REFLECTIONS: A visit to Ukraine nurtures Ukrainian identity

by John Fedynsky

Despite the fact that my permanent mailing address has not changed since 1980, I have known many homes in my 20 years. Included among them are relatives' homes, my parish, several college dormitories and a few tents I called home while scouting. Last spring, I found a new one to add to my list: Ukraine. On March 24 I finally set foot in the cradle of my family, the land that seemed little more than a distant memory I could never experience.

I came back to Ukraine for the first time.

It was a bittersweet experience. I felt at home much of the time, but there were moments when I was alien and far removed from my surroundings. In Kyiv I was met with the grim, unwelcome sight of red stars and hammers and sickles that remain etched prominently in places like the Verkhovna Rada and the history museum. I struggled in communicating with people whose first impulse is to speak in Russian. When I would insist on Ukrainian and tell others that I know Ukrainian well but have hardly any understanding of Russian, I was met with perplexed stares. For native Ukrainians, if you know Ukrainian, then you must know Russian as well, and vice versa. I was in little position to criticize however, for I'm just as Americanized as they are Russified.

But I never felt as Ukrainian as I did when I stood in Independence Square during the requiem gathering commemorating the first anniversary of Vyacheslav Chornovil's untimely death. As the speakers and singers communicated in perfect Ukrainian, I wondered just how amazed my late paternal grandfather would have been had someone told him his grandson would one day stand in the middle of the capital of an independent, democratic Ukraine commemorating one of its fallen national heroes. He would have leapt for joy, and I felt his spirit do just that as I gazed at all the blue-and-yellow flags and sensed a pride and a hope for the future that absolutely permeated the air. I stood in and breathed, if only for a moment, the kind of Ukraine of which my grandfather and countless more had steadfastly dreamt, but could never know.

The dream is somewhat clouded by the economic situation, which is particularly evident in Lviv. A quick economic barometer I found is in the money itself. The lower the denomination, the more worn the bill generally is, which suggests that only the smallest exchanges dominate the economy. World-class museums are deserted despite admission prices that are the equivalent of a dime. Elderly women would follow me around inside and flick lights on and off for me as I entered and exited empty galleries. It was a somewhat comical cost-cutting measure, yet woefully revealing. Everywhere on the street there are people selling whatever produce they can pull together to get their hands on some money, any money. Those who sell more durable goods, like arts and crafts, seemed even more desperate. Their faces lit up with excitement when they would see a Westerner approaching. Some even remembered my name from day to day.

Incidentally, Lviv seemed to have very few foreigners like me, which made me quite the novelty. It seemed as though people could spot me from a mile away as an "inozemets," a foreigner. It was funny how people would stare at me out of curiosity. More self-conscious adults disguised it, looking away as I would make eye contact. But the little kids are too unsophisticated to care. They would fix their eyes on me and turn their heads to follow my path as I would walk by. I would try not to smirk when I noticed. And God forbid if I spoke in public with my highly detectable accident, which would always cause a stir.

But what stirred me was a richness that transcended the economic reality. I enjoyed wonderful hospitality everywhere I went and adjusted to having two dinners a night since everyone insisted on feeding me. I met some family for the first time and feasted in their company as they shared artifacts and other family heirlooms with me. They showed me the vestiges of what remained of my family in Ukraine - houses we once called home, and ancestors' gravesites.

We drove to Strilkivtsi, the village where my father spent his first few years. Word spread of my arrival, and by the time I made it through our old house, the church where my great-grandfather was a priest and the cemetery where some of my family is buried, I had attracted a crowd. I had my own entourage - some of whom remembered my father - following me around! I felt like I could stay forever, but I had to leave after only a few hours, which is metaphoric for my whole experience in Ukraine.

All my life, I was removed by space and time from my roots. I overcame the spatial divide, but as I stood at grave after grave and looked at my childless uncle and thought about how I would leave after a few days, I knew time would have the last say. I could never go back to the time when my ancestors lived, and I could not remain with my uncle forever. And then the spatial divide re-emerged. I felt so at home, yet very distant at the same time, as though I was in two places at once.

Then I looked deep within myself and saw to what extent I am Ukrainian and just how un-Ukrainian I am. Now I better know the limitations of my knowledge of all things Ukrainian, including language, culture, history and literature especially. I feel watered-down in my Ukrainian-ness as I witness my and my family's Americanization. On balance, though, my trip made me more Ukrainian and convinced me that I would like to return one day for a longer period of time.

An even greater conviction that my experience reaffirmed is that my generation cannot simply be Ukrainian by blood. We must be Ukrainian by choice and by association, by word and deed. There is a framework of organizations and traditions that we must come to embrace individually. Through them, we can look for inclusion, not assimilation, in whatever wider society, such as America, where we equally belong.

We all nurture a remnant, however great or small, within us that remains Ukrainian through and through. Hold on to that remnant! It is who you are. It is who I am.

John Fedynsky of Detroit is a senior majoring in philosophy at Georgetown University. He is editor of the university newspaper, The Independent, is a John Carroll scholar at Georgetown, and spent his junior year abroad at the London School of Economics. He is an active member of the Plast Ukrainian Scouting Organization and a graduate of Immaculate Conception Ukrainian Catholic High School.

Copyright © The Ukrainian Weekly, August 20, 2000, No. 34, Vol. LXVIII

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