Digging up the Past

Written in January of 2006 when I was in Ukraine, this piece of writing I find both highly amusing and symbolic of a time of great personal growth when I was in my early 20s. 

Enjoy: 

Found in Translation

This day marks a victory unlike any other won. One not fought with
sharp blades or bullets, blood or tears but a simple dish rag and
steadfast determination.

In a country of changing technologies, changing politics and changing
youth I sat in the kitchen of a small town with a spoon in my hand and
food in my stomach. The fridge churned and the kettle groaned on the
old oil stove as steam rose from its aged figure. Across the table sat
an older lady, a tired lady, a lady who held a million stories. For
weeks I had lived startled in a country with different sights, smells,
sounds and tastes, for weeks I had been treated so very kindly, meals
were prepared for me, my dishes washed and my clothes cleaned.

In this kitchen I sat, spoon in hand, stomach full, thinking back on
the times when I had offered my help and they were immediately
refused. The times when I had offered once more and also refused,
these times were all the same as I took the easy route, I accepted
these refusals.

In a country of changing times, changing politics and changing youth
one thing has not changed, the roles of women and men in the house.

I stood up, taking the dirty dishes to the sink. The lady across the
table seemed perplexed, and she immediately told me "Oh no, I will do
that" in the tongue of her country. Tonight was going to be different,
the thoughts and roles would be washed by my hands. I looked her
softly in the eye and said in the broken little known language "No,
thank you, I can." She reached for the dishes uttering in disbelief
"No, no, you can not;" "I can, its fine." Knowing not what else to do
she offered a "Thank you" in awe and retreated to the living room.

I turned on what was only cold water and started down this unchartered
path, carrying a large smile. Not so soon, apparently this lady had
backup as her astonished 17 year old grand daughter rushed in offering
to take the dishrag and I offered a "Thank, but no thanks" in return.
This was curtly rejected by her wagging hand motioning, make that
demanding for the dishrag and her intent eyes pleading.

 With an unexpected motion she snatched up the rag from my unknowing
hands. My arms crossed and my eyes grew sharp and unbudging, my feet
firmly planted. The sound of the cold water splashing on the dishes. I
told her that I would never move, she said nothing but moved neither.
Minutes passed, both unbudging, water splashing. I pointed to the
water and showed how it was wasting away with the time, she pointed to
her newly acquired dishrag, smiling. I smiled too, but because I saw
my trophy. Out of the corner of my eye sat behind a forgotten teabag a
lump of green washpad. It was worn as it had seen many dishes in its
life, blackened and beat, trying to retire. I wasted no time in
snatching it up, at closer inspection we could both see it was
absolutely filthy, with this my smile grew bigger, hers receded.

I lunged for the soap and raising it to the pad she realized she had
met defeat. Her hands flew up as she handed me the dishrag and sat
down bewildered by what had just happened. I finished the dishes,
shutting off the water and turning around. She watched as if she had
just seen this for the first time, and I think she had. I explained to
her in the broken language and with many gestures that we were the
same and if I sat to eat, I rose to do the dishes. She replied, "This
I like very much" and ran back to the living room to fill her
grandmother in on what had just happened, time passed and I heard them
chatting fervently with each other.

In finishing cleaning the kitchen I walked through the living room on
route to my bedroom. With huge smiles and the brightest of eyes I was
stopped and offered two very warm "Thank you's." It was perhaps the
best prize I had ever received for such little work. Maybe my
continued efforts will go unnoticed, but my hope is that they will
perhaps change if only a few minds on the embedded thoughts of
centuries past.


This journal entry is dated from Mid December, published with my
desire to expose the gender inequality in Ukraine today. This is only
one instance, and there are far more where a similar situation played
out. It is of great importance to strive for equality for the moment
you start delegating roles is the same moment where you rise yourself
above another.

I spent Ukrainian Christmas (January 7th) in Kolya's native village
which is 20 minutes from the major central Ukrainian city of Cherkasy.

Here are the points I recall about Ukrainian Christmas:

1.      Ukrainian Christmas is by the Orthodox Calendar, therefore on the
7th of January.
2.      Santa Claus is called Father Frost
3.      13 traditional Ukrainian foods are prepared for Christmas
4.      There traditional foods are left at the end of the night for the
spirits of yesteryears to snack on while we slumber
5.      Church is a long affair, having to stand for five enduring hours
(Luckily I only went for the Christmas mass part and stood for two).
6.      Expect carolers at any given time, it has turned into a Halloween
of sorts with the little tykes demanding sweets or money for their
sung melodies. Then again, they seem to work harder then just saying
"Trick or treat."
7.      Usually one farm animal can expect to lose its life at the expense
of Christmas dinners (sadly to say Ol' goosey got the axe this time
around).
8.      Christmas trees are Charlie Brown style making Canadian trees look
extraordinarily extravagant.
9.      Gifts are traditionally given on New Years, more so than Christmas
eve or day.
10.     Unlike Canada, stores are open and buses run as usual, as is said
"If there is money to be made, they will make it."
11.     On an unrelated note, It cost the equivalent to $10.00 USD to
travel 9 hours each way (18hrs total) to Cherkasy by passenger train.

Last week for our weekly Educational Activity Day we visited a primary
school to participate in a class with the children of grade five. The
school and children were warned ahead of time and apparently had many
things planned for us, and our planners for this day said they were
very anxiously awaiting our arrival. Before I unravel the events, I
would like to explain I live in a small town, a town where some people
live their whole life and die without meeting anyone not Ukrainian.
The Ukrainians in our group explained that they still remembered their
first time when they saw Canadians and how big of a deal it was. As we
arrived to the school and the first Canadian stepped in the doorway
sheer pandemonium broke out, kids stopped in their tracks, books
descending to the floor as their eyes ascended to these unearthly
creatures standing before them. "Uhh… hello" I stammered and they
erupted in a storm of giggles, dashing off to recruit their friends to
look at the Canadians.

We were quickly ushered into an office by a staff member who feared as
we did that if we stood around any longer we may very well be mauled
like Justin Timberlake taking a stroll through an all girls school. In
the office there was a high window that I could only peer out of if I
stood on my tippy toes. Jumping up and on piggy backs the children
looked through the window screaming with glee and pointing. The bell
for break rang and the children went back to class to resume their
studies. In walking to the class we were invited to attend on every
side of us there were faces pressed up against the classroom windows,
fighting for space to stare at these marvelous foreigners.

I waved this way and that feeling much like the queen. We arrived to
our destination, a grade 5 classroom with 30 young children, standing
and chanting in unison "Good morning, good morning to you, we are so
very glad to see you." After applauding them, we made our way to the
back of the class to sit facing the front with the students backs to
us, but all their faces turned in wonderment. The English lesson for
the children quickly turned into a competition of sorts with the
students battling each other to impress the Canadians with their
drawings and wonderfully executed English. We spoke a little with the
avid students and handed them out some inspirational sayings we had
prepared in English and in return they presented drawings they had
worked on for us. Songs were also performed, as well as verses and
conversational pieces with each other, leaving us very impressed! I
would like to mention there was also this mustachioed doll dubbed "Mr.
Language" with whom they also took turns conversing with in front of
the classroom speaking on his behalf as well as their own. Mr.
Language seemingly had a more difficult day than usual, and may have
developed a severe headache by the barrage of questions he was in
receipt of.

After the class finished we were hurriedly ushered to the auditorium
with scores of children in tow and presented a well executed short
play. The children sat squirming in their seats, and as soon as the
play finished they raced off out the door somewhere in droves leaving
an eerie silence like the eye of an enormous storm. We stood
perplexed, until we heard the stampede rushing back in, children
piling in and filling up the auditorium again, this time holding
cameras, pens and paper. No sooner had I said "Uh oh" was I surrounded
by little kids shoving pens and papers in my face demanding me to give
them my Canadian mark. So I did the only thing there was to do, I
inhaled a deep breath and started signing for the little tykes. Here
is some sample signing dialogue:

 "What is your name?" "Mmmhmm, yes I live here" "Of course its
beautiful, its Canada" "Hmm, nice try  I already signed for you" "I
like pizza too" "Thank you, I think you have a pretty name also"

So I and the other Canadians carried on, pens a flurry, children
reaching over one another pleading. After much time had passed our
tour guide teacher showed up to shuttle us away in order to check out
the school but not without a large congregation of wild eyed kids in
tow. After the tour, the kids started to dissipate and we managed to
sneak out to go for a much needed lunch break. So in conclusion, I
either felt like a strange Canadian circus act or a member of the Back
Street Boys (Back when they were young and cool).