Hello Folks
Here is some well overdue video I took on the 9th of May, which is Victory Day. Interestingly enough, it is not an official holiday in Ukraine but rather an old Soviet holiday commemorating Hitler's Surrender. In Russia and alot of old Soviet countries there are usually huge parades in the capitols with tanks and soldiers and guns and other manly things showcasing (post) Soviet might.
Anyway, in Western Ukraine, which is very anti-Soviet, this holiday is apparently anathema in some parts. A friend of mine is stationed in South West Ukraine, and he said the holiday was largely ignored.
I know I havent written anything in a while. This is due in part to not having time, and part to not being able think of anything to write. Not to worry, a new entry will appear this week.
And now, without further adieu, Mr. Eddie Vedder
(as a side not, do you think I'll ever be able to actually say those words? the greatest concert I ever attended was a Pearl Jam concert at Bonaroo with Mr. Benjamin R. Strassfeld. Eddie Vedder was wasted on stage and played for almost 4 hours. Then Kanye West came on and acted like an arrogant asshole. A life of highs and lows. Boovayee.)
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Kiev Shock, Part Video
Hey everybody
Here is a video from some of my excursions to Kiev. I hope the irony in my choice of music is duly appreciated.
Internet is getting tougher to get, and life is crazy busy. We are in the midst of working on our community project, which is teaching the youth soccer team how to fundraise for their own new soccer balls. Theres no word that literally translates to fundraising in the Ukranian language, so suffice it to say this is a difficult task.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Kiev Shock, Part Shabbos
As soon as I discovered that I was going to be spending the next two years in Ukraine, researching and searching out the country’s Jewish community trickled to the top of my priority list. The son of a Rabbi, the product of a day school education, a young Jew who constnatly feels the weight of his people on his shoulders, the loneliness I would feel living, yet again, in a graveyard of my ancestors---a confluence of factors led me to believe that finding a community was important to my sanity, vital to my success.
I was put in contact with the chief Rabbi of Ukraine, Isaac Bleich. Rabbi Bleich was out of the country when I first arrived, but through a variety of contacts I was able to touch base with his assistant Rabbi at his synagogue. I was eager to go. Living in my Ukranian village, communication has been difficult, with only a handful of Americans and a splattering of Ukranians who spoke english. Sure, my Ukranian was improving. But all the same, my references to the spiritual audacity of Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel were falling on deaf ears, and I knew I needed a solid dose of Yiddishkeit.
Unfortunately, Peace Corps regulations stipulate that we arent allowed to enter Kiev until 3 or 4 weeks into our program, and only after we first enter the city as a group, with our Language Teacher. We went on a thursday. The next day, Friday night, I decided to attend Shabbat services.
When I first told my host mother, Natalia, about my decision, she was incredibly supportive. In fact, she was going to be working in Kiev that night, and she also grew up about seven blocks away from the synagogue. She will take me there, she told me. She will make sure I get there safe.
When I awoke that morning, I gathered all my things, as I would be heading to the trian straight from school. Papers? check. Secret money pouch strapped around my waist? check. Phone on silent? check. My TzitTzit, a Jewish ceremonial garb to worn at all times as a reminder of the 613 commandments? check mate.
A TzitTzit resembles an undershirt, except it is sleeveless, and instead of a waistband at the bottom, it instead has four knotted strings protruding from every corner. The number of knots on the TzitTzit numbers 613, a reminder of who I am and what I am supposed to be doing. The irony, of course, is that never in my life (save, perhaps, a brief experimentation in middle school) have I worn one under my every day clothes. In fact, I only purchased my very own for the first time last December in Israel. But since arriving in Ukraine, I’ve worn my every Shabbat, without fail, from Sundown Friday to Sundown Saturday. It helps.
Natalia and I got on the train, and about ten minutes into the ride it became very crowded. Soon after, I felt Natalia flick my ear, and then point to an older woman who was standing, and then smile. Ya Rezoomeeyoo. I understand. I stood up, and gave my seat to the woman. Natalia was pleased.
After arriving in Kiev, we took a tram to the synagogue’s district, which coincided with a trip down Natalia’s memory lane. As we traversed the blocks of this much older part of town, Natalia nostalgically pointed out the landmarks of her life.
Mi Tato Pratzuvav u tze bazari. My father worked in this market.
Moya Mama Pratzuvala tut. Boov Mahazin. My mother worked here. It used to be a school.
Moya Shkola. My School.
Moya Doma. My home.
After our stroll we found ourselves face to face with the synagogue. She asked me if I had someone I could call. How could I explain to her that no one here would have their cell phones on them? We approached the security guard, and this was pretty much a lost cause. I rattled of the names of the Rabbis I knew, and he confirmed that he knew them, as well. After an awkward thirty seconds of pretty much realizing neither of us had any clue of what was going on, the security guard led us into the courtyard. Upon encountering a man with a Kippah, a head covering, I made my move.
Slicha. Ani yehoodee. V’ani Rotzeh Lehitpallel. In my beast Hebrew, I told him I was Jew and that I wanted to pray.
Tov Moed. Very good. Our first obstacle was crossed, and I was ready to say my farewell to Natalia when suddenly she said to him, in Ukranian, “you will make sure he gets on the train, yes?”
To which my newfound Jewish friend replied, “He can’t get on the train. Its shabbos.”
I almost burst out laughing at the massiveness of the cultural misunderstanding of which I lay smack in the middle. here is Natalia, unfamiliar with Jewish customs, who only wants me to go home safe and who knows I cannot stay over in Kiev overnight. Here is a pious Jew, who knows the restrictions of travel on the Shabbos and is well versed in Talmudic Law but for whom the Peace Corps’ rules and regulations is as foreign to him and Halacha, or Jewish law, is to Natalia. Of course I held the key to this conversation while missing a very important component, that is to say, the ability to speak Ukranian.
I turned to Natalia. Boo-de Dobre. It will be fine.
I turned to the Jew. Ein Lee bechina. Ani tsarich lachzor habayta. I don’t have a choice, I must return home.
The Jew led me inside the synagogue, and soon his moniker became moot for I was introduced to a whole host of Jews, a new group of friends, my brothers, my Mishpacha, my family. There was Yisroel Dovid, born and raised in Kiev and pretty much the only one of the bunch who spoke any Ukranian (Russian was the predominant tongue, after Hebrew). There was Ya’kov, an Israeli Sabra, handsome and dark skinned and teaching youngsters at the local Yeshiva. There were my three Belrussian friends, whose names escape me, but who were incredibly inquisitive about whether I knew how they could move to America.
The sanctuary was one of the more traditional ones I had ever seen. The woman’s gallery was not only up top, but was secluded from view by a quite intense Mechitzah, or separation barrier. I could only barely make out the forms of the women up above.
The service was traditional, as well, but although I am quite liberal in ideology I have always somewhat relished Orthodox prayers. The consistency of the liturgy I have always found comforting, the emotion of its members enervating, the harmious disharmony of the voices a paradox that is both unexplainable and incredibly clear to any who have experienced its wonder.
Some time around my second week in Ukraine, I started praying. I would say the Shema, the Jewish affirmation of faith and of God’s oneness, three times daily. I would spout out random prayers at possibly incorrect times, unable to reign in spurts of inspiration. But Jews are not meant to pray alone; the Talmud commands us to pray in groups of ten, to be with the community, to be together. The Talmud was right. Prayer is an individual conversation between you and God, but it is so much better with your community at your side. It was nice to pray with my people, for my people, for all people.
After services, my new friends insisted I join them for the after Shabbat meal, where the general consensus to my story was shock. You came FROM America? TO Ukraine? You speak UKRANIAN??? You LIVE IN A VILLAGE???? YOUR BATHROOM IS OUTSIDE?????????????????? These are a group of boys who understand me in ways other Ukranians never will, my fellow Americans never can. They are my Jews, my brethren, we share a heritage and a history and a burden. But although they welcomed me, I was an alien in their midst.
At the same time, while they had trouble understanding me, they seemed, for lack of a better word, impressed. Impressed I would leave home. Impressed I would live in a village. Impressed I wanted to Daven, to pray, so badly. To be honest, at that time, I felt impressive.
Around nine o’clock, I told the group I had to leave. I had to catch a train back home. They tried to convince me to stay, but I could not. I had to go. They understood, and Yisroel Dovid and another Yeshiva Bocher, another pious Jew, walked me to the nearest metro. Be careful with your Kippah, they said. Be careful as a Jew, they nodded. Be careful to come back to us. I will, I promised. I will.
Two weeks later, this past Friday night I fullfilled my promise. Services started late this evening, because Rabbi Laub, the former Chief Ashkenazic Rabbi of Israel, was visiting the Ba’al Shem Tov’s grave (yet another analogy that would be lost on anyone within a twenty mile radius of my village.) Yet again, my experience was wonderful. I prayed with my brethren. My soul was uplifted, my spirit was nourished. It had been a tough stretch of time, and I was glad to be there, to be a Jew.
At the end of the service, Yakov and Yisroel Dovid and Gershom and the Belarussians and even Rabbi Bleich who was finally in town all urged me to stay for dinner. I told them I could not. it was late, and I had to catch the train home. I am sorry, I told them.
I could tell they were disappointed, and a little confused. Who is this Jew, who seems to desire a life of religiosity and yet desecrates God’s Sabbath? Who is this Jew, who travels an hour and a half each way for an hour and a half worship service? Why is he here? What exactly is his purpose, his goal? What is he searching for?
Then again, perhaps these were just the questions I was asking myself, the conundrums racking my brain as I rode home on the train. I was sad I could not stay longer. Yet I had no choice. I was doing something better, something that, in some way, was as Jewish as I could be. Wasn’t it?
At some point in the ride, I asked a fellow passenger how many stops it was until my town. He replied, and about thirty seconds later a guy about my age approached me and said he was headed towards that town, as well. His name was Vlady, adn he worked at a factory in Kiev. He soon revealed that he was trying to learn English, because if he did he could get a promotion at work, and then he could move out of his parents place get a house, and maybe even start a family...
I gave him my number, and we made plans to meet later in the week. As we parted ways on our walk home, I felt the joy of Shabbos. Perhaps I was using electricity and perhaps I wasn’t fulfilling all 613 commandments my Tzittzit beckoned me to follow, but I still felt right.
Jewish teachings proclaim that we, as a people, have an obligation to be a light to the nations. I’ve always wondered how we could do that if we were all sequestered in the same place. I feel very Jewish here, in my Ukranian village. Perhaps thats because while my spark may not be as bright as other, more Pious, Jews, my environment seems a little darker, and my little glimmer has the chance to cast a larger light.
I was put in contact with the chief Rabbi of Ukraine, Isaac Bleich. Rabbi Bleich was out of the country when I first arrived, but through a variety of contacts I was able to touch base with his assistant Rabbi at his synagogue. I was eager to go. Living in my Ukranian village, communication has been difficult, with only a handful of Americans and a splattering of Ukranians who spoke english. Sure, my Ukranian was improving. But all the same, my references to the spiritual audacity of Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel were falling on deaf ears, and I knew I needed a solid dose of Yiddishkeit.
Unfortunately, Peace Corps regulations stipulate that we arent allowed to enter Kiev until 3 or 4 weeks into our program, and only after we first enter the city as a group, with our Language Teacher. We went on a thursday. The next day, Friday night, I decided to attend Shabbat services.
When I first told my host mother, Natalia, about my decision, she was incredibly supportive. In fact, she was going to be working in Kiev that night, and she also grew up about seven blocks away from the synagogue. She will take me there, she told me. She will make sure I get there safe.
When I awoke that morning, I gathered all my things, as I would be heading to the trian straight from school. Papers? check. Secret money pouch strapped around my waist? check. Phone on silent? check. My TzitTzit, a Jewish ceremonial garb to worn at all times as a reminder of the 613 commandments? check mate.
A TzitTzit resembles an undershirt, except it is sleeveless, and instead of a waistband at the bottom, it instead has four knotted strings protruding from every corner. The number of knots on the TzitTzit numbers 613, a reminder of who I am and what I am supposed to be doing. The irony, of course, is that never in my life (save, perhaps, a brief experimentation in middle school) have I worn one under my every day clothes. In fact, I only purchased my very own for the first time last December in Israel. But since arriving in Ukraine, I’ve worn my every Shabbat, without fail, from Sundown Friday to Sundown Saturday. It helps.
Natalia and I got on the train, and about ten minutes into the ride it became very crowded. Soon after, I felt Natalia flick my ear, and then point to an older woman who was standing, and then smile. Ya Rezoomeeyoo. I understand. I stood up, and gave my seat to the woman. Natalia was pleased.
After arriving in Kiev, we took a tram to the synagogue’s district, which coincided with a trip down Natalia’s memory lane. As we traversed the blocks of this much older part of town, Natalia nostalgically pointed out the landmarks of her life.
Mi Tato Pratzuvav u tze bazari. My father worked in this market.
Moya Mama Pratzuvala tut. Boov Mahazin. My mother worked here. It used to be a school.
Moya Shkola. My School.
Moya Doma. My home.
After our stroll we found ourselves face to face with the synagogue. She asked me if I had someone I could call. How could I explain to her that no one here would have their cell phones on them? We approached the security guard, and this was pretty much a lost cause. I rattled of the names of the Rabbis I knew, and he confirmed that he knew them, as well. After an awkward thirty seconds of pretty much realizing neither of us had any clue of what was going on, the security guard led us into the courtyard. Upon encountering a man with a Kippah, a head covering, I made my move.
Slicha. Ani yehoodee. V’ani Rotzeh Lehitpallel. In my beast Hebrew, I told him I was Jew and that I wanted to pray.
Tov Moed. Very good. Our first obstacle was crossed, and I was ready to say my farewell to Natalia when suddenly she said to him, in Ukranian, “you will make sure he gets on the train, yes?”
To which my newfound Jewish friend replied, “He can’t get on the train. Its shabbos.”
I almost burst out laughing at the massiveness of the cultural misunderstanding of which I lay smack in the middle. here is Natalia, unfamiliar with Jewish customs, who only wants me to go home safe and who knows I cannot stay over in Kiev overnight. Here is a pious Jew, who knows the restrictions of travel on the Shabbos and is well versed in Talmudic Law but for whom the Peace Corps’ rules and regulations is as foreign to him and Halacha, or Jewish law, is to Natalia. Of course I held the key to this conversation while missing a very important component, that is to say, the ability to speak Ukranian.
I turned to Natalia. Boo-de Dobre. It will be fine.
I turned to the Jew. Ein Lee bechina. Ani tsarich lachzor habayta. I don’t have a choice, I must return home.
The Jew led me inside the synagogue, and soon his moniker became moot for I was introduced to a whole host of Jews, a new group of friends, my brothers, my Mishpacha, my family. There was Yisroel Dovid, born and raised in Kiev and pretty much the only one of the bunch who spoke any Ukranian (Russian was the predominant tongue, after Hebrew). There was Ya’kov, an Israeli Sabra, handsome and dark skinned and teaching youngsters at the local Yeshiva. There were my three Belrussian friends, whose names escape me, but who were incredibly inquisitive about whether I knew how they could move to America.
The sanctuary was one of the more traditional ones I had ever seen. The woman’s gallery was not only up top, but was secluded from view by a quite intense Mechitzah, or separation barrier. I could only barely make out the forms of the women up above.
The service was traditional, as well, but although I am quite liberal in ideology I have always somewhat relished Orthodox prayers. The consistency of the liturgy I have always found comforting, the emotion of its members enervating, the harmious disharmony of the voices a paradox that is both unexplainable and incredibly clear to any who have experienced its wonder.
Some time around my second week in Ukraine, I started praying. I would say the Shema, the Jewish affirmation of faith and of God’s oneness, three times daily. I would spout out random prayers at possibly incorrect times, unable to reign in spurts of inspiration. But Jews are not meant to pray alone; the Talmud commands us to pray in groups of ten, to be with the community, to be together. The Talmud was right. Prayer is an individual conversation between you and God, but it is so much better with your community at your side. It was nice to pray with my people, for my people, for all people.
After services, my new friends insisted I join them for the after Shabbat meal, where the general consensus to my story was shock. You came FROM America? TO Ukraine? You speak UKRANIAN??? You LIVE IN A VILLAGE???? YOUR BATHROOM IS OUTSIDE?????????????????? These are a group of boys who understand me in ways other Ukranians never will, my fellow Americans never can. They are my Jews, my brethren, we share a heritage and a history and a burden. But although they welcomed me, I was an alien in their midst.
At the same time, while they had trouble understanding me, they seemed, for lack of a better word, impressed. Impressed I would leave home. Impressed I would live in a village. Impressed I wanted to Daven, to pray, so badly. To be honest, at that time, I felt impressive.
Around nine o’clock, I told the group I had to leave. I had to catch a train back home. They tried to convince me to stay, but I could not. I had to go. They understood, and Yisroel Dovid and another Yeshiva Bocher, another pious Jew, walked me to the nearest metro. Be careful with your Kippah, they said. Be careful as a Jew, they nodded. Be careful to come back to us. I will, I promised. I will.
Two weeks later, this past Friday night I fullfilled my promise. Services started late this evening, because Rabbi Laub, the former Chief Ashkenazic Rabbi of Israel, was visiting the Ba’al Shem Tov’s grave (yet another analogy that would be lost on anyone within a twenty mile radius of my village.) Yet again, my experience was wonderful. I prayed with my brethren. My soul was uplifted, my spirit was nourished. It had been a tough stretch of time, and I was glad to be there, to be a Jew.
At the end of the service, Yakov and Yisroel Dovid and Gershom and the Belarussians and even Rabbi Bleich who was finally in town all urged me to stay for dinner. I told them I could not. it was late, and I had to catch the train home. I am sorry, I told them.
I could tell they were disappointed, and a little confused. Who is this Jew, who seems to desire a life of religiosity and yet desecrates God’s Sabbath? Who is this Jew, who travels an hour and a half each way for an hour and a half worship service? Why is he here? What exactly is his purpose, his goal? What is he searching for?
Then again, perhaps these were just the questions I was asking myself, the conundrums racking my brain as I rode home on the train. I was sad I could not stay longer. Yet I had no choice. I was doing something better, something that, in some way, was as Jewish as I could be. Wasn’t it?
At some point in the ride, I asked a fellow passenger how many stops it was until my town. He replied, and about thirty seconds later a guy about my age approached me and said he was headed towards that town, as well. His name was Vlady, adn he worked at a factory in Kiev. He soon revealed that he was trying to learn English, because if he did he could get a promotion at work, and then he could move out of his parents place get a house, and maybe even start a family...
I gave him my number, and we made plans to meet later in the week. As we parted ways on our walk home, I felt the joy of Shabbos. Perhaps I was using electricity and perhaps I wasn’t fulfilling all 613 commandments my Tzittzit beckoned me to follow, but I still felt right.
Jewish teachings proclaim that we, as a people, have an obligation to be a light to the nations. I’ve always wondered how we could do that if we were all sequestered in the same place. I feel very Jewish here, in my Ukranian village. Perhaps thats because while my spark may not be as bright as other, more Pious, Jews, my environment seems a little darker, and my little glimmer has the chance to cast a larger light.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
It happens
I’m sorry its taken me so long to compose a follow up to Kiev Shock. Part II will still yet have to come at a later date. Too much has been happening recently, too much going through my mind, that I feel compelled to address these issues now. Stories can come later.
Its a matter of minutes now before I finish an undertaking that has taken me about two and a half weeks. I’ve been reading James Michener’s “The Source,” an unbelievable book that takes the reader on a 10,000 year journey in the land of Israel through the prism of an archaeological dig. The book has been an amazing, thought provoking, and entertaining read, and I highly recommend it. Yesterday, however, I came upon a paragraph that struck me in an entirely new way.
The scene consists of a Palestinian Arab, a German-Born Israeli Jew, and an American Catholic archaeologist, all intellectuals. After an impassioned speech by the Israeli regarding Israel and her moral prerogatives, the Arab interjects:
“After some years we Arabs will unite, impossible as that now seems...the united Arabs will dive the Jews into the sea. Just as we did the Crusaders. Of course, the entire civilized world will be aghast at the slaughter, but it will do nothing to stop us. Absolutely nothing. Spain, once again a monarchy perhaps, will accept some of the refugees. Poland and Holland will take some, as before. But then in the U.S. horrible pogroms will begin. I can’t see the reason too clearly now, but you’l think up some.” All he Jews in New York will be marched into a gigantic space ship and shot off into the air by a no-return rocket, and good Christians led by your President will applaud.”
The Arab, in the context of this story, is not attempting to frighten the Jew or show off a menacing tenacity. Rather, he is Michener’s unlikely vassal to convey what is the greatest fears of Israelis and, truthfully, World Jewry. We are convinced history will repeat itself, convinced we will one day be slaughtered en masse again, and this causes us to often behave irrationally and immorally.
This entry is not about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict---I’m no expert, and I don’t want to waste more print space speculating about hypotheticals than already has been done. This entry is about fear, all of our fears, and my fears. And how I hope to turn these into a net positive.
The past ten days have, without a doubt, been the most trying I have had so far in the Peace Corps. I have learned much about myself and others, much about the country which is to be my home for the next two years. I have begun to come to grips with my own limitations and I have begun to bring it that part of me that excepts no limits. I am finding myself and recreating myself and attempting to make myself a better person, a better man, a better volunteer.
This past Sunday, the proposal for our group Youth Development project was due, so last week was, of course, stressful times. I have had my qualms about our project from the beginning. The only real contact we have with local city officials is a woman named Ludmilla, whom I have been skeptical of from the beginning. She claims to want to be there for us during our stay, but we only seem to see her when she wants and/or needs something from us.
Initially, our group wanted to attempt to tackle the massive trash problem in our town. When we brought this idea to Ludmilla, she countered with one of her own. Why don’t you buy new soccer balls for the local youth team?
A few of the volunteers jumped at this idea---it seemed an easy way out of our project. But eventually, better wisdom prevailed. We realized that we could not simply throw money at a problem. The Peace Corps sent us here to make a lasting impact and to change the way people think about Americans. To allow others to see us as Piggy Banks, to fail to give them our time and our commitment and our energy, was a failure of everything we were said to represent.
We came to a compromise: Lets teach the kids about fundraising, instead. While I liked the concept of this idea, the practice seemed to get lost in the shuffle. Most members of my group were satisfied at working at this admirable but modest goal. I, however, was not. Five training groups have gone through this village and five have left and the town seems to be none the better or wiser for it. I felt as if we were simply continuing a string a meaningless projects, forgetting about the means and focusing on an ends where the team got new soccer balls and we got off without having to put too much of ourselves.
My opposition was met by even fiercer opposition. As I’m sure many of you can guess, I was a bit fiery with my insistence on more, which, to my fault, alienated some of my fellow volunteers. I felt very alone in my cause to do more, my desire to not simply go through the motions because I was tired, because I wanted to get through training on then, maybe, when I got to my site, I could focus on the big.
In short, I was afraid of failure, however I defined it.
What did I expect, truly, when I signed up for 27 months in a foreign land? What did my fellow volunteers expect? I was prepared for almost any hardship, any opposition from Ukranians, and sort of cultural differences that would be hard but in time I could manage and maybe even conquer. But I now that I definitely expected to find 300+ like minded folk, 300+ American Peace Corps volunteers who were like minded and just like me, outgoing, outside the box, a little bit adventurous and a little bit idealistic.
Was I hoping, in a strange, obscure, way, to finally find a place where I wasn’t the lone soldier, where I wasn’t outside the mainstream? Or maybe I was simply yearning to be in a place where, as an American in the midst of a Ukranian world, I was already different, and anything I thought or fought for or believed in could hardly set me apart any more?
I imagined a world of a bunch of do gooders with positive attitudes and bright smiles burgeoning through the jungle, metaphorical or real, to build something beautiful, something lasting, something grand. What I found is a bunch of kids, a bunch of human beings just like myself, who were struggling to come to grips with our identities and our limitations and the scope of our choices to commit to this place for so long. How much of ourselves are we willing to give? How much of myself am I willing to give?
Last week was a bad week, questioning myself and how I treated others and what I expected from others. But at the end of the week I was visited by Greg, a Peace Corps Volunteer at the tail end of his service. Greg did more for me in his brief visit than any of the cultural sessions or handbooks or stories the Peace Corps threw at me. Greg has done some amazing things in his village---he has built a resource center for teachers, helped bring some of the troubled kids to a life of hope, and was the director of a huge English language summer camp. But he also has truly enjoyed life during his time here. He has partied and traveled and made friends with Ukranians and Americans and met Ukranian girls and met American girls. He is leaving in a month and he is ready but he still has a smile on his face, not because of what hes leaving behind or what hes heading towards but rather because hes happy, hes satisfied, hes content.
There is a Ukranian word Boo-va-yay, which roughly translates to, “it happens.” It is a word that sums up this country and my experience more succinctly than any picture or video or certainly than this blog entry. My fantasies of Peace Corps life will not come true. Boovayay. Not everything will turn out the way I want it. Boovayay. Not everyone will like me or appreciate my ideas. Boovayay. I will know fear and failure, I will know pain and hardship. Boovayay. But somewhere in there I will also know success, I will know happiness and ecstasy and epiphany. And that, too, Boovayay.
Last night Natalia and I were talking, and she informed me that she hasnt been paid by her job in two months. The city of Kiev is broke, and if it wasn’t for the meager sum she gets from the Peace Corps for hosting me, she would be dipping into her savings. I was aghast. How could they not pay you? How can this happen? How can you not take recourse?
Natalia looked at me, with a smile on her face, and simply said “Tah-Kay Zhittya. Boovayay.” That’s the way life goes. It happens.
I don’t yet know why I came here, and I haven’t yet conquered my demons or fears. I am not yet the man I want to be, and I still fear my people will be driven into the sea. All I can say I’ve learned so far is that in life, Boovayay. And all we can do is accept that with a smile.
Its a matter of minutes now before I finish an undertaking that has taken me about two and a half weeks. I’ve been reading James Michener’s “The Source,” an unbelievable book that takes the reader on a 10,000 year journey in the land of Israel through the prism of an archaeological dig. The book has been an amazing, thought provoking, and entertaining read, and I highly recommend it. Yesterday, however, I came upon a paragraph that struck me in an entirely new way.
The scene consists of a Palestinian Arab, a German-Born Israeli Jew, and an American Catholic archaeologist, all intellectuals. After an impassioned speech by the Israeli regarding Israel and her moral prerogatives, the Arab interjects:
“After some years we Arabs will unite, impossible as that now seems...the united Arabs will dive the Jews into the sea. Just as we did the Crusaders. Of course, the entire civilized world will be aghast at the slaughter, but it will do nothing to stop us. Absolutely nothing. Spain, once again a monarchy perhaps, will accept some of the refugees. Poland and Holland will take some, as before. But then in the U.S. horrible pogroms will begin. I can’t see the reason too clearly now, but you’l think up some.” All he Jews in New York will be marched into a gigantic space ship and shot off into the air by a no-return rocket, and good Christians led by your President will applaud.”
The Arab, in the context of this story, is not attempting to frighten the Jew or show off a menacing tenacity. Rather, he is Michener’s unlikely vassal to convey what is the greatest fears of Israelis and, truthfully, World Jewry. We are convinced history will repeat itself, convinced we will one day be slaughtered en masse again, and this causes us to often behave irrationally and immorally.
This entry is not about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict---I’m no expert, and I don’t want to waste more print space speculating about hypotheticals than already has been done. This entry is about fear, all of our fears, and my fears. And how I hope to turn these into a net positive.
The past ten days have, without a doubt, been the most trying I have had so far in the Peace Corps. I have learned much about myself and others, much about the country which is to be my home for the next two years. I have begun to come to grips with my own limitations and I have begun to bring it that part of me that excepts no limits. I am finding myself and recreating myself and attempting to make myself a better person, a better man, a better volunteer.
This past Sunday, the proposal for our group Youth Development project was due, so last week was, of course, stressful times. I have had my qualms about our project from the beginning. The only real contact we have with local city officials is a woman named Ludmilla, whom I have been skeptical of from the beginning. She claims to want to be there for us during our stay, but we only seem to see her when she wants and/or needs something from us.
Initially, our group wanted to attempt to tackle the massive trash problem in our town. When we brought this idea to Ludmilla, she countered with one of her own. Why don’t you buy new soccer balls for the local youth team?
A few of the volunteers jumped at this idea---it seemed an easy way out of our project. But eventually, better wisdom prevailed. We realized that we could not simply throw money at a problem. The Peace Corps sent us here to make a lasting impact and to change the way people think about Americans. To allow others to see us as Piggy Banks, to fail to give them our time and our commitment and our energy, was a failure of everything we were said to represent.
We came to a compromise: Lets teach the kids about fundraising, instead. While I liked the concept of this idea, the practice seemed to get lost in the shuffle. Most members of my group were satisfied at working at this admirable but modest goal. I, however, was not. Five training groups have gone through this village and five have left and the town seems to be none the better or wiser for it. I felt as if we were simply continuing a string a meaningless projects, forgetting about the means and focusing on an ends where the team got new soccer balls and we got off without having to put too much of ourselves.
My opposition was met by even fiercer opposition. As I’m sure many of you can guess, I was a bit fiery with my insistence on more, which, to my fault, alienated some of my fellow volunteers. I felt very alone in my cause to do more, my desire to not simply go through the motions because I was tired, because I wanted to get through training on then, maybe, when I got to my site, I could focus on the big.
In short, I was afraid of failure, however I defined it.
What did I expect, truly, when I signed up for 27 months in a foreign land? What did my fellow volunteers expect? I was prepared for almost any hardship, any opposition from Ukranians, and sort of cultural differences that would be hard but in time I could manage and maybe even conquer. But I now that I definitely expected to find 300+ like minded folk, 300+ American Peace Corps volunteers who were like minded and just like me, outgoing, outside the box, a little bit adventurous and a little bit idealistic.
Was I hoping, in a strange, obscure, way, to finally find a place where I wasn’t the lone soldier, where I wasn’t outside the mainstream? Or maybe I was simply yearning to be in a place where, as an American in the midst of a Ukranian world, I was already different, and anything I thought or fought for or believed in could hardly set me apart any more?
I imagined a world of a bunch of do gooders with positive attitudes and bright smiles burgeoning through the jungle, metaphorical or real, to build something beautiful, something lasting, something grand. What I found is a bunch of kids, a bunch of human beings just like myself, who were struggling to come to grips with our identities and our limitations and the scope of our choices to commit to this place for so long. How much of ourselves are we willing to give? How much of myself am I willing to give?
Last week was a bad week, questioning myself and how I treated others and what I expected from others. But at the end of the week I was visited by Greg, a Peace Corps Volunteer at the tail end of his service. Greg did more for me in his brief visit than any of the cultural sessions or handbooks or stories the Peace Corps threw at me. Greg has done some amazing things in his village---he has built a resource center for teachers, helped bring some of the troubled kids to a life of hope, and was the director of a huge English language summer camp. But he also has truly enjoyed life during his time here. He has partied and traveled and made friends with Ukranians and Americans and met Ukranian girls and met American girls. He is leaving in a month and he is ready but he still has a smile on his face, not because of what hes leaving behind or what hes heading towards but rather because hes happy, hes satisfied, hes content.
There is a Ukranian word Boo-va-yay, which roughly translates to, “it happens.” It is a word that sums up this country and my experience more succinctly than any picture or video or certainly than this blog entry. My fantasies of Peace Corps life will not come true. Boovayay. Not everything will turn out the way I want it. Boovayay. Not everyone will like me or appreciate my ideas. Boovayay. I will know fear and failure, I will know pain and hardship. Boovayay. But somewhere in there I will also know success, I will know happiness and ecstasy and epiphany. And that, too, Boovayay.
Last night Natalia and I were talking, and she informed me that she hasnt been paid by her job in two months. The city of Kiev is broke, and if it wasn’t for the meager sum she gets from the Peace Corps for hosting me, she would be dipping into her savings. I was aghast. How could they not pay you? How can this happen? How can you not take recourse?
Natalia looked at me, with a smile on her face, and simply said “Tah-Kay Zhittya. Boovayay.” That’s the way life goes. It happens.
I don’t yet know why I came here, and I haven’t yet conquered my demons or fears. I am not yet the man I want to be, and I still fear my people will be driven into the sea. All I can say I’ve learned so far is that in life, Boovayay. And all we can do is accept that with a smile.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Springtime in Ukraine
Hey everyone
Part II of my Kiev Shock will come soon. In the meantime, please enjoy these pictures from a walk I took in my town this weekend. My host mom, Natalia, took myself, Rachel, Katelynn and Meghan (current PCV who lived with Natalia during her training) for a walk around our town. It was beautiful, as I'm sure you will be able to tell.
Part II of my Kiev Shock will come soon. In the meantime, please enjoy these pictures from a walk I took in my town this weekend. My host mom, Natalia, took myself, Rachel, Katelynn and Meghan (current PCV who lived with Natalia during her training) for a walk around our town. It was beautiful, as I'm sure you will be able to tell.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Kiev Shock, Part One
I guess, to a certain extent, I had yet to comprehend how isolated I really was. Life in my town had become a routine. I had grown accustomed to its idiosyncracies, nooks and crannies. The world beyond was far, far, away, something about which I could fascinate on the internet or deify with my friends but very far removed from the realm of what is real.
Thats why my first trip to Kiev was, in many ways, an entirely different kind of culture shock, one that for me was incredibly jarring. As much as I claimed otherwise, I came to the Peace Corps with a certain set of expectations, or perhaps the lack thereof is a more accurate depiction. I expected to have no internet, no toilet, no electricity, no fucking clue what people were saying or what was going on. Anything above this basic level was a bonus, an unnecessary luxury. So even when I had to poop down a hole and hand wash my clothes and newborn pops were euthanized at the age of one day (see earlier entries) this was all still what I had signed up for, all still part of the deal. This past Thursday, however, my cluster and I took our initial foray into Kiev, the capital of Ukraine, an hour and a world away from the Ukraine I have come to know.
Kiev is a grand city, a cross between Warsaw, Vienna, and perhaps a Slavic man’s Paris. It has wide boulevards and beautifully domineering architecture. It is a Soviet City grappling with its new world identity, rife with new sky scrapers the locals hate and cheap vacant lots developers love. Our cluster didn’t have a long time to spend wandering the city that afternoon. We arrived around 4, and our first order of business took us to a local bank in order to take out or overwhelmingly large (read: meager) salaries, 2/3 of which goes to our host families. Not that I’m complaining, really. I have had more than enough to live on, and the relatively manageable cost of living in my town has staved off financial disaster.
After the bank we headed towards the Peace Corps administration office, a heavily guarded compound in Kiev. Here we had an incredibly interesting experience. We ran into another cluster of volunteers whom we hadn’t seen since our retreat upon arrival. The first moments were incredibly exciting, as if we were meeting up with our long lost friends. Then the harsh reality set in that we really didn’t know each other at all, that each of us had shared perhaps a few fleeting conversations, and all we really had to talk about was who had to shit outside. Upon leaving the PC office, we gave ourselves a sort of forced separation---we could have walked the city together, but it would have been awkward. We wanted to have more to say to each other, but for some strange reason, we didn’t.
We decided with the small amount of time we had left to head towards the Chrishatnik, Kiev largest street leading up to its famous Independence Square. This is the same area of the city where, five plus years ago, young Ukranians showed up in droves, camping out on this broad avenue protesting an unfair election, an orange revolution most Ukranians now deem a failure.
While wandering the square with my friends, watching street performers and young men selling fake watches and DVDs, I was reminded of a quick G-chat convo i had with my friend Jonah. He remarked, that in the age of the internet, it was as if I never left. I immediately thought, “it sure as hell seems to me that I left.” But wandering this massive place with massive buildings in the city know as the pinnacle of Soviet architecture, I truly did forget I was in Ukraine.
For dinner that night we had Pizza and beer in a tourist trap overlooking the square, and I shared my thoughts with my fellow volunteers. “Doesn’t it feel nice to feel like we could be anywhere, isn’t it great to know that there is so much more to this country than the small town we have come to know.”
As we left Kiev and headed back home that night, the rest of my cluster were upset that this trip ended so quickly. We had finally discovered this whole other Ukraine, one wwe had seen on wikitravel and now with our own eyes. As we rode on the train home, reflecting on our experiences, I couldnt help but be filled with a feeling of anxious anticipation. The very next night, for the Jewish sabbath, I was going to be attending my very first Shabbat at Kiev’s historic central synagogue. This was just Part one of my Kiev adventure.
Kiev, Jews, and my small Ukranian town...a convoluted triumvirate that I am only beginning to comprehend.
Part two to come in the next few days...
Thats why my first trip to Kiev was, in many ways, an entirely different kind of culture shock, one that for me was incredibly jarring. As much as I claimed otherwise, I came to the Peace Corps with a certain set of expectations, or perhaps the lack thereof is a more accurate depiction. I expected to have no internet, no toilet, no electricity, no fucking clue what people were saying or what was going on. Anything above this basic level was a bonus, an unnecessary luxury. So even when I had to poop down a hole and hand wash my clothes and newborn pops were euthanized at the age of one day (see earlier entries) this was all still what I had signed up for, all still part of the deal. This past Thursday, however, my cluster and I took our initial foray into Kiev, the capital of Ukraine, an hour and a world away from the Ukraine I have come to know.
Kiev is a grand city, a cross between Warsaw, Vienna, and perhaps a Slavic man’s Paris. It has wide boulevards and beautifully domineering architecture. It is a Soviet City grappling with its new world identity, rife with new sky scrapers the locals hate and cheap vacant lots developers love. Our cluster didn’t have a long time to spend wandering the city that afternoon. We arrived around 4, and our first order of business took us to a local bank in order to take out or overwhelmingly large (read: meager) salaries, 2/3 of which goes to our host families. Not that I’m complaining, really. I have had more than enough to live on, and the relatively manageable cost of living in my town has staved off financial disaster.
After the bank we headed towards the Peace Corps administration office, a heavily guarded compound in Kiev. Here we had an incredibly interesting experience. We ran into another cluster of volunteers whom we hadn’t seen since our retreat upon arrival. The first moments were incredibly exciting, as if we were meeting up with our long lost friends. Then the harsh reality set in that we really didn’t know each other at all, that each of us had shared perhaps a few fleeting conversations, and all we really had to talk about was who had to shit outside. Upon leaving the PC office, we gave ourselves a sort of forced separation---we could have walked the city together, but it would have been awkward. We wanted to have more to say to each other, but for some strange reason, we didn’t.
We decided with the small amount of time we had left to head towards the Chrishatnik, Kiev largest street leading up to its famous Independence Square. This is the same area of the city where, five plus years ago, young Ukranians showed up in droves, camping out on this broad avenue protesting an unfair election, an orange revolution most Ukranians now deem a failure.
While wandering the square with my friends, watching street performers and young men selling fake watches and DVDs, I was reminded of a quick G-chat convo i had with my friend Jonah. He remarked, that in the age of the internet, it was as if I never left. I immediately thought, “it sure as hell seems to me that I left.” But wandering this massive place with massive buildings in the city know as the pinnacle of Soviet architecture, I truly did forget I was in Ukraine.
For dinner that night we had Pizza and beer in a tourist trap overlooking the square, and I shared my thoughts with my fellow volunteers. “Doesn’t it feel nice to feel like we could be anywhere, isn’t it great to know that there is so much more to this country than the small town we have come to know.”
As we left Kiev and headed back home that night, the rest of my cluster were upset that this trip ended so quickly. We had finally discovered this whole other Ukraine, one wwe had seen on wikitravel and now with our own eyes. As we rode on the train home, reflecting on our experiences, I couldnt help but be filled with a feeling of anxious anticipation. The very next night, for the Jewish sabbath, I was going to be attending my very first Shabbat at Kiev’s historic central synagogue. This was just Part one of my Kiev adventure.
Kiev, Jews, and my small Ukranian town...a convoluted triumvirate that I am only beginning to comprehend.
Part two to come in the next few days...
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