I have a laundry list of excuses for why I haven’t updated in eight bagillion years: it’s finally spring and I can’t justify spending time in front of my computer when the weather is just so beautiful; I realized I’m only here for another two months, and have therefore been spending every waking (and sleeping!) moment with friends; I’ve been struggling with my ever present feelings about what it means to be a foreigner living in Russia; I’m lazy.  Take your pick.

Last week, my students performed a role-play in which they discussed different stereotypes that Americans have of Russia and vice versa.  I was actually quite impressed by their bald faced honesty and articulate rendering of a topical that could potentially turn volatile.  They swatted away the easy topics of bears in the street and vodka injections from an IV and opted for more serious issues, like modern youth culture, globalization, and immigration.  I was completely shocked – this particular group has some weird social vibe, and I was convinced that there was nothing I could do that would encourage them to utter more than two simple sentences per class.  But on this day, in that magical room on the eighth floor, they were jumping over each other to ask me questions.  They were arguing with each other about things that are truly important to them, not just points of view that they have to take because the text book requires them to.  They were initiating, talking, conversing!

One girl’s comment about immigrants, however, really got me thinking.  She said something along the lines of, “People who come to Russia act like it’s their home even when it’s not.  They don’t respect Russia.”  It’s a pretty straightforward statement, except that I had no idea what she meant by ‘respect’ and ‘home.’  If these people have moved to Russia, isn’t Russia their new home?  Or is home always that place where you come from, and not necessarily that place where you are?  And what does it mean to ‘respect’ a place?  She had a hard time answering these questions, and I think everyone in the room realized that it’s much more complicated than we all first thought.

Until this year, I thought that people who lived in Russia were Russian.  It seems pretty clear, but then you remember that when asked what they are, Americans will answer with a detailed history of their families’ various nationalities: I’m about half Irish and French Canadian with a little Native American and a sprinkle of Luxemburgish.  I assumed that all my students in Russia would be Russian, and therefore necessarily made an ass out of myself (haha…oh bad word play).  Most of my students here can trace their families back through Ukraine, Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, and sometimes even as far as Mongolia.  Somehow in the sea of my infinite ignorance I had lumped all of these countries together, supposing that their shared governance under the Soviet Union had somehow translated into a shared identity and sense of nationality.  This is not the case.  People here are quick to point out the small yet significant differences in culture, history, tradition, language and the main point – politics.  The real kicker is that during the Soviet period all of the national boundaries disappeared, and people moved quite freely throughout the Union.  But with the fall of the iron curtain rose the walls of separate nations, often trapping Turkmenis in Russian, Russians in Ukraine, et cetera, et cetera.  Now you can find little hamlets of ‘immigrants’ all over Russia, working and living here as though they were home.

This is the point my student took up with relish.  How can they live here and not respect Russia?  How can they live here, taking advantage of the perks of being in Russia, and not adhere to the normative traditions, language, customs, and way of life?  Why do they feel like this is home when they are so fundamentally not Russian?

I was a little taken aback by her bluntness.  Sure, there are Americans who feel the same way about illegal aliens, but in my mind the situation in Russia is a little different.  For one, the language barrier that so many people complain about in America is not really an issue here – most people in former satellite states can at least understand, if not speak fluent, Russian.  Most Russians even have relatives living somewhere outside the borders of Russia.  And not so long ago, those borders weren’t even there.  Regardless of the political situation past or present, it seems that there is a strong sense of Russianness and otherness, which leads to the question: What does it mean to be Russian?  What makes a Russian “Russian?”  Apparently, living here and building your life here isn’t enough.  That place where you live is just your house, not your home.  Most of the students agreed that ‘home’ is the place where you are born, and even if you move away from that place, your ‘home’ will remain where your roots are.  This idea of nativeness seems to be a huge part of the Russian identity. 

But is that it?  Someone once told me that language is what makes someone Russian, although that opinion was quickly shot down when someone else noted that I speak Russian and am most decidedly not Russian.  Someone else once told me that being Russian is some innate part of your soul.  You share a common empathy with your fellow countrymen.  My fellow Fulbright Fellows share the opinion that being Russian entails lots of vodka, cigarettes, high heels for women, black pointy-toed shoes for men, and an imperviousness to frigid winters.  Personally, I think it’s a mix of all of these things, and anyone who does not embody all of these parts never was and never will be considered ‘Russian.’  And if you aren’t Russian, Russia will likely never be home for you in the same way that it is for your Russian neighbors.

I guess that’s true anywhere, for the most part.  However tacky it may be, I’m a firm believer in the “home is where the heart is” attitude.  As for this whole issue of respecting a place, I don’t think I’ll be able to work that one out through writing a blog post about it.  Respect is a culturally loaded term that has wildly different interpretations and expressions, and most of the time those do not translate from country to country.  Maybe I’ll take this one on when I have something decisive to say about it; for now, I’ll go back to searching for little patches of home in Russia, which for now means sitting in my favorite café, pretending that everyone here is speaking English and drinking real coffee.