It seems they’re the ones dying in the trenches, their arms and legs torn off, their bombs being dropped at night, their starving in basements, their never-ending shambles of home because there’s no home or city left, their ignoring air raid sirens because fate is inevitable, their ending up in a cursed place and cursed to die for a piece of that cursed land. But so are we. The people in us, those who have directly or indirectly experienced war, fall into comas and slowly decompose.
A person is not an organism that eats, drinks, and reproduces; but an individual, with dreams, values, purpose, love, and legacy. That is, with what remains after we die. We live in those who remember us, and in the values, habits, and relationships that live in our loved ones, friends, acquaintances, and society.
A couple of weeks ago, the Belarusian artist Lena showed me her painting, and I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with it. I asked, “Is it finished yet?” and Lena replied, “No, it is. What associations does it make?” “Well, it’s clear that the red train somehow colors the world behind it, awakens life,” I began, but how such red steampunk connected with blossoming nature, I still couldn’t figure out. And Lena began timidly explaining, “You see, we Belarusians have an image of the future, vividly expressed in the white-red-white flag, and here I’m kind of playing with this image.” STOP, KAZANTSEV, did you seriously not see the White-Red-White flag in a Belarusian studio? Are you that blind to the person in front of you? HAVE YOU KILLED THE SOCIAL AND POLITICAL IN YOURSELF THAT MUCH?
but I really did kill
Instead of political issues, there’s nothing but necrosis and leprosy. And the social issues are no better.
Yes, I have my favorite students. But mostly, it’s about achieving at least some result in a half-hour lesson, and earning enough for a big TV and a cozy kitchen. get settled.
Yes, I play a lot of orchestral mockups, but I just try to throw something together in a minimum number of hours to save myself time and the client money.
Yes, I play concerts, but instead of to tear off the veil of normality from your listener and to provoke a dialogue about the goals and responsibilities we face as a society; I play “nice classics” at a golf club party to make some contacts, and I try to sell golfers my CDs.
Even in my family, I turned off all the systems, leaving only the basic functions. So, in passing, we almost got divorced and moved out.
I don’t watch the news, I don’t go to rallies, I don’t commit to open source, and I don’t donate to charity.
A kind of buoy, splashing in time with the rhythm of life that I have created for myself.
but they killed me too
In the three years that the war has been going on, I find it difficult to find an ideal that has not been betrayed; values that have not been trampled; relationships that have not been devalued; and hopes that have not been destroyed.
My students, for whom I was building a new educational system, to whom I gave my all, and in whom I saw a piece of myself, turned out to be simply students, for whom I was, by and large, an educational function.
Our political movement was crushed, the guys were driven out of the country or imprisoned, and all available levers of influence on the surrounding reality were reduced to bike paths, which were laid along one street, and to the alleys, of which a couple were built in three years.
The community of musicians that kept my professional self-awareness, and even the mind, afloat in ’21-22, those who not only did not turn away from me after the performance at the Philharmonic, but supported me and accepted me into that community of musicians who, like Rossini, Beethoven, and almost all historical musicians, lived music as a philosophy and political action; they began to draw maps of the division of Russia into spheres of influence, to give awaymy city and my family to China, call Russians orcs, even though they are Russians themselves, and, with the sorrow of the Jewish people on their faces, buy subscription shells, suchsouvenirs personally from…
I scroll through my VK.com feed and don’t recognize people I respect, my teachers, my colleagues. I don’t understand how humane people who built classes and departments on the principles of mutual respect, free discussion and creativity, and caring for one another can increasingly encourage murder and normalize violence, praising murderers as heroes.
The Anti-Corruption-Foundation, where I have many friends, sooner rather than later began to operate primarily to maintain its own existence, and its political muscle has almost atrophied. This would be understandable, if a little sad, if not for the recent story with the bankers, in which the guys are actively shielding obscure people with questionable pasts and are willing to quarrel with anyone rather than admit the problem.
Germany, which is so eager to support the opposition, supports Russian-language broadcasting, and so on, is shoving us, political activists with higher educations from Russia, Iran, Turkey, and Afghanistan, into villages without the right to do anything. Integrate, political activists and specialists, please: with a rapeseed field to your right, or a birch grove to your left. Out of sight, and good for you.
I don’t want to touch Yashin. Yashin served his time, and served it with dignity. I hope he finds his place here too.
Why go far, we have lived to see large-scale theft within the family circle…
I, along with a bunch of my loved ones, acquaintances, and colleagues, repeatedly compromise our consciences and atrophy. And at any attempt to talk to us as equals, we release toxins. As the little prince would say, we’re no longer human, but a mushroom.
And everyone, all this time, did everything right. They don’t regret anything and are ready to live this life again just as they did. Amazing.
And now I can also open any of my posts almost three years ago, and say I said everything correctly, and, what’s more, I’d repeat it again today. Putin may not be achieving dizzying military successes, but Putinism is taking over the world. This necrosis is spreading across many countries and societies, where people, out of despair, are ready to vote for anyone, just not for the current ones. Meanwhile, they themselves look warily at their neighbors and look for something to arm themselves with.
What kind of Groundhog Day is this? So much has died in three years, yet it seems nothing new has emerged or grown. No political thought, no action, no challenges.
I often see in the feed the metaphor that war is a “bad dream” that lasts [your number is here] years.
So this is not a dream, it’s a coma
It is impossible, time after time, by going to rallies in a completely correct manner, or by liberating Donbass in a completely correct manner, or by propagating hatred towards everything [Russian/Ukrainian] in a completely correct manner, or by supplying the front in a completely correct manner, to arrive at the same wrong result – that peaceful cities are being bombed and that non-peaceful people are killing each other.
At some point, I made the choice to become a mushroom. Let our valiant politicians handle political thought, and I have my professional field. But all this only leads to further necrosis, robbing me of my identity, values, and legacy, and simply killing people every day.
And I’m glad Trump is waking us up from this three-year coma, albeit wearing a hockey mask and wielding a chainsaw. Actually, the fact that we’ll lose some important body parts along the way…in the sense of parts of the political system, is the price of our inertia and political stagnation.
Many say Trump is a terrible end. To which I would like to counter: this is not an end at all, but another chance to look at oneself, record losses, analyze one’s path, acknowledge mistakes, and find one’s place, purpose, and vision for the future. With every missed opportunity, this will become increasingly difficult. Therefore, better sooner than later.
It’s high time to say: “Timofey, this is just another portion of hate and criticism.”
And that’s generally true. But my point is, don’t stare at your neighbor’s white coat; it’s time to get out of your own, even if it’s freezing outside.
So, we lost our careers, our friends, our home, and, to some extent, our language. In principle, we didn’t have to. We could have continued to behave prudently, build our own music school, live in our own house, and, like Superman Anton Kartavin, cultivate our poor little piece of land. But, having lost touch with our circle — our students, our colleagues — after the war began, having lost trust and faith in our role, we decided it didn’t matter where or with whom we worked. It was better, however, not to fear waking up to the sound of riot police breaking down our door. Was it the right choice? From what I’ve seen in Europe, I’m not so sure. Purely conceptually, I don’t think it’s right for people who have the opportunity to leave for democratic (so far) countries People are migrating to rich countries. I think this increases already dire inequality and creates intense social tension, which sooner or later escalates into violent conflict.
We applied for refugee status in Germany and lost a year of our lives, even though we had the opportunity to just breathe and sleep for a couple of months. With my current experience, I wouldn’t have done that; I would have gotten enough work to get a freelance visa. We would have succeeded. We wouldn’t have burdened Germany’s social system, and we would have found our fulfillment here sooner.
I look at my VK.com wall and I’m frankly ashamed of this stream of various crappy reposts and the lack of clearly articulated thought and dialogue.
I really want to start communicating more with my sisters and grandmothers, because we have become very distant during this time…
So, step by step, I try to ask myself questions and reflect on the path that led me to contemplate the trio from Germany Three against Volodya in the third year of the war between Russia and Ukraine, which we missed and allowed to happen.
As for political thought, I’ve had a few interesting ideas lately, but that’s a topic for a separate conversation.
