Ctrl-Alt-Delete “RUSSIA”

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“Mama, mama! Those kids over there speak Russian! Can we go say hi, please?” My 4-year-old daughter rushes to me with the pure excitement only a child can muster when discovering something delightful. We’re in Portugal, where people from all corners of the world gather these days, especially at the playground, where we often come across Ukrainian refugee children. My daughter tugs at my arm, urging me to join her in approaching them. I reluctantly follow, feeling a bit apprehensive about the encounter.

You see, we speak Russian. I speak Russian. I moved to Denmark at the age of 4 from Sakhalin, part of the former USSR, and my mother consistently spoke Russian to me over the years, even sending me to a Russian private school (on top of the danish one). As a result, I’m fully fluent in Russian, though my contemporary slang and swear words might be a bit rusty. I speak, read, and write Russian fluently, alongside Danish, English, conversational French, and some basic Chinese.

Growing up as a Russian in Denmark has been an interesting journey. In primary school, we received a letter from the municipality “requesting” that we not speak Russian at home to ensure my Danish fluency (I grew up with a Danish stepfather, so Danish was already our primary language). Throughout my school years, I endured nicknames like “gold digger,” “Russian whore,” and “vodka,” not to mention exclusion from certain gatherings. In school, I was taught that the Americans won WWII, and any questions about Russia’s involvement were brushed aside as irrelevant. It was made clear that my “Russian” heritage was a source of disgrace, something to be buried and forgotten rather than explored or understood. So, for most of my life, I did just that, until an opportunity arose to travel to Russia, meet my family, and learn more about my heritage. My father hails from Moldova and Poland, my grandmother from Chelyabinsk, and my grandfather from Ukraine. Fate, or the workings of the state machinery, somehow brought them all together on the island of Sakhalin, my birthplace. Upon visiting my family, I gained a profound appreciation for the multifaceted nature of “Russia.” It transcended the simplistic label of an “evil despotic state-machine” that I had grown up with — I had the privilege of meeting its people, delving into literature previously foreign to me, and immersing myself in its rich history and culture. My ability to speak Russian granted me insight into the mental landscape of the East, driving me to learn and unlock new worlds — which led me to study French, Chinese, and Arabic, eventually culminating in years spent living abroad.

The war in Ukraine changed things once again. Being “Russian” again for me became synonymous with evil in the liberal world’s eyes (or perhaps that perspective never really changed, but I was once again reminded of that). In a recent discussion with friends, we debated culture and responsibility. One argued that we shouldn’t blame an entire population for the political decisions of their rulers, comparing it to blaming Germans for Nazism (she comes from Germany herself). She highlighted that if we decide to undertake such actions, we should avoid the trap of selective judgement driven by our own biases — but apply our judgement consistently, even to colonial nations like Portugal, which were involved in the transportation of an estimated 5.8 million Africans into slavery, among others. Another friend, coming from Estonia, highlighted the darker aspects of culture, advocating for cancelling or removing those elements. This sparked a conversation about the essence of culture and how our capacity to comprehend the world is shaped by the languages we speak — as languages in the end serve as windows that enable us to perceive and fathom diverse cultural perspectives.

When the Ukrainian war began, I noticed that the shelves of Russian books at the main library in Copenhagen were emptied. When I inquired, the staff attributed it to “space management” and the need for more room for English books. Those shelves remain vacant to this day. Universities removed Dostoevsky from their literature lists, and people distanced themselves from all things Russian. Even one of my favourite authors cancelled her book set in Soviet Russia (Elizabeth Gilbert). In Denmark, the Russian cultural centre in Copenhagen is now closing down, a place that introduced me to literature and theatre and the connections between Denmark and Russia (For instance, consider Princess Dagmar of Denmark, who reigned as Empress of Russia from 1881 to 1894 as the spouse of Emperor Alexander III. She was the second daughter of Christian IX of Denmark and Louise of Hesse-Kassel. Her eldest son went on to become the final Russian monarch, Emperor Nicholas II, essentially making the last Russian monarch of Danish descent). I’ve personally faced discrimination due to my Russian background: I applied as a mentor for a European startup program at the European Commision and was disqualified because of my Russian heritage. My stepfather, a painter who has lived in Denmark for 23 years, had all his gallery exhibitions cancelled because of his background. The Bolshoi Theatre’s tour was cancelled in many countries, and auction houses like Christie’s, Sotheby’s, and Bonhams have cancelled Russian art sales. Renowned composers like Tchaikovsky, Shostakovich, and Rachmaninoff have been removed from playlists. It’s ironic that we, in the liberal world, once ridiculed the Glavlit for censoring and removing books, yet we find ourselves doing the same.

Also it makes me reflect upon how this very selective cancellation is problematic. Should we also consider cancelling Regina Spektor, Ayn Rand, Wassily Kandinsky, Isaac Asimov, Irving Berlin, Marc Chagall? What about Google (afterall Sergey Brin is from Moscow)? How does selective cancellation work? What criteria should be met in order to remain un-cancelled?

In the pages of “Voices From Chernobyl,” Svetlana Alexievich’s poignant exploration of the aftermath of the 1986 Chernobyl disaster, a character’s narrative, as translated by Keith Gessen, presents the following reflection: “Among us were teachers and engineers, and then the full international brigade: Russians, Belarussians, Kazakhs, Ukrainians … I recall discussions about the destiny of Russian culture, its inexorable pull toward the tragic. It became evident that only through the prism of Russian culture could we hope to comprehend the magnitude of the catastrophe. Russian culture alone seemed equipped to grapple with it.”. When Alexievich’s narrator alludes to Russian culture, it encompasses a far broader spectrum than merely Putin and his adherents. Those deciphering the catastrophe’s significance hail from diverse corners of a crumbling empire, uniting under a common language to engage in philosophical discourse. These myriad perspectives enrich our world, aiding in our understanding of it. Our inability to comprehend the Russian language denies us access to these perspectives and, in a sense, severs a crucial connection with a part of our own identity. Afterall, both historically and culturally, Russia has played a significant role in European affairs. It was ruled by the Romanov dynasty for centuries and was known as the Russian Empire. This empire was considered one of the major European powers and was involved in various European conflicts and alliances. Culturally and politically, Russia has been influenced by European ideas and movements, including the Enlightenment and various political and artistic movements. Russian literature, music, and art have made substantial contributions to European culture.

In our contemporary landscape, we often find ourselves awash in a sea of buzzwords: “wholeheartedness,” “cancel culture,” “post-colonialism,” and the relentless pursuit of eradicating “systemic racism” and “patriarchal” society”. These phrases dominate our discourse, and we unreservedly condemn discrimination and racism, relegating them to the shadowy archives of history where they rightfully belong, far removed from our enlightened present. Nevertheless, it behoves us to delve into the profound origins of these terms. Are they only relevant when addressing issues that enjoy unanimous consensus? What common ground might we genuinely uncover? Do certain cultures inherently possess superior worth? Do some minority groups matter less than others? If one hails from a nation with a repressive regime, does the mere act of speaking the language of one’s origin equate to endorsing that regime? Is every Farsi speaker an advocate for Ebrahim Raisi? Does every Arabic speaker support President Bashar al-Assad or any other leader, for that matter? Did every English speaker support Trump? No — because our world is more complex than that, and our political systems do not necessarily represent population & language groups. These are undeniably discomfiting inquiries and uncertainties — but they require our contemplation and dialogue — and those of us that want to commit to building a more beautiful world — and stand by those buzzwords mentioned above — we need to commit ourselves to hold the space for these questions.

The total number of Russian speakers, including those who use it as a second language, is estimated to be around 265 million. Instead of hitting the “Ctrl-Alt-Delete” keys on Russia, wiping it from our maps and lexicon, perhaps we should engage in a dialogue about the vital role of languages as facilitators of self-discovery and understanding in our diverse world. We should acknowledge the pain and sorrow but focus more intently on our shared narratives and explore how we can progress together. Perhaps we should explore what the very essence of “culture” is today, and, along this journey, we must ponder which cultural treasures we aspire to nurture and safeguard, while also contemplating the audacious notion of surgically excising particular facets of a culture as if it were a delicate operation. And if that is the case — who is to decide what to remove and what to keep? And how does that impact the “culture” that is being operated upon? Just because it was done by others in the past — does that necessarily mean that what was done to us we should do to others and repeat history? As we navigate our world, it makes me wonder if drawing lines on our planet’s map serves only to separate us further, akin to creatures confined within the walls of a zoo as the Israeli author Amos Oz pointed out in “Judas”. Instead, we should perhaps endeavour to uncover and appreciate the intricate tapestry of our stories and narratives, recognizing the common thread of our shared humanity — and the complexities of personal and political beliefs.

Writing about this is undoubtedly simpler than implementing it. Yet, I believe that the most effective response to an outrageous situation is not anger or reactionary measures. The questions we should be asking are about progress, establishing support networks, and building a world with less pain and fear, where proper mechanisms for grief and healing are in place. Despite the rejections we have faced at the playground — my daughter’s dearest friend in Portugal hails from Ukraine. Her mother is from Lvov, and her father is from Crimea. They are fluent in both Ukrainian and Russian — and it is a delight for me to explore the world that they bring with them, unveiling both similarities and distinctions. We also embark upon some of the more difficult conversations together — discovering that, in the end, grief and pain are profoundly shared human experiences.

In the words of Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa, “If we want things to stay as they are, things will have to change.” This statement encapsulates the tension between the yearning for stability and the inevitability of societal and political transformations in our rapidly evolving world. Perhaps the most profound change we can effect, distinct from our past behaviours, is to recognize the interconnectedness of humanity and refrain from cancelling one another. Instead, we should aspire to be more like Gargantua when he imparts wisdom to his son in François Rabelais’ satirical novel “Gargantua and Pantagruel.”. Perhaps we should also strive to learn languages such as Latin, Greek, French, Arabic, and Hebrew, fostering deeper connections — instead of removing languages from our world view. Afterall the Swiss are capable of fluently mastering multiple languages — how come that we within the borders of Europe are unable to do so? For instance, I’ve recently pondered why I predominantly write in English despite growing up in Europe. Wouldn’t it make more sense to express myself in German, French, or Italian, alongside my native Danish?

Latvia is currently pursuing a path of removing the Russian language from standard school curricula, aiming to make Latvian the exclusive language of instruction, with secondary languages to follow. Additionally, the use of Russian has been prohibited in places such as airports, train stations, and various commercial establishments. Contemplating this, it evokes the metaphor of a surgical procedure, one which prompts me to reflect on our persistent inclination towards conquest, elimination, division, and eradication — a narrative reminiscent of the traditional hero’s journey. Yet, I find myself questioning whether there might exist an alternative path, one that enriches rather than diminishes. Must the hero always seek to conquer all? Could we not explore a different narrative, one that delves into themes of redemption, challenges the status quo, and examines the repercussions of our choices? This alternative journey offers a departure from the conventional hero’s narrative, inviting us into a realm of greater complexity and moral ambiguity within the human experience. Perhaps, as members of the European Union, we could embrace an approach that empowers our citizens with the ability to engage fluently in multiple languages. We might provide avenues for those that want to learn Spanish, Polish, Greek, Portuguese, Ukrainian, Danish, Latvian, Italian, Russian, Estonian, German, and French (the EU has around 24 official languages), prioritising the cultivation of profound cultural experiences and mutual understanding. In doing so, we embark on a collective journey of learning and growth, fostering unity and harmony as we progress together. I’m here not suggesting that we should learn 24 languages — but — that we actively add languages instead of removing them, and proactively try to learn about and engage with one another. As an example in Denmark the secondary language is English, and then from 7th grade we can choose between either German or French. I know very few people that actually speak German or French from those few years of exposure. Our virtual world offers us endless possibilities to learn — so why not introduce languages earlier, and allow students themselves to learn what they find fascinating for their own development and learning within this area?

Hannah Arendt’s words, “The sad truth is that most evil is done by people who never make up their minds to be good or evil,” resonate profoundly in our current era. It’s undeniable that many opt for silence, refraining from expressing their thoughts, particularly when those fall outside the realm of common discourse. Silence can also signify a passive acceptance of the status quo, a failure to actively reflect upon one’s stance in the world. Blaming external factors or other evils is another facet of this silence — as it is ultimately much easier than taking ownership of ones existence and trying to actively understand the world around one. Personally, I stand firmly against war and violence, advocating for peace and understanding as essential principles. However, I hold a strong conviction that we can all strive to be better in how we engage with one another, transcending the simplistic divisions of right and wrong. Our collective growth requires us to ask difficult questions and engage in uncomfortable conversations.

Back at the playground, I gently clasp my daughter’s hand and approach the mother and her children engaged in conversation in Russian. With a polite smile, I inquire, “Hello! My daughter overheard your children speaking Russian and wondered if they might like to join her in play.” The response I receive is an icy glare, and the mother curtly states, “We prefer not to interact with Russians.” She then proceeds to lead her children away. Rejections like these are becoming a norm for us these days. Tears are welling up in my daughter’s eyes, she earnestly asks, “Why don’t they want to play with me? Did I do something wrong?” It’s a perplexing moment, and I grapple with the right words to offer, as I am determined to shield her from fear and shame. “You know,” I begin gently, “where they come from, they believe that because we speak Russian and have family there we might want to harm their homeland. But, you see, the bigger problem is that many of us have forgotten that, deep down, we are all interconnected. So, please don’t be disheartened. Come! Let me show you where they are from — you actually also have family there! And we’ll find other friends to play with, but let’s first send these people our love.”

With this, we turn away from the coldness of rejection and toward the warmth of understanding, embracing the hope that somehow compassion and proactive efforts can bridge the gaps that divide us. In a world filled with buzzwords and divisions, it is our shared narratives and taking a proactive stand that can truly bring about positive change. Now, let me be frank — I’m not exactly a saint either. Nowadays I often find myself resorting to Danish or English when encountering other Russian speakers.Yet, that does not imply that this is the right path. The right way is arduous and complex, for being human was never meant to be simple. After all, we are not machines, but intricate and emotional beings — right?