Ukraine is a country that long suffered under the boot of oppression. Under the Soviet regime, millions were killed in Stalin’s Famine Genocide and those who survived were threatened with death for as little as speaking their own language. But throughout their long history Ukrainians have always been resilient  and no matter what they had to endure, their thirst for freedom never wavered. In 1991, Ukraine at last became an independent nation with a stready stream of growing pains ever since. Even today, old scars remain and bad blood will still bubble up when one least expects it - even in the the back of a taxi.  Special guest Veronica Khokhlova comes to us from the beautiful city of Kiev, taking RELATVITY OnLine behind the former Iron Curtain to reveal a fresh slice of new millenium Eastern European pie.

I know a person here in Moscow who, while having a casual conversation, always pauses before saying the word ‘Ukrainians’ – and never says it. He says the word ‘khokhly” instead, always. He once asked me why ‘khokhly’ are getting so emotional about being called ‘khokhly.’ I had a question of my own instead of an answer: what is it that makes an otherwise normal, educated person, who’s wasted half his life voting for Yavlinsky’s Yabloko and cursing Putin, substitute a totally legit word for the one that, as he himself admits, is making somebody nervous? How does his mind work? I can’t imagine myself substituting the word ‘Russians’ for ‘katsapy’ every time I talk to a Russian, I told this guy. Let me try, though, I added.

And then I spent five minutes or so pausing and saying ‘katsapy’ instead of ‘Russians’ whenever that word came up. It wasn’t a fun exercise. I felt like shit. And the guy grew visibly uncomfortable in those five minutes or so, too, which was kind of funny. He didn’t admit feeling uncomfortable, though, and moved on to another subject instead: the origin of the word ‘Ukraine’ – okraina, outskirts, borderland and all that, the usual crap. I told him I had better things to do than having a discussion on this subject and left. I haven’t spoken to him ever since. He admitted being a senile ass to another person right away, apologized through that other person, which was somewhat poignant, but I really do have better things to occupy myself with than having those silly conversations with him ever again.

Writing about Putin’s sense of humor isn’t one of those ‘better’ things, and I thought one tweet about it would be enough: “Putin trying to impress Tymoshenko with his cab driver sense of humor (RUS) http://bit.ly/53JbUe.”

But then a former colleague posted a response on my Facebook page today, which made me realize that my description of Putin’s sense of humor was a bit misleading – and offensive towards cab drivers. Basically, there are too many cab drivers who are way cooler than Putin, even though he once considered becoming one, and it’s unfair and rude to generalize like this; my sincere apologies to cab drivers.

I was again forced to dodge the guy obsessed with the ‘khokhly’ word – our paths do cross every now and then – and it got me thinking in analogies again. What if Yulia had followed up on Putin’s jokes about Yushchenko and Saakashvili with a bunch of her own – say, about Moscow mayor Yuri Luzhkov, his ridiculous leather caps and his inane attempts to do geopolitics stuff in Crimea instead of just keeping Moscow clean and happy. Like Putin’s jokes, that wouldn’t have sounded funny, and Yulia is a good girl, too, so she just giggled along with everyone else and played the femininity card, making one awkward joke of her own, about not wearing a tie – unlike Saakashvili. Would have been counterproductive of her, of course, to ruin that lovely endorsement that she’d just received from her Russian colleague.

Speaking of Yulia, Putin and Luzhkov, I’ve recently stumbled on an item(RUS) about Konstantin Korolevsky, the brother of one of Yulia’s most prominent teammates, Natalya Korolevskaya (I wrote briefly about the two of them at the end of this lengthy post).This guy used to be the first deputy head of the department of urban construction policy, development and reconstruction of the city of Moscow, but this past summer he was transferred to Putin’s “government apparatus,” following rumors of Luzhkov’s displeasure at the results of Korolevsky’s work and some allegations of major corruption. So who knows, maybe Yulia and Putin are cracking jokes about Luzhkov during their private meetings. Because, all things considered, it’s hard to imagine the two of them discussing Anton Pavlovich Chekhov: Putin must have been joking when he said they would.

Our foreign affairs ministry, via the deputy foreign minister, announced that the joking episode had been taken out of context by some media and politicians, and that the Tymoshenko-Putin meeting had been quite productive at many levels. Among other things, what really hurts here is the fact that Yulia and the current foreign affairs minister Petro Poroshenko appear to have finally made it up, just in time for the 2010 election. Had they not been fighting ever since Yushchenko’s 2004 victory, causing the mess of Sept. 2005,who knows, maybe Ukraine wouldn’t have ranked #146 (out of 180) on Transparency International’s Corruption Perceptions Index now. This, of course, isn’t exclusively their fault, and Russia, too, is #146, while Georgia, led by the butt of Putin’s jokes, Saakashvili, since 2003, is currently at #66, but still.

Another reason why I decided to apologize to cab drivers is because of a guy who drove me home today. An ethnic Georgian, born and raised in Moscow, with family in Batumi, he was telling me of how much things have changed in Georgia in the past few years. It used to take months to get through bureaucracy while getting registered as the owner of real estate, and now you can have it all done in a single day, without running around from one office to another, bribing everyone along the way – now you just submit all the paperwork at one office, and they don’t even want to take a box of candies from the grateful you. Traffic cops are not taking bribes, either – they are not stopping cars indiscriminately in order to demand a bribe. In the Soviet times, he said, Georgia was considered to be the most corrupt republic, and people used to think that it was impossible to change anything, took corruption for granted, but it turns out that if the authorities start doing something to stop corruption, things do change for the better eventually. Funny, but we didn’t really mention Saakashvili in the course of this conversation – but, obviously, much if not all of the credit went to him.

We didn’t mention the Putin-Tymoshenko joking episode, either, and we didn’t have the time to discuss the Aug. 2008 war. And, at one point, the guy said he was a “pro-Russian person” – because he grew up here and cared about things – and, at another point, he said that he liked Yushchenko, but thought that, unfortunately, he was a weak leader. He also told me of how he had lost his driver’s license once and then drove some 400 km across Georgia, and the police didn’t stop him once – because he didn’t violate any traffic rules, he said. To all this, part of me wants to say, Go figure, and another part of me thinks that it all makes perfect sense. Life, after all, is a crazy mess, full of contradictions and halftones.

Veronica Khokhlova is a Kiev native and has been a blogger since 2005 and can be found on her blog, Global Voices, Flickr and Twitter.  

I never make it through a day without thoughts of my grandfather crossing my ever-racing mind, but come January the comforting spectre of his presence is stronger than at any other time of year.  The son of Ukrainian immgrant born in the farmhouse his father built with his own hands, the same house where my father was born and raised, my grandfather passed away on January 20th, 2003.   I am the son of farmer’s son of a farmer’s son, and this is not my story but the story of the North American New World.

More than a century ago the Canadian prairies lay in waiting, with the promise of freedom and opportunity for all those willing to devote themselves to the land and to the back-breaking work necessary in order to make a better life. At the same time, the rich soil of Ukraine wallowed in poverty. The hard-working souls within the provinces of Bukovina and Galicia were dogged by hardship and worked under the unforgiving boot of oppression. The peasantry of serfdom placed many in destitute conditions and life was often barely livable. The near feudal lords of Austria, who at that time controlled Ukraine, along with significant clerical tariffs taxed away not only the farmer’s surpluses, but gouged into what was necessary to simply stay alive.

The majority of farms in Ukraine covered less than ten acres of land and a man who owned more than that was considered wealthy. Moreover, the land was often broken up into different pieces and was rarely a continuous stretch of soil. Out on the Canadian prairies, 160 acres of free land were waiting for anyone who dared to make the long and arduous journey from their homeland. The adventurous trek would take them through Europe and then across the Atlantic, only to then travel thousands of miles across rugged countryside until they finally reached the Western frontier and a brave new world. Between what seemed like a magical place and those industrious enough to make the journey, lay a gap stretching half way round the globe. Far greater than any physical divide was the unthinkable distance between being an oppressed peasant living under tyrannical rule and a new world pioneer living in freedom. There was also the powerful and intimidating barrier of language that stood like a towering wall between oppression and liberty. With that said, all that was needed to begin an influx of some 250,000 Ukrainian immigrants to this new world in waiting was knowledge of its existence.

The plight of the Ukrainian farmer began to draw attention from the intellectuals of the day and by the 1870s philanthropic organizations were established in Galicia. They strived to assist and educate the oppressed in hopes of creating hope for the future. Soon after, they began to market the idea of emigration as an option for a better life.

Word of free lands on the prairies of a newborn nation half way round the world reached Ukraine soon after. At first it was difficult for many to believe, as it seemed to be a fantasy. For ten dollars in taxation fees the government would provide anyone who filed a claim with a 160-acre quarter section of land. Taxation in this strange new world was little in comparison, but most importantly all were equal. There would be no more lords draining life from families and the government existed to help wherever they could. It was a magical dream to the Ukrainian, a chance to belong to oneself and at last find freedom. With that said, it was not easy to leave behind all they ever were. They would have to leave their families and friends, their beloved homes where their parents and grandparents were born, their villages that had raised generations, and their cemeteries that held hundreds of years of history.  But go they did. Entire families carried all their worldly possessions on their backs and began a global trek that took them first through Germany. There they would set sail to Liverpool, before crossing the English countryside to South Hampton, where they eventually set sail for either Quebec City or Halifax.

It’s difficult to imagine the desperation and bravery that inspired so many to leave Ukraine behind and take such an incredible journey. For many, leaving the Ukraine behind was the best thing they ever did, but it was without question the most painful. Such courage and strength is hard to imagine.

The two-week journey across the Atlantic was a difficult one. Fifteen to twenty men, women and children were crammed into each hold and the conditions were unpleasant. Food was available, but sparse and hunger was a part of the steamship’s journey. Despite leaving behind their homes and the difficult conditions, spirits were high. As the ship sliced though the Atlantic, the talk was always about what lay ahead. They spoke of how in the New World they would no longer work as slaves. The land would be theirs and for their children that followed. They frankly discussed the difficulties awaiting them in their first few years, as they fully expected the work to be unrelenting. This was accepted by all because after a few years of sacrifice, the average farm would have a team of horses, a herd of cattle, pigs, chickens and forty to fifty acres of cleared and cultivated land, producing the finest of crops. More than anything, they spoke of how with hard work everyone would have freedom, allowing each and every Ukrainian who made the journey and sacrificed so much to live proudly.

At the end of the trip across the ocean the anticipation of all those on board reached a fevered pitch. When their feet first touched down upon the New World, it must have seemed no less than magical. The young city of Quebec was bustling with activity, but in the end was of little interest to the Ukrainian. It was only a pit stop between their former homes and the land that would soon be theirs. Within a few days they were once again on the move. Whether by wagon, by horse, by train or on foot, they all set off on a journey into the wilderness ranging nearly half way across the country. They wouldn’t stop until they reached the city of Winnipeg. With a population of nearly 30,000, Winnipeg was a large city for its day. It was the last outpost of significance and was the point of no return. What lay ahead was only wilderness and a few small clusters of souls across an untamed land. It was in Winnipeg where they found maps of surveyed areas and information on how to file a claim to secure a quarter section of land out west. As they looked over the maps, it was hard for them to grasp the concept that between Winnipeg and the Pacific lay hundreds of millions of acres of land. They were told they could have any 160-acre section they wanted. It all seemed too good to be true.

The Canadian Pacific Railway had been completed all the way to the Pacific in 1885, shortly after the Louis Riel Rebellion, and many Ukrainians booked passage on the CPR before they even left their homeland. They ventured towards the great West and into the last frontier of the New World.  Little pinpoints of civilization ran along the tracks that cut through a wild and rugged land from Winnipeg to what would today be Vancouver. Even if one combined the population of every single outpost along the way, at the onset of the 20^th century it created an urban population of less than ten thousand people. As they bored deeper and deeper into the heartland, they could hardly believe their eyes. The incomprehensible endlessness of the prairies before them seemed to be no less than a paradise.

Upon arriving, many were astonished at the complete lack of infrastructure. They found themselves in the midst of utter wilderness. Ukrainians didn’t realize what the conditions would be like and had no idea they would be coming to such a harsh and primitive country. Many thought they would be able to acquire land in areas that were at least somewhat developed, but there were not even road let alone villages. Only open prairies, rolling hills, winding rivers, and densely forested wonderlands lay before them. The Ukrainians were there at what was no less than the very beginning and the birth of a new nation. It must have been an amazing feeling.

Upon arriving at the nearest immigration center, they ventured out to examine mapped and surveyed land in the area. Ukrainians always loved forested land. Back in Ukraine the Austrians or Germans had the right to claim land before the Ukrainians and the timbered sections were always taken first, which meant most Ukrainians sat upon barren open land. Now in the New World, they stood on equal ground with everyone else.  As a result, they often snapped up forested land as it was needed for both fuel and for building their homes, barns, and fences. After choosing the quarter section of land they wanted, it only needed to be made official. Returning to the immigration office with ten dollars and a township map in hand, pioneers simply said, “This is the piece I want,” and the land was theirs.

The Ukrainian settlers who arrived at the beginning of this new nation in the late 1800s and early 1900s had very limited means to establish themselves. Yes, the land was theirs but it was wild, stone infested and heavily timbered.  Yes, this was a wonderful opportunity, but it was also a self-serving move by the Canadian government. They had found a way to have this untamed land cleared and structured. After taking the first few years breaking their land and building their homes, a nation’s infrastructure came to fruition. Roads were built, communities sprouted, businesses were started, local governments were formed, and a vast and barren wilderness slowly turned into viable, prosperous, consumer based, economy building taxable cluster of citizens. Much of it was hauled in on the backs of the immigrants who gave up their home and their country to build themselves a new life and a new nation for all those who wished to stem the great divide.

With little means in the beginning, work was done most often with their hands and their backs and the entire family contributed. Cutting down trees and rounding them for building, as well as chopping up fallen timber and stacking into piles for burning were amongst the first duties. The little money some families did have was often spent on oxen or horses. These animals labored long hours, side by side with their owners, plowing through deeply set roots, pulling them through the soil, until the sod was turned over into furrows. The women and children followed behind and broke up the furrows with make shift hoes. While they weren’t toiling in the fields, their homes, corrals and animal shelters were built with wood harvested from the land. After several weeks of torturously hard labor and of ending their days sleeping in make shift shelters or under wagons while cooking over open fires, things began to look like the very beginnings of a farm. It took the average homesteaders about a month of hard labor per one acre of land cleared, so the work that lay ahead of them was still daunting. With that said, eventually a patch of cultivated land would appear as men, women and children working together scratched out a single acre of land at a time. Afterwards, they stared out over the land and saw their accomplishments slowly building with each day and pride surged through their bodies.

At last these people who truly loved the land had their hands back in the soil, but this time it was their soil, their land and what resulted was the birth of a new world. These homesteaders, who lived for generations under the suffrage of tyranny and had no experience of democratic life, had only heard of the concept of freedom. Now they were living it.

And the New World was born.

From David Anthony Hohol…

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