A Day In the Country

I still have to find Daddy's Bible in Russian. But I don't think that'll be a problem. What I can't get over is that the doll I bought was only $4. If shipped to America and sold, it would be worth 7 or 8 times that.

After the toy factory, we went to an Orthodox Monastery. According to the history--not legend--of the place, St. Sergei came into the woods away from Moscow to prove that he could live peacefully among the wild animals. He did, and to this day a protective ring around the monastery grounds keeps out wild beasts. He built the first Trinity Church in Russia, in the 14th Century, in thanks for his good fortune. The place has been, from time to time, a monastery, a seminary school, and even a fortress. Under communist rule, it was a museum, although our guide said it was looted of all precious gold and jewels to fund the Soviets' campaign against early dissenters. Now it is both a place of worship and a museum.

I was overwhelmed by being there. The czars had worshiped there--people had come there and built a civilization and a future out of snow and forest. Not just out of, but despite of, even. I think perhaps that is the most amazing thing of all to me about this place: the wherewithall of these people, that they built something out of so much nothing. Who would come to where Moscow is and decide it's a good place for a town? Who? These people, apparantly, and I have nothing but respect for it. They are remarkably heartier than I.

The monastery was an amazing experience in its own right. As Kelly said, "Talk about a place for reflection . . . ", and how right she was. Men had to remove their hats to go into churches, women had to cover their heads with scarves. I did not feel a God there, so much as an overwhelming belief of others in God. In one church, they lit candles in honor of the dead. In another, we splashed our faces in the holy water. In another one could find and see the bones of St. Sergei. Everywhere was the presence of these people's faith. Kelly was so right when she remarked that perhaps it is hard to believe that faith is so strong in such conditions. It would seem to me that, by American standards (and what others shall I use, in all honesty), we have more to be thankful for and thus more reason for faith. Yet we have no monasteries in honor of St. Sergei. My initial thought was that perhaps their faith is so strong because it is all they have. But, upon reflection, I wonder if their view is not the opposite of ours. From their perspective, perhaps we've had it too easy. We've not had to work for much that we have. They built everything from nothing, and for that they thank God. At that I think of how hard my father worked for all we have, and that the belief we've had it easy isn't 100% accurate. But, I realize that the belief goes well beyond the personal or family work, and extends to our entire culture. We come from already established backgrounds into one favored by the world--not necessarily preferred, but favored--in terms of economy and status and, as a culture, perhaps we have done little for the plenty we enjoy.

One of the most difficult things today was the abundance of beggars at Zagorsk. They were old women and young (like 3 or 4 or 5 year olds) children. The old women quietly stood to the side or approached groups, hand extended, an utterly blank look of unfocused elsewhereness on their whithered faces. The children were unabashed and would mob our group crying out probably the only two English words they'll ever know: "Coin, please! Coin, please!"

At one point, Dimitri (one of our guides?) had to ask an old woman to leave us alone. My feelings are highly mixed.

I felt no guilt for not giving to their children, odd as it may at first sound. The smiles (grins, even) and twinkling eyes and pudgy little hands spoke nothing to me of need, only of greediness. Their parents certainly didn't seem to be around, but they were clearly not orphans. New clothes which fit well told me that mama & papa are elsewhere earning a living. The children were there because of selfish parents who thought "wealthy" foreigners should be giving to them, that this is justice.

It isn't, in my book.

Besides, what would I have been teaching these kids, had I given in? The education major in me screams that it would have been modeling and reinforcement of the worst kind. I would have participated in training these children that others would always respond to their smiles and requests with a coin rather than the abrupt "Nyet" which most of us give them.

As for the old women, one in particular, perhaps they have no family. Perhaps begging is their only hope for income. But that one was not so debilitated that she couldn't curse us as we left (I didn't need to understand the words to get the body language and tone). And besides, there is the issue of dignity.

The children showed no shame, no pride, no dignity for who and what they are. If there is one trait which I take from my parents, especially my father, it is that I must always be proud of who I am, and have a sense of dignity and self-respect about me. "Dignified humility" is how best to describe it, and I felt that none of the beggars displayed that. Because of this, I can have little or no respect or pity for them. The old women had pride, yes, but it was expressed such that I can only interpret it as near-defiant. It seemed to my American eyes and thinking that she acted as if she deserves our coins, that we owe them to her. I disagree with that, and resent someone's ingratitude for that which I might otherwise have offered.

I guess that's another big trait I got from my parents: always to appreciate what I had and what was given to me. Perhaps that was the hinging factor for me in this case.

The socialist in me says that perhaps I did owe her the coin, the pitiful one mark, fifty, that I had in my pocket. But the pride and dignity and decency in me say otherwise, and it is to that which I listen.

Finally, tonight Anna and Sergei and Lupa sat with us and discussed our families, our schools, some politics with us. I enjoyed it very much. It is fascinating to hear of the different attitudes. It seems Sergei is Armenian, and doesn't believe in women working, yet Anna works for a research institute in rail transportation. They could not eat without two incomes.

Sergei's father was a painter and his mother an economist, Anna's parents were chemists (at least her mother was). They say it's difficult because they both work and both sets of grandparents are dead, and so there is no one to help with Lupa. I find that odd, for in my family the grandparents were rarely a source of babysitting or transportation. But Mother never worked when I was in school, and Mother and Daddy both help Maria in those areas. I suppose it's simply different for everyone.

I am still overwhelmed that I am in the land of my former enemies, that I am allowed to walk freely through the city I was raised to fear. Our culture taught us that these were bad people, a bad government, that they were to be feared. The thought pops to mind that my parents were wiser than my culture--while they never openly said so I'm sure they believed the Soviets to be normal people in a bad situation. That is certainly what they were, and still are. Anna commented that, "in Russia it seems now that we have everything." Too bad nobody can afford it. I suppose.

The grime and stench and crazy traffic and dark airport and general mood of the people on the street tell me that things here will get worse before they get better, that there will have to be a Dark Ages before there's a Renaissance. But the sound and laugh and being of Anna and Sergei tell me perhaps not. Anna comments that with the end of commmunism there is an urge to rename everything, from cities to train stations. I sense only relief when she says that, that even in what I consider hardship there is a sense of collective relief for freedom.

I can say only that when I write "I am an American," I feel relief as well. Not pride, not self-righteous satisfaction, but pure and utter relief.

Tomorrow, the Kremlin and the circus. Until then, I bid farewell.

Michael

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