A Meditation on Socialist Realism

During the 1990s, a strange trend developed in Kyiv. Every year, there would be a massive series of auctions of Socialist-Realist paintings and the occasional sculpture. Expats would flock with their Ben Franklins (no checkbooks in Ukraine, and, at most galleries, no credit cards, either, back then) to these auctions, buzzing as though they were going to see newly-discovered Van Goghs or the Spring collection from John Galliano. It was dismaying to watch people plump down thousands of dollars for the rosy-colored canvases of dead artists while the most wonderful, intense, individual works of young, living artists collected dust on the walls of the same galleries. Now this trend is hitting some of the country's fanciest hotels, one of which, with its elegant, sumptuous ritzy decor and 100- year-old history, is bragging about its collection of nearly 300 Socialist-Realist paintings. Dusty soviet movies, as 'realistic' as any Doris Day-Rock Hudson film from the 1950s, are being promoted at Metro Cash-n-Carry. Socialist-Realist posters are considered hip by advertisers. There are more than a few things that I despise about Socialist Realism, better known as “Soats-Ray-a-leezm” in Ukraine and Russia. This is the school of art that became the state-approved style under Josef Stalin: The super-men and super-women of the Workers’ Paradise that can still be found in most cities that were once behind the Iron Curtain, intimidating bronze behemoths marching grim-faced or fanatically wide-eyed, chest forward into a future that no longer exists. This was the art that Mr. Stalin deemed politically correct. Everything else was bourgeois and subversive. First of all, Socialist-Realism epitomizes all that is bad about Art as Propaganda. When art stoops to propaganda, it simplifies, limits and browbeats. It is filled with the banalities of the billboard white-washer, the political sound-bite writer, the politically correct civil servant. Issues become the guiding principle, rather than exploration, and if the issue is to perpetrate a lie, then lying becomes the guiding principle. Which is the second reason why I despise Socialist-Realism: most Socialist-Realist art is a Big Fat Lie. When mediaeval and renaissance artists painted Madonnas and saints ad infinitum, one could say that they were victims of a propaganda machine, the Catholic Church. But, first of all, they did not propagate a lie. They did not pretend that crucifixion was fun or that being poor or sick was something for humans to aspire to. Instead, they took the framework of Christian mythology, sets and symbols, and aspired to create the best possible rendition while pushing the envelope of artistic perception and interpretation of the world as they knew. The result was centuries’ worth of incredibly rich art, exploring the world of the imagination through the metaphors of religion, and inspiring viewers for hundreds of years afterwards. Communism, on the other hand, perpetrated murder on the minds of human beings. It pretended that the high should aspire to be low, that cleaning toilets, working in a coal pit, and standing on an interminable, earsplitting assembly line were holy and wonderful things. This is a lie. I was in a pulp and paper mill when I was 24, for three days only. And when I left, I could not rid my clothes of the sulphur smell for a week. The whole time I was there, I thought, This is a factory of death. Dark and slippery metal stairs, dripping with corrosive acids, wrapped their rickety ways up the sides of causticizing tanks and vats filled with nasty stuff. The work areas were lit by dim and dirty lightbulbs dangling from frayed electrical cords. The noise level was unbelievable. People not only did not look happy working there, but they smelled the hell of their workplace all year round. I was there in the dead of winter and it was piercing; I could not imagine what it would be like in the hot summer. And three generations of Canadians had worked in that mill. Luckily, Canada was not communist, and over the years, regulations improved and the environment in and around these mills was improved. This is the right approach to making the lives of workers better. Since we always will need people to do dirty work, we should try to make it less dirty and pay them well. Communism did the opposite: it glorified the ugly and brought beauty down to its own level. Instead of a garbage collector aspiring to a white-collar job and a home of his own, college professors degraded into rubbies: uncouth, unkempt and impoverished. This is a travesty. It makes the life of the low better in the meanest possible way: through schadenfreude – exultation in the misery of others – rather than through genuine progress in the overall quality of all human life. And this travesty is what Socialist Realism largely portrayed. Pictures of rosy-cheeked peasants and miners carrying red banners and having picnics in vast sunny fields. Show that to the miners who are dying of black lung at 35 and have lost half their high-school classmates to accidents. Pictures of the myriad steelmills, papermills, chemical refineries, all crisp and correct, in the bright blue air. Sanitized, disinfected and in total denial of their true meaning in the lives of the people who suffered there every day for their entire working lives. Perhaps it should be called Socialist-Idealism. Except that that, too, would be a lie. The rare Socialist-Realist artist found a way to treat the constraints of political painting somewhat like the mediaeval artist did religious painting. Evading lies, this artist sought out interesting people or awe-inspiring landscapes. In the painting of a family paying respects to its dead by breaking bread over the Dnipro, the scene is suffused with an unbelievable back-lit sunshine that comes close to resembling holy light, and the serenity of the family sitting around a sad and resigned grandmother becomes nearly iconic in the most spiritual sense of the word, so that the viewer hardly notices the shape of the tombstone. No fake bonhomie, no bathos – and no lies. So why do collectors love Socialist Realism? It’s simple. There are no grey areas in Socialist Realism, there are no abstractions, there is no hidden meaning. What you see is what you get, and for people who do not understand art much, that’s perfect. People with no artistic bent can look at a Sots-Realizm painting and “get it.” And because they want to “get it” above all, they get these paintings. They’re just like the brown schooners on stormy turquoise seas, the cosy cottages in the forest, the vases of lilacs on a universal table that a certain kind of collector looks for, to match the colors in the bedroom. Except that they’re also politically hip. That is the third reason why I despise Socialist-Realism. The lie of Communism has become politically hip. People have forgotten the reality behind the façade: the crushed miners behind the neatly painted smokestacks against the stripped hillsides, the murdered artists behind the group portraits of distinguished academics, the famine holocaust behind the rosy-cheeked grain girls in their white kerchiefs and bright-colored skirts. It makes me want to shout to my friends: Stop buying the Lie! •

RC#68: The public bad

published in Eastern Economist #464, December 26, 2002

I’ve been thinking lately that the capitalists in this country are anything but reluctant. They’re as aggressive and monopolistic as Microsoft. It’s the guys that are supposed to defend the public good that are reluctant. The lawmakers, the prosecutors, the police. I may even have to change the name of this column. Here’s something passed along to me by a Canadian friend in Kyiv:

            “Last weekend, I had planned to spend a day in L’viv, but I never got on the train. I wasn’t going there for the happiest of reasons. It was the eighth anniversary of the death of a very good friend.

            “Each year, a group of us visit Orest’s grave so as not to forget what he meant to each of us. And each year, fewer and fewer of us show up. This time, I was one of the drop-outs.

            “Since Sept. 16, 2000, when Georgiy Gongadze disappeared, and even more recently, when the body of Mykhailo Kolomiets was found in Belarus, one question continues to nag me. What exactly is the role of public prosecutors in Ukraine? Do they ever actually solve any serious crimes? When it comes to suspicious deaths, my experience in Ukraine says ‘No, they don’t.’

            “When I met him on my first trip to Ukraine in 1990, Orest was a student leader. Head of World Ukrainian Student Organization, he also ran the Studentske Bratstvo, a fraternity in L’viv. A charasmatic and honest man who was always ready to help the next guy, Orest was that most rare of creatures among soviet citizens, a straight shooter.

            “We immediately took to each other and he joined me on my first pilgrimage to my father’s village. There, we spent a few evenings seated outside my aunt’s house, singing sentimental songs about Ukraine. My aunt and cousin listened with tears in their eyes.

            “Only a couple of years earlier, such a ‘display of nationalism’ could have led to Orest’s prompt arrest and my immediate whisking away to the nearest airport by an Intourist ‘guide.’

            “Our friendship grew over four years.

            “Then one evening in mid-December 1994, back in Montreal, I came home to find my answering machine blinking furiously. There was an unusual number of messages. I listened to the first one. ‘Hi, this is Slavko from Cleveland. I’m calling to find out about the situation with Orest?’ The caller hadn’t left his number, and I couldn’t recall a Slavko from Cleveland.

            “The rest of the messages were similar. One after another, they asked about Orest. They came from all over North America and there were several more whom I didn’t know.

            “What was going on? I quickly made some calls of my own and tried to get back to some of those who had called me. No luck.

            “Before giving up, I decided to try one more number. I dialed an NGO in Kyiv that Orest had been affliated with. The tense voice of a young woman answer at the other end of the line. After I explained who I was and why I was calling, there was a long pause. With a tremble in her voice, she finally said, 'Orest is dead.'

            “I was stunned. I had spoken to him only four days earlier. ‘How? What happened?’

            “‘It seems he was poisoned,’ the young woman replied. ‘The prosecutor’s office hasn’t stated any clear cause of death, but they’re not considering foul play.’

            “I felt icy shock and my heart began to race. A week earlier, a former professor and a long-time friend had died of heart failure. But this was different. Orest was 28. A young, vital, healthy person. My best friend in Ukraine was dead, for no apparent reason. And there wasn’t a thing I could do.

            “Mutual friends later reported that the official story was he died of alcohol poisoning. Yet, his widow insisted that when Orest had arrived home the last night, he was totally sober. Not only that, she told me, he had had over US $400 in his breast pocket and it was still there when he came home. She thought someone must have slipped something into Orest’s drink, because he was in a great deal of pain.

            “At the time I tried to keep track of the futile investigation thousands of kilometers away, in L’viv. Like everyone else who knew Orest, I wanted concrete answers. But officials either suggested he had drunk himself to death or that he had had an enlarged heart. (Prosecutors in Ukraine love that one.)

            “Curiously, at the time of his death Orest was also responsible for the Ukrainian branch of an American humanitarian aid society that provided medical supplies for orphanages and hospitals in Western Ukraine. There were rumors at the time that some local racketeers wanted in on the supplies he was getting. The idea was that he would pilfer some, they could sell it on the black market, and he would get a cut.

            “It wasn’t exactly an original set-up. Many aid organizations found themselves in the same situation. Many succumbed to the temptation – or the threat. But Orest would never have agreed to such an arrangement.

            “Whatever had really happened, none of us would ever know. The years passed. Together with Orest’s other friends and his family, I came to accept that he was dead. His widow eventually remarried. To this day, we keep in touch, as do many of the others I met through Orest.

            “I see some of these friends more than others. Some are journalists, some are lawyers, a few are even politicians. We’re always analysing the state of the country. And when somebody suddenly dies, we just look at each other as if to say, 'There’s another Orest. We’ll never know the truth about that one!'

            “But you know what? It shouldn’t be that way.” •

–thanks to Liubko M.

RC#67: Reluctant lawmakers

published in Eastern Economist #463, December 19, 2002

On Nov. 28, the Verkhovna Rada surprised everybody by refusing to replace the current very competent governor of the National Bank of Ukraine by a deputy who is also the head of a commercial banking group. Mr. Tihipko originally ran Dnipropetrovsk-based PrivatBank. Last year, he set up a new group called TAS (the initials supposedly stand for Tihipko Anna Serhiyivna, his 16-year old daughter). They bought out Société Générale’s investment branch in Kyiv when the French packed it in.

            The conflict of interest issue has had everyone on their ear. Even the IMF and the World Bank have had their say about Mr. Kuchma’s candidate.

            This is a partial transcription of what took place in the Verkhovna Rada of Ukraine on Dec. 12, thanks to my trusty dictaphone. The matter of dismissing Mr. Stelmakh was brought up a second time at the request of President Kuchma. The session started out normally enough.

10:01

Speaker Lytvyn: Good morning, honorable deputies, guests and visitors to the VR… 429 deputies have registered. I hereby declare this session open… Mr. Ostash please.

Deputy Ostash: My fellow deputies, I would like to draw your attention to the fact that we are in violation of our own procedures here today. Bills and resolutions rejected by the VR or those that essentially repeat bills that have been rejected, cannot be entered into the agenda during the same sitting of the legislature. According to this rule, we cannot today examine the question of removing the governor of the National Bank of Ukraine. We therefore request that this item be struck from the agenda.

Lytvyn: Thank you.

Deputy Matvienko: Mr. Speaker and Mr. Premier, I have a question to both of you. Could you please explain what is happening here? We’re violating VR regulations. No new circumstances have appeared, yet we have the dismissal of Mr. Stelmakh on our agenda again. The VR has already made its position clear regarding the president’s request.

Lytvyn: I can answer your question right now, Mr. Matvienko. We’re not in violation.

Noise errupts in the hall.

Deputy Lutsenko: My honorable deputies and the not-so-honorable Presidium. I would like to move that we give the podium to Deputy Sas.

Lyvtyn: Mr. Sas, please take the podium.

More noise in the hall.

Lytvyn: Please step forward. Deputy Sas from the VR procedures committee.

Deputy Sas: Thank you, Mr. Speaker… (goes on to explain the procedural details) … The second appeal of the President can’t be considered during the current VR session, according to VR rules.

Lytvyn: Thank you. Please finish. My fellow deputies, please take your places. Please. The procedures committee has made its position clear. Let’s move along, please. What else is needed? My fellow deputies, please take your places. Are we going to have to toss someone out?

More noise in the hall.

Lytvyn: Please, my fellow deputies. There are two draft resolutions regarding this issue–

More noise in the hall.

Lytvyn: Are you going to let me talk or not? I repeat. There are two – come on, now. I will make an announcement and then you can talk. Will you please quiet down or not? There’s a draft resolution put forward by Deputies Yushchenko, Moroz and Tymoshenko, about the unacceptability of this resolution. We will put this first one to a vote, about the unacceptability of the second resolution according to VR regulations, correct? And then we will put the other resolution to the vote, if necessary.

More noise in the hall.

Lytvyn: My fellow deputies, I declare this session adjourned until 10:45.

10:46

Lytvyn: My fellow deputies, let’s agree to one thing. I just met with the heads of all the factions. We agreed that first we will all take our places and then–

Noise errupts in the hall.

Lytvyn: Hold on a minute, my fellow colleagues, this won’t do! Please listen! If it’s necessary, I will tell you when to come to the podium. Please, take your seats and then you can come up one by one. We discussed the matter and came to – my fellow deputies – we came to the conclusion that–

More noise in the hall.

Lytvyn: My fellow deputies, the question is not so much a procedural one since it has taken on political overtones. As Mr. Yushchenko rightly said, there is a conflict of interests. So that there isn’t any further conflict of interests among us, and so that we can work in a civilized manner, I ask you to please take your seats. Mr. Stelmakh would like the right to speak and explain his position.

More noise in the hall.

Lytvyn: My fellow deputies, please! We agreed, if you – my fellow deputies – if you’re not prepared to listen – if you’re not prepared to listen to what the leaders of your factions –  We agreed that you would all take your seats. I’m asking you once more. My fellow deputies, I told you what happened during the last recess. Now we have a motion that we can’t really turn down. There’s a motion that we adjourn in order to consult with the NDP faction and the Industrialists. This session is hereby adjourned until 11:40.

11:41.

Lytvyn: My fellow deputies, during the last recess, we tried to – please, I ask you, what are you doing here? Are you going to knock me over? I’m state property… We had a constructive discussion but neither side was willing to change their position. Mr. Stelmakh tendered his resignation and this is what it says:

            “Please accept my resignation from the position of Governor of the NBU –”

Noise errupts in the hall.

Lytvyn: Hold on, I’m still reading – come on, folks, what’s going on here? His letter is being reviewed now, so I think this question has to be postponed. Now, so you all can calm down, I move that we all start working properly at 12:30. After that, I would appreciate if everyone put their minds to working seriously, productively and quickly. We have an entire list of documents to review. Are there any objections to this motion? I announce this session adjourned until 12:30… (etc etc, ad nauseam)

            There were two more adjournment and in the end, all that happened was a few microphones were broken, a few noses were out of joint, and Mr. Stelmakh kept his job. Makes you wonder why anyone would pay hundreds of thousands of dollars to be elected to such a thankless post… •

RC#66: A democratic birthday party

published in Eastern Economist #461, December 5, 2002

I was pretty busy Friday night, thinking that I’d go off to Baraban as usual to frolic with friends. But about 20 to seven, Ilko called me at work and said, “Be there or be square, bud. We have a party tonight!”

            I’d completely forgotten Democratic Initiatives was celebrating their 10th anniversary. Enough time has gone by for quite a few people and organizations to be turning 10 in Ukraine, I thought. And these guys have some serious milestones to their credit.

            Like the first exit poll at an election in Ukraine. That was during the last election to the Verkhovna Rada, back in 1998. There’ve been two more elections since then, and DI’s been busy little bees. (The only national elections before that were four years earlier, when the technology and legislation weren’t in place to handle exit polls.)

            I got to the Hotel Kyiv just as things were really getting into swing. A band was playing, flowers everywhere, and a couple of hundred people scarfing food. I heard someone complain that they felt underdressed. Looking at my own fairly tired sweater and wrinkled trousers, I shrugged. If they’re underdressed, I’m Joe Hobo, I thought. Do I care?

            A happy Ilko was already making his speech.

            “I never planned to be president of the Democratic Initiatives Foundation,” he said, “but here we are, 10 years later.”

            Glasses clinked right and left although no one had actually made a toast yet. That honor went to Les, a playwright and a deputy since before Ukraine even became independent. Les is one of the people who helped the Foundation get going. A fine, square-jawed lad from Kyivska oblast who’s real name is Leonid, oddly enough. (Usually Les is short for Oles, which is less short for Oleksandr in Ukrainian. Sasha is the Russian variant.)

            “DI was formed after the honeymoon of achieving independence was over in Ukraine,” said Les, raising his glass. “Its initiatives have been both democratic and…interesting. Here’s the first toast!”

            Les later introduced me to Serhiy, one of the first people EE worked with, too, back in 1994 – before my time – when he began to operate a small news agency called UNIAR. Serhiy’s drifted on to bigger and better things since then.

            The head of SOCIS Ukraine, Gallup’s partner, presented Ilko with a handsome wall clock and kidded him that things at Democratic Initiatives always run on time. “Even if we do the polling and surveys together,” he said. “the initiative is really always from DI.”

            Bouncing in the door came Mykola, a man with a plan, if I ever saw one. “I love you guys, I think you’re great,” he told Yevhen from the Committee of Voters of Ukraine. “But my committee’s upset with what’s going on with the press in the regions. We’re ready tackle this with any other organization that’s ready to deal with press freedom issues in the oblasts.”

            “No politics, Kolya, this is a PARTY!” said someone, pressing a shot glass into his hand.

            “Yeah, yeah. I’m only going to do 25 grams tonight anyway. I’ve gotta play tennis tomorrow morning.”

            “Tennis?” Outside, it was getting mighty cold and I couldn’t imagine any indoor courts being particularly well heated.

            “Yeah, we’ve got a tournament going among the deputies… just a friendly thing.”

            Just then a bubbly brunette with orange streaks in her hair came up. Inna runs the Europe XXI Foundation, another NGO. Somebody had hauled out a camera, and soon a bunch of partygoers gathered around to pose. Inna towered a head taller than Mykola. I thought they looked kinda cute.

            Liubko, one of those diehard Canadians working on a UN clean-up project, was getting into the band, glass in hand. The boys were playing some rock ’n’ roll classics. “You know, this country has great talent,” he said to me, “particularly the musicians.” He was right. The guys even had the accents down, and all the nuances.

            Somebody’s girlfriend wandered over, another Canadian.

            “They really don’t have much of a vegetarian culture here,” she complained, looking at a sea of canapés with smothered in kovbasa, salo and liver paté.

            Personally, I wasn’t having too hard a time of it. I rather liked the paté.

            “But it’s getting better,” said Liubko, consolingly. “And there’s definitely a drinking culture,” he said sweeping his hand at a table-full of Nemiroff, champagnske and wine bottles.

            “You know?” Ksenia piped in, who freelances as a translator, “I was in the Karpaty with some Scottish friends this summer, both of them vegetarians, and we all went out for dinner with a bunch of the locals I know. Afterwards, Rachel said she was amazed that no one at the table had ordered a single meat dish the entire evening.”

            “You’re kidding! What did they order?”

            “Well, we had borscht, salads, varenyky, banosh, and a bunch of different mushroom dishes,” said Ksenia. “I have to admit, I didn’t even notice it until Rachel pointed it out.”

            About an hour later, I noticed Mykola doing his fifth 25 grams with yet another partier… He was definitely unwinding, and I had the feeling his game would be pretty loose the next morning.

            Just then Vlad from the Freedom of Choice Coalition came by and Inna offered him a drink. “Naah, just give me a juice. Advent’s already started.” Everybody rolled their eyes and Inna got him the juice.

            That was my cue to go home before I was too soused to find my way. Happy Birthday, DI! •

RC#65: "And the greatest of these is charity"

published in Eastern Economist #460, November 28, 2002
Ellis Island is more of a tourist drop these days, standing at times in the shadow of the Statue of Liberty. The hope that this island port-of-entry offered cannot be underestimated. Despite the many humiliations, ranging from misspelled or just plain wrong names, to intimidation, suspicion, and even de-lousing, crossing its threshold meant that the exhausted wanderer had reached a new home.

            Canada never had a point of entry that captured the imagination of immigrants and citizens the world over. But those who landed on its shores, mostly in Halifax after World War II, breathed the same sigh of relief.

            I’ve seen many photos of families at Ellis Island. The immigrants of the late 1800’s: startled-looking Ukrainian girls in their village costumes standing in a row while someone takes their picture. Possibly for the first time in their lives. The men stand behind them, scowling in flat dark hats. Pre-World War I, between the wars, and the final huge wave, after WWII.

            There weren’t any more costumes in this last immigration. The picture I’m looking at right now was taken in the winter of 1950. The father stands, hands behind his back, in heavy overcoat, fedora and whiskers. He’s a little disgruntled-looking, possibly over the baggage-style tag pinned to his lapel. Possibly just because he’s tired and scared, wondering if he’ll be able to work as a doctor in this new country. He looks about 45.

            His wife, a pretty brunette in a good fur coat and 1948 vintage hat, has her hands up her sleeves. It looks cold. Still, she’s smiling –the only one in the picture smiling, as it happens– her Slavic cheeks prominent in the tiny black-and-white picture. There’s a tag pinned to her coat as well.

            In front of them stand two dark-haired girls, aged about five and two. The older one is holding a doll with a 1920’s bob, staring at the camera suspiciously. She’s wearing a long coat. The younger one is standing akimbo in a fluffy spotted coat, leaning on a pile of luggage.

            Both look a little wary. Maybe even cranky. Their lapels also sport big white baggage tags.

            The pile of belongings is modest, when you realize it’s this family’s entire worldly goods. Four leather satchels bursting to the gills, every sidepocket bulging. But how much can you put into a satchel, after all? A towel? a pair of shoes? some favorite books? They couldn’t even have fit a collapsible baby buggy into the large white box standing under the satchels. In front of the box is a leather case with the one possession of value: a bandura.

            In the background are dozens of other people in overcoats, with briefcases and valises standing beside them. There are no peasants in this picture, no starving toddlers, no third-world people. These are Europeans fleeing the aftermath of a European war.

            There were some very critical differences between this picture and these people, and most of the previous waves of immigrants.

            These were mostly already displaced people. They had lost their homes, their possessions, and often their native lands during the war. Many had wandered over hell’s frontiers for three or four years, hungry, brutalized, often in mortal fear. Families were separated over and over again. They never knew until they actually saw each other again through some miracle, months later, if that wasn’t the last good-bye.

            A wife might have given birth to her first baby in one place while her husband worked hundreds of miles away, close to enemy lines, as a night watchman in a tobacco plant. While there were enemies on all fronts, there were also friends in unexpected places. Over and over again, against a backdrop of unspeakable inhumanity, people were saved by the individual bonds with individual people that transcend nationality, religion and politics.

            When the cannons stopped firing, those who were unlucky found themselves taken by soviet troops. Most of them were sent to Siberia. At least they weren’t shot, like the prisoners of war.

            Those who were lucky found themselves in an Allied sector. They were collected into shanty towns called DP camps. They weren’t prisoners, they weren’t refugees. They were simply “displaced persons.”

            In these camps, which were organized territorially, people were sometimes reunited with friends and relatives. Others met for the first time and fell in love. They married and had babies. Life slowly got back to normal. Except it wasn’t.

            The country they were staying in had been devastated. Most of the cities had been mercilessly shelled by either retreating or advancing troops. Unemployment was massive. This country could not absorb them all.

            The DPs were still displaced. Slowly a new migration began. Some went Down Under, some to Britain. Many hundreds of thousands went to Ellis Island, to the land of the free and the home of the brave. Many other hundreds of thousands went to the True North, strong and free.

            There was another difference between these immigrants and earlier waves. They were mostly well-educated. Teachers, doctors, engineers. They had skills. Many even had languages. In fact, there was a special name given to them by other groups of immigrants: the intelligentsia.

            Some were able to keep working in their professions. Many more ended up as night watchmen and cleaning ladies because they didn’t know the language.

            The war took its toll in other ways, too. The man in this picture, for instance, was barely 35. Most of that generation looked 10 years older than they were. But they didn’t mind. They had found freedom.

            Three things had kept them going.

            Faith that there was a place for them in a war-torn world. Hope that they would make it there somehow. And the charity of the New World in opening its doors so generously to them. •

RC#64: “First we kill all the lawyers”

published in Eastern Economist #458, November 12, 2002

This is a famous line from a Shakespearean play. I even know a few lawyers, most of them in Washington, who wear nifty T-shirts with this written on them.

            In Ukraine, though, I can only pity them. No one need kill lawyers here. The system is doing it for them.

            The other day, I was talking to a friend who happens to be a lawyer. He said, “When I taught law back in 1992-3, I remember asking my students, which they were planning to do. To get a government job, or to get a job in private business. All but two raised their hands for private business.”

            A couple of years ago, he went back into teaching. “When I asked my students the same question, all but two raised their hands for the government job. ‘What’s happened,’ I asked them? Nobody said anything. Then finally one guy, a kind of insolent dude, drawled: “Well, you know… corruption is eternal.”

            This brought to mind the story another lawyer friend told me a not long ago. We were talking about the difficulty of doing things legally here and she began to tell me the story of her first experience practicing law.

            “When I first started as a lawyer, I had a job with one of the ministries. I had a lot to learn, and it wasn’t long before I got my first taste.

            “Our office had received a skarha, a formal complaint from an accountant that her director had violated a number of regulations. The letter detailed the violations and they were pretty serious.

            “My boss called me in and said, ‘I want you to go down to Uman and look into these accusations. Do you understand your task?’ ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I have to go through all their operations and check whether what the accountant says is true.’ ‘Go for it,’ said my boss.

            “So I went down to Uman and began investigating. Sure enough, I found evidence that every one of the accountants accusations were true. This was my first real assignment, so I was careful to note every detail of the evidence in my report. I went back to Kyiv feeling happy that I had done my job properly.

            “The next morning, my boss called me in. ‘This is your report on the Uman office?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I see that you found evidence that the director did all these things that the accountant claimed.’ ‘Yes,’ I said, feeling pleased with myself.

            “‘But what about this?” asked my boss. He proceeded to describe an illegal transaction not mentioned in the complaint. ‘Are you sure this director didn’t also do this?’ ‘Well, no, I’m not.’ ‘Then go back there and investigate a little more.’

            “So I took the train back to Uman and began digging around some more. Sure enough, the director had done these things as well. I put together a new report and brought it into my boss, feeling even more pleased with myself.

            “‘So you discovered that he did that as well?’ ‘Yes, he did.’ ‘But what about this?’ (My boss described another illegal operation.) ‘Did you not check into whether he might have done this as well?’ ‘No, I didn’t.’ ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Get down there and look into it.’

            “Feeling a little surprised, I went down to Uman again. Sure enough, there was plenty of evidence that the director had done this illegal operation. How did my boss know about all this wrongdoing? I gathered together all the evidence, put it into a thoroughly damning report and presented it.

            “‘Fine, you got even more evidence of wrongdoing. But did you consider that he’s probably done this as well?’ (My boss described yet another misdemeanor.) ‘What do we pay you for? Get down there and find out.’

            “Feeling a little put out, I went down to Uman a fourth time. Sure enough, there was plenty of evidence pinning even more misdeeds on the director. I gathered together all the evidence, put it minute detail in a ten-page report and presented it to my boss.

            “‘So you got evidence of that as well. But he’s probably done this as well.’ (My boss described yet another violation.) ‘Look, you don’t seem to be thinking much. This time, you’re going to have to pay your own travel expenses.’

            “Sitting in a barren hotel room in Uman, I got to thinking. What was really going on? At last, it began to dawn on me. I did my research, then I went back to Kyiv and wrote up a bland little report saying not much of anything.

            “The next day my boss called me in. He was smiling. ‘Now I see you understand your job. Let me tell you one thing, young lady. Everybody breaks the law, every day. That’s just the way it is. But if you toe the line, nobody cares. When you step out of line, that’s when someone’s going to use it against you.'

            “I waited, sensing there was more to come. 'Now, when someone complains formally, like this accountant, it usually means they know what’s been going on and they’re doing it themselves. So, go down there and investigate the accountant.'

            “I soon found out that the accountant was renovating her house, using thousands of hryvnia of building materials and so on. On a salary of about 400 hryvnia a month. When I started asking her about that, she understood she had lost. She withdrew her complaint.”

            And that’s how it is in Ukraine. God have mercy on the lawyers. •

RC#63: Good news/Bad news

published in Eastern Economist #457, November 5, 2002
The last few weeks have been tough. In Ukraine, the president is doing battle with some tapes that make a crook out of him. The US has cut aid to Ukraine by US $50mn because of this. A US congressman has asked President Bush not to meet with Mr. Kuchma. NATO has downgraded its summit in Prague so as not to consort with him.

            An appeals court judge accepted statements pertaining to Mr. Kuchma and submitted a request for a criminal investigation against him. A retiring Supreme Court Chief Justice admitted that there was regularly “telephone pressure” from upstairs to favor certain decisions.

            Meanwhile, the Speaker revealed that the Tax Administration and Interior Ministry have been using “charitable funds” to subsidize their budgets to the tune of between 80 and a couple of hundred million hryvnia. Apparently this is where taxpayers and others are “encouraged” to contribute if they want certain things done – or not done, as the case may be.

            Two men were arrested out of the blue. One a lawyer who defended people Mr. Kuchma doesn’t seem to like. The other, a former partner of his Chief-of-Staff’s best buddy. Both men were released soon after, without much explanation. The five cops who arrested the businessman are being investigated.

            The legislature is in gridlock because the forced majority just won’t stay put. Some deputies who were friends of the arrested former partner walked this week, spoiling the quorum.

            The Verkhovna Rada failed to pass a money-laundering bill. Opposition members who boycotted the vote say there are too many loopholes.

            What do all these developments have in common? They all have to do with democratic process and rule of law.

            And they all mean good news for Ukraine.

            Take Mr. Kuchma’s problem with the tapes. He’s been caught red-handed talking about selling weapons to an off-limits country that he agreed not to deal with just months before the conversation was taped, back in summer 2000. His foreign minister tried to pooh-pooh the whole affair by saying, “So what, nothing was actually sold.” No one was impressed. That’s good news.

            Unlike the original tape scandal, there’s been little effort on the part of Mr. Kuchma’s administration to deny that the tapes contain a conversation that really took place. That’s definitely good news.

            The conversation did not seem to involve security service, law enforcement, administration, legislative or judiciary officials. It was between Mr. Kuchma and his arms trader. A man who found himself DOA after a strange car accident just as rumors began to surface in March. That’s definitely very bad news. But it seems that this was a private affair, not a state decision. That’s excellent news. For Ukraine, if not for Mr. Kuchma.

            US experts say the tape is authentic and cut the aid. But they sent an investigative team over anyway. That’s also good news for Ukraine. It’s called due process.

            The two whistle-blowing judges, given the condition of the judiciary in Ukraine, deserve medals. They both have high-profile positions and they decided to take a stance. That is great news. Maybe more judges will take a stance and maybe Ukraine’s judiciary will become a little more independent of political pressure.

            The congressman and NATO are saying, “Mr. Kuchma, you can’t mix it up. Either govern properly and above-board, or you don’t deserve your position as head-of-state.” Isn’t that good news? The pressure is for the right reasons – not to humiliate Ukraine or to protect vested interests.

            Everybody assumed Speaker Lytvyn was bought and sold by the president. It ain’t necessarily so. He seems to be taking his job as Speaker fairly seriously. And decided that his position requires some amount of accountability and responsibility towards more than just his own petty ambitions. Ukraine should have a few more of those in elected office. That’s good news for sure.

            There was a lot of brouhaha about the two arrests, which happened within 12 hours of each other. The fact is that reaction to both arrests was swift and condemning. And they were both swiftly released. Not that long ago, one or the other – or both men – might just have wound up dead somehow. This time, the people who ordered the arrests are on the defensive. The cops are being held to account, too. How’s that for good news?

            Whatever fair and unfair means have been used to kludge together the legislature’s majority, it isn’t working. The truth is, the country needs party politics, and that’s going to take time. Meanwhile, threats, bribes and whatever is not enough to get deputies to work together. The bad news is that it’s gridlocking the VR. The good news is, people are going to have to start thinking in terms of parties. Real parties, like the Communists and the Socialists. We may not like or agree with what they stand for, but we at least know what it is. What does NDP stand for, other than No Damned Platform? Or SDPU(o) – Some Dangerous Political Underworld (off limits)? Even Nasha Ukraina has no platform. It’s the Yushchenko support bloc, which is all fine and dandy. But that doesn’t make it a political party.

            The bad news about the stonewalling is that the FATF could blacklist Ukraine after Dec. 15. The good news is, the opposition is probably completely right. The bill that was presented has loopholes and they have to be closed up. It should go back to committee. That’s democratic process. That’s also rule of law. I don’t know about the rest of the world, but Ukraine’s had a good week. •