This is a love letter to the land and people that birthed and raised me, but also caused me tremendous pain, in the way that family only can. My armour is weak, my skin is thin, but my blood is hot: I’m primed for feeling. This is my personal psycho-archeological dig, actively funded by my forever wish to understand where I’m from, in the hopes of doing my part in salving our collective belonging wound; one created by colonization, geopolitics, imperialism, and in some ways, created simply by being a living, breathing human.
My musings are iterative, iterative, iterative: always working with incomplete information, permitting myself to feel but never so much so that my feelings become hubris. I tried to take myself out of this as much as I could, presenting the facts for the sake of Socratic dialogue and online discourse, as our culture demands of us. Doing so would’ve meant holding onto the severe bloated-ness I feel lately when I’ve not spoken truthfully. This is an attempt at summoning the ghosts inside me, that have for 23 years made me feel mismatched and disintegrated, in the hopes of creating space for all of us to tune in feelings of displacement safely.
Let’s sit between worlds, and explore all the tension and contractions that come up, together.
My childhood summers were spent between Dobruja lands, split in two by the Danube River, and Sofia-Grad and the Balkan Mountains. I was dodging pelicans and consistently refusing fresh seafood; a childish hesitation I’ve lived to regret. The lush lands of my youth have seen countless transformations, not all good, that poke out from the ground like dandelions. I remember the first time I felt history, like a psycho-archeological imprint that gently shakes your cells and says, “you are home.” I’ve had Roman ruins beneath my feet, brutalist war monuments to my left and right, and have been within a five minute walk of a mosque, a church, and a synagogue, all at the same time.
The rest of the year, I lived in Canada with my parents, Alexander and Vladislava, two formidable Gen-X’ers. Depeche Mode and New Order were the soundtracks to our large Christmas family trips filled with long-time family friends and moments that were burned into memory. Post-punk, New Wave or whatever you wish to call it, would be abandoned by me until I was 19, studying at a concrete brutalist-heavy campus, and missing the home of my childhood summers. Around me, I saw boys with long hair and wire-framed glasses, and girls with colourful spiky mullets wearing The Cure t-shirts…Imagine Siouxsie Sioux-level eyeliner at every turn. The message was clear: the late 80’s were back and post-punk was inspiring a new generation. I was in contested territory, once again, and feeling a pettiness that music listeners of countless generations fall prey to – Who is a true fan? Who truly gets this music?
Home, I thought. My homeland gets this music. But, I’ll admit this was more of an intuitive feeling, rather than an articulated, well-researched statement. This was before I learned of the burgeoning post-punk scene in Eastern Europe, but I didn’t know I’d soon hear “Судно (Sudno)” by Molchat Doma in a TikTok. I’m not used to hearing a Slavic language in memes, that alone was striking to my ear, let alone seeing Adidas tracksuits, bootleg sequined jeans, and fanny packs become memes. Then, the spiral began: I built Spotify playlist after Spotify playlist, some of which I shared with a person I was dating at the time in the please think I’m cool and interesting and elusive kind-of way. The persona-building that ensued after that was not unlike the post-Paramore red hair dye of my middle-school self, except I was filling a much bigger void. Listening to Sudno was revolutionary for me: I felt history, again. These ineffable tingles are like trail markers to me.
Discovering new bands like Molchat Doma, Human Tetris, Utro, and Buerak and older bands like Zvuki Mu and Kino made me wonder: why did post-punk flourish in Eastern Europe? Disillusionment characterized much of the world at this time, Eastern European states are certainly not alone in this but context affects the permutations of larger cultural phenomena - much like replicating cells, similar but ultimately separate and independent entities. The themes of post-punk, realism and cynicism, seem to enervate the world at this time. Then, why was post-punk the perfect outlet for the former Soviet Union, Easter Bloc, and former Yugoslavia?
This recounted history generalizes three colossal regions of the world, all of which can be chopped up in various ways depending on your politics, for the purposes of painting a broad picture of post-punk in the 80’s. The Soviet Union, Eastern Bloc, and former Yugoslavia are incomparable in some ways, because of the vast cultural and political differences between the region. However, we need a broader picture, at least at first, to gain some sort of conceptual foothold. All the aforementioned regions were under some form of socialist system at the time, which affected how music was consumed and distributed. I am actively tending to the Red Scare propaganda that has been fed to me throughout my life, and attempting to provide the most empathetic, balanced representation I can of the post-punk music scene east of the Berlin Wall. The triangulation of steadfast politicians, youth, and music is absolutely nothing new, but every iteration is unique and worth examining.
From the late 70’s to ‘89, New Wave bands emerged in more numbers than their punk forefathers. In the views of some, New Wave bands were best suited for silent protesting The first New Wave bands presented themselves as apolitical, meaning they do not favour or denounce the current socialist system, as opposed to the traditional punk groups (an oxymoron, I know) that were more explicit in language, message, and dress.
Post-punk groups of this period were less interested in free market liberties, and more invested in intellectual and artistic freedom: the freedom to dress however you want, listen to whatever you want, and hold any kind of values you want as long as it harmed no one. Of course, many of these bands knew the political sphere and the aforementioned freedoms are deeply interconnected and difficult to untangle. It was only a matter of time before these bands were seen as a threat.
National folk choirs were some of the only groups allowed to travel during this period, with the exception of Yugoslavs. Yugoslavia itself had been described as “communism with a Western face.” The use of the word ‘Western’ in this context reinforces the old notion that the West equals freedom and happiness, an association that is more propagandistic and colonial than anything. Regardless, the metaphor points to the economic and cultural exchange that was allowed to occur between Yugoslavia and the rest of the world. Music was seen as ‘bread and circuses,’ a shallow and harmless way to appease the masses. After the death of Tito in May 1980, Yugoslavia was even more open to musical imports and exports. A similar reshaping of the USSR took place starting in 1985 when Gorbachev came to power: enter Glasnost and Perestroika, a newly stated intention and goal of creating a more open, transparent, and tolerant USSR.
Youth quickly discovered, both in Yugoslavia and the USSR, that such gestures were illusions and often obfuscated political motivations of those in power at the time. Many of these groups dealt with sanctions resulting in them being unable to tour or record music; they were effectively forced underground. Many bands broke up, feeling that it was not worth the risk, and others, at the expense of them and their families safety, continued to create and play music in underground venues.
Music was the apex of cultural conflict between the old regime and quite literally, the new wave of rebellious youth.. The young looked for loopholes, like groups of moles scurrying underground.
Leningrad became a vibrant hub of post-punk activity despite the taxing sanctions in place during Andropov’s term. By 1981, The Leningrad Rock Club was born - a 600 person venue where bands could not only play, but be watched by spectators and KGB alike. Lyrics critiquing governments had to be perfectly veiled, allowing Eastern European post-punk bands to perfect post-punk’s vital irony and sarcasm.
Viktor Tsoi, frontman of Russian band Kino, was the master of holding hope and cynicism simultaneously. Kino was an underground band, but their music spread like wildfire through unofficial channels of distribution. Gruppa Krovi, released in 1988, would be heard all over the country despite never being officially released. Their legacy is best characterized by two tracks: Gruppa Krovi and Peremen! The title track would become the anthem of multiple generations, even Metallica covered it when playing in Moscow in 2019. Kino was making music that no one else was making at the time.
Assa, a film directed by Sergei Solovyov, closed with Kino performing Перемен! (Peremen!) live. The chorus of this song repeats the words “Our hearts need changes, our eyes need changes, into our laugh and our tears, and into our pulse and veins. Changes! We are waiting for change.” This song would go on to become the anthem of perestroika in the late 80s. In Belarus, in 2020, you could hear protestors singing the words to Peremen! protesting their current leadership.
Tsoi, in particular, became the voice of a generation because his lyrics captured aspects of everyday life in a way that transcended generational gaps. It’s worth noting, however, that he never had any intention of these songs becoming political anthems or for him to become a symbol of change. He always walked a thin line between the underground music scene, and state-managed rock club in Leningrad.
There are an innumerable number of post-punk bands, (who’s hard copy recordings exist in single digits) whose music would be uploaded to YouTube for all to hear. Bands like Zvuki Mu and Auktyon would put on two performances at the Leningrad Rock Club that would go on to be considered two of the most iconic performances in Russian post-punk, and are revered for their artful and disturbing stage presence.
The scarcity of recordings, in combination with the monopoly the English language has on most pop music, rendered this music largely unknown and unheard by larger audiences. You don’t know what you don’t know.
It’s not uncommon for music commentators to describe Eastern European post-punk as follows: This Eastern European Band sounds just like that English Band but a little different. Statements like this that showcase the tendency of Eastern European art to always be seen as modelling and worshipping the Western context and aesthetic, ultimately detracts from the artistic control these groups sought after. Bands of this era almost seem to be judged based on their similarity and strengths as compared to famous UK bands of the time, instead of being something worthy of praise and unique in its own right. A more optimistic interpretation of such comments is that those comparisons are there to help listeners contextualise a world they’ve never been a part of and may be experiencing for the first time. But, that’s far too generous, when academics have explicitly stated the former. Apparently, even Western degenerates are better than ours. Bone music, LP recordings made of X-rays, are a case in-point for how hard Eastern European youth have fought for music. This tenacity was not able to be crushed by the powers that be, and lives on still. Youth are especially hungry for music, and always will be.
Hypocritically, I began researching the history of Eastern European post-punk with a thesis already in mind. I thought, from my own perspective, that post-punk represented the grey, tattered concrete around my parents growing up. That’s why the sounds of Depeche Mode resonated so strongly, especially after the fall of the Berlin Wall. That’s why the cynicism of post-punk resonated so heavily with the region. Little did I know how wrong I was; those buildings, now tattered, were new and well-maintained in their youth. In family photos, I do not see unhappy people. I’m conflating my own experiences of displacement, diaspora, and immigration: tattered buildings, desolate factories, abandoned schools were the landscape of my youth, not theirs. Post-punk for me is a kind of nostalgia, filled with longing, but for my parents it was neon flourescent; a way of rebelling, standing out, and being different. This music was the colour of their youth, not the grey. At Kino’s last concert, before the death of Tsoi in 1990, you can hear a crowd of 60,000 singing their songs - it’s a scene that is full of feeling, not an ounce of irrevenrence.
Of course, I cannot consume this music without feeling guilty. To use modern parlance, I don’t feel that I can (re)claim this history. I am deeply aware that I am able to consume this music, openly, without facing any repercussions. I’m able to momentarily immerse myself in a world: press pause on the track, and press play on my life in foreign country. As Zizek said, in our world, we want “the thing without the thing:” coffee without caffeine, beer without alcohol, Eastern European post-punk with none of the lived experience.
I am, in fact, participating in the same fetishization as my Western counterparts - assuming anything east of the Berlin Wall was doused in sadness, regret, poverty, and depravity. Yet, I don’t want to downplay or ignore the tough history and reality of the region. Herein lies my greatest moral struggle to date. I feel frustrated with everyone: both my states, Canada and Bulgaria, and both my people. I frequently delete and re-download Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook off my phone for this reason. I’m in the middle of a complex, never-ending divorce between the former Soviet Union, and everything West of Berlin.
I’m not alone in this feeling. Molchat Doma, blasted into stardom after the release of their third album Этажи (Etazhi), rejected Western interpretations of their music. Begrudgingly, the attention of the Western media helps make artists famous, neither the band nor I deny this, but it comes with a price as fame always does.
This is an old phenomenon, unfortunately. Tsoi went on record in 1989 to speak about his experiences in recording and touring in France: “Russia is a popular theme in France right now, in terms of Soviet memorabilia and stuff like that. But there isn't really a serious approach to Russia, we’re like matryoshka dolls to them: ‘Hey, look, Russians can play guitars almost like we do.” He goes one step further to say “...I can't say it was a huge success, because people were expecting something Russian and exotic from us, and we delivered rock music.”
Now, in 2022, the global imagination is invested in a new conflict, one between Russia and Ukraine. I have the words of a Nazi, Henrich Himmler, in my mind: “The Slav is never capable of building anything himself…the Slav is unable to control himself and create order. He is able to argue, able to debate, able to disintegrate, able to offer resistance against every authority and to revolt. But these human shoddy goods are just as incapable of maintaining order today as they were 700 or 800 years ago.” This quote occasionally fills me with a deep shame, like I want to peel off my skin, and claim a new name. For a moment, I see the landscapes of my youth differently: perhaps my nation couldn’t decide, maybe as a people we were too impulsive, feeble-minded to build a nation that would stay united. Disintegration. Disintegration. Disintegration.
But there is another phrase, a louder one. The words of Dr. Maria Todorova, there is a specter haunting Western culture. This phrase, in my mind, broadly applies to all of Eastern Europe: close enough to be ‘relatively civilised, relatively European’ as Charlie D’Agata puts it - included in a family of Whiteness when it suits imperialist narratives, then considered untermench (‘subhuman’) when it doesn’t. But, we are not what they say. The above history has proven as much.
Whether you’re talking about 1980, or 2020, the themes of these wars are the same. I see four groups, in conflict with each other: those who chose to leave and were able to, those who chose to stay despite being able to leave, those who didn’t choose to leave but had to, and those who didn’t choose to stay but did.
Yet still, when the music of our youth starts to play, we can put down hubris, hurt feelings and politics, and begin to heal.
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This is a love letter to the land and people that birthed and raised me, but also caused me tremendous pain, in the way that family only can. My armour is weak, my skin is thin, but my blood is hot: I’m primed for feeling. This is my personal psycho-archeological dig, actively funded by my forever wish to understand where I’m from, in the hopes of doing my part in salving our collective belonging wound; one created by colonization, geopolitics, imperialism, and in some ways, created simply by being a living, breathing human.
My musings are iterative, iterative, iterative: always working with incomplete information, permitting myself to feel but never so much so that my feelings become hubris. I tried to take myself out of this as much as I could, presenting the facts for the sake of Socratic dialogue and online discourse, as our culture demands of us. Doing so would’ve meant holding onto the severe bloated-ness I feel lately when I’ve not spoken truthfully. This is an attempt at summoning the ghosts inside me, that have for 23 years made me feel mismatched and disintegrated, in the hopes of creating space for all of us to tune in feelings of displacement safely.
Let’s sit between worlds, and explore all the tension and contractions that come up, together.
My childhood summers were spent between Dobruja lands, split in two by the Danube River, and Sofia-Grad and the Balkan Mountains. I was dodging pelicans and consistently refusing fresh seafood; a childish hesitation I’ve lived to regret. The lush lands of my youth have seen countless transformations, not all good, that poke out from the ground like dandelions. I remember the first time I felt history, like a psycho-archeological imprint that gently shakes your cells and says, “you are home.” I’ve had Roman ruins beneath my feet, brutalist war monuments to my left and right, and have been within a five minute walk of a mosque, a church, and a synagogue, all at the same time.
The rest of the year, I lived in Canada with my parents, Alexander and Vladislava, two formidable Gen-X’ers. Depeche Mode and New Order were the soundtracks to our large Christmas family trips filled with long-time family friends and moments that were burned into memory. Post-punk, New Wave or whatever you wish to call it, would be abandoned by me until I was 19, studying at a concrete brutalist-heavy campus, and missing the home of my childhood summers. Around me, I saw boys with long hair and wire-framed glasses, and girls with colourful spiky mullets wearing The Cure t-shirts…Imagine Siouxsie Sioux-level eyeliner at every turn. The message was clear: the late 80’s were back and post-punk was inspiring a new generation. I was in contested territory, once again, and feeling a pettiness that music listeners of countless generations fall prey to – Who is a true fan? Who truly gets this music?
Home, I thought. My homeland gets this music. But, I’ll admit this was more of an intuitive feeling, rather than an articulated, well-researched statement. This was before I learned of the burgeoning post-punk scene in Eastern Europe, but I didn’t know I’d soon hear “Судно (Sudno)” by Molchat Doma in a TikTok. I’m not used to hearing a Slavic language in memes, that alone was striking to my ear, let alone seeing Adidas tracksuits, bootleg sequined jeans, and fanny packs become memes. Then, the spiral began: I built Spotify playlist after Spotify playlist, some of which I shared with a person I was dating at the time in the please think I’m cool and interesting and elusive kind-of way. The persona-building that ensued after that was not unlike the post-Paramore red hair dye of my middle-school self, except I was filling a much bigger void. Listening to Sudno was revolutionary for me: I felt history, again. These ineffable tingles are like trail markers to me.
Discovering new bands like Molchat Doma, Human Tetris, Utro, and Buerak and older bands like Zvuki Mu and Kino made me wonder: why did post-punk flourish in Eastern Europe? Disillusionment characterized much of the world at this time, Eastern European states are certainly not alone in this but context affects the permutations of larger cultural phenomena - much like replicating cells, similar but ultimately separate and independent entities. The themes of post-punk, realism and cynicism, seem to enervate the world at this time. Then, why was post-punk the perfect outlet for the former Soviet Union, Easter Bloc, and former Yugoslavia?
This recounted history generalizes three colossal regions of the world, all of which can be chopped up in various ways depending on your politics, for the purposes of painting a broad picture of post-punk in the 80’s. The Soviet Union, Eastern Bloc, and former Yugoslavia are incomparable in some ways, because of the vast cultural and political differences between the region. However, we need a broader picture, at least at first, to gain some sort of conceptual foothold. All the aforementioned regions were under some form of socialist system at the time, which affected how music was consumed and distributed. I am actively tending to the Red Scare propaganda that has been fed to me throughout my life, and attempting to provide the most empathetic, balanced representation I can of the post-punk music scene east of the Berlin Wall. The triangulation of steadfast politicians, youth, and music is absolutely nothing new, but every iteration is unique and worth examining.
From the late 70’s to ‘89, New Wave bands emerged in more numbers than their punk forefathers. In the views of some, New Wave bands were best suited for silent protesting The first New Wave bands presented themselves as apolitical, meaning they do not favour or denounce the current socialist system, as opposed to the traditional punk groups (an oxymoron, I know) that were more explicit in language, message, and dress.
Post-punk groups of this period were less interested in free market liberties, and more invested in intellectual and artistic freedom: the freedom to dress however you want, listen to whatever you want, and hold any kind of values you want as long as it harmed no one. Of course, many of these bands knew the political sphere and the aforementioned freedoms are deeply interconnected and difficult to untangle. It was only a matter of time before these bands were seen as a threat.
National folk choirs were some of the only groups allowed to travel during this period, with the exception of Yugoslavs. Yugoslavia itself had been described as “communism with a Western face.” The use of the word ‘Western’ in this context reinforces the old notion that the West equals freedom and happiness, an association that is more propagandistic and colonial than anything. Regardless, the metaphor points to the economic and cultural exchange that was allowed to occur between Yugoslavia and the rest of the world. Music was seen as ‘bread and circuses,’ a shallow and harmless way to appease the masses. After the death of Tito in May 1980, Yugoslavia was even more open to musical imports and exports. A similar reshaping of the USSR took place starting in 1985 when Gorbachev came to power: enter Glasnost and Perestroika, a newly stated intention and goal of creating a more open, transparent, and tolerant USSR.
Youth quickly discovered, both in Yugoslavia and the USSR, that such gestures were illusions and often obfuscated political motivations of those in power at the time. Many of these groups dealt with sanctions resulting in them being unable to tour or record music; they were effectively forced underground. Many bands broke up, feeling that it was not worth the risk, and others, at the expense of them and their families safety, continued to create and play music in underground venues.
Music was the apex of cultural conflict between the old regime and quite literally, the new wave of rebellious youth.. The young looked for loopholes, like groups of moles scurrying underground.
Leningrad became a vibrant hub of post-punk activity despite the taxing sanctions in place during Andropov’s term. By 1981, The Leningrad Rock Club was born - a 600 person venue where bands could not only play, but be watched by spectators and KGB alike. Lyrics critiquing governments had to be perfectly veiled, allowing Eastern European post-punk bands to perfect post-punk’s vital irony and sarcasm.
Viktor Tsoi, frontman of Russian band Kino, was the master of holding hope and cynicism simultaneously. Kino was an underground band, but their music spread like wildfire through unofficial channels of distribution. Gruppa Krovi, released in 1988, would be heard all over the country despite never being officially released. Their legacy is best characterized by two tracks: Gruppa Krovi and Peremen! The title track would become the anthem of multiple generations, even Metallica covered it when playing in Moscow in 2019. Kino was making music that no one else was making at the time.
Assa, a film directed by Sergei Solovyov, closed with Kino performing Перемен! (Peremen!) live. The chorus of this song repeats the words “Our hearts need changes, our eyes need changes, into our laugh and our tears, and into our pulse and veins. Changes! We are waiting for change.” This song would go on to become the anthem of perestroika in the late 80s. In Belarus, in 2020, you could hear protestors singing the words to Peremen! protesting their current leadership.
Tsoi, in particular, became the voice of a generation because his lyrics captured aspects of everyday life in a way that transcended generational gaps. It’s worth noting, however, that he never had any intention of these songs becoming political anthems or for him to become a symbol of change. He always walked a thin line between the underground music scene, and state-managed rock club in Leningrad.
There are an innumerable number of post-punk bands, (who’s hard copy recordings exist in single digits) whose music would be uploaded to YouTube for all to hear. Bands like Zvuki Mu and Auktyon would put on two performances at the Leningrad Rock Club that would go on to be considered two of the most iconic performances in Russian post-punk, and are revered for their artful and disturbing stage presence.
The scarcity of recordings, in combination with the monopoly the English language has on most pop music, rendered this music largely unknown and unheard by larger audiences. You don’t know what you don’t know.
It’s not uncommon for music commentators to describe Eastern European post-punk as follows: This Eastern European Band sounds just like that English Band but a little different. Statements like this that showcase the tendency of Eastern European art to always be seen as modelling and worshipping the Western context and aesthetic, ultimately detracts from the artistic control these groups sought after. Bands of this era almost seem to be judged based on their similarity and strengths as compared to famous UK bands of the time, instead of being something worthy of praise and unique in its own right. A more optimistic interpretation of such comments is that those comparisons are there to help listeners contextualise a world they’ve never been a part of and may be experiencing for the first time. But, that’s far too generous, when academics have explicitly stated the former. Apparently, even Western degenerates are better than ours. Bone music, LP recordings made of X-rays, are a case in-point for how hard Eastern European youth have fought for music. This tenacity was not able to be crushed by the powers that be, and lives on still. Youth are especially hungry for music, and always will be.
Hypocritically, I began researching the history of Eastern European post-punk with a thesis already in mind. I thought, from my own perspective, that post-punk represented the grey, tattered concrete around my parents growing up. That’s why the sounds of Depeche Mode resonated so strongly, especially after the fall of the Berlin Wall. That’s why the cynicism of post-punk resonated so heavily with the region. Little did I know how wrong I was; those buildings, now tattered, were new and well-maintained in their youth. In family photos, I do not see unhappy people. I’m conflating my own experiences of displacement, diaspora, and immigration: tattered buildings, desolate factories, abandoned schools were the landscape of my youth, not theirs. Post-punk for me is a kind of nostalgia, filled with longing, but for my parents it was neon flourescent; a way of rebelling, standing out, and being different. This music was the colour of their youth, not the grey. At Kino’s last concert, before the death of Tsoi in 1990, you can hear a crowd of 60,000 singing their songs - it’s a scene that is full of feeling, not an ounce of irrevenrence.
Of course, I cannot consume this music without feeling guilty. To use modern parlance, I don’t feel that I can (re)claim this history. I am deeply aware that I am able to consume this music, openly, without facing any repercussions. I’m able to momentarily immerse myself in a world: press pause on the track, and press play on my life in foreign country. As Zizek said, in our world, we want “the thing without the thing:” coffee without caffeine, beer without alcohol, Eastern European post-punk with none of the lived experience.
I am, in fact, participating in the same fetishization as my Western counterparts - assuming anything east of the Berlin Wall was doused in sadness, regret, poverty, and depravity. Yet, I don’t want to downplay or ignore the tough history and reality of the region. Herein lies my greatest moral struggle to date. I feel frustrated with everyone: both my states, Canada and Bulgaria, and both my people. I frequently delete and re-download Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook off my phone for this reason. I’m in the middle of a complex, never-ending divorce between the former Soviet Union, and everything West of Berlin.
I’m not alone in this feeling. Molchat Doma, blasted into stardom after the release of their third album Этажи (Etazhi), rejected Western interpretations of their music. Begrudgingly, the attention of the Western media helps make artists famous, neither the band nor I deny this, but it comes with a price as fame always does.
This is an old phenomenon, unfortunately. Tsoi went on record in 1989 to speak about his experiences in recording and touring in France: “Russia is a popular theme in France right now, in terms of Soviet memorabilia and stuff like that. But there isn't really a serious approach to Russia, we’re like matryoshka dolls to them: ‘Hey, look, Russians can play guitars almost like we do.” He goes one step further to say “...I can't say it was a huge success, because people were expecting something Russian and exotic from us, and we delivered rock music.”
Now, in 2022, the global imagination is invested in a new conflict, one between Russia and Ukraine. I have the words of a Nazi, Henrich Himmler, in my mind: “The Slav is never capable of building anything himself…the Slav is unable to control himself and create order. He is able to argue, able to debate, able to disintegrate, able to offer resistance against every authority and to revolt. But these human shoddy goods are just as incapable of maintaining order today as they were 700 or 800 years ago.” This quote occasionally fills me with a deep shame, like I want to peel off my skin, and claim a new name. For a moment, I see the landscapes of my youth differently: perhaps my nation couldn’t decide, maybe as a people we were too impulsive, feeble-minded to build a nation that would stay united. Disintegration. Disintegration. Disintegration.
But there is another phrase, a louder one. The words of Dr. Maria Todorova, there is a specter haunting Western culture. This phrase, in my mind, broadly applies to all of Eastern Europe: close enough to be ‘relatively civilised, relatively European’ as Charlie D’Agata puts it - included in a family of Whiteness when it suits imperialist narratives, then considered untermench (‘subhuman’) when it doesn’t. But, we are not what they say. The above history has proven as much.
Whether you’re talking about 1980, or 2020, the themes of these wars are the same. I see four groups, in conflict with each other: those who chose to leave and were able to, those who chose to stay despite being able to leave, those who didn’t choose to leave but had to, and those who didn’t choose to stay but did.
Yet still, when the music of our youth starts to play, we can put down hubris, hurt feelings and politics, and begin to heal.
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