Last weekend I went to a wedding where the couple were getting married a second time, for the benefit of their American friends and relatives. They had first married in Israel in May, and the mother-of-the-bride got up to thank them for "bookending" with joy and love this summer, so filled with tragedy and sadness.
Israel, Syria, Afghanistan, Russia and Ukraine, not to mention Sierra Leone, Liberia, Nigeria, -- this has indeed been a terrible summer.
But I take solace in the peaceful international border crossings that continue to go on, and the excitement of the young (and old) who continue to travel and study foreign places. Some of my friends, in their early 70s, did not even consider canceling a train trip they took in August from Beijing to Moscow. A student stopped by looking for volunteering or work opportunities next summer in Russia. My own Russian friends continue to send love and news, despite the rhetoric of our leaders who are accusing each other of lies.
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| Perhaps it's the Daniel Radcliffe vehicle they loved, not the Bulgakov work? |
In the midst of this, I have launched a Russian Studies workshop for some kids from our local high school. One of them arrived all excited about a program she heard of that might send her to a drama festival in Russia; another is keen to learn the language; a third agreed that Bulgakov's "Notes of a Doctor" was one of her favorite books. They all wondered what "untranslatable" words they might encounter in studying Russian culture.
The first of those untranslatable words that comes to mind, of course, is toska. We will be reading some Chekhov in our workshop, and I described to the students the hero of Toska (1886), so desperate to communicate this feeling to someone. My 2014 Norton collection of Chekhov stories gives us "grief" and "misery" -- but my colleague working on a new book project on toska in 18th century Russia is more apt to use the term "anguish" to translate it. How might toska be gripping Russians today, as they observe the events unfolding on the Russian-Ukrainian border and wonder, as do I, what may be on the horizon.
Another word that sprang to mind was Milan Kundera's "litost," which he claimed in his classic novel The Book of Laughter and Forgetting is the "state of torment created by the sudden sight of one's own misery." In Polish that comes out as: „Litos” jest to bolesny stan spowodowany przez nagłe
odkrycie własnej nędzy -- even though Polish has its own word, "litość," meaning "mercy" or "pity."
Anger, torment, despair -- these are surely some of the emotions being experienced in Eastern Ukraine. And now some Ukrainian citizens have become refugees and are headed further into the depths of Russia, helping to repopulate cities that can surely use an influx of young people with children. How will they feel in ten years if Ukraine becomes a NATO member state and Russia collapses in on itself?
More solace from my third word, Gemeinschaft, from the German. We usually engage in this "community" building on the sidewalk or in the grocery store, getting an inexplicable and irreplaceable feeling of joy and connection from chatting, joking, sharing news with neighbors and friends. Tonight our favorite local practitioners of Gemeinschaft are having their annual Ethiopian dinner to share news of their food security project. Now that is international cooperation: teaching women and children to garden and sharing seeds and techniques to improve nutrition and economic health in a region of the world where children still suffer from stunting.
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| Woman tending lettuce planted with the help of the Kossoye Development Program. |
Sharing a meal with friends, talking about international ties and the things that bring us together -- raising children, keeping them safe, educating them and each other -- this is what Chekhov's hero in Toska was missing. He was miserable and alone. He reached out, and no one responded. He became sharply aware of his isolation and lack of community.
If only he had had access to some genuine Gemeinschaft.
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