Do you speak Surzhyk?
Peter Pomerantsev
Commentary on the turmoil in Ukraine often focuses on the division between a Russian-speaking east and a Ukrainian-speaking west. Ethnolinguistic lines, the argument goes, explain the pro-Moscow v. pro-EU camps, pro-protest v. pro-Yanukovich. But the situation is more nuanced than that. The closest thing Maidan has to a leader is the boxing champ Klitschko, who struggles in Ukrainian and whose Russian is far purer than President Yanukovich’s. Its first martyrs are an ethnic Armenian from Russian-speaking Dnepropetrovsk and a Belarussian Ukrainian resident. Its violent front line appears to be multilingual.
The focus of the revolution is Kiev, and though the Kiev region is often defined as ‘largely Ukrainian speaking’, the same is not true of the city proper which, according to conservative estimates, is approximately 60 per cent Russian-speaking. Educational institutions and TV use Ukrainian (there are legal restrictions), but Russian is the language of the street, the bar, the home. Newspapers and magazines (which follow the market rather than the law) are mostly Russian. People will sometimes say Ukrainian is their first language as that is the language they work in, especially if they work for the state, but they will still communicate informally in Russian. The same goes for all the big cities, as opposed to rural areas, of central Ukraine: Russian dominates in interpersonal communication. But of course everyone speaks a bit of everything and often all of it badly (not so much ‘multi-cultured’, to quote the Odessan psychiatrist and poet Boris Khersonsky, as ‘multi-uncultured’).
Ukraine’s lingua franca is Surzhyk, a motley mix of Ukrainian and Russian (sometimes with bits of Hungarian, Romanian and Polish). In tsarist times it was the slang of Ukrainian-speaking peasants who took up Russian when they came to the big city. Under Stalin, certain Ukrainian words were banned for being nationalist and replaced with Russian ones. Now that Ukrainian is the official language, Russian-speaking officials sometimes have difficulty with it. Watching a session of the Ukrainian parliament can be like observing a secondary school foreign language class.
The west of the country is seen as more straightforwardly mono-Ukrainian than the centre, and it’s certainly true that Halichina, the region around Lviv, has been fighting for national (and linguistic) independence from Austro-Hungarians, Poles and Soviets for centuries: they’re not going to let anyone ruin their ambition now. But Lviv was largely a German and Polish-speaking city until the Second World War. And voting patterns don’t map simply onto the ethnolinguistic divide. Transcarpathia, in the south-west, which is in many ways the most ‘European’ part of the country, with its cross-Schengen trade and communities of Germans, Hungarians, Romanians and Slovaks, voted for Yanukovich in 2010, partly because of business connections and partly out of wariness of its more nationalist neighbours.
Over in Donetsk, in the eastern, ‘Russian’, ‘Yanukovich’ heartlands, the situation is no simpler. According to an 1897 census for Donbass, 24 per cent of the population were ‘Russian’ and 62.5 per cent ‘little Russian’: closer to what we now think of as Ukrainian. Over the next century, the Soviets urbanised and Russianised the region, turning it into the industrial foundry of the USSR, with peoples imported from throughout the empire. Rinat Akhmetov, Donetsk (and Ukraine’s) richest man, one of Yanukovich's backers and the owner of the most expensive flat in London, speaks Russian with a broad Tartar accent. Yanukovich speaks a form of Surzhyk. Thirty-two per cent of people in Donetsk define their cultural traditions as Soviet, and only 30 per cent as Russian.
Meanwhile, in another twist, football fans (of the more violent persuasion) in the ‘Russian’ east, including Donetsk, have pledged their loyalty to Euro-Maidan against Yanukovich. Their sworn enemies are the ‘titushki’, hoodlums paid by the government to attack activists. ‘Titushki’ is one of the neologisms of the Ukrainian revolt, now common in both Ukrainian and Russian, named after Vadim Titushko, a.k.a. ‘Vadik the Romanian’, who was identified attacking journalists in Kiev. The greatest insult you can throw at someone is not an ethnolinguistic slur, ‘Ukrainian’ or ‘Russian’, but to label them a ‘titushka’.
The big winner from the conceptual division of Ukraine into ‘Russian’ and ‘Ukrainian’ spheres may well be the Kremlin. The idea that Russia is a separate political and spiritual civilisation, one which is a priori undemocratic, suits the Kremlin as it looks to cut and paste together an excuse to validate its growing authoritarianism. So every time a commentator defines the battle in Kiev as Russian language v. Ukrainian, a Kremlin spin doctor gets in another round of drinks.
Comments
Isn't Ukrainian also the object of a fair amount of condescension from the Russian side, seen as not being a 'real' language so much as a dialect of Russian - as if to say that 'Kyiv' is just 'Kiev' in a broad accent?
Most Russians who cannot/will not believe Ukrainian is a real language have little familiarity with the real thing, that is literary Ukrainian. They either make fun of their own idea of Ukrainian, or of Surzhik. But then I don't see what's so fundamentally wrong about Surzhik other than absence of great fiction in the dialect.
The soviet school had 10 classes. From the 5 class till the 10 class every pupil should learn Ukranian language and literature (these were two different disciplines).
To expand on the point about Lviv being mainly German and Polish speaking until the war - if you go to the main cemetery there, which I did a few years ago, you can see evidence of this on the gravestones. Up until about 1950 the majority of the names are in roman script, and mostly -ski, -ska, -czyk, etc. After that they are almost all written in cyrillic, and at least according to my transliteration, mostly no longer Polish-sounding names.
Thomas Hardy in "Tess of the D'Urbervilles" wrote of the children learning English in the class-room and speaking the local language at home.
The inter-stitial places are shores on which many currents have washed.
In "Vanished Kingdoms", Prof Norman Davies provides examples of the residues.
My cultural memory includes the Austro-Hungarian Empire. So my Slavic language skills include Hungarian words. And I am still trying to find a coherent explanation of the cultural significance of the Hungarian, "Burgenland".
I also want to track down the jokes which starts,
"I was born in ..."
continues through various events and concludes
"I will be buried in ..."
and the punchline, "I never left my village." (Norman Davies is a suspect)
and I do remember that Leipzig/Gdansk was the first time I encountered the trope.
I suspect that a "World Record" attempt is what I am really after.
Any point is a point at which to start the stories and the legends (at first I wrote "in Europe" - but all points are "points of origin" - going forward and going back).
"I was born in the Austro-Hungarian Empire. I first went to school in the Republic of Czechoslovakia. I married in the Czechoslovak Republic. I had my sceond child in the Czecho-Slovak Republic. I was widowed in the Protectorate of Bohemia-Moravia. I became a grandmother in the Czechoslovak Republic.I retired in the Czechoslovak Socialist Republic. My grandson married in the Czechoslovak Federal Republic. I had a hip replacement in the Czech and Slovak Federal Republic. I died in the Czech Republic. I never left my town."
Going back to my mother-in-law, I haven't been able to find her village/collective farm on any map (a friend who actually works as a cartographer also came up blank), but I'm pretty sure it was in the West of the country (it was called Velkiy Khutor or Hutir, which I'm told translates as "large village"). She was 16 or 17 when the Germans arrived in 1941. Would it be reasonable to assume there was a lot of Polish spoken in that time & place?
Thomas Hardy in “Tess of the D’Urbervilles” wrote of the children learning English in the class-room and speaking the local language at home.
Something similar happened in the Soviet republics. Shortly before the USSR dissolved, I remember hearing an Armenian speaker explain that of course children were taught at school in Russian - parents could send their children to Armenian-language Sunday classes if they wanted to. Armenian Sunday school, in Armenia!
As I was originally unsuccessful in finding it, I tried using the Polish form of the name, Wielki Chutor. I looked it up in: "Słownik geograficzny Królestwa Polskiego i innych krajów słowiańskich" - "The Geographical Dictionary of the Kingdom of Poland and other Slavic Lands", published in 1895 and now on-line. The relevant page can be seen at: http://dir.icm.edu.pl/Slownik_geograficzny/Tom_XIII/339
It says:
Wielki Chutor: a little town on the river Zolotonosza (Zolotonosha) a tributory of the Dnieper, in the Zolotonosha county in the Poltava governate.25 versts (approx 25km) north of Zolotonosha. 355 houses with 1580 inhabitants. 2 orthodox churches and 4 markets.
From that to google maps looking for Zolotonosha:
https://maps.google.co.uk/maps?num=100&q=zolotonosha&safe=active&ie=UTF-8&ei=ySwPU8GpHsKThQeamoDwAQ&ved=0CAkQ_AUoAQ
and north of Zolotonosha you will see: Velykyi Khutir written using the transliteration that Google use.
Polish would not have been common that far east, but there were Polish communities scattered throughout Ukraine and the whole of the Russian empire. (A Polish airman by the name of Aleksander Danielak was born in Zolotonosha in 1919.)