Yesterday, the Crimean Tatar community commemorated the mass drowning of all of the Crimean Tatars who were not deported on May 18, 1944. 
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.
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.
The somber day began with a prayer at the mosque in Generalskoye,
and then a caravan to the beach, where we assembled on a sand bar.
The local imam led a prayer,
and a local Ukrainian Orthodox priest lead a short panakhyda (death mass) in honor of the Slavs who were drowned for witnessing the crime.
Carnations and beans were tossed into the Azov Sea. It was a somber affair.
and then a caravan to the beach, where we assembled on a sand bar.
The local imam led a prayer,
and a local Ukrainian Orthodox priest lead a short panakhyda (death mass) in honor of the Slavs who were drowned for witnessing the crime.
Carnations and beans were tossed into the Azov Sea. It was a somber affair.
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.
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.
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