtgCDGF2-y/s320/DSCN5991.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337200863793574514" /></a><br /><br />Last night, the candelight vigil organized by the Crimean Tatar Youth Center spelled out the words: No Genocide - in lights. I think we can all easily agree on this slogan, but we must also sharpen our awareness to other more insidious forms that annihilation can manifest in, and battle and battle against it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVskYVFqrSUjuTxWPXmMThnFFybh1B61qqjXL_yAsRmdWRDAxSmGPPtA2ejbE1JhMa7tFPIB-XzwUK4MY63J1WxVb0gm1sZCOdJOn0imFkNzHvqIOHF52aCkbygkOsNp1j2OSPPZmSDmvU/s1600-h/DSCN5927.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVskYVFqrSUjuTxWPXmMThnFFybh1B61qqjXL_yAsRmdWRDAxSmGPPtA2ejbE1JhMa7tFPIB-XzwUK4MY63J1WxVb0gm1sZCOdJOn0imFkNzHvqIOHF52aCkbygkOsNp1j2OSPPZmSDmvU/s320/DSCN5927.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337200858307015970" /></a>Maria Sonevytskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07593904559215438311noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278110619171495519.post-91669021061207236072009-03-18T15:09:00.001+02:002009-05-18T19:11:08.875+03:00Love SongI wrote a little song, <a href="http://www.myspace.com/tsarinamaria">here's the demo.</a> Debutantes are going to do it up.Maria Sonevytskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07593904559215438311noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278110619171495519.post-30506531841566934122009-02-10T20:39:00.004+02:002009-02-10T21:33:36.766+02:00Pressje!Hot off <a href="http://www.pressje.org.pl">the Pressje!</a> The latest edition of the Krakow-based magazine has published a gorgeous full-color spread of the No Other Home photographs and article. Behold:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMaT2FlqLD8Rd8S0O2pm4mDUEZDwsR4srEU0gvTYs1ntRPgqVGGLopSxk5l-vO9IFNdOpMrS2eZz3D4mr8L8avS5TXeYFnh_k8NJkEyGkdMNQkqMOx8hrPgAxBwSncawnCMwDmMDysa87I/s1600-h/Pressje_Tatars.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 216px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMaT2FlqLD8Rd8S0O2pm4mDUEZDwsR4srEU0gvTYs1ntRPgqVGGLopSxk5l-vO9IFNdOpMrS2eZz3D4mr8L8avS5TXeYFnh_k8NJkEyGkdMNQkqMOx8hrPgAxBwSncawnCMwDmMDysa87I/s320/Pressje_Tatars.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301250503918441042" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijDIIxCkjqm8bkOOB_X3MdljCoUxW6pKrpCXiTrEo9TdlfPHAuzSG-84Yf9d40oTvOmcdzBDFPEQoEwVcavfWGxO5Ve21WAb0LbeMN0Qkafz7Bk6VxDzy9l0qk1yHoqJqf0h1H0jQAY8J3/s1600-h/Pressje_Tatars_2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 218px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijDIIxCkjqm8bkOOB_X3MdljCoUxW6pKrpCXiTrEo9TdlfPHAuzSG-84Yf9d40oTvOmcdzBDFPEQoEwVcavfWGxO5Ve21WAb0LbeMN0Qkafz7Bk6VxDzy9l0qk1yHoqJqf0h1H0jQAY8J3/s320/Pressje_Tatars_2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301250509171901314" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4p9wznM7C6jlCld6KUR1xc4ThD8oTDQlu3R_Zmy9m3uGZWTzelsUQa-N0p7ftY17XARixtqKQiW56IxcVNu_R1q4Hnmzczz0Z_l0IH_AAUXJX2_5Fum7aOwjj3Icv6ZS20mClSHDZUsaJ/s1600-h/Pressje_Tatars_0001.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 216px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4p9wznM7C6jlCld6KUR1xc4ThD8oTDQlu3R_Zmy9m3uGZWTzelsUQa-N0p7ftY17XARixtqKQiW56IxcVNu_R1q4Hnmzczz0Z_l0IH_AAUXJX2_5Fum7aOwjj3Icv6ZS20mClSHDZUsaJ/s320/Pressje_Tatars_0001.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301250505112598674" /></a><br />A hearty thanks to my extremely brilliant, extremely distant but kindred spirit kind of cousin, Marta Soniewicka, who approached us with the idea of publishing it, translated the text into Polish, and even hand-delivered four copies to me on Friday.<br /><br />It’s true: on Friday, Marta crossed the Polish-Ukrainian border on foot and boldly ventured east of the EU. I met her on the other side, where I spent a couple hours hanging out in my car, avoiding the smugglers and border drunks. We hightailed it back to L’viv for a photography exhibit opening and a decadent Georgian meal.<br /><br />On my 28th birthday, Marta and I pilgrimaged to the village and town of Upper and Lower “Syn'ovydne” (Synewidzko/Synewodzko in Polish) in the foothills of the Carpathians - from where we may or may not take our common last name. Marta, whose interest in genealogy and thoroughness as a researcher reunited our disparate family branches in the 1990s, tells that Synevydne was founded in the 12th century (the oldest tombstones we found were from the mid-19th), translates as “blue water” in proto-Ruthenian (the waters of the Striy and Opir rivers really were blue on Saturday), and that our distant ancestors were large landholders - and since large landholders often took the names of the places where they lived as surnames, this gave a shade of credence to the otherwise lark-like expedition on which we embarked. It was fun, anyway.<br /><br />We spent the night in the nearby idyllic Carpathian town of Slavsk, hiked to the top of a mountain, dined on marinated vegetables, banosh, and a little horilka, and then steamed in the private banya of the Boyko home in which we stayed the night. I was in bed, sleeping on a post-birthday, post-banya, post-feast cloud, by 10:30 PM. No complaints.Maria Sonevytskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07593904559215438311noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278110619171495519.post-91419201598933679202009-01-16T09:46:00.004+02:002009-01-16T11:07:26.209+02:00Penguins and Hutsuls<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdMcmZdlFJFGdy2_UVOaQm6M_kpDX-U3zLQFarm4xqjtVMS9TpWYlAer9m-6uqOYkQqUw5qVEuFhsZAczX6ngxXXotBs6ZJqbNVV0IJHFetafU6srO93ZI1XldQdwl0m95dWQZy96pZlXZ/s1600-h/100+euro+back.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 188px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdMcmZdlFJFGdy2_UVOaQm6M_kpDX-U3zLQFarm4xqjtVMS9TpWYlAer9m-6uqOYkQqUw5qVEuFhsZAczX6ngxXXotBs6ZJqbNVV0IJHFetafU6srO93ZI1XldQdwl0m95dWQZy96pZlXZ/s320/100+euro+back.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291814297591661362" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDFVYsBczWUp9N8j4Cbs2UU6Mj0taVTEWsnTqE8sUDDLm2UFKErBH_nWhRJlAKKgECV3dCjp25yBwnorCxaHsspqViBmM4kGbrutNIHyUi5iyn02fraUBIj3f20lWkoOWoZLNBnWjX-Se0/s1600-h/$100+back.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 139px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDFVYsBczWUp9N8j4Cbs2UU6Mj0taVTEWsnTqE8sUDDLm2UFKErBH_nWhRJlAKKgECV3dCjp25yBwnorCxaHsspqViBmM4kGbrutNIHyUi5iyn02fraUBIj3f20lWkoOWoZLNBnWjX-Se0/s320/$100+back.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291814290445103874" /></a><br />At the anti-kryzova knaypa (anti-crisis club) in L’viv, there’s a sign on the wall that reads “Crises are not Frightening to Penguins and Hutsuls.” <div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg9hPlNqRBtKhy20GDNzId1iPrgvwnwSLLs4kfMLtGkP2QQu5x0TN3O0Prv_VM6zdFuGIXhyLzuBGb_o7aLIFq1Mtx42t23xWj5L2QayFE5dF3MwczMCGV52nj6rS3Z-L21XNs3UYbp-ES/s1600-h/DSCN4864.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg9hPlNqRBtKhy20GDNzId1iPrgvwnwSLLs4kfMLtGkP2QQu5x0TN3O0Prv_VM6zdFuGIXhyLzuBGb_o7aLIFq1Mtx42t23xWj5L2QayFE5dF3MwczMCGV52nj6rS3Z-L21XNs3UYbp-ES/s320/DSCN4864.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291814312907018034" /></a><br /><br /></div><div>They have a point. Every time I've shared this phrase in Verkhovyna, people nod their heads in agreement. </div><div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbvbSda34n_mYxuwAQOY3SNJluQZu3Q1-nzqly3Bxh9z7pxdpfYaQH9ByfyyMZa1mj01VRtS95P2za5Nh0CudrDyS-6EMw4_c2cArCmX_qNXTZ3_N4WkyV4NF6_bp6cXC75WyrGdUNfxz-/s1600-h/DSCN4863.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbvbSda34n_mYxuwAQOY3SNJluQZu3Q1-nzqly3Bxh9z7pxdpfYaQH9ByfyyMZa1mj01VRtS95P2za5Nh0CudrDyS-6EMw4_c2cArCmX_qNXTZ3_N4WkyV4NF6_bp6cXC75WyrGdUNfxz-/s320/DSCN4863.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291814302714088066" /></a><br /></div><div>Since most every local heats the home with firewood and survives the winter on stores of corn meal, summer’s pickled vegetables, milk and cheese from the family cow or goat, the energy crisis seems distant. If it gets really cold, there are local banyas or homebrewed fire water usually within reach. </div><div><br /></div><div>The gas crisis doesn’t pose the same threat here that it does to the cities, and people take pride in that, but the opportunity to make cracks about the crisis is not wasted. SMS New Year “vinchuvannia” that reference the gas crisis have opened a whole new frontier of Ukrainian text message poetry. </div>Maria Sonevytskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07593904559215438311noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278110619171495519.post-12622018913800888682009-01-14T09:01:00.002+02:002009-01-16T10:45:50.383+02:00The Old New Year<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNUQtJ4yHfpAM2ZL5wUb6Wrni9-twjlvyxzNCk64oK3fZt4hSsj5K7vlZntDkwZzTr9nvQtJU3Gq1ilijXt8eg8ePqbwGARCBfdh7SWk2XXulI_cFK_IKYbdGUM7g0uEgHj9V1B9LzGDzb/s320/DSC04136.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291787009214314098" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /><br /><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Happy Old New Year! We traveled to the villages of Kosmach and Sheshory to take part in the Old Calendar (Julian) New Year celebrations on January 13th. <a href="http://www.wumag.kiev.ua/index2.php?param=pgs20064/102">Malanka!</a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVbQpgoq7nFi6PoyFebaemw47DupRP_b36Bs7z0aYuMa2lZkUtxt-05DDHTa_9bkLfSCUyQWSJ_5125aFUNLZp0nP8jk6htxgTkCJe3EgcEv3bJ1Fhlnnen7ck9y-NfgD31UNUebCVv0Jc/s1600-h/DSC04117.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 204px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVbQpgoq7nFi6PoyFebaemw47DupRP_b36Bs7z0aYuMa2lZkUtxt-05DDHTa_9bkLfSCUyQWSJ_5125aFUNLZp0nP8jk6htxgTkCJe3EgcEv3bJ1Fhlnnen7ck9y-NfgD31UNUebCVv0Jc/s320/DSC04117.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291787000262098466" /></a><br />Bands of masqueraders and musicians stopped our two-car caravan every few feet to sing us carols and extort small sums of money. More than once, we were guided out of the cars and pulled along by a gang to a nearby village house for more dancing, eating, and drinking. <div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq_1mOEM3ESyuZjiQaKDryyWs-RiedhNpn8B0wCNrS3Ej_ejhQSQTtkINyz7_8Gk2LuRAhZ67W28dpunlZH29UrFYwaicHpOz8bmQmQxwxEedGvEEpI4Iei11bPFR_7lM51JqHAVt57Gfj/s1600-h/DSC04124.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq_1mOEM3ESyuZjiQaKDryyWs-RiedhNpn8B0wCNrS3Ej_ejhQSQTtkINyz7_8Gk2LuRAhZ67W28dpunlZH29UrFYwaicHpOz8bmQmQxwxEedGvEEpI4Iei11bPFR_7lM51JqHAVt57Gfj/s320/DSC04124.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291787004975384498" /></a>There were the usual un-PC malanka characters and ethnic caricatures - Devils, Gypsies, Dead Brides, Jews, Old Men, Baba Yagas, Bears, Nazis, Brezhnev.... </div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsubfAitf73OBGQVH_d2tY9pA32-_B-5bccYCnDbm3juz2L22i8t5BrfnOybYU7FBUNOzusTJnBC32R_lJ7IUVIHtgly3ASiCPLdn4kQm4cjWdWcPBChFrnTDRnPHU6QBjOvFJEO2qbBi-/s1600-h/DSC04185.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsubfAitf73OBGQVH_d2tY9pA32-_B-5bccYCnDbm3juz2L22i8t5BrfnOybYU7FBUNOzusTJnBC32R_lJ7IUVIHtgly3ASiCPLdn4kQm4cjWdWcPBChFrnTDRnPHU6QBjOvFJEO2qbBi-/s320/DSC04185.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291787013766509618" /></a><br />Putin made more than one appearance this year. Yulia, to my surprise, not one.<div><br /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI7riWknu86ULJrykYRiO83Kl5VQNGs8ppLYA0Yc4McLAuLXg539PWBza44YXycQObapNygfZaqVW0ZLiCBqzARnABwnlQK2hVWcUFqC-xgMJzFQTjN2iC5rgI0xl6qiky6fzr7HCl3D1-/s320/DSC04228.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291787022051036434" />Photos by Oksana Susyak, here with gorilla bride and Brezhnev.<br /><br /></div></div></div>Maria Sonevytskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07593904559215438311noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278110619171495519.post-37650305659871201942009-01-14T08:30:00.001+02:002009-01-16T10:43:44.308+02:00Malanka, Part 2<div>Some more Malanka images from Kosmach and Sheshory. Photos by Oksana Susyak.</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPeQD985K9KT73Bt08pXB5f6a2FGBcon0k8wTG23f9eOAtDP6I-OW7ncY_LQImtlPOCtb6OMqCJzL6JG3UFrgYA1y3OGIoF2U4njO3B2juGE_ZN4CVMGOB4BMbhvZWomb4Vo9GZcKsiW1P/s1600-h/DSC04250.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPeQD985K9KT73Bt08pXB5f6a2FGBcon0k8wTG23f9eOAtDP6I-OW7ncY_LQImtlPOCtb6OMqCJzL6JG3UFrgYA1y3OGIoF2U4njO3B2juGE_ZN4CVMGOB4BMbhvZWomb4Vo9GZcKsiW1P/s320/DSC04250.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291808984157140578" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2dEW2vf1ik6I4xXHqg7AazCirSfd76m0MwSscu7E1LPuzS0_Gv3ZkwE3Tr5DDgcCfNHNM2herqIdBbBYb1GNRuf1ZbZYUmde86G7emJeUX4c904ZvK4l1Ep72UKSDtz0v1erQeC9v5rl-/s1600-h/DSC04239.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2dEW2vf1ik6I4xXHqg7AazCirSfd76m0MwSscu7E1LPuzS0_Gv3ZkwE3Tr5DDgcCfNHNM2herqIdBbBYb1GNRuf1ZbZYUmde86G7emJeUX4c904ZvK4l1Ep72UKSDtz0v1erQeC9v5rl-/s320/DSC04239.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291808976682685282" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBE1kRq1P3GLTFF79O25ZEO6MdSeYx68L7x21ms-HgW9GpSuVVPHKiXX11xEe5aaAqr565SJMkR3f-qLls7jFZ5v7A9J8K_SOG2E5XzUF6xxQ66CArsyGNI2hD7UwQTdf1p2-EsZ5JLzYa/s1600-h/DSC04238.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBE1kRq1P3GLTFF79O25ZEO6MdSeYx68L7x21ms-HgW9GpSuVVPHKiXX11xEe5aaAqr565SJMkR3f-qLls7jFZ5v7A9J8K_SOG2E5XzUF6xxQ66CArsyGNI2hD7UwQTdf1p2-EsZ5JLzYa/s320/DSC04238.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291808972936776690" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiosgknFOsp_HFPSMypLXeBtMCKmbiWPn3r4UpZkPejZNUNdV6eDgo6jGBEOTPO0zwunHeuIjN4enA716cry4tSY3H_4WqOOVuhMGBd8YTBBcdrxyIDzqCkfsB7i_bg7XMJwgn5jOK1sVyQ/s1600-h/DSC04217.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiosgknFOsp_HFPSMypLXeBtMCKmbiWPn3r4UpZkPejZNUNdV6eDgo6jGBEOTPO0zwunHeuIjN4enA716cry4tSY3H_4WqOOVuhMGBd8YTBBcdrxyIDzqCkfsB7i_bg7XMJwgn5jOK1sVyQ/s320/DSC04217.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291808967278059314" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt1Cx-TgAaAQgrau3xpWcbJAGBPh-vj7qoTXCHp7FTEJRIy2NrbDhcG6ZVik1_Ckurbu_Kp4xAf4XYSWG9wLWsvayurCjz0vmUuew8_TevhfTlg1Wt6yhukEtZ9XjTyXeolG1TOXIs_no4/s1600-h/DSC04216.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt1Cx-TgAaAQgrau3xpWcbJAGBPh-vj7qoTXCHp7FTEJRIy2NrbDhcG6ZVik1_Ckurbu_Kp4xAf4XYSWG9wLWsvayurCjz0vmUuew8_TevhfTlg1Wt6yhukEtZ9XjTyXeolG1TOXIs_no4/s320/DSC04216.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291808962392410242" /></a>Maria Sonevytskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07593904559215438311noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278110619171495519.post-45253036019197654202008-12-26T11:13:00.005+02:002008-12-26T11:39:09.468+02:00Everybody Thinks I'm a Spy<div><a href="http://www.myspace.com/tsarinamaria">I wrote a song yesterday</a>. The title speaks for itself, but let me add two comments: It all started during my first weekend back in Crimea in September, when an elder in the Crimean Tatar community looked me straight in the eyes and said, "I know you're a spy. But it's ok, you don't have to admit it." I was too flustered to say anything in my defense, which probably led her to believe that I was, indeed, a spy. Just our little secret.</div><div><br /></div><div>Accusations of such shady dealings have come up since, and not just at me. In November, I helped <a href="http://www.joshuakucera.net/">Joshua Kucera</a>, a journalist reporting in Crimea to make some introductions. Afterwards, many of those to whom he was introduced asked me if he was a spy. No, no, no, I said, he's writing some articles for Slate (but it's true that <a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/doc/200812/spies">he was once offered a gig by a Russian spook.)</a></div><div><br /></div><div>Today's New York Times reports on a <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/12/25/world/europe/25estonia.html">Russian spy case in Estonia</a> which, frankly, would make me a little paranoid, too. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>---</div><div>Also, still a few days left to catch some very rare music in New York City, straight from Hutsulschynna from where I'm writing this. Here's another plug for the <a href="http://www.jsnyc.com/season/yara.htm">Yara Arts Group Carpathian Mountain Winter Ritual Performance, which has been recommended by the Village Voice, New York Press, and Villager as the event to see this weekend.</a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Maria Sonevytskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07593904559215438311noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278110619171495519.post-74709975691557681902008-12-24T13:51:00.004+02:002008-12-24T14:02:58.620+02:00Koliada<p>One things leads to another, and then you find yourself overdubbing sopilka tracks in a sublet room in the Carpathian Mountains. </p><p>Yes, I've recorded a Ukrainian Christmas carol (koliada) just in time for what they call "Polish Christmas" (which nobody really celebrates) here in Kosiv. It's a tune I've always liked, called "Nebo i Zemlia" ("Heaven and Earth"). My rendition features a banjo, a sopilka, and my congested-sounding voice. It was inspired largely by what I had on hand (call it necessity, call it realism), a little by nostalgia, a little by Hutsul music, and a little by the opening of a Grandaddy song that I really like. If you'd like to hear it, you can go to my long-neglected page at <a href="http://www.myspace.com/tsarinamaria">www.myspace.com/tsarinamaria</a>.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p>Maria Sonevytskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07593904559215438311noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278110619171495519.post-67384219065972327802008-12-23T15:07:00.003+02:002008-12-23T15:27:19.023+02:00Point of Clarification, or, What My Dissertation Might Be AboutNose deep in the L’viv Archives last week, I came across a 6-page essay written at the turn of the century by a L’vivan ethnographer, speculating on the commonalities between Hutsul-Carpathian and Caucasian cultures – both the high mountain dwelling wild people of their respective regions, known for their independent spirit, animist and superstitious beliefs. (This morning I was told to whisper the secret of my previous night’s bad dream out of my open window so it would float away and unburden me. I obeyed, but am not sure yet if it worked.) <div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUNUaOeftRWM201lcZa66efGnNO4BP_QZG6dbovsSpPStlK1Ncm2bc3z5d5kJblhEr045OzoTYRoTQurlPtlqO5WD-6Hdc2-O5HPjqI9KRAxDdHjwese1YNFZzzAmRYvP8qJK5wj0_LCmf/s1600-h/DSCN4802.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282972754100420178" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUNUaOeftRWM201lcZa66efGnNO4BP_QZG6dbovsSpPStlK1Ncm2bc3z5d5kJblhEr045OzoTYRoTQurlPtlqO5WD-6Hdc2-O5HPjqI9KRAxDdHjwese1YNFZzzAmRYvP8qJK5wj0_LCmf/s320/DSCN4802.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />The article is titled “The Carpathians and the Caucasus: Some Hypotheses About Ethnological Parallels.” The author’s cautious advancing of his hypotheses impressed me, given the frequently imperious tone of early anthropology. Gingerly, he suggests that future study of high mountains dwellers in numerous regions – including Taurida, future Crimea – might prove fruitful for ethnographers interested in the “halbwild” peoples of the various “civilized” empires.<br /><br />Two days ago, my first day back in the Carpathians, my friend Marta from L’viv and I visited our sick-bed-bound friend Oksana (Hutsulka Ksenija) and her mother in their Hutsul home in Verkhovyna (where the girls are pretty as geese, as the song goes. Oksana, to be fair, is rather stunning.) After an evening of gossip and mulled wine, we awoke lazily to a Sunday breakfast of fresh cheese, sour cream and poppy seed rolls in the coziest wood-heated bedroom imaginable.<br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvDCBhRxqzGJOkXa19CDs6BCx439D78i-G-h4prCJ3iAGGOPcZV8ZeuikunBFCfztVV1Rhy_eK81YfiynhmcKCLMqMvnrX6Hscn4vzEdjroBxLFWO9DbdDryzYCdh-7K47IGAlEfVRcQLS/s1600-h/DSC05723.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282972748322863746" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvDCBhRxqzGJOkXa19CDs6BCx439D78i-G-h4prCJ3iAGGOPcZV8ZeuikunBFCfztVV1Rhy_eK81YfiynhmcKCLMqMvnrX6Hscn4vzEdjroBxLFWO9DbdDryzYCdh-7K47IGAlEfVRcQLS/s320/DSC05723.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />Afterwards, Marta and I left to wander in the mountains, which had been dusted with snow overnight. Behold:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitsdbtLjw2e6JfK3R6AztZbLNUNh2xvk4RWLD1M8N46SAytGZulwrNGbQZh-yfgbQZOSO5J-HvfbkL3HrSp51oY5gw3hjmqVQLlaN01Mp3PXBhphaol-7R9TneaMj_isbyoGVVFdd14WPt/s1600-h/DSCN4825.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282972766075708498" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitsdbtLjw2e6JfK3R6AztZbLNUNh2xvk4RWLD1M8N46SAytGZulwrNGbQZh-yfgbQZOSO5J-HvfbkL3HrSp51oY5gw3hjmqVQLlaN01Mp3PXBhphaol-7R9TneaMj_isbyoGVVFdd14WPt/s320/DSCN4825.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />We got quiet on the mountaintop, and I got to thinking (about my dissertation, of all things). Last week, I took pride in finally being able to articulate, in Ukrainian, to an ethnomusicology colleague from the Ivan Franko University, what I’m actually doing here, without having her blink and nod at me as if I was more than a little deranged. I’ve found myself delivering half-hearted explanations right and left lately, to people as dear as my kid brother (who, it was revealed in a phone conversation yesterday, had absolutely no clue why I’m here) and as distant and administrative as the IRB board (don’t ask). So I’m going to attempt to start up this blog again with a clarification, a small explanation of my project (and with hopefully less jargon than my dissertation proposal required).<br /><br />Unlike the comparative project of the early 20th century armchair ethnographer, my project does not attempt to pin down similarities between the cultural traits of the Crimean Tatars and the Hutsuls (though I will admit that finding an article like that in a musty archive is totally thrilling, in the nerdiest possible sense). My project is to compare histories of exoticism, specifically how both groups have been the traditional wild people to some other, more powerful or more insecure (depending on how you look at it) group. Comparing the histories of exoticism between the Hutsuls and the Crimean Tatars is, admittedly, not the most obvious choice. Both groups are de facto “Ukrainian” (in the sense of citizenship) – at least this is what their post-Soviet passports say. But until the euphoria (and subsequent disenchantment) of the Orange Revolution effectively bonded these two groups in their political orientations, the Crimean Tatars and the Hutsuls had been the subjects of different histories in different empires, sometimes fighting against the same enemies, but often pitted against each other.<br /><br />So, why these two groups? While distinct in ethnogensis, history and territory, Hutsuls, the superstitious, hard-drinking subsistence farmers to Poland and Austro-Hungary’s urban intellectuals, and Crimean Tatars, the perceived inheritors of Genghis Khan’s barbarism to the Russian Imperial gaze, are the two ethnic groups on the territory of contemporary Ukraine that are the most laden with stereotypes of “otherness” or, specifically, “wildness.” The interesting twist, in both cases, is that being exotic, or colorful, or unique, or wild, is an effective way to stimulate cultural revival vis-a-vis tourism and the heritage industry.<br /><br />Yesterday, the curator at the Kosiv Hutsul Museum told me that she herself “didn’t realize how special her culture was” until she saw it on display at a festival in Warsaw, which convinced her that a top priority of the Hutsuls should be “to show their culture to the world.” Of course, once you leave the enclave, the world begins to meddle, and then debates about authenticity and representation begin.<br /><br />Music, this thing that not only reflects but also creates culture, is my way into this whole project. Often, the debates that rage in traditional communities about how musical culture should be used - preserved or updated, institutionalized or hybridized - bear striking analogies to bigger questions about how minority and indigenous groups should be bracing against homogenization/assimilation while being realistic (and savvy) about living in the globalized 21st century. Which is why it is not wholly surprising that the rather famous Tafiychuk family of Hutsul musicians are caroling in New York City right now (and not, as I had hoped, in the Karpaty). So if you’re around in the city, you might want to check out the events that the Yara Arts Group is putting on this week at La MaMa (and tell me how it is):<br /><br />Still the River Flows<br />Dec 26-28 – Fri- Sun<br />a new theatre piece by Yara Arts Group<br />featuring Koliadnyky of Kryvorivnia, Tafiychuk family,<br />Svitayana, Julian Kytasty, Yara artists and Lilia Pavlovsky and family<br />La MaMa Experimental Theatre, $25 children $10<br />74 East 4th St (between 2nd & 3rd Ave) New York (212) 475-7710<br /><br />Hey, that’s a small start, I think!<br /><br />It’s snowing outside. I’m going to bundle up and head into Kosiv proper to buy a tiny Christmas tree.<br />----<br />From the sweaty internet cafe: Here's another photo from the top of the very chic ski resort Bukovel, where we happened upon this Hutsul ensemble caroling for some German television special. This is the only ski resort I've ever been to where men with trembitas (alpine horns) wander around drinking hot beer at the bottom of the slopes.<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3TS7-bOJKM8ntcjllhLNlneJFecZ9lWqDSNpGj7AQXc6PcSuNJUU86yux_10fRgphz1pcUQTCeMRtwqPmRHAO0lEU1gYabz03_UyhP2vBzeLP-ungjerJZnl2FdGdjo95b8MQQ6Q2hi8L/s1600-h/DSCN4807.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282972760098712034" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3TS7-bOJKM8ntcjllhLNlneJFecZ9lWqDSNpGj7AQXc6PcSuNJUU86yux_10fRgphz1pcUQTCeMRtwqPmRHAO0lEU1gYabz03_UyhP2vBzeLP-ungjerJZnl2FdGdjo95b8MQQ6Q2hi8L/s320/DSCN4807.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div></div></div>Maria Sonevytskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07593904559215438311noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278110619171495519.post-70953775453328695222008-12-08T16:22:00.006+02:002008-12-08T17:07:06.172+02:00Romania: Party at the PalaceGreetings from Bucharest, Romania, where I am sitting opposite from Alison, who managed to find me off the train this afternoon and steered zombie-like me through the gray Bucharest streets into a nice Italian cafe with free WiFi. Phil Collins is playing on the loudspeakers, and I just drank a mint latte. <div><br /></div><div>We're here to open the "No Other Home" exhibit of photographs at the spectacular <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/victor.grigore/CotroceniPalace#">Cotroceni Palace</a> as part of a European Council meeting that will be taking place next weekend.<div><br /></div><div>Tonight, we're catching a train to <a href="http://translate.google.com/translate?hl=en&sl=it&u=http://it.wikipedia.org/wiki/Costanza_(Romania)&sa=X&oi=translate&resnum=1&ct=result&prev=/search%3Fq%3DCostanza,%2BROmania%26hl%3Den%26client%3Dsafari%26rls%3Den-us%26sa%3DX">Costanza</a> on the Black Sea coast, the home to the biggest population of Crimean Tatars in Romania, where we'll try to do some more interviews and take some more photographs of the community there.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Maria Sonevytskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07593904559215438311noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278110619171495519.post-29354237403265928822008-11-23T11:49:00.005+02:002008-11-23T12:11:39.938+02:00"No Other Home" on Triple Canopy!<div>The online magazine <a href="http://www.canopycanopycanopy.com/">Triple Canopy</a> has just published us! Read, look and listen here: www.canopycanopycanopy.com/4/no_other_home.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm also thrilled to write that we'll be presenting yet another version of the project in exhibition form in Bucharest, Romania in mid-December. Special thanks to Serdal Uteu for inviting us and coordinating the exhibition. If you happen to be in Bucharest, please come by!<br /><br />Opens on December 12th, 2008<br />9 PM<br />Cotroceni Presidency Palace/ Palatul Cotroceni/Muzeul Cotroceni<br />Presidency Hall Room<br /><br /></div><div>We're also in the early stages of developing <a href="http://www.no-other-home.org/">our own website</a>, which will include more stories, more photos, and more music. So stay tuned.</div><br /><br />Hard to believe, but I'm leaving my Simferopol home on Tuesday and soon venturing into Western Ukraine to spend the caroling season with the Hutsuls. Bracing for a Carpathian mountain winter...<br /><div><br /></div><div>Here's a neat map I was given recently. It contains a lot of the pre-deportation Tatar names of places (published in Istanbul in 1968). The color scheme, I think, may have been a coincidence.</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHS_ABnznbcQ3rYD-CZdsWH8uRDu2TcszOrLbLd9PcMcDi1y5LeyJ7xUCXvW1m2OYVnjH49K_fsLVkqqpALePBkG6GVOLm7cMX5bLKOX-Ly7xwNiKquFERCN9splq9JWiatgiI3v9ugP12/s1600-h/krim_map_full.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 247px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHS_ABnznbcQ3rYD-CZdsWH8uRDu2TcszOrLbLd9PcMcDi1y5LeyJ7xUCXvW1m2OYVnjH49K_fsLVkqqpALePBkG6GVOLm7cMX5bLKOX-Ly7xwNiKquFERCN9splq9JWiatgiI3v9ugP12/s320/krim_map_full.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271790486245562674" /></a>Maria Sonevytskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07593904559215438311noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278110619171495519.post-86979539725113789832008-11-05T15:17:00.004+02:002008-11-05T15:27:48.732+02:00Khayrli Presidentlerden olsun! Хаырлы Пресидентлерден олсун!<div>Early this morning, I came downstairs bursting with news about the presidential elections, so Shevqiye decided to make her famous apple pie to celebrate. The sun came out in Backhchisaray, and we clinked our black tea glasses for the new U.S. president. I learned to say "May the President be successful" in Tatar. I would have been dancing in the streets outside the White House, but this was a pretty good way to celebrate too.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Maria Sonevytskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07593904559215438311noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278110619171495519.post-54463510824258767442008-11-02T13:17:00.006+02:002008-11-02T14:00:18.038+02:00post-Turkey, pre-Bakhchisaray<div>Since we last checked in, I have been to Turkey. The country was rife with busts of Atatürk on the 85th anniversary of modern Turkish statehood. </div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPPnAa6p4Khr6umLYozhTDy3QyfO5IgQzYyukGDPzfun7emcCpGRcIg99jsCJ5vAc2aOSlUiqyF90G5e3e27w3LNCTtPqET_dYXl3Q0NOZVDdu6_YF8foqdlYyz6REOZEJqrhH6p68Q3Mo/s1600-h/DSCN4524.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPPnAa6p4Khr6umLYozhTDy3QyfO5IgQzYyukGDPzfun7emcCpGRcIg99jsCJ5vAc2aOSlUiqyF90G5e3e27w3LNCTtPqET_dYXl3Q0NOZVDdu6_YF8foqdlYyz6REOZEJqrhH6p68Q3Mo/s320/DSCN4524.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264022462018879410" /></a>I also ran a 15 km race (part of the Istanbul Eurasia marathon, which boasts the distinction of being the only marathon to cover both Asia and Europe) in chilly torrential rain. It was an absurd experience, but being sopping wet and imagining the hot shower to come probably made me run faster than usual. I made reasonably good time and was done by 10 AM.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4sG0aDoJilYx_s_54tQEWIjybZHQt5B-mx_DJBY9jk3l20GN1YovRanLH3gFX7sdYXZknIyFonhAY5B9FEkoJvZC0sD1K-ThJRyBtMPKdPV0AmMT1jWcdDmEVTyf3HY6lgGjS_Yz7fQUu/s1600-h/DSCN4398.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4sG0aDoJilYx_s_54tQEWIjybZHQt5B-mx_DJBY9jk3l20GN1YovRanLH3gFX7sdYXZknIyFonhAY5B9FEkoJvZC0sD1K-ThJRyBtMPKdPV0AmMT1jWcdDmEVTyf3HY6lgGjS_Yz7fQUu/s320/DSCN4398.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264022128819783522" /></a>I visited Aya Sofia and the Sultanahmet (Blue) Mosque.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNzIhsAclGBRk2ZICmBILHgBd3fTow_8OFxHf_w8E3JIJHI3QsmUxmXOFHPrN6bhQCd0tkYeF7x9DyldQ2Q5sl3t4_RTgrCmSvViP1ZBFJjPBaD-oR3AI0FK7oHjJbutP_LTS7H7iVaSlF/s1600-h/DSCN4404.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNzIhsAclGBRk2ZICmBILHgBd3fTow_8OFxHf_w8E3JIJHI3QsmUxmXOFHPrN6bhQCd0tkYeF7x9DyldQ2Q5sl3t4_RTgrCmSvViP1ZBFJjPBaD-oR3AI0FK7oHjJbutP_LTS7H7iVaSlF/s320/DSCN4404.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264022123143007842" /></a>I met the Crimean Tatar diaspora in Istanbul and in Eskishehir, where the director rounded up a crowd for an evening of socializing, music and dance. I passed around photographs from Crimea, where most of these people have never been.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifnaxalmW7tIASg_G43CmvjosnDNkLRNzHEUbt-njKdomHirppDACfgsWXacyE-ZQuHExTIZ33dS4c9iSKLHBQcDDu2Lp_ghf21tpNBe9NEhNE5J1Om2TwKkNBIvBhSnaTQRw-TvcC1XiG/s1600-h/DSCN4407.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifnaxalmW7tIASg_G43CmvjosnDNkLRNzHEUbt-njKdomHirppDACfgsWXacyE-ZQuHExTIZ33dS4c9iSKLHBQcDDu2Lp_ghf21tpNBe9NEhNE5J1Om2TwKkNBIvBhSnaTQRw-TvcC1XiG/s320/DSCN4407.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264022121253118946" /></a>They sang Ey Guzel Kirim, a deportation era anthem, as their first song.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivxNU5GRCgPLwHR6GZmBg7CYA66d4igk_Lo5-2Ek8Jd09Sp0St97dl4-Bvuxx0KJvNKfsUvaxWbq7etnLeyxgR_wrTOR2MTFeBYYNY3ySvgr2aTA5MaAs9VKvbFYmrVLV-CQKS_HCPh7sm/s1600-h/DSCN4418.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivxNU5GRCgPLwHR6GZmBg7CYA66d4igk_Lo5-2Ek8Jd09Sp0St97dl4-Bvuxx0KJvNKfsUvaxWbq7etnLeyxgR_wrTOR2MTFeBYYNY3ySvgr2aTA5MaAs9VKvbFYmrVLV-CQKS_HCPh7sm/s320/DSCN4418.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264022115045234994" /></a>We took photographs and I was gifted plaques.<div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiXwXMyrLrKV31X67ybAVCKb_PTj_IeD0CQh6RpcklsC_xMzVoY-E5BCPCd1oNsgZfxyRhtuqeEvGWt22EZwVBxdd4c7mC0dxVRJYwjO0tBwBK_mCxChXOlIs2B1EsD2tPwPehoXD-ZUdU/s1600-h/DSCN4444.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiXwXMyrLrKV31X67ybAVCKb_PTj_IeD0CQh6RpcklsC_xMzVoY-E5BCPCd1oNsgZfxyRhtuqeEvGWt22EZwVBxdd4c7mC0dxVRJYwjO0tBwBK_mCxChXOlIs2B1EsD2tPwPehoXD-ZUdU/s320/DSCN4444.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264020738374722306" /></a>We visited Crimean Tatar villages near Eskishehir, where people invited us into their homes,<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZbwOjWOXr0m_oN8zJO95lqO4ZtvMvNxv075XT_bAff4qZ3Zctw4swQLmCJbFtX30Uevl_PJb2YzTrIDpbgIrC5vpkUAFuB2MrYWnSZ0LHh1tvk06TWL_zCYmYSUg824P0HlisLxH9ir0G/s1600-h/DSCN4473.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZbwOjWOXr0m_oN8zJO95lqO4ZtvMvNxv075XT_bAff4qZ3Zctw4swQLmCJbFtX30Uevl_PJb2YzTrIDpbgIrC5vpkUAFuB2MrYWnSZ0LHh1tvk06TWL_zCYmYSUg824P0HlisLxH9ir0G/s320/DSCN4473.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264020729411254770" /></a>and told their stories of immigration to Turkey, usually shortly after the Crimean War in the mid-19th century.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhowv8lJVA1TQWXKbkq4ZO05GDdT_s-8vLBwnyld1T-rxU3H-L66R7WuI5dkjZEBXzNRMDTbim4_Dhb6uY2Ceano_PDoy52LhbouAZlhGu14LrdW2pekg1keLcU_JagSxTypual4g9StOaT/s1600-h/DSCN4478.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhowv8lJVA1TQWXKbkq4ZO05GDdT_s-8vLBwnyld1T-rxU3H-L66R7WuI5dkjZEBXzNRMDTbim4_Dhb6uY2Ceano_PDoy52LhbouAZlhGu14LrdW2pekg1keLcU_JagSxTypual4g9StOaT/s320/DSCN4478.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264020723660904178" /></a>It was difficult for me to tell apart Crimean Tatar and Turkish, but people say that Crimean Tatar is very well preserved in these villages.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY7_R9a483uYBX37ZwTrut5xUxm-jpRE4aZ6ttDhT7lF-ycGbrU4lxGjKcsFlXWbYf9sEj_7IW3qVtR6dO_H1Fp322eCX42dSV2DbAFRrUIbOVWpz0pFKrFMAVUn5nJFxaTlXLAnPSiCSh/s1600-h/DSCN4489.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY7_R9a483uYBX37ZwTrut5xUxm-jpRE4aZ6ttDhT7lF-ycGbrU4lxGjKcsFlXWbYf9sEj_7IW3qVtR6dO_H1Fp322eCX42dSV2DbAFRrUIbOVWpz0pFKrFMAVUn5nJFxaTlXLAnPSiCSh/s320/DSCN4489.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264020713014997986" /></a>These guys were out for a stroll.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyrkwYQ0W7FLN-FIEbps4yBSvc4gv6Gcwf5kfTJjF91aXbjaw-5vdm9O80JVzsuCyx1arYMR1tAqJIRf83jm6Tn7dEPfYkr9jDtF2IIqFrE6FrZKS73C7snG15jczP-00OVN59IyFI0Wqn/s1600-h/DSCN4491.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyrkwYQ0W7FLN-FIEbps4yBSvc4gv6Gcwf5kfTJjF91aXbjaw-5vdm9O80JVzsuCyx1arYMR1tAqJIRf83jm6Tn7dEPfYkr9jDtF2IIqFrE6FrZKS73C7snG15jczP-00OVN59IyFI0Wqn/s320/DSCN4491.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264020708804527650" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><div style="text-align: left;">These women wanted us to have coffee, but we were on our way back to town.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></div></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaGwHqfqM0Wmsz180KzJjhmUK9AqZh4Py0-hEG9QdEdb5RNy-lMiXLbAm0lIFFVkiuMszFOPin7A3sPTWGwOOTexemadu2RJ3lGx8V0afmi4JKxKJ6WgI1GnrpEJB4B0Gpq9H25OTs6Di8/s1600-h/DSCN4502.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaGwHqfqM0Wmsz180KzJjhmUK9AqZh4Py0-hEG9QdEdb5RNy-lMiXLbAm0lIFFVkiuMszFOPin7A3sPTWGwOOTexemadu2RJ3lGx8V0afmi4JKxKJ6WgI1GnrpEJB4B0Gpq9H25OTs6Di8/s320/DSCN4502.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264018861890675170" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;">We visited an instrument maker in Eskishehir, where a PhD candidate in musicology sang gorgeous songs from the Ottoman Empire, accompanying himself on the oud, and a young instrument maker described the process of making the perfect instrument:</div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcIRfNzajymds-cD6zhyYVpMsfk4s2njyG2V6f6L5Z7hedPSiRieNllow0vVqqYo8gMwaLLKHhPcz7EbBtaILaxRfrs1hkWR6Cmv6szpiWmMTSu6sCWWePBUkrJP9e71_Aw3jxmjnPvd5_/s1600-h/DSCN4518.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcIRfNzajymds-cD6zhyYVpMsfk4s2njyG2V6f6L5Z7hedPSiRieNllow0vVqqYo8gMwaLLKHhPcz7EbBtaILaxRfrs1hkWR6Cmv6szpiWmMTSu6sCWWePBUkrJP9e71_Aw3jxmjnPvd5_/s320/DSCN4518.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5264018844726290690" /></a><br /></div><div>It was an incredible trip with a lot of information collected and many strong impressions formed in just a week. Next... the Romanian Crimean Tatar diaspora? Alison and I have been invited to come and present in mid-December on Crimean Tatar day in Romania. I hope it happens.</div><div><br />(So....I know, I know; it's been a long time since you last heard from me. Thank you to those of you who write to remind me to post. Believe me, it's been on my mind. But so many things have been happening - a visit from my uncle, interviews, a visit from my boyfriend, interviews, an attempt to follow American politics and Ukrainian politics, a visit to Lviv, interviews, a visit to Turkey, interviews - and no internet at home. Right now, I'm planted in the corner of a hip cafe on fashionable Pushkina vul. quickly uploading some photos in feverish time to the ambient eurotechno favored by this cafe to assuage my pangs of conscience over not being a more proactive blogger. A warning that things might get worse before they get better: I'm leaving my Simferopol home today for Bakhchisaray, which may make my internet accessibility even more limited, but maybe I'll get there and discover a signal. Ada Helbig was recently telling me about opening up her laptop in a Roma village near Uzhgorod and discovering that the village had provided free WiFi for anyone with a computer in the area.... Anyway, blog or not, one day, there will be a fat book.) <div><br /></div></div>Maria Sonevytskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07593904559215438311noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278110619171495519.post-64313662971002219852008-09-29T15:45:00.007+03:002008-09-29T16:18:06.847+03:00The Tragedy on the Arabatska Strilka<div>Yesterday, the Crimean Tatar community commemorated the mass drowning of all of the Crimean Tatars who were not deported on May 18, 1944. <div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcUMpaR-LErtGbQ8Tqb3JmDmvIPhVSl253jnqpeTae0k2wLbZj3X2bYDWPnc27ab-wFASShmbL0E8jSxaPbk6GeANneL-yrBO3QVIbN3t_DdosowiQAKU1AGVaDJql3tCp0Ua9vwdIET1D/s320/180px-Crimea-Semikolodez_locator_map.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251424578791012994" /></div><div>The reason these Crimean Tatars were overlooked? They lived on the narrow spit of land known as the "Arabatska Strilka" ("strilka" = arrow) that stretches over 110 km from the Kherson oblast' in Ukraine down to the Azov coast in Eastern Crimea. The best image yielded from my very quick google search is above (we salute you, Wikipedia!) -- it's that little skinny dark blue part that looks like a Photoshop free-draw.</div><div><div><br /></div><div>The somber day began with a prayer at the mosque in Generalskoye,<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnJXb_pYZo7g4cq1PonoAbdd3UxzqIyJ46VOvdRqS-lL-0dxC_3bQDzeZYqxZO8V3ne5v_qVhJdfVBeyWQAppt1-ckcp4oe-ZTWNFmILzUWWIJuYsJbOkwb3YB-rX1C2axhF48ZnGBHu5F/s1600-h/DSCN3728.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnJXb_pYZo7g4cq1PonoAbdd3UxzqIyJ46VOvdRqS-lL-0dxC_3bQDzeZYqxZO8V3ne5v_qVhJdfVBeyWQAppt1-ckcp4oe-ZTWNFmILzUWWIJuYsJbOkwb3YB-rX1C2axhF48ZnGBHu5F/s320/DSCN3728.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251428663226447266" /></a><br />and then a caravan to the beach, where we assembled on a sand bar.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQMtnJdpw4PVHroSs3bIj9sNwCGoVugJQFfhfoHV7ZzsyrwW3yWEukzIhNJuJaPOUlDEo1OT9mKSSHbQWRYLUK04oohdDhEFvkG1ORKLl1DF8HbhV5oUDjesBytuRrV-sAevheav0NELmY/s1600-h/DSCN3751.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQMtnJdpw4PVHroSs3bIj9sNwCGoVugJQFfhfoHV7ZzsyrwW3yWEukzIhNJuJaPOUlDEo1OT9mKSSHbQWRYLUK04oohdDhEFvkG1ORKLl1DF8HbhV5oUDjesBytuRrV-sAevheav0NELmY/s320/DSCN3751.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251428670490925426" /></a><br />The local imam led a prayer,<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic1pSj2K1psdy6aYlF4LPaLc6Z0PWnk64ji0OEF8Xx3m3n9Quwje8xpq1CgZ8FpvZzi-0fKnI3XpqhRoFZJgjLXl-qcaoOTDmItNWhQYkKMyhIVskEF0ju7A0Me0qnYjJJgZMk6Z-mJ2go/s1600-h/DSCN3755.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic1pSj2K1psdy6aYlF4LPaLc6Z0PWnk64ji0OEF8Xx3m3n9Quwje8xpq1CgZ8FpvZzi-0fKnI3XpqhRoFZJgjLXl-qcaoOTDmItNWhQYkKMyhIVskEF0ju7A0Me0qnYjJJgZMk6Z-mJ2go/s320/DSCN3755.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251428669764219922" /></a><br />and a local Ukrainian Orthodox priest lead a short <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">panakhyda</span> (death mass) in honor of the Slavs who were drowned for witnessing the crime.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_J93H3d0TzDi2o6RCsN-E0F6lppqqmwlkpxeKf6iJSQqNFMKLKKujBdvx-wLN-qoF4YSQS1F494SHYYZ8FJj5h0hRzEuER8GOPFVGXWS3byToIfaubMnCFm2VWYBksUw58GlHJ6yp3xAV/s1600-h/DSCN3770.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_J93H3d0TzDi2o6RCsN-E0F6lppqqmwlkpxeKf6iJSQqNFMKLKKujBdvx-wLN-qoF4YSQS1F494SHYYZ8FJj5h0hRzEuER8GOPFVGXWS3byToIfaubMnCFm2VWYBksUw58GlHJ6yp3xAV/s320/DSCN3770.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251428674430681282" /></a><br />Carnations and beans were tossed into the Azov Sea. It was a somber affair.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlFLW64IBOVuE8UWT547yp9x55RgysjprXe1Bc1745V35Gv6DIISQPecDseqphZGRLfN7CXzGBY_m-EAln8FfM77r8Rlaj_UkjCJSozaCnw4bMgZjtHtC_7cAFQjlir7kCxOtNyFP5Z4h_/s1600-h/DSCN3776.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlFLW64IBOVuE8UWT547yp9x55RgysjprXe1Bc1745V35Gv6DIISQPecDseqphZGRLfN7CXzGBY_m-EAln8FfM77r8Rlaj_UkjCJSozaCnw4bMgZjtHtC_7cAFQjlir7kCxOtNyFP5Z4h_/s320/DSCN3776.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251428678225204050" /></a><br />But day trip from Simferopol ended warmly, with an invitation for dinner (and to break the Ramadan fast for those who had not eaten all day) at a home in Dzhankoy. We watched wedding videos and I got leads on some musicians who I am told need to be recorded. On the drive home, I got to ride shotgun, and had a debate about religion and politics with the driver, a local community leader. It was an inconclusive but exciting debate, and it felt good to achieve a level of exchange almost untroubled by the fact that he spoke Russian and Tatar and I spoke fake Russian and Ukrainian.</div><div><br /></div><div>Tonight, in honor of the last day of Ramadan, fried food is on the menu. In fact, I have less than hour to report to Milara's kitchen for cheburek duty, and I still need to mail things from the central post office, so this is me bracing for that and signing off. </div></div></div>Maria Sonevytskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07593904559215438311noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278110619171495519.post-47922753209101564152008-09-23T16:18:00.004+03:002008-09-23T16:33:22.259+03:00Crimean Tatar cookbooks for sale!Hot off the Bakhchisaray presses, straight from Shevqiye Seytmemetov's family kitchen! Learn to make all your 26 favorite Crimean Tatar dishes, including Qashiq Ash, Chebureky, Sarma, Manty and Qurabiye!<div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioXK80Vu85L48oOLqMiCR9FffbrvXXmK5IGBersp5QT7yBzpNJ7NzwHDQYQI3N-bXYZ7piSPBMqUVtLtDWr2APQCxVmmwxpBhChwGwz3GFyg0fvzD-2LfYY2OXDrUea3g-xkZT7Un75laS/s1600-h/DSCN3655.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioXK80Vu85L48oOLqMiCR9FffbrvXXmK5IGBersp5QT7yBzpNJ7NzwHDQYQI3N-bXYZ7piSPBMqUVtLtDWr2APQCxVmmwxpBhChwGwz3GFyg0fvzD-2LfYY2OXDrUea3g-xkZT7Un75laS/s320/DSCN3655.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249207497953469042" /></a><br /></div><div>If you'd like to purchase a copy (in Russian or in English) feel free to e-mail me your address and I'll arrange for it. The cost, including mailing from Ukraine, should be approximately $9. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>This is the kind of dinner party you can have, just imagine it:</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw_B_eMsfdxoL_0RNixSrl7-p_MN-_G83s_kSS5w3URVdIlLGLzVkD-IaWQ4WChROceXpvbHdCHLYwFVgRVUVyBJAPMpBDTjRB_KEu42c5VH5ifnAu93a6lt-0YrW6hysHGNjUuetWDXpD/s1600-h/DSCN3470.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw_B_eMsfdxoL_0RNixSrl7-p_MN-_G83s_kSS5w3URVdIlLGLzVkD-IaWQ4WChROceXpvbHdCHLYwFVgRVUVyBJAPMpBDTjRB_KEu42c5VH5ifnAu93a6lt-0YrW6hysHGNjUuetWDXpD/s320/DSCN3470.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249208464764612258" /></a><br /></div><div><br />And here are two photos from the Koktebel jazz fest which took place the past weekend, where we camped with all the Ukrainian hippies and their djembes...<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUsOPQhTyhuK9e5raGz86L1S8A56QCEXcHwzy9YczxyaFyjKPQLhprXptRLCQiG08d-3b1wuXYIQmC99sVbsdqZNJih9qxuk85UWs52fusYPXRZRTHfb2K8Agnw2L8ptIgKD6cYW7fPFBq/s1600-h/DSCN3625.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUsOPQhTyhuK9e5raGz86L1S8A56QCEXcHwzy9YczxyaFyjKPQLhprXptRLCQiG08d-3b1wuXYIQmC99sVbsdqZNJih9qxuk85UWs52fusYPXRZRTHfb2K8Agnw2L8ptIgKD6cYW7fPFBq/s320/DSCN3625.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249208474470071554" /></a><br />and got to see a late-night fire-dancer even though we weren't VIPs.<div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYsTwLQUXYUMBIr9K08sNpBpfdgT08y_8S7ftDT-0cVJni2aeY9eoI-maWOET8QKmBRFXrpsNytceGN9dkfEGMgHcnswfGl-9VkTIofuXzYpIC6h0D-x2nS-Qz1m-F3N1rv-yO1Gd9IGs4/s1600-h/DSCN3639.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYsTwLQUXYUMBIr9K08sNpBpfdgT08y_8S7ftDT-0cVJni2aeY9eoI-maWOET8QKmBRFXrpsNytceGN9dkfEGMgHcnswfGl-9VkTIofuXzYpIC6h0D-x2nS-Qz1m-F3N1rv-yO1Gd9IGs4/s320/DSCN3639.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249208475719966466" /></a><br /></div>Maria Sonevytskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07593904559215438311noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278110619171495519.post-51320522926889156262008-09-19T12:52:00.004+03:002008-09-19T13:34:45.602+03:00Some roads lead to SimferopolYesterday afternoon, my first full day back in Simferopol, I sat down for a rest and a snack on a concrete slab on the side of Sevastopolskaya vulitsa and watched the traffic-clogged street move in fits and starts. I'd stopped into a magazin, where the lady in charge regarded me with what appeared to be scorn, and refused to reach for the plain packet of "Cossack's Fun" peanuts, instead offering me chicken or bacon flavored peanuts. I gave up trying for plain and took the chicken.<div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0lJjNdN0pDwzWzoBlmWHtJ2imPBp5MoetMdeGCuJqFVfZdxCi3itDkhtVKYURhq9AXtW48PcSrSybbXcRhmk-9NAeGx4DjchnK8SRjhSxoeeFIL4Mq64J6IgYBIqmuLmgCv13hElV3rnP/s1600-h/DSCN3462.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0lJjNdN0pDwzWzoBlmWHtJ2imPBp5MoetMdeGCuJqFVfZdxCi3itDkhtVKYURhq9AXtW48PcSrSybbXcRhmk-9NAeGx4DjchnK8SRjhSxoeeFIL4Mq64J6IgYBIqmuLmgCv13hElV3rnP/s320/DSCN3462.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247671805558005938" /></a><div><br />Oh, Simferopol. I'm easing in, taking my time, since that's the way in these parts. It's been lousy and raining outside, which resulted in a cancellation of my plans for today's meeting in Bakhchisaray. But happily, an invitation to a birthday party came in, and I've convinced a friend to roadtrip tomorrow to Koktebel' to check out the famous <a href="http://frendid.com/communities/KoktebelJazzFestival">jazz festival</a> going on this weekend. I'll miss Richard Galliano tonight, but catch Archie Schepp on Sunday.<br /></div><div><br />And so next week the interviewing begins. I hope to start learning some more songs, take a few lessons in vocal style and maybe accordion if I can find a teacher willing to deal with an accordion-less student.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>It's been fascinating to talk to folks here about the South Ossetian conflict, as you might imagine. I had a sense of how different the American and Russian media were spinning the conflict while in the states, but on the ground, the difference is really palpable. Western analyses of the tensions in Crimea about to bubble over seemed alarmist to me while in the US, and compared to how people here have been talking about it to me that feeling seems justified: the consensus from those I've spoken to seems to be that Crimeans aren't looking for war, but they think Russia did right in protecting its citizens in Tskhinvali. For those that opposed the Orange Revolution, Saakashvili's misstep (or response to Russian threats) and the recent (albeit familiar) political turmoil in Ukraine has only hardened convictions about Yushchenko as American puppet, in the same league of incompetence as the Georgian leader. But then, I haven't spoken to politicians here, and some Tatars I've talked to certainly regard Russia's recent meddling with more cynicism than others. Here's <a href="http://ap.google.com/article/ALeqM5hMwNwByhP9L89m6jkmQOXgM6etqQD938L4300">some of the latest</a> in the Western press -- more, it appears, of Russia as provocateur. (I keep wondering why there hasn't been more press about the glaring example of Chechnya.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Let's shift to a bit of good news: the online journal <a href="http://www.canopycanopycanopy.com/">Triple Canopy</a> is going to publish a version of our No Other Home project! So we're working on getting that together for next month's issue. <br /></div></div>Maria Sonevytskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07593904559215438311noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278110619171495519.post-49273744533142044772008-09-07T21:37:00.003+03:002008-09-07T21:43:49.806+03:00No Other Home: The Crimean Tatars, a previewA long hiatus from the blog, but online today to make sure you know about the preview of the presentation that <a href="http://www.alisoncartwright.com/">Alison Cartwright </a>and I are developing.<div><br /></div><div>If you're in New York, please come to the Harriman Institute on Tuesday evening to see a first draft of the presentation:</div><div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghYNc_u9_18eZuwXvyNnLc3bNN3DSfZW3RbazLvniweuzXV73-7nE4A64DAYiVYV3R9T_MKalylE2alfySztAp16UIXO7mn_oHQnZgEd0mOdiyDCzZq5u9UEOitOPcIo1retNMzVoZ1NfA/s1600-h/slideshowinvite.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghYNc_u9_18eZuwXvyNnLc3bNN3DSfZW3RbazLvniweuzXV73-7nE4A64DAYiVYV3R9T_MKalylE2alfySztAp16UIXO7mn_oHQnZgEd0mOdiyDCzZq5u9UEOitOPcIo1retNMzVoZ1NfA/s320/slideshowinvite.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243351254585856210" /></a><br /><br /></div><div>And if you're in Washington DC, please consider joining us on Friday evening.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjem6x8TKl_Iti9BRsKRWq4cnog6DDAVpOFddwJFw7dOy9GW0ngEE9Ait8yGDmmBbsM9_ooaJhyphenhyphenJD8zKWXocf7w65CREMdrzvDICmF4C61glcOQkURhQLxPJqyFxTEq759tei-k8xX4PcfS/s1600-h/DCslideshowinvite.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjem6x8TKl_Iti9BRsKRWq4cnog6DDAVpOFddwJFw7dOy9GW0ngEE9Ait8yGDmmBbsM9_ooaJhyphenhyphenJD8zKWXocf7w65CREMdrzvDICmF4C61glcOQkURhQLxPJqyFxTEq759tei-k8xX4PcfS/s320/DCslideshowinvite.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243351260743400162" /></a><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br />My six weeks in the states flew and I'm preparing for my return to Crimea next weekend. Once back in Simferopol, I expect this blog to start up again, so stay tuned.<br /></div><div><br /></div>Maria Sonevytskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07593904559215438311noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278110619171495519.post-66289330326585814102008-07-11T19:08:00.002+03:002008-07-11T19:14:32.539+03:00To Sheshory, but not in SheshoryIn L'viv today and had a most wonderful and remarkably affordable flight on <a href="http://www.wizzair.com">WizzAir</a>, which launched its Ukraine service today (linking Kyiv, Odesa, Simferopol, and Lviv - I am going to be their biggest cheerleader). Since it was the kickoff morning, our obviously self-conscious flight attendants gave us complimentary beverages and snacks and we appaluded when we touched down in L'viv. What a nice experience for $10.<br /><br />Tonight, off to the <a href="http://www.sheshory.org">Sheshory "music and landart festival"</a> which no longer takes place in Sheshory ( a small Carpathian village) but rather in Podillia. I'm taking a train to Vinnytsia with my friends from the Les Kurbas Theater and Hutsuls who will be performing. I have a toothbrush, a blanket, a change of clothes, and a <span style="font-style: italic;">sopilka</span> in my bag. I expect there will be stories to tell.Maria Sonevytskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07593904559215438311noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278110619171495519.post-56766630657990416062008-07-07T21:00:00.002+03:002008-07-07T21:06:40.589+03:00A Surprise Appearance<p>The news from QHA today reports on a gathering that occurred yesterday in Ay Serez (now known as Mizhdurechia):</p><p>Вчера, 06 июля, в старинном крымскотатарском селе Ай-Cерез (Междуречье), что неподалеку от Судака, состоялась «Койдешлер корюшюв» (встреча односельчан). Затерянное в горах село примечательно тем, что является малой родиной двух лидеров крымскотатарского народа – Мустафы Джемилева и Рефата Чубарова. <br />С самого утра в село, к зданию старой мечети начали съезжаться уроженцы Ай-Cереза и их потомки. В общей сложности на встречу односельчан собралось около 500 человек. Мероприятие было организовано сельским междлисом (председатель Аблямит Ибраим) при поддержке предпринимателей-айсерезцев. Активное участие в организации встречи принял и первый заместитель председателя Меджлиса крымскотатарского народа Рефат Чубаров. <br />Перед односельчанами выступили их земляки – Председатель Меджлиса крымскотатарского народа Мустафа Джемилев и его заместитель Рефат Чубаров. В своих выступлениях они призвали айсерезцев заботиться о единстве крымскотатарского народа, чтить его культуру, язык, веру. Р. Чубаров, также, подчеркнул, что только сами айсерезцы могут возродить свое родное село, для чего необходимо возвращаться в Ай-Серез, строить дома, растить здесь детей. Как известно, сам Рефат Чубаров, вместе с братом Эльведдином, в прошлом году сумели купить старый дом в родном селе и сейчас обустраивают его. <br />Хорошей новостью для айсерезцев стало сообщение о том, что получены решения о возврате здания мечети мусульманам села, и вскоре начнется работа по ее восстановлению. <br />Для айсерезцев, собравшихся в этот праздничный день выступил ансамбль «Макъам» под руководством Джемиля Карикова, пели народные любимцы Рустем Мемет и Афизе Караса. Приятной неожиданностью стало выступление гостьи из США Марии Соневицки, докторанта Колумбийского университета, приехавшей изучать крымскотатарскую музыку. К радости айсерезцев и гостей праздника Мария исполнила крымскотатарскую народную песню, чем вызвала бурю аплодисментов в свою честь. <br />Даже хлынувший ливень не испортил праздник собравшимся односельчанам. <br />Также, с днем села айсерезцев приветствовали ветеран крымскотатарского национального движения Зампира Асан и председатель Сакского регионального меджлиса Зевджет Къуртумер, принявшие самое деятельное участие в проведении встречи. <br />Встреча закончилась обещаниями обязательно встретиться в Ай-Серезе в следующем году.<br /></p><p>Here is <a href="http://www.qha.com.ua/foto/08-07/ay-serez/ay-serez09.jpg">my surprise appearance</a>. A surprise to me, for sure. I was backed by a terrific band - Makam - though, which was also a pleasant surprise. Strangely, this is the second time in two weeks that I have found myself with microphone in hand in front of a band and a crowd of many Crimean Tatars. Last week, there was a similar moment at a wedding. I guess this is some variation on the participant observer paradigm: performer/observer?</p><p></p>Maria Sonevytskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07593904559215438311noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278110619171495519.post-2272412685874719142008-07-02T15:53:00.003+03:002008-07-02T15:56:33.813+03:00www.alisoncartwright.comOh! And please check out <a href="http://www.alisoncartwright.com">Alison Cartwright's website</a> to see some of the photos from our expeditions in May! (A sincere thanks to the U.S.-Ukraine Business Council for providing funding for that round of shooting and travelling.) Text, audio, and exhibitions are all in the works...Maria Sonevytskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07593904559215438311noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278110619171495519.post-71338556251496541192008-07-02T15:31:00.002+03:002008-07-02T15:51:53.009+03:00Kurortniy ReyonBack to Crimea and so are the tourists. The <a href="http://www.kyivpost.com/nation/29165/">Kyiv Post</a> reports that "while high cost, poor service and unsanitary conditions are turning some summer vacationers away from Crimea in favor of such destinations as Egypt and Turkey, the fact remains that 6 million people are expected to visit the still-beautiful peninsula this year." Still beautiful, but a little trashed. Sounds great, huh?<br /><br />(My mother visited me here last week and was positively outraged at the amount of trash just lying around. She immediately stopped a lady selling newspapers on the beach to find out which newspaper is most widely read in Sevastopol and plans to write a letter castigating the citizenry. And you wonder where I get my energy from...)<br /><br />In less than 48 hours back in Simferopol, I managed to get pulled back in to the Tatar community as if I had never left. Attended a wedding near Bakhchisaray, marked the 30th Anniversary of <a href="http://www.euronet.nl/users/sota/ctnm.htm">Musa Mamut's</a> self-immolation at his burial site near Simferopol, chatted with Ukrainian nationalists, and have a whole new roster of musicians to interview.<br /><br />Also, while at <a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.krainamriy.com">Kraina Mriy</a> in Kyiv, I met the inspiring organizers of a summer camp called the "Chemistry of Tolerance," taking place in Bakhchisaray from July 11-21. A friend told me on the phone earlier today about how she and a group of Ukrainian-speaking students got kicked out of an internet cafe in Sevastopol recently for... speaking Ukrainian. (Luckily, the teenagers at the village internet shack from which I am currently writing seem to find my Ukrainian to be funny and harmless.) Point being, tolerance is a wise thing to spread around in these parts, so please check them out: <a href="http://www.chemistryoftolerance.org/index.php?content=0">www.chemistryoftolerance.org.</a><a href="http://www.chemistryoftolerance.org/index.php?content=0"><br /></a>Maria Sonevytskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07593904559215438311noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-278110619171495519.post-52209972322883864562008-05-28T14:57:00.005+03:002008-05-28T15:16:57.498+03:00A Nod to WordsworthI am restoring my powers in Krakow.<br /><br />For almost 48 glorious hours I have read, walked, visited with my wonderful extended extended cousin, and attempted to reflect tranquilly on the last month of unstoppable, intense work. There's a lot more tranquility to be recollected before the project gets edited and written, but I am, at this point, at least able to remember half of what Alison and I did in our weeks of work.<br /><br />Alison flew out of Kyiv a few days ago with something like more than 10,000 images stored on various external hard drives. I have something like 40 hours of recorded interviews and songs and a notebook full of notes. We plan to cyber-manage all that information in the coming weeks, and I hope to update this blog occasionally with more images from our weeks of interviewing and travelling in Crimea in May. Our final day of documentation, on the Day of Deportation (May 18th) in Simferopol, felt like a very peculiar episode of "This Is Your Life." As Alison and I forged through the crowds in search of the ever-elusive Milara-odzha, we ran across countless people whom we had interviewed and photographed in the previous weeks all over Crimea. <br /><br />Tonight, I will travel to Berlin where Susan and I will kick off our <a href="http://www.myspace.com/debutantehour">slapdash Debutante Hour European tour</a>, and then meander our way down to Italy, across to Poland, and then back to Ukraine, where we will finish out with a performance at the Les Kurbas Theater in L'viv. Then, I will go back to Crimea, where I will begin another 6 weeks of research generously supported by an SSRC pre-dissertation fellowship. <br /><br />More to come...Maria Sonevytskyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07593904559215438311noreply@blogger.com1