A couple of weeks ago, I was finalizing a new housing lease and met the house’s owner. “Where are you from,” I asked him as I was about to leave. I am usually careful with this question as it can appear subtly insensitive in some situations. Some people are not that enthusiastic about talking about their roots or immigration story. I was curious, however. The guy had an accent; his looks suggested he was from the Middle East.
He was. That’s exactly what he replied — “the Middle East.” He said he immigrated when he was young. He’s now in his fifties.
My guess was correct, but “the Middle East” is a broad concept. It’s like answering, “I’m from Europe.” I expected a more precise answer but wasn’t getting it. I sensed I had made him uncomfortable with my question, exactly like I feared (but asked nonetheless).
A couple of weeks later I discovered where the owner was from. In one of the closets, I found this bill with Saddam Hussein:
Maybe I’m overanalyzing and playing Sherlock Holmes too much, but my take is that the guy was embarrassed to say that he’s from Iraq.
Last night I was speaking to my Mom. She left Russia shortly after Putin started the war in Ukraine. She is still very emotional following the news about Russia’s atrocities both against Ukraine and domestically. We have close relatives in Ukraine, but she said she could not have stayed in Russia even if she didn’t have relatives. She said she can no longer speak to her close friends in Moscow, irritated at their indifference and light-mindedness. Then she shared something that made me remember the episode I described above.
“I feel robbed of everything. Of my youth. Of my memories. The books I read, the music I enjoyed. Everything that shaped me is rotten and ruined. Stolen. It feels like being an orphan.”
By “robbed” she wasn’t referring to having to change her life and leaving the place to which she was attached. She specifically spoke of her youth and how the likes of Putin were able to take it away, to steal — in retrospect, decades after “youth” actually happened.
I understand what she means. The events in Russia altered my identity. I had some Russian songs on my playlist — I used to love Russian rock music. Now I fast-forward them. I used to admire and re-read some books. Now it’s all “canceled” in my mind. It’s not because someone’s watching me, and I have to project a new identity to settle down in a new place. It’s because those things — the identity of my younger self, the years spent in Russia — have been drained of light, of innocence.
I’m not complaining. I love where I am now and do not feel holes in my soul. My identity is very eclectic anyway; I spent many years living in the “West.” But I imagine it’s harder for some people.
Dictators are thieves of souls, among other things.
My running Substack here: https://loveletterstorunning.substack.com/
I also write here : https://alexei.substack.com/
