BERKELEY, California – It has now been a year since Russia, my birthplace, invaded Ukraine.
For 365 days, we have been waking up to news of Russian missile strikes, bombings, murders, torture and rape. It has been 365 days of shame and confusion, of wanting to turn away but needing to know what is happening, of watching Russians become “ruscists,” “Orks,” or “putinoids.” For 365 days, the designation “Russian-American,” previously straightforward, has felt like a contradiction in terms.
For those in my situation, some methods of adapting to the new circumstances have come easier than others. Russian books still crowd my bookcase, but I no longer have any wish to re-read them. Chekhov and Nabokov cannot be blamed for the aggression against Ukraine, but it nonetheless has stolen their magic and their capacity to teach. These authors were my friends, as were the old-country rituals like Russian Easter vigils and New Year’s screenings of the Soviet classic “Irony of Fate.” I feel the loss acutely, but perhaps it is for the better. It helps me concentrate on the present.
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