As things
turned out, my arrival in Russia had a somewhat delayed impact on me. I started to feel a bit off-colour on the
plane to Moscow, and my illness was only exacerbated by the fact that we had to
spend well over an hour sitting in the airport, waiting for our coach to
arrive. By the time I got on the coach, I was feeling absolutely shattered, and
thus I was in a horrible sort of half-sleep for the vast majority of the bus
tour of the city. We did get an hour of free time to wander around the vicinity
of Krasnaya Ploshchad (Red Square), which was a brief window of something approaching
lucidity in my day. That said, I was still in a semi-dazed state as I wandered
around Moscow’s touristy central district with a group of my peers. Luckily, I
had the presence of mind to take a few photos.
 |
| Saint Basil's Cathedral |
 |
| Inside GUM |
We were
somewhat disappointed to discover that Krasnaya Ploshchad itself was fenced
off, seemingly so that a group of dancers could practise some sort of
choreography there. After taking some photos of the iconic Saint Basil’s Cathedral
from the less than ideal vantage point remaining open to the public, we
wandered around GUM, a high-end shopping centre that has the feel of being a
pedestrianized high street that was three storeys high, rather than a usual
soulless indoor mall. After that we wandered around the environs, taking photos
of various buildings and monuments, before returning to the coach. I’d seen a
lot of Moscow’s major sights, but it didn’t really feel like I’d been in Russia yet: the area I’d been walking
around has a direct equivalent in any major European city, complete with vendors
selling tacky souvenirs and people walking around in irrelevant costumes,
asking you to pay for photos with them. My first encounter with something
approaching “real Russia” was probably in the train station, where there was a
lively atmosphere and an eclectic mix of people, ranging from a couple of
homeless men with huge Alsatians wearing muzzles to a group of sailors whose
naval uniforms included striped tops. Unfortunately, at this point I was
feeling too ill to really take much in, and spent most of the time before the
train arrived dozing in the luxurious waiting room. Then, when I finally got on
the train, at about 10pm, I got straight into bed and was soon fast asleep.
 |
| Eternal Flame at Tomb of the Unknown Soldier |
 |
I don't know whether these policemen were telling this
street vendor to move along, or just doing some shopping |
 |
| A little slice of home |
 |
| Moscow train station's waiting room |
 |
| Russian fashion |
At 1am in
the morning, when I awoke, feeling fully awake and alert for the first time
since the airplane, I looked out of the window and saw we had stopped at a
small station apparently in the middle of nowhere. I don’t know why the train
stopped here, but when it did hoards of Russian passengers alighted and started
haggling with people who had been waiting on the platform. These people were
selling everything from champagne glasses to bracelets, and I even saw a guy
trying to sell a two-foot tall vase. I’d woken up from a dreamlike nine hours
and found myself deep in the madness of Russia.
Six hours
later, when I woke up again, I was feeling even better, and seeing the vast
expanse of the Russian countryside out of the train window filled me with
excitement. It had really sunk in that I was in Russia, and the thrill of being
on the road had finally hit me. However, the one positive result of my illness
the day before was that it had distracted me from worrying about my homestay in
Kazan. Suddenly I was confronted with this reality and, as our destination got
ever closer, panic started to set in. I became painfully aware of the meagreness
of my Russian vocabulary, realized I really should have brought a Russian-English
dictionary or phrasebook, and began to anticipate a thoroughly unpleasant
experience. When we got to Kazan there was a large group waiting for us on the
platform. As we were waiting to be told who to go with, I noticed the looks of
terror on some of my peers’ faces. In a whirlwind I was introduced to my host,
and before I knew it I was sitting in a car on the way to the place I would be
calling home for the next four weeks. As I caught a glimpse of myself in the
rear-view mirror, I saw an expression of no less fear than those I’d noticed on
the platform.
But I could
not have hoped for a better host. Her name is Nelya, though she prefers the
anglicized Nelly (said with a Russian accent it’s more like Nyelli). She lives alone
in a large apartment in a quiet and pleasant area of Kazan, a short bus journey
from the centre. Her and her friend Rustem, who gave us a lift from the
station, made me feel immediately at home and in no time all my fears had
evaporated. She speaks a bit of English: enough that no serious communication
failures should occur, but not enough that I can avoid speaking Russian. We’ve
been communicating through a mix of Russian, English and a bilingual dictionary
that she has (huge sigh of relief when that came out), and already through the
course of my first day here I feel that my ability to use Russian has improved.
Nelly was
born and raised in Kazan and her mother was a Tatar whose family had lived in
Kazan for generations, while her father was a Mordvin. The Mordvins are a Finnic
people indigenous to the Republic of Mordovia, which is located roughly halfway
between Kazan and Moscow. But the most interesting thing about her father,
Mikhail Devyataev, is not his ethnicity but his biography. During the Second
World War he was a fighter pilot for the USSR, who was shot down over
Nazi-occupied Ukraine. He survived the crash and was imprisoned by the Nazis
and sent to Sachsenhausen concentration camp, just outside of Berlin. He
escaped incineration by taking someone else’s prisoner number, and was thus
moved to a camp on the island of Usedom in the Baltic Sea. Here, as he had
someone else’s prisoner number, the authorities didn’t know he was a pilot, and
made the mistake of allowing him access to aircraft. He with several other
Soviet prisoners managed to steal a plane, in which they flew eastwards. As
they were flying a German plane, they were shot at over Poland by Soviet
forces. However, he managed an emergency landing, and when the Soviet soldiers
saw that the crew of the plane were not Luftwaffe members, but in fact
half-starved compatriots, they ensured their return to the USSR. But, even
though the escapees provided the Soviet authorities with vital information
about the Nazi missile program, former PoWs were one of the countless groups
whom Stalin persecuted, and so Devyataev was imprisoned for the remainder of
the war, and after release was disallowed from working as a pilot. As such, he
settled in Kazan to work on hydrofoil ships on the Volga. After Stalin’s death,
however, a sea change occurred and the government bestowed upon him the honour
of Hero of the Soviet Union, the highest decoration there was. Since that, he was
awarded a Guinness World Record for his escape, and at least a couple of
documentaries have been made about his life. Apparently a film is even being
made about him, a joint Russo-German production to be released next year. Just
around the corner from the apartment block that Nelly lives in, on the wall of
the building in which she was born, is a plaque declaring that Devyatoev once
lived there. You can read his Wikipedia article here.
 |
"In this house
from 8.05.1958 to 24.11.2002
lived legendary pilot
hero of the Soviet Union
Mikhail Petrovich Devyataev"
- in Russian and then Tatar |
After
having told me the fascinating story of her father’s life, Nelly showed me
around Kazan, which was really interesting, but I forgot to take my camera with
me, and I’m sure I’ll do much more exploration of the city, so I can write
about that another time, when I have photos to accompany. I will mention that
we had lunch at a local restaurant, where I had some sort of traditional
Russian soup followed by a Central Asian meat and rice dish, and they were both
absolutely incredible, so I’m feeling pretty optimistic about the food here
now. One odd thing about the restaurant though: in the corner of the room was a
sink in which to wash ones hands before eating; I’ve never seen this anywhere
else before.
I’ll finish
off this entry with a couple of interesting things that Nelly told me
throughout my first day in Kazan. Firstly, she painted a picture of real ethnic
and religious harmony in Kazan: she insisted that there are no such things as
“Tatar neighbourhoods” or “Russian neighbourhoods” here, and claimed that most
people of her generation are part of mixed families. She grew up with a Muslim
mother and a Christian father, chose Christianity for herself but married a
Muslim, and my understanding is that her children aren’t religious. This is a
stark contrast to what I’ve heard about Russia being rife with xenophobia,
racism and islamophobia. Kazan even recently hosted a festival of Jewish music.
This is also a strong contrast to what I saw of the strained relations between
the Croat (Roman Catholic), Serb (Eastern Orthodox) and Bosniak (Muslim)
populations in Bosnia-Herzegovina, a country that in the early ‘90s was ravaged
by inter-ethnic warfare. However, the other interesting impression that Nelly
created on me could be an indication that this integration and harmony is the
result of the loss of identity on the part of the Tatars: although to a visitor
the ubiquitous bilingual signs suggest otherwise, she seems to think that the
Tatar language is endangered. She explained that although children in
Tatarstan’s Russian-medium schools do have to study Tatar, it is taught badly,
so no-one ever really attains any real level of competency. On top of this, the
existence of Tatar-medium schools is undermined by Putin restricting
Tatar-medium universities; this means that any parents who hope for their
children to gain higher education usually send their children to Russian-medium
schools. The loss of identity and culture in exchange for harmony and
integration: certainly food for thought.
