Solitite of an Internationalist - Our Leningrad
by ANDRE VLTCHEK
“No one is forgotten and nothing is forgotten”. That is
what is engraved in Gold on the granite stone, right behind the statue of the
Motherland, spreading her arms in grief.
The Piskariovskoye Memorial Cemetery is in the city of
St. Petersburg –186 mass graves and about half a million people are buried
there, including most of my family from the maternal side.
During World War II, for 900 days (2 and a half years),
the city of Leningrad stood firm, defying the most horrific siege in modern
history. It stopped the advance of the Nazi troops, withstood constant aerial
bombardments, bitter cold, hunger and the lack of all basic necessities. Almost
half the population vanished, was burnt by bombs, frozen in trenches and in unheated
flats, or was starved to death.
This cultural capital of Russia performed the ultimate
sacrifice: rising in defiance and courage, playing an important role in
defeating Nazism, and thus in saving the world.
All of this while most of the West, either collaborated
with Nazism or tried to ‘appease’ it.
Naturally the USSR in general and Leningrad in
particular, did not save the world that belonged to the white race; it saved
the world of “non-humans”, according to the German Fascists, of exterminable beings:
people from Indian sub-Continent, Africans, Jews, Roma (Gypsies), Slavs, most
of the Asians and Arabs.
And by smashing Fascism, colonialism also received a
decisive blow (as Fascism and colonialism are made of the similar stuff),
allowing dozens of nations in Asia and Africa to gain independence, and
freedom. At least for some time; at least until the Western nations managed to
regroup.
This was, naturally, never forgiven in the European and
North American capitals. The Soviet Union and all its ideals and principles had
been dragged through the dirt and vilified. Although it saved the world from
Nazism, it became common to compare it to Fascist Germany, and many progressive
Western intellectuals adopted this twisted and insulting judgment.
As I sat on a bench near the Statue Of The Motherland, I
was in the company of Artem Kirpichenok, one of the leading Russian historians;
a Jew who lived in Israel for 15 years, but decided to return to his native St
Petersburg after becoming disillusioned with racism and the institutionalized
discrimination of the minorities living in the Jewish State.
“It is incredible that Western propaganda succeeded in
making most people all over the world believe that Nazism and Soviet Communism
are comparable”, I said. “Even some progressive intellectuals are pronouncing
both ‘–isms’ in one single breath.”
“Nazi Germany, the same as England, USA and France, was
based on racist and colonialist mindset, widely accepted principles among the
Western bourgeoisie in the 1930s”, uttered Artem Kirpichenok. “Hitler was
building his empire in Eastern Europe on the British colonial design in India.
Nazi racial theories did not differ too much from the racism in the US South or
from the racial theories of French, Belgian, British or Dutch empires
implemented in the colonies. The collapse of the Third Reich hit hard on all
those ideals of colonialism and racism. And the Soviet Union was mainly to
‘blame’ for that collapse. The ideological basis of the European dominance over
Asia, Africa and Latin America had been damaged.”
That could of course never be forgiven.
* * *
During the siege, my maternal grandmother dug trenches on
the outskirts of the city. She fought the Germans, and was decorated for her
courage on several occasions. I have no idea how she did it, how she managed to
fight and to survive – she was so gentle, fragile and very shy. Many years
after the war, years after I was born, whilst she was reading me poems and
fairy tales, I would find it very difficult to imagine her holding a
Kalashnikov, hand grenades or even a shovel. But she did; she fought, and she
was ready to die for what she then thought, was the epic battle for the
survival of humanity. And she came very close to dying on several occasions.
She was an Orthodox Christian lady, but also a firm
supporter of Communism, a rare combination. She married my grandfather, a
brilliant Muslim man from the Chinese minority in Kazakhstan, Husain Ischakov,
a linguist and a Commissar of Health and later for Food Supply (basically a
ministerial post in the old days).
What followed was a fragment that appeared as if it had
been cut directly from official Western propaganda. My grandfather fell out of
favor with Stalin, was arrested and executed. In 1937, (the first earliest
memory my mom had from her ‘childhood’) this tall and elegant man was bent over
the cradle, lifting my mom in his arms, and pressing her against his chest,
before being led away by the agents of the State, to oblivion and eternity. He
cried as he looked at her face; he knew exactly what was ahead. He never came
back.
My grandmother fought. She was decorated. But
nonetheless, after the War was over, she was arrested and thrown into jail for
‘marrying an enemy of the State”. She spent years in prison, while my mother
went through hell, virtually an orphan. When my grandma was released from
prison, she said to my mother: “It was so terrible that I thought; two more
weeks and I would hang myself there”. But she never betrayed my grandfather:
all she had to do was to sign that she ‘regretted’ marrying him. She never did.
Obviously, her loyalty was more important to her, than her own life.
She left that jail, still an Orthodox Christian, and
still a Communist!
My grandfather’s name was eventually ‘cleared’; he was
made a ’hero’ again posthumously. Books were written about him, and my mother
was allowed to study architecture.
* * *
What happened to my family was of course brutal and
terrible. And to claim that the USSR was some paradise on Earth would be insane.
But we are talking about 1930s and 1940s. And in that
context, the USSR was definitely more humane than Western Europe or the United
States. To dispute that would be to deny the most basic statistics.
“Let us compare”, I was repeatedly told by the greatest
Southeast Asian novelist Pramoedya Ananta Toer, who was nominated countless
times for the Nobel Prize for literature but never received one because, unlike
Solzhenitsyn, he was imprisoned in the wrong – pro-Western – concentration
camps. “Let us remember that everything occurs in some historical context.”
Western propaganda managed to put to work some
tremendously effective lies, half-truths and outright fabrications, that could
not be checked or disputed (not that most of the people would even try): the
number of victims in the gulags were exaggerated, and were regularly combined
with the numbers of both political and common criminals (in the Stalin era,
everybody convicted of any crime was put to work, in some sort of labor camp
with terrible conditions, as the country was still poor. Many prisoners never
returned).
Some members of the Soviet intellectual and military
elites (including my grandfather) were executed. But was it just because of
‘Stalinist terror’? Many analysts (Russian, Chinese and others) now claim that
the Nazi spy apparatus thoroughly infiltrated Soviet intelligence. Germany
wanted to get rid of the most talented, loyal and tolerant Soviet leaders and
Generals. They identified them, and then began injecting and spreading the most
damaging, but fabricated information about their disloyalty. My grandfather
was, for instance, executed on the charge of ‘spying for Japan’, a ridiculous
but somehow ‘logical’ charge as he was a linguist, and spoke several Asian
languages.
On top of that, Stalin and those around him, had plenty
to be ‘paranoid’ about: the hostility of the West towards the young Communist
state was apparent. The USSR was attacked by the US, UK, and ravaged by brutal
Czech Legions and other invading forces.
* * *
Anyone with a drop of objectivity would have to admit
(unless he or she would be set on denying the basic principle of humanism,
which declares that all people are equal, regardless of their race and or
nationality) that the Communist Soviet Union committed much lesser amounts of
crime than the Western countries under the banner of ‘constitutional
monarchies’ or ‘multi-party democracies’.
While the Soviets were busy pulling tens of millions out
of poverty (and we are talking, for instance, about the Muslims of the Middle
East, the areas where the standard of living eventually reached that of the
European parts of Russia, as well as the other countless minorities inhabiting
this enormous country), in approximately the same era the Belgians managed to
kill around 10 million people in Congo, chopping off their hands and burning
women and children in their huts alive.
The Germans committed a monstrous genocide (or call it
Holocaust) against the Herero tribe in Namibia, for no other apparent reason
than because they seemed to dislike their members. The first concentration
camps on earth were built by the British Empire in Africa, and the French
colonial onslaughts are well documented in Southeast Asia, in West and North Africa
and elsewhere. The Dutch plundered, raped, killed and enriched themselves on a
great archipelago that is now called Indonesia.
The genocides, mass murder and terror that were spread by
the West, in the rest of the world, have been countless, but of course
under-reported, as ‘foreign aid’ for education and the media, managed to train
and discipline collaborators in the poor world, securing that the truth about
the past would be generally omitted.
Even the end of World War II did not bring to an end, the
bestial treatment of ‘the natives’ at the hands of the European and North
American colonialists. One should recall the treatment of the people of the
Middle East, by Winston Churchill and other glorified British leaders. All this
is of course well documented, including in the books written by Churchill
himself, but hardly mentioned by the disciplined and reliable mainstream media
and academia, in both the colonizing and colonized nations.
There are countless statues of Winston Churchill or the
Belgian King Leopold II, all over capitals of Europe.
In the second half of the 20th Century, during the so
called ‘Cold War’, the Soviet Union stood firmly on the side of the oppressed,
on the side of the liberation struggles, for freedom in Africa, Asia and Latin
America. One has to wonder how mighty has been the propaganda that has made it
all to be forgotten?
While Europe and the United States (and their
constitutional monarchies and multi-party ‘democracies’) cultivated despots in
Iran, Egypt, the Gulf, the Middle East, South Vietnam, Cambodia, South Korea,
Chile, Argentina, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Uruguay, the Dominican Republic, Haiti,
Brazil, Kenya, South Africa, Indonesia and so many other unfortunate places,
the Soviet Union stood by the Cuban, Nicaraguan, Tanzanian and North Vietnamese
revolutions, it supported the leaders, true heroes and liberators like Patrice
Lumumba and President Salvador Allende.
And both of us – Noam Chomsky and I – came to the
conclusion during our recent debate at MIT, that the standards of living in
Riga, Prague or East Berlin were allowed to be significantly higher than in
Moscow, while those of Tashkent or Samarkand were just marginally lower. The
standard of living in the colonies and the client states of the West were ten,
twenty, even a hundred times lower than those in Washington, Paris or London,
often resulting in the loss of millions of human lives.
I calculated that some 55 million lives have been lost
since World War II as a result of Western colonialism, neocolonialism, direct
invasions, sponsored coups and other acts of international terror. I am
probably grossly under-estimating the numbers, as there were lives lost to
famines, terrible mismanagement, and the outright misery triggered by Western
imperialism.
Tens of millions of lives were further lost as a result
of the terrible seeds planted by imperialism and colonialism, the most obvious
case being the Partition of the Sub-Continent.
I would suggest that instead of comparing Fascism and
Soviet Communism, the Left and the entire thinking world would begin comparing
what is truly comparable: the Fascism, Western colonialism and market
fundamentalism (the most violent fundamentalist faith on earth today), served
and represented by “Western multi-party systems” and “Constitutional
monarchies”.
* * *
When I meet a new person, which happens with a great
frequency, to me there is nothing more frightening than the most simple and
natural question: “Where are you from?”
I don’t know what to say, I cannot answer and even if I
could, the reply would be too blurry, too complex, and too philosophical. On
top of that, unless I would opt for some long and detailed answer, the
information I would give would be very inaccurate.
I am a dedicated Internationalist, but it is not taken as
an identity by the majority of those that I meet.
My interviewers and reviewers often choose Prague, the
former Czechoslovakia or the present day Czech Republic as my identity, but it
is thoroughly false. Prague was never my home. Czechoslovakia was where I
endured a hellish childhood, where during the winter, I had my shoes filled
with urine and then the other kids would let them freeze outside the school or
gym, one of countless punishments for my having an “Asian mother”. It is where
I had to fight after each class, from the age of six for my life, simply
because my mother was not just half Asian, but because she was also half
Russian.
My true identity is truly spread all around: it lies deep
and high in the Peruvian and Bolivian Andes where I faced death on several
occasions while covering the Peruvian “Dirty War”. It is in Chile, bouncing
from the walls of the narrow, winding and often haunted streets of the coastal
city of Valparaiso – it lies with Chilean poets and with the songs of fishermen
at its coast. My identity is spread throughout that enormous body of water of
the South Pacific Ocean dotted with tiny specks of land – now ‘island nations’
that were colonized and utterly destroyed by the traditional colonial powers.
My identity is from the Swahili coast of Africa and
around the Great Lakes of the continent, in all those places that underwent the
worst genocide in modern history, the genocide triggered by the European and
North American political and economic interests. My identity also lies in the
deserts of the Middle East, and if I knew the Sub-Continent in just a bit more
in detail, it would be there as well. I am at home in Havana, Caracas, Buenos
Aires, Onomichi, Beijing, Cape Town and Kuala Lumpur. And I also live in Japan,
Indonesia and Kenya.
It is a total mess, I know, it is very confusing and I
cannot explain it, but that’s how it is.
For years, even decades, my home was where there was a
struggle for justice and independence; I have been writing books and articles,
making films or getting directly involved in the struggle. I can hardly
identify my race, culture or national identity, anymore and I don’t even try
to. I go where I am needed. And at the end, also, as Garcia Marquez wrote: my
home is where they read my books.
* * *
I was born in Russia, in Leningrad (I am sorry, but I
simply cannot call it St. Petersburg, as it is called now, it will always
remain Leningrad to me). I had never lived there, because my parents took me to
Czechoslovakia when I was just a few months old. But every year, my mother
would put me on a plane, one of those old Soviet Tupolev jets with mahogany
tables, lampshades and black caviar served on all the international flights, in
just one single class, to send me to Leningrad where my grandmother would be
waiting for me, armed with a set of keys to some humble rented room in the Bay
Of Finland, a room which, for me, was like a paradise. My grandmother was
always armed with endless tickets and passes to the opera houses, ballet
performances and art exhibitions. In the Communist days they cost nothing, but
it was not easy to get them.
And she had piles of books waiting for me. I let her read
to me, even though I was able to read myself. She read to me until it was late
into the night and when it rained outside, the moments were especially magic.
From the moment I left Leningrad, I began counting the
days left till my return. I had my special secret book where I marked each day
that had passed. The cold deep water of the Neva River, its bridges, the open
spaces, the beauty of this former Russian capital so often covered by fog, the
pathos of Russian and then Soviet history, the pathos of the history of my own
family – all this captivated my mind, made me dream, made me prematurely adult.
In Czechoslovakia, my mother missed Russia terribly. She
cried almost every night. She read books to me, too, and a lot of poetry.
Like this, I had no childhood naturally, but they managed
to make a writer out of me at an extremely early age. I inherited their
struggle, their 900 days of Siege, their war, their Russia.
Both women passed everything on to me, but it was not
just the suffering, the prisons and the wars, but also great hope, the ability
to dream, enthusiasm, optimism, as well as great solidarity. They taught me
that one could always build from nothing or rebuild from the ashes. And that
love, if it is true love, is not something that does disappear, nor does it
vanish in one month or even in several years.
They also passed on to me the love for their city; their
lost but never forgotten love.
* * *
Now, after all those years I came back to Leningrad. By
now I was much more Latin American or Asian, than Russian. My native tongue was
suddenly feeling so heavy and rusty: it was still perfect in terms of
pronunciation but archaic and over-polite.
I returned exhausted, after launching my big book in
London – the book about Indonesia, and how the West had ruined it after the
1965 US-sponsored coup. I returned after just finishing my 160 minutes
documentary film on the genocide in DR Congo, and after working at the Ugandan
and then on Turkish-Syrian border.
I suddenly felt lonely and I was desperately longing to
tell my story to someone dear to me. But it so happened that no one joined me
in Leningrad.
I wandered through the streets, so beloved and yet so foreign.
I went to the old beach at Zelenogorsk, but it had
changed, the marina was dotted with private boats and yachts instead of my old
tugboats and patrol vessels.
I went to visit the forest where the dead body of my
grandfather was thrown from the train. Now it was the memorial cemetery, in
fact a haunted forest with the names and photographs nailed to the trees. I did
not want to travel here from the city where I was born, from Leningrad. I
wanted to come here from Helsinki, from a neutral place, but it was not meant
to be.
The forest was quiet. There were a few mourners, but
otherwise total silence. My Muslim, Communist, Chinese grandfather was here. My
grandfather, a linguist, the Minister of Health of Kazakhstan, a man who gave
his entire life to the revolution, but fell out of favor and was killed, thrown
into this quiet forest, without any respect or any rituals.
It was easy to draw conclusions, to condemn everything.
But I had heard enough about him to know that he would not betray his beliefs,
just as my grandmother had never done.
Before she died, I asked my grandmother: “You never
re-married. You remained beautiful for decades after my grandfather died. Why?”
She smiled her unpretentious smile: “Your grandfather”,
she said, “Was a very big man. It is extremely rare to meet a man like that.
Others never even came up to his shoulder”. And she did not mean my
grandfather’s height.
He was a Communist, and what it meant to him, was simply
the process of building a much better world than the one he knew from his
childhood.
In the forest, I sat on the grass. It was cold. After all
those wars that I had covered, after the 145 countries I had visited, the
dozens of books and films I had produced, after all that struggle, I suddenly
felt the need to cling to someone, just for this moment; I needed to speak, to
be held, to tell the story, from the beginning to the end. I was never the one
into autobiographies, but now I needed to be understood. But in the end I came
alone, with just my Leica and a tiny book of poetry written by Antonio Guerrero
Rodriguez, one of the Cuban 5 – patriots imprisoned brutally in Miami.
My entire maternal family was broken and scattered. But
we were all fighters. Like my grandmother and grandfather I had to go on: I had
to struggle and fight for what I believe in. Like them I knew how short life
is, how little time there is, how precious it is and how mighty the enemy is.
* * *
Later I travelled on the legendary Leningrad metro, with
all those underground palaces, and the old Soviet-era dilapidated carriages.
I kept reading Antonio Guerrero Rodriguez, the bi-lingual
Spanish and Russian, edition that was given to me in Kiev, by the translator of
my writing.
El amor que expira no esamor
El verdadero amor pertenece
A todo el tiempo, a la tierra toda,
Sin temor enfrenta tempestades,
Resiste hasta el filo de la muerte
Y, como la natura, eseterno.
In this stunning poem written in a Miami prison,
Rodriguez argues that love that can pass is not really love. That true love
could resist even death itself and is, like nature, eternal.
I noticed that a young lady was reading over my shoulder.
After a while, she asked me in passable Spanish: “Is it true what it says?”
Also in Spanish I replied: “Yes, they are in prison, all of them. It is
terrible.”
“It is not what I mean”, she said with certain urgency.
“Is it true what it says? That love is eternal or it is not love?”
I was stunned, as this would not have happened even in
Buenos Aires, this exchange could only take place in Havana… and here. Then I
realized that after all, this was my city, the city where poets were read by
the millions, and the city that made me a writer. I looked at the girl, looked
her straight in the eyes and replied in Russian: “My grandparents thought so. I
don’t know if it is truth but I always lived as if it is.”
The girl nodded. She said nothing, but as she was leaving
the car at the next station, she gave me the most brilliant smile I have
received in years. Obviously the city had its way to give me strength.
Outside, on the bank of Neva River, I briefly put my
forehead on the granite wall that separated the sidewalk from the enormous
waterway. The stone was cold, refreshing.
Leningrad did not try to hold me. It was too proud, too
enormous. But I felt it was embracing me, before sending me back to war, to the
battle. I had to carry on the legacy of those who were fighting for the
survival of the humanity in the 1940s. I knew all those places that were under
siege; I knew so many places on this earth that were worse than any hell
professed by religious theories. I really knew so many of them. I was obliged
to fight and to work, day and night.
As Rodriguez and others realized, one has to fight when
men, women and children are being slaughtered, when entire nations and cultures
are being destroyed. When injustice is called justice and in the name of it,
cruelty reigns.
With the deep waters of the Neva in front of me, I
whispered as I had when I was a child addressing the city: “Now I will go, but
I will come back. Please wait for me.”
Andre Vltchek is a novelist, filmmaker and investigative
journalist. He covered wars and conflicts in dozens of countries. His book on
Western imperialism in the South Pacific
– Oceania – is published by Lulu . His provocative book about post-Suharto
Indonesia and market-fundamentalist model is called “Indonesia – The
Archipelago of Fear” (Pluto). After living for many years in Latin America and
Oceania, Vltchek presently resides and works in East Asia and Africa. He can be
reached through his website.
This has been taken from the Counterpunch website http://www.counterpunch.org/ but has been reprinted here with the author's permission
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