It’s been a long time gone…

After over a month of not blogging, I’m not exactly sure where to begin. In the past several weeks I spent thanksgiving in Israel with family and friends and I attended two seminars in an old Soviet family camp in the woods an hour outside of Dnepropetrovsk (the first seminar was related to my project, Do Good, Ukraine! – representatives from different regions of the country attended our training seminar and in the next few weeks we will begin to open branches of our organization throughout the country.. The second seminar was a Jewish leadership seminar for college-aged students who, during the year, create and implement projects within the Jewish community in their cities). Both seminars, spearheaded by the Jewish community in Ukraine, involved new volunteer initiatives meant to further develop Jewish and non-sectarian communities throughout the country.

Two days ago I traveled with the other Ukraine volunteer (Kiev placement) to a small city named Gorlovka located just outside of Donetsk, a large city in the very East of the country. We traipsed through the snow-covered city, skidding over the compacted snow that had frozen into ice over the last week of -15 C weather. Sand instead of ice is thrown on the icy roads and sidewalks and wooden shovels are used to clear the most important routes and walkways. For the most part, the cities here are not cleaned, and the sidewalks are covered in layers of ice, slush and sand.

It was here in Gorlovka that I learned the true meaning of “Jewish mother.” If someone thinks that they understand how a Jewish mother acts (worrying, offering food numerous times, guilt trips), then they have not visited Ukraine and met a generation of women who were born around the time of WWII and who grew up in the USSR. Stepping into the apartment off of the large dvor, or soviet residential complex (concrete buildings in a large block with a central green area, in this case snow), there is the smell of food cooking. The woman who lives here is nearing 80. The TV in the kitchen has a Russian serial playing and Ukrainian subtitles flicker across the bottom of the screen. Large rugs hang on the walls in the living room and bedrooms. A closet full of pickled vegetables and fruits is off the hallway – pickled tomatoes, eggplants, cucumbers, watermelon and an assortment of homemade sauces, jams and spicy tomato-based spreads. From the moment we entered until the moment we left two days later, food was not only offered to us, but also appeared on my plate seemingly from nowhere. “Here try some fish,” and plop, it was on my plate. “Just try a little bit of chicken, a small piece, just try it, it’s good, it’s good for you, here have some,” and so I took it. “Why aren’t you eating, what’s wrong, you should eat! Eat! Eat!!,” and it continued until we left when I took with me on the train a jar of homemade cherry jam, three pickled eggplants, and candy…

On a completely different note, the following list includes observations that I have made over the past few months while traveling, working, or just walking around Ukraine. While most of them are pretty humorous or bazaar, I hope it allows you, yes you, the reader, to see aspects of this country through my eyes. And here it goes:

1) I woke up one morning to find a chicken head on my balcony. How it came to be here, I still don’t know since the balcony has a roof and iron bars surrounding it.

2) On my way to work, I saw a construction worker in his Soviet style blue work-overalls wearing a Phillies hat.

3) At the train station, by the information booth, it is written on the glass: “Questions with more than 8 words cost 6 hrivna” ( .80 cents).

4) The news channels on TV have no sense of censorship, so it was no surprise when footage of the body of a man who had been murdered was displayed on the screen.

5) At the hotel/resort/”sanatorium”/Soviet camp where the seminars were held, the building manager chastised us for requesting toilet paper, exclaiming that “one roll should be enough!”.. (the cost of this cardboard-like roll is one hrivna, approx. 15 c)

6) A large van, painted red with the communist hammer and sickle, drove past me on my way home from work, the loud speakers blasting soviet music. This entry can also include the communist political party of Ukraine demonstrating by the statue of Lenin as I attended a Do Good, Ukraine! meeting in an adjacent building. Also, the soviet music that plays from the loud speakers of the train station can be included.

7) Two swine flu epidemics in the last 2 months, with quarantines throughout the country.

Home remedies: tvorog (a type of riccotta cheese) will cure a cough and so will tea with vodka.

9) A small sculpture of a black boy that sits by the window of the cafe next to my apartment (restaurant named “Coconuts” and the place-mats have the map of Africa on them), has what seems to be a winter wardrobe. The sculpture was initially dressed with a hat, scarf and flag supporting a leading candidate Yanukovich (upcoming elections in January), and is now dressed in Christmas gear with a Santa hat.

10) During the seminars, I noticed a trend: Lecture leaders answer their cell phones (not on silent) during the middle of presentations, mid-sentence, mid-word, only to say that they cannot talk and will call back later.

11) The local “Arabic Shwarma” stands prepare the shwarma with ketchup, mustard and mayo, and leave out everything “middle eastern” about the dish.

12) A sign on a store door read, “Will return in 6 minutes.”

13) The ballots for Ukrainian elections include the option, “None.” This for those who want to make sure their ballots and votes are not forged and falsified by others.

14) At 7am on a train from Gorlovka to Donetsk, an accordian player played the tune of Hava Nagilah.

Finally, here is a video of some of the current volunteers from the Joint in their placements throughout the world. Enjoy!

Banya, or Bath House

What I had previously learned about the banya, or Russian bath house, came from old Soviet films that I watched during my Russian film class in college. Old pot-bellied men sitting naked in a small wooden hut that simulated a sauna, drenched in sweat from the heated rocks which create hot air. After a short time, the men run stark naked into the the snow-covered field, rolling around on the freshly fallen snow in the dead of winter while beating each other with birch branches; the feeling of the leaves and the drastic temperature change cause a sense of tranquility as they return to the sauna once again and repeat the process.

My banya experience was somewhat different, but still echoed the traditional processes undertaken in the Russian banyas that were  once frequented by entire village communities and elite state officials over the centuries. The banya, originating in regions with long bitter winters, has now become a weekly necessity for many people in Ukraine. As the weather becomes crisp and the leaves fall from the trees, more and more individuals head to the banya for the health benefits associated with the steam house.

The Hillel students called me over the weekend, inviting me to the banya for 50 UAH (equivalent to $6). Unsure if the banya would be in an institutional-looking facility or a wooden hut in the middle of a field, I agreed, looking forward to a new experience in Ukraine. With the time change in effect, the sun had set in Dnepropetrovsk on Sunday by 4:30 pm. With the cold wind blowing as I walked through the emptying streets, I realized that fall is slowly coming to a close, making way for dark days and bitter weather. We caught a marshrutka, or taxi van, to the area of the city in which the banya is located. We walked through apartment-lined streets, getting lost in the residential neighborhood of the city as we trod over cracked sidewalks crowded with overgrown shrubs. Passing the giant factory that once operated as the missile and arms manufacturing facility in Dnepropetrovsk during the Soviet Union (this factory was the main reason that this city remained closed to outsiders until the collapse of the Soviet Union), we made our way down a long driveway towards a small building that housed the banya.

7 Hillel students, myself, and a German volunteer entered the private banya that groups can reserve for three hour sessions. The  large entry room has leather couches, a table on which we set our food (our snacks included peanuts, sardines, dried fish, beer and tea) and a TV with the local music station playing Russian and American hip hop. In the two small changing rooms that smelled faintly of cat pee, a bed is arranged for bathers who wish to rest. In bathing suits and borrowed flip flops, we walked down the hall to the banya which is composed of another two rooms. The first room with a tiled floor hosts a small shower in which to rinse off, and a 5-ft deep pool of ice cold water in which you submerge yourself after time spent in the sauna. The next room contains the suana: a small wood-paneled room that holds a large oven with hot rocks that produce the intense heat as well as tiered benches on which you sit or lay. After stepping into the sauna, you become immediately drenched with sweat. The hot, dry air smells of wood and the immense heat burns your lips and eyes.

For three hours we moved from room to room; from the overwhelmingly hot sauna, to the cold pool that is greenish and murky, and into the sitting area for a cup of tea and some games. As we left the banya with soft skin, feeling relaxed and refreshed, and stepped back into the 35 degree weather, we encountered a large group of men waiting to enter the banya for their reserved session.

Three of us walked slowly through the empty roads of Dnepropetrovsk back towards the city center. The yellow leaves from the surrounding trees covered the broken concrete sidewalks and the cool air whipped against my jacket and damp hair. I think of my year-long placement in this region and the exepriences that await me. The wide roads, the old men drinking beer on benches in the cold night air, Soviet factories and crowds of men awaiting the banya are no longer new to me, but continue to remind me of where I am and the rich history that surrounds me.

Weeks Five and Six

My Russian tutor hurriedly glances over the assortment of pots and pans that clutter the shelves underneath my kitchen counter, searching for the right-size pot for making soup. She reaches for a pot of the appropriate size and shakes her head as she begins cleaning with a sponge and baking soda the dirty lid on which dust has accumulated over the past weeks. Slowly, items that she has suggested for my apartment have begun appearing; she brings with her a shoe horn, baking soda, bouillon cubes, and an apron for me to wear during our tutoring sessions. Over the last two weeks, our lessons have become cullinary-based as she teaches me how to prepare traditional Ukrainian dishes while speaking only in Russian. My food preparation abilities now include: beet salad, stuffed peppers, “materzheniki” (fried dough), cabbage soup, eggplant ikra and fish head soup. While preparing the meal that constitutes the daily lesson, she has me write the recipe in my notebook and later repeat in grammatically correct Russian the steps involved in the particular meal preparation. These lessons are not only fun, but are practical in that I learn how to incorporate traditional ingredients into my cooking. In a way, she has taken me under her wing, showing me what she considers the “correct” way to clean my kitchen, use spices (dill and parsley are added to most dishes), and wash pans. One lesson included a trip to the local supermarket, Voruc, during which time she instructed me on what products I could buy and those that I am “forbidden” to purchase (this categorization is based on whether the food production companies are trustworthy).

On this trip to the supermarket, she suggested that I buy a fish from the tank (the fresher the better), the way most locals purchase fish. I asked for a small carp, and the woman behind the counter took a large net and scooped up a small fish from the crammed tank. She then placed the fish on the counter, hit its head, and, while it was still jerking slightly, cleaned its insides in the sink, and weighed it on the scale. Later that day, I unpacked the fish, venturing into the unfamiliar territory of fish preparation from a whole fish. As I severed the head (and packaged it in the fridge for later use for fish head soup during my next Russian lesson), I reflected on the ease with which I purchase fillets in the States, and the common experience here of cleaning and preparing the fish at home.

The next morning, my Russian tutor arrived with two aprons. Removing the fish head from the fridge, and placing it in a pot of boiling water, she began adding chopped onions and bouillon to a pot along with parsley and dill until the head had softened and the soup was ready. At this point the cooked fish head is taken from the soup and eaten separately on a plate. Unsure of how to go about eating a fish head, my Russian tutor laughed at my discomfort, took the head in her hands, and broke it apart so that the bones and meat were exposed. She instructed me to eat the meat and lick the bones, only to discard the skin, eyeballs, and mouth as she sat watching my attempts. The experience of eating a fish head (and almost eating an eyeball which I could hardly differentiate from the meat seeing that it was white and on my spoon), was something exotic, tasty and sickening all at the same time. I embraced the experience and decided to blog about it later as one example of cultural immersion through cookery. With my growing list of Ukrainian recipes, my tutor has suggested that I open a “home cooking” Ukrainian restaurant upon my return to the U.S. serving dishes like fish head soup, borscht and other local delicacies.

Learning to cook with ingredients I am unfamiliar with accompanies my overall social experience in Ukraine. At a Hillel opening event this past week which took place on a boat on the Dneipr River, I listened to the techno music and watched young students dancing along to Russian and Hebrew songs. As I was observing the city skyline from the deck, I heard “Rabbi Nachman M’Uman” play loudly from the speakers as Hillel students chanted along. This Chassidic chant is known by many of the students here, and this one song, techno in rhythm, is quite popular in Jewish youth life. Understanding the subtle intricacies of Jewish culture in Dnepropetrovsk and Ukraine is a very interesting process. As I talk to more people and begin to better comprehend life in Ukraine, I appreciate more and more my exposure to smoke machines and Chassidic techno, fish head soup and baking soda.

Weeks Three and Four

Today marks exactly one month since my arrival in Ukraine. The foreignness of local culture has slowly been “normalized” as I acclimate to the city of Dnepropetrovsk. Walking down the main avenue, Karla Marxa, I stop by the stands of local artists who sit on low-set stools, embroidering the white linen squares with red thread. Older men stand leaning against trees close to their tables,  smoking  cigarettes while watching potential buyers look at their paintings, chess sets, or assortment of 5 walking canes. The bustling city is cosmopolitan;  fashionable women in stilletos click-clack down the shop-lined steets. Yet in the architecture and layout of the city, the Soviet presence is still felt.

As the leaves change color and the air becomes crisp, the locals enjoy the last warm days of fall strolling down the avenues, promenade,  open squares, and enormous parks which double as amusement centers.  I took a walk on a weekend afternoon through Globy Park, a large park in the center of the city only 2 blocks from my apartment. The park stretches down the main avenue, and is complete with wide walkways, benches, monuments, a large pond, theme-park rides from the Soviet period, and a small train for children that weaves between the trees. Young families with little children explore the park, buying balloons, taking a ride on the train, or rollerblading on the concrete square. Groups of friends sit on the benches that line the park walkways and drink beers while enjoying the beautiful weather.

Over the last several weeks, I have gradually become more familiar with the language and the city, as I find myself able to get around quite easily and interact with more and more people. My Russian tutor, with whom I meet four times a week, is my most helpful local informant as she advises me about what fish to buy at the public market, how to prepare beets, and how to keep my oven clean (“the oven reflects the homeowner” as she told me two days ago). The Russian lessons are exteremely important since English speakers are virtually non-existent. I see my conversational skills improving in daily interaction, yet it is still difficult to get across what it is I need to say. As the months pass, and my Russian improves, I hope to begin my research for an independent project that will compliment the work that I am currently involved in at the Joint office and Sunday school.

And on another note. Experiencing Yom Kippur this past Sunday and Monday in Dnepropetrovsk was quite interesting as masses of people gathered inside the only synagogue in the city. Neilah, the closing ceremony marking the completion of the holy days, was unlike anything I had experienced in the states or Israel. In the women’s section, people were crammed into the balcony, standing shoulder to shoulder as young children crept between swaying bodies and chatting girls. While most of the service was inaudible due to the bad acoustics, as the Rabbi announced in his Israeli-accented Russian the directions for the final prayer, all grew silent and attentive. The call and response nature of this Shema, a foundational prayer of Judaism that exclaims that God is one, here served to create community solidarity as the congregation cried out after the Rabbi each word of the prayer. Hear O Israel, the Lord Our God, the Lord is One. Hundreds of people called out this credo, declaring the Oneness of God, and thus declaring their membership as part of the Jewish nation, and their oneness as a community. Eight times the congragation shouted “The Lord is God” and the Rabbi blew the shofar (ram’s horn) one final time as a symbolic message sent to the heavens. The community was rallied together as  they pronounced their belonging to the Jewish people and witnessed the tradition of blowing the shofar. While this part of the service was drastically different from the rest of the ceremony in that all people became involved in the prayer, the meaning of this five minutes seemed to summarize the experience of these individuals as part of the Jewish community in Dnepropetrovsk. While most people read the transliterated prayers in Russian, or sat talking with their neighbors, here they voiced together as one community the statement that reflects the entire belief system of Judaism. While dispersed throughout the region, here they congregate together as one community, standing strong and declaring themselves members of the Jewish nation.

Week Two

We left Dnepropetrovsk in the mid-morning, driving through the flat farm land of the Eastern oblasts towards Zaparozhia, one of the largest manufacturing cities in Ukraine. The fields of corn, wheat, and wilting sunflowers stretch far into the distance. The small highway cuts through the countryside, and for forty minutes all one sees are the fertile lands of the East. A lone bus stop by the the highway advertises in mosaic form the history of the region dating back to the Cossack period from the 16th-18th centuries. A man and woman in traditional dress are captured in this piece, holding in their hands agricultural tools demonstrating the proud historical attachment to the land, an attachment which now exists in the form of a nationalist Ukrainian sentiment (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H4OOEVG27xI&feature=related).

Approaching Zaparozhia, the rapid waters of the Dneipr river become visible as does the largest dam constructed during the Former Soviet Union. This hydro-electric plant functions as one of three bridges leading into this industrial city. The giant smokestacks in the distance continuously release a thick black smoke into the air, making this city the most polluted in Ukraine. Imprinted on this colossal concrete structure is both the insignia of the U.S.S.R. and the bust of Lenin, a giant statue of whom stands by the promenade in the city center similar to Dnepropetrovsk. Driving over the dam, there is a spectacular view of the landscape which includes the Cossack fortification, or Sich (Ukrainian for the administrative and military center of the Zaparozhian Cossacks). Now a tourist destination, this historical landmark continues to be a crucial aspect of regional and national pride (Ukrainian independence was last experienced during periods of Cossack rule in the steppes). I hope to touch upon this theme in future posts as Cossack history and Ukrainian independence are inextricably related and discussed frequently in casual conversation.

I spent the majority of my time in Zaparozhia meeting with the director of the Jewish community center who spoke of her plans to create and expand projects related to inter-ethnic dialogue. She discussed at length the unique history of the region as a place of multi-ethnic settlement and cultural interaction. To this director, dialogue between “national communities” (it is apparently taboo to call minority ethnic groups ‘minority ethnic groups’) is essential in order to promote tolerance and acceptance in Ukraine. A group of representatives from several minority organizations including Bulgarian, German and Jewish, sat together to create a list of goals for the diverse community of Zaparozhia.

After meeting with a co-worker to discuss the future plans of my own program, “Do Good, Ukraine!” (check it out at www.dogood.org.ua), a project that promotes volunteerism in Ukraine through local leadership and volunteer action, we departed the central district of the city and drove along the back roads towards an orphanage for boys with special needs. Grasping the iron bars of the entrance gate stood boys of all ages in matching blue-checkered shirts awaiting visitors. Some more social than others approached us with open arms, welcoming us to the orphanage and offering to take us on a tour of the grounds (a large grassy area with a concrete square and an old jungle gym). Slowly, more and more children from ages 3-20 walked towards us, tapping our shoulders and introducing themselves. Young boys with down syndrome motioned to be picked up, while older children repeated the few words they knew of English, wondering why I spoke Russian but could not understand. After we played a game similar to the “hokey-pokey,” two young boys took me by the hand and led me towards the gate where our taxi was parked. In the distance, in the cleared grounds of the orphanage, boys of all ages danced in the shade of a tree to the Ukrainian folk music playing from a boombox.

Week One

Landing in Dnepropetrovsk airport last week I felt a rush of energy, the kind of “here we go…” feeling that one experiences when beginning a journey (a combination of excitement and anxiety about experiences to come). The landing of the small jet on the asphalt-covered lot marked the beginning of my time in Ukraine. The airport bus drove us  a short 100 feet from the plane to the one building that houses the only terminal (this building is the airport, essentially). Getting through customs without proficient Russian and without a local address in Dnepropetrovsk was an interesting experience, and not suggested, as I  mumbled some sentences in broken Russian and hoped to catch a break from the not-so-happy guard (seeing that I did not understand much Russian, he decided that it would be best to speak even faster).

Driving into the city from the airport, I glimpsed the far reaching flat plains of Eastern Ukraine. As the city begins, the serpentine rails of the trambai (trolley) cross over the paved roads, and the trolley cars stop every few blocks to collect the waiting passengers who sit under the graffiti-ed shelters. The city is big; buildings with beautifully crafted facades face the central avenue, Karla Marxa, a tree-lined boulevard with cobble stone walkways.

At the time of writing, I feel situated and comfortable. Each day has been spent among welcoming people. Most days I walk around the city of Dnepropetrovsk with the current volunteer, running errands in different shops and walking to the JCC, Hillel, or Chesed for meetings with directors and representatives of Jewish community programs. Some  of my most enjoyable moments were among the clients of Chesed programs (Chesed provides services to at-risk children and the elderly) during home visits and when observing activities at the center. I was urged to sing and dance with old ladies and was given a lesson on Ukrainian politics by a ten year old boy with a heart condition.

There is so much to comment on, but I will mention only a few things that I feel give a good sense of the city and the poeple.

At the Jewish school in Dnepropetrovsk I watched the “bell ringing ceremony” on the morning of the  first day of classes,  a Soviet tradition that remains to this day as a merker of a new school year. The oldest students give small bells to the first year students, a sign of their completion of their school career. The Ukrainian flag was marched towards the flagpole by four young boys, and the national anthem played as the blue and yellow flag flew above the crowd. Next, the Israeli national anthem played through the sound system as yeshiva boys sang the hebrew words “a nation 2000 years old.” The intersection of Soviet history, Ukrainian nationalism, and Jewish identity that can be witnessed duirng such rituals makes this region fascinating for an anthro major such as myself.

On another note, after the recent economic crisis, the Ukrainian currency (Griven) dropped extremely low, making the dollar relatively strong in Ukraine. A few days ago I walked to the public market in Dnepropetrovsk, a kind of shuk with people of all ages (from old ladies in floral head coverings weighing cabbage to Azerbaijani men making pomegranate juice) selling fruits, vegetables, meats, clothes and pirated dvds. Unlike Jersey tomatoes which are priced at $2.99/lb, tomatoes are sold here for around 3 Griven/kilo (the exchange rate is 8.5 Gvn/$1). 8 tomatoes ended up costing 6 or 7 gvn which is about 0.85 c. Walking back from the market towards my apartment, we passed through a large park created during the Soviet Union. This is the second park I have seen within a 1 mile radius that not only has a playground and benches (familiar), but has amusement park rides (unfamiliar) that screetch and shake as they move around the rusty rails. Some of the rides were not operating, and I asked if they no longer worked, to which my Ukrainian companion replied: “if you find someone to turn it on for you, then it works,” which seems to be the general attitude to most things here.

Another day in DP, after a night well spent meeting new people and walking through the city, we were on our way back to the apartment when I almost fell into a sewer. The sidewalks are badly paved, as are most streets, which are pot-holed (up to 3 feet deep like the pot-hole outside my apartment) and uneven due to the trolley tracks that weave through the avenues. Assuming that sewers are the same everywhere, I stepped on the cover of the sewer in my path thinking nothing of such an act. Yet, as I put my foot on the lid, it slowly slid away, leaving exposed the giant pipe leading down to the sewer system. I fortunately reacted in time, jumped away and caught my balance. I was told by a local that he had three friends that fell into  sewers by stepping on the coverings.  A friend explained to me that this is one of the first things you learn as a child, never to step on sewer lids. It’s only fitting that I, an outsider with little comprehension of Russian, should learn the rules of the town as does a kid.