07.01.09

Its Russian Christmas today. And its been pretty memorable. About a month and a half ago Darina (my SFERA co-ordinator) suggested that we (the volunteers) join her in her annual Russian Christmas tradition of journeying to Diveyvo- in order to jump into a lake... myself and the polish philosopher, Artur; seemed to be the only two to express any enthusiasm. Calling us 'crazy' noone else signed up, or in fact, turned up- except for my other polish friend and accomplice Magda (of course) who texted me beforehand vowing she wouldnt jump, but in the end- did. Long live the Polish!


At about nine pm, we got on a mini bus- half filled with other russians, and as our four hour journey progressed, picked up more on the way- until every seat was full. The journey there was pretty uneventful, icy windows meant itwas cold enough to keep every layer of your many layers on, and we watched a flip down screen; some russian comedy. I drifted between consciousness and unconsciousness, battling to remain wakeful enough to savour everysecond. There is something so great about long bus rides, when you dont need to be concerned with when to get off, where you are going, but just sit there in blissful ignorance and acceptance, because its all already been arranged. Darina's mother had booked the bus, and im under the impression that the other thirty or so Russians were family friends, or relatives.


Half way through the four hour journey we stopped in a town for ten minutes; for a 'smoking' break,Artur cracked open the shampagne he had brought, and insisted on carrying it through the streets as we wondered along. There was nothing particularly noteworthy about that little expedition, except how cold it got. We hoppedback on the bus, continued for a few more hours, and eventually arrived in the town or village of Diveyvo. I had some vague impression of Diveyvo's spiritual importance, but was to later discover that it is one of four Russian Orthodox 'Dowers' on earth. There is one in Georgia, Ukraine and Greece (I think). In Russia, it is a spiritual centreof the Orthodox Church, and believed to be one of the Virgin Mary's favourite places- as she told the nun whom she appeared to, in a dream-that later went on to build the first of four beautiful churches. We walked around taking pictures,the churches really are beautiful. Especially in the snow. They are really pristine.

Following a group of Russians, we slipped into the hall of a church, and then eventually, into mass. As we entered a small frail shrivelled looking, but very smiley old woman conveyed that she wanted to tie aprons around our waists. I was scolded by some man for holding a camera (which i then hid), and then we shuffled into a space in the crowd. inside the church was exquisite; scented candles burned, the walls depicted saints and biblical scenes; all painted in pastels and gold. Huge golden chandeleers hung from the high spire ceilings, and a priest (or bishop?) was chanting melodically. Every now and then a chorus of women would pipe up angelically. it was so serene and reverenced. and filled. Hundreds of russians stood crossing themselves and bowing at certain words or phrases, women stood with their eyes closed, and lips moving. A child lit a candle and prayed. The only other encounter i have had with the Russian Orthodox Church since i have been here, was in a museum. I was wondering curiously between displays,when i came across these primitive looking, wooden biblical scenes. A crucifix crudely cut out, four wise men with long beards etc. etc. but there was this one figure, a bearded fatherly looking man, with his arms wide open- coming outof the sky; that made my heart start. Honestly the symbol of the cross doesnt really do anything for me, i know what it represents- but its like trying to reflect all the glory and wonder of the sun by drawing a circle with some lines sticking out. How could you even imagine that it might capture all the intensity and feriocity of that bubbling sphere of molten heat? And worse; by putting sun glasses on it?! The plain symbol is good because it doesnt mislead or imply or dwell on anything, but its also crap because it doesnt. Ive never seen an artistic representation of God that struck me so emotively. And at a time, when feeling particularly vulnerable and insecure, the image of a Father with his arms outstretched in longing and love, was enough to make me stand at that particular exhibition for thirty minutes.

Although i stood in the church, thinking all the things a protestant who attends a charismatic church would think,that there was so much gold and embroidery seperating these individuals around me from an intimate communion with God, at the same time, i stood thinking, was it even enough? Is the ornate chandeleers and solemn prayars even enough? When did the concept of worship become so reduced that its ok for me to come before God without my best? in my muddy shoes and preoccupied, or sleepy. and singing generally quite meaningless songs comprised of one syllabled words? There was such a reverence in that room, in the physical demonstration of grown men bowing their heads, acknowleding the God of Heaven. Its easy to forget that im in a christian state. But I just think of Tolstoy or Dostoevsky, and how much they wrote, at least, about God. And as i have been told, politically they have always demanded one central power. I think even the racism is a backlash against the spread of Muslim communities. When i walk down the streets i will pass women crossing themselves constantly, because i think they want charity for the church. Its wierd that a people so different to my own, with such different habits and logic, at least acknowledge the same God. I dont want to join the Russian Orthodox Church, or become a Catholic; but there is such an appealing timelessness about it, the miracles and visions and ancient legacy that fills you with a sense of security and anchor. Like the prayers the bishop and choir hummed are the same prayers worshippers have whispered for centuries- despite seemingly, the impact of communism.

after we finally worked up the courage to whisper out of mass, we walked back to the bus, stopping along the way to look in a souvenir shop. Where i bought my first icon, a picture of Jesus in a field, looking ponderously toward heaven, with some Russian inscription that Darina translated feebly as 'thinking about the cup'. I guess it has something to do with the Garden of Gethsemane. When we got back on the bus a friendly looking blonde middle aged woman attempted to comunicate with me; offering "ruskee chie", like i havent already tasted russian blacktea about six hundred times. it was very kind though, and very appreciated.

The bus jolted down the street and around a bend, parking in the middle of this giant plain of ice. I think we were on top of the lake. We followed Darina and a couple other women into this little wooden changing room, where we hastily changed into pyjamas, and then took it in turns to climb down the icy stairs and 'dip three times' into the water. Having spent summers in the Irish Sea, i didnt find the water exceptionally freezing, the frozen steps were worse. It was a shock submerging yourself so quickly, but not unbearable. Apart from Darina, her 'siberian mother', Magda and I, maybe only two other women took the plunge. We left triumphant, and 'strong'- with a story to tell our grandchildren. It was minus twenty degrees.



The journey home was an experience, food was shared around the bus, and a steel mug of vodka passed between seats; and man i have never been so glad of it! The warmth running down my throat into my belly was such a relief, as i sat with my hood up, gloves on and zipped up; snug in the cold. sometimes i think you just need alcohol here, when its so cold. The back seat passengers, having been relatively quiet on the way up, were drunk; someone produced a russian balalaika (three stringed guitar), and they sung passionately from 2am until we arrived back in Nizhny; dramatic wailing interspersed with triumpant cries of 'Opa!' and hand clapping. Out of amusement, i sat criminally recording it on my camera.

06.01.09

spent my first hour and a half as a teacher today. was surprisingly straightforward and enjoyable.

05.01.09

Happy New Year! Welcome to 2009; it finds me alone in my russian apartment, having just spent the day 'recovering', eating, drawing and avoiding what i should be preparing for tomorrow. Last night, I held a 'movie marathon' in myempty flat (Sveta and Sirosha are at their 'dacha' in the country until the 10th), and i successfully did not sleep a wink. Olga, Tamara, Ian, Sara, Geraldine, Eugene, William and David came around- westayed up all night watching movies from David's harddrive on my laptop. Dini (Geraldine) baked a cake in my kitchen, David had also brought a cake and Eugene contributed sweet and sour chicken and some 'malaysian chocolate'.We watched Sinbad, Remember The Titans, Definately. Maybe, Sleepy Hollow, Its a Boy Girl Thing, Dirty Dancing 2- all pretty good films.

At about 4am, the topic of conversation turned to Malaysia; and as they described the beaches, the seafood, the monkeys, the 5 types of bananas, the cheap living standards etc. etc. once again that gaping question "why did i choose Russia?" assualted me. I mean really! When there was Italy, Spain, Greece, Turkey etcetc. all the sundrenched climates i thrive in, the beaches and seas, the suntans, the meditereanean hotties, the good food, the spicy music etc. etc. the people who understand english! I think this recent lack of enthusiasm stems from New Years Eve, and the general harrasment of it all. If you can imagine Thompsons on a Wednesday night, at 2am, you'll understand what i mean. Except add to the hunting eyes; a free bar, girls in hot pants, and you'll have an idea. i had fun, because i love to dance, and if it hadnt been for the sexual predator literally chasing us around the dancefloor it could have lasted all night. But at one point, climbing between floors (the disco and live band), i noticed this huge african guy sitting on a window ledge with his face in his hands, that were resting against his knees. As though he was feverently praying. Those moments are like lighting, the entire world seems to flip and you just stop, and lose your breath, because the beauty of it overcomes you. and the image becomes something you should engrave into time, you should write about or pray or just remember ever day of your life. I stood gaping at him for about five minutes, too scared to ask what he was doing; both in case he said no, and case he said yes. eventually Andrea stumbled up the stairs- and told me he was just sick. I so hope he wasnt, i so hope there was someone braver then me- that could sit and pray.

There were two huge fights, couples making up, hooking up and breaking up everywhere, too many people, sweating, cursing, dancing, flirting, laughing; Marianne said it was her best New Year's in a while. But its beginningto concern me that all i may have to show for my six months here, are parties. , i'm about to begin my 'teaching job'; tomorrow i have my first private pupil, and its what i should be preparing for right now. Instead of stufifngmy face, and decorating the box template thing David gave me as a present (as well as a really pretty beaded keyring made by the "Sarawak" natives where he lives). Potentially i am about to embark on the realisation of a dream. Teaching in a foreign country, coming home to write and draw. When i let it, it fills me with peace; that this is all i have to be, and this is all i want to be; a teacher and writer. But still of course, the ever gluttonous Rachel Holmes is possibly unsatisfied. There is no ugrency. there is no inspiration. no revolution or revelation. just existence. I'm not Dostoevsky who had to pawn his last jacket, or George Orwell that tramped in London and Paris. Im really not going to be an outstanding teacher,especailly when some of my students will be in their thirites, and i havent even graduated from university. And on top of that, last night we watched Sinbad and the Seven Seas (which my lover Hayley Best bought me before i left); and man that film makes me pine.

29.12.2008

There is a sort of 'foreigner underground' here, a kind of reactionary student community that spites russia by ignoring it. Alot of students come to study here, particuarly medicine- many asians and africans; they live together, eat together, associate together and party together. I know students that have lived here for years, still have very few russian friends and cannot speak the language. Really i cant blame them, when, as Ian told me at Church- "it's such a hard place to be foreign". The coloured student vs russia relationship is summed up in his statement, "we only came here to study. we're not taking jobs or stealing from the economy. Why can't they just let us be?"And as my bus to work drove past, as it does everyday, the "Mediskinski Institute" i almost burst out laughing when a foreign looking youth got on and stared at me until i got off, recognising the darker skin and brighter smile/dazed countenance that marks you out as at least a potential member of that 'under the nose' student experience. I tend to dip in and out, in that many of my friends belong to the international student hostel, and that I and the rest of the EVS volunteers along with me, have been invited along to their New Year celebration. The party is meant to last all night (it needs to becasue the last buses are at 10pm and the first begin at around 6am) and there is the option to 'party hop' between rooms, floors and even up the street. I am looking forward to 10pm on the 31st, when I have told * that we will arrive, but am slightly apprehensive. When * asked if i knew the way, i told him Jehnya (my south korean friend; a very convicted christian studying russian) would probably be going and could show us directions. * raised his eyebrow, and said in a very low voice; "does Jehnya party?" to which i blankly and innocently replied, "Didnt you see him on the dancefloor? he's an animal" (this conversation was taking place at the chruch, after the christmas party). Fishing for what he had really meant, and in order to interpret the nature of this New Year party i asked glibly "do we need to bring anything?" to which * replied once again, in a low voice, "We've got everything", and then catching the eye of anther student member of the worship band, who nodded in agreement, said "in fact i think we have too much" -_-

I know that the alcohol thing is quite cultural, and ive met plenty of YWAM gappers at Summer Madness that smoke and drink, as well as have sex. But that Sunday night, as Almira drove me home and we talked about New Year plans, she warned me to stick with * and the rest of the Vineyard Christian boys- because of all the wordly indulgence she has heard about, going on at these student hostel parties- and i didnt know whose double life i was caught up in, theirs- or mine. In some ways i feel like i should be relieved or something, like this is the freedom everyone talks about when you 'leave home'. That i can do whatever i want with these boys, and not be the condemned outcast, so that on Sunday morning we'll all be together in some grand joke that fools the rest of the middle aged congregation, and not stand ashamed before them- who we do eventually aspire to- but just not now- in our 'youth', and definately not somewhere as bleak and depressing, and sometimes racist, as Russia. It will just be like an exciting secret. But man, i like *, i want to like him, and respect him... is it ok? He practically organised the Christmas event! But i feel like, what is the difference then, between us and anyone else? what is so relevant or true about our faith if in the end we havent progressed beyond that same immediate understanding of life and joy that everyone else is still blinded by. how is it real if it hasnt even changed us? Perhaps faith isnt so superficial as binge drinking vs teetotalism, but if it does penetrate deeper- surely it would change the surface? And it is so crafty in some ways, because there is this really innocent and spiritually devoted girl, an eighteen year old who wants to be married at 21, that seems infatuated with one of the New Year Eve Party/ Worship Leader youth. Are we all, the 'foreign youth' just perpetuating this illusion? Is she perserving in the hope that he has good intentions, and she has a chance- when really; she is caught up in this worldy trap? Not even a trap, a game which to begin with she is just totally excluded from because she doesnt even know the rules; or that he gets drunk- while she 'doesnt party'? Its so cruel. And even if shes not as infatuated as ive made out, its just an example of the Church that isnt allowed to see all of who you are. And the fellowship that is just completely empty, because in the end everyone is at best hiding, and at worst- lying. And now i dont know what to think, never mind what to do. I mean, maybe its not even a moral question; because * is about to sit a major medicine exam, he has survived here for four years- in a country where he cant speak the language and walks around in constant paranoia, so maybe its justabout unwinding. But what about Masha? the drunkard that sexually harassed me?

i thought of her all the next day, certain smells or accents would just evoke such a revulsion in me. She said herself that she was hetrosexual, and yet grief or something drove her to seek relief from a member of the same sex. Is turning to alcohol, the same as turning to homosexuality- when you are driven by the same root of despair? Is drunkeness as disgusting as Masha's desperation? Obviously many people will think not, but why not? Its the same submission to your body, or release of control. In fact, drunkenness is what drew out that lust, so to begin with its even worse; because its more conceivable and acceptable- and therefore the bedrock of degradation. I'm not homophobic, or actually that opposed to alcohol; sometimes tipsiness is fun; when i'm in Emily Sommer's kitchen and we are drinking wine and dancing to Sean Paul, tripping up stairs giggling and just acting like fools. Or in Turkey when you are with your best friends. Or like tonight, when one of Sveta's friends called round; Alexei (finally! I have met a russian Alexei!), and i had a glass of shampagne and some chocolate to celebrate the New Year, and even wine with my dad for dinner. But there is a difference between drinking to celebrate life, and drinking to be drunk. And when you are in russia, surrounded by alcoholics, and women slurping from bottles of beer on the bus, surely binge drinking is absolutely unattractive.

People turn to alcohol from despair here. And as Pastor David observed to me 'there is no freedom. just to get outside takes so much effort'; you have to wrap up, unlock and lock about four locks, get down this tiny lift, trudge through thick snow etc. etc. in fact today, it took me two hours to get home- and i didnt even leave the city! Deborah, who went home to Germany for two weeks, cried for days because she didnt want to come back. and she is the one with a huge equipped and very modern apartment! and was convinced before she left, that she loved it here.

What is wrong with it then? Why are people so unhappy? Mary, my american friend, was found of saying that the worst thing for Russians, "is other russians". I think theres a truth there, but at the same time, why? why are people so mean? I keep wondering if Russia, or at least Nizhny Novgorod is a spiritual place. Obviously every country in the world has a spirituality, but there really does seem to be some looming force here. Some unharnassable, unendurable pressure pushing people into the ground. But the thing is, i dont think its neccessarily maleovent (however that word is spelt), its embodied in the climate. its been snowing for days, the city is literally being reborn. everything is cleaner and brighter, the mornings are fresh and crisp, and the hills in the distance are covered in white. The rivers have frozen and are being buried. The snow is so beautiful, it really is the saving grace of these grotesque buildings and factories. And what is amazing about it, is that that cover falls from heaven. little snow drops dance down from the sky, ceaselessly until its almost frustrating. they clothe the landscape in a layer of froth that literally sparkles and glistens as you trudge along, slipping and sliding, hobbling like an old woman. and when you are driving along the bridges, or up the hill that overlooks the city, its like its been put to sleep. it seems to be hushed in the white and mistiness, and everyone around you is somehow more sleepy and resigned, but also calm. Because Russians love the snow, they whined and whined until it arrived, and now that it has- anticipateskiing and snow boarding and ice skating, and are more collected about the natural order of things. they reminiscence about -30 and days when they couldnt leave their buildings because it was so cold. And with so much personalhopelessness braced against the climate of a God, how can Russia, despite the living traces of communim and nihilism, be unspiritual? Its so beautiful, but also indigestable. Its like there is so much hopelessness, because there are two worlds coexisting. There is the cars and the buses and the factories and the buildings, and then there is the snow. There is no harmony with nature here, understandably becasue its freezing, but more then that; there is no tenderness in anything. Like when you are makinga clay pot, there is this gentleness that lets it develop in your fingers, the way a flower sprouts or something. But there is no room for that gentle unfurling. everything is just violent and abrasive and snatched at, i understand the selfishness now though- becasue if you dont take it, you could miss it. like the seat on the bus, so youre left standing for forty minutes squished up against smelly men and women that have their legs between yours and theirhair in your face, people have to fight for jobs, and im sure back in the day they also fought for food. and that desperation just seems to be imprinted in everything. i dont understand what point im trying to make, or what im even saying.but the snow is like a constant reminder that there is another fathomless and very real reality, that completely overpowers human effort- for so long it has been misunderstood as the political, and economic turmoil which has dismantled Russian history, but their history has twisted and turned and changed like a viper, whereas the snow is permanent and timeless. no matter how petty or magnificent our squabbles are, there is still a greater force to reckonwith. and that hopelessness is that no matter how they try, it is out of their hands, and they have no hope because they dont pray.

27.12.2008

I just had the best, and then the worst party ever. and as i'm sitting in an empty flat, surrounded by mess- i dont know wheter to be satisfied, or repulsed. Gwen, Isrken and Martina have all left Russia to renew their visas; after being prompted by a few volunteers, as well as encouraged by Gwen, i threw a 'birthday party' in their empty flat. it was only really 'realised' the night before, at 11pm as i texted a few people that would be hard to get hold of, and then everyone else in the morning. After Piano Theatre, i went with Andrea to SFERA- pounced on the next available computer, sent a few messages- hoked around facebook, and then caught the bus with Sara to hers-where we ate pasta, i straightened my hair and attempted to communicate to Valentina via mobile that i didn't have enough time to go to her student party. Of course, being on the bus she couldnt hear me- which meant i ended up drinking tea with her three shy adolsecent students- questioning them glibly about their favourite sports, animals, subjects, colours and refusing cake. By the time i made it back to moskowski woksal, with barely a moment tocatch my breath- it was 6.45pm. Intentionally appearing preoccupied, and trying to look like i knew what i was doing, i wheeled a trolley through the Republicka supermarket aisles wondering not only what, but how much food peoplewould eat. Got some bread, nuts, dried fruits, biscuits, crisps, two bottles of juice and ham. Met up with Sara (who had the apartment keys), but almost instantaneously recieved calls from Olga, David and then Cexeh- who had arrived at the designated meeting point. Sara who had a cake baking in the oven gave me directions, i whizzed back through the tunnel, met them, got into the flat eventually, cut and buttered bread hysterically, put out bowls of snacks- did my make up in the toilet, put music on, and then stood waiting with the three of them. Olga presented me with an english version of 'Crime and Punishment' (actually a very thoughtful and welcome gift, especailly as i have run out of anything to read-although it will once and for all eliminate precious moments of fiddling with language notes. how unfortunate...) David eventually left to meet Ian; who together, had bought and wrapped up perfume in the most adorable gesture of boyish thoughtfullness ever. Its Jean Reno 'Loves You'. Awwwwwwwwwww. and then I ran to get Vlad and Kiril from the english language company. In short, the party seemed to materialise out of nothing. in the beginning, as more and more people arrived- Luba and Anton, Campilla and his friends,the other volunteers, I was beginning to get anxious about stale group dynamics. David, Ian and Olga had to leave early- they had hostel curfews. Anton, who had arrived in a delicate black feathery jacket, wearing his silk white tie,black shirt and tight jeans- with whom Kasia seemed to be developing an aggravated affection for- dicovered that the problem was a lack of glasses. Sipping martini from a tea cup, he loudly suggested that i tell someone to go get some.And when Sara returned with plastic cups, i had a little martini to toast to my own, and Campilla's health, while everyone else got very enthusiastic about the vodka and bottles of beer that had been brought along. By the end, people really came together. Vlad, a russian boy/man who i now sincerely respect, sat on the window sill with TK from Malowi- developing what looked like a proper brotherhood. the africans, who have expressed an understandable dislike of russians really 'felt' the natives i had invited. Adrian told me at the sink, that he couldn't believe that they are from this country. I think that's the thing with alot of russian people, until you sit down and get to know one another, they can seem so hostile, but in reality- arent. There were a few magnificently surreal moments. Beginning firstly, with how well Vlad got on with TK and (i hate to keep grouping them) the africans in general. How much i liked Mo the morrocon dj with the most adorably squeeky voice. And, i will remember this for the rest of my life, Vlad- who had already b-boxed inthe kitchen, got out his guitar- started strumming, as Campilla 'spat' a Happy Birthday rap in his smooth smoooooth voice, and TK popped his joints like he was liquid. We gathered in the back room to warble along to 'no woman no cry', Vlad sang the verses in russian as we joined the chorus, and then gave us an example of 'live russian rapping'. I mean, to see music bring people together like that- its properly amazing. Before i came, i read and copied something downabout the suffering in africa and russia which had produced an innate affinity for music within the peoples, and i mean, it was like i was watching that manifest.

The African people have an almost instinctive flair for music. this faculty was born in sorrow. i think that slavery, its anguish and seperation- and all the longings it brought- gave it birth. the nearest to be fouind is Russia, and you knowabout their serf sorrows. The Russian has the same rhythmic quality... it is an emotional product, developed, i think, through suffering

Vlad has the sweetest touch on the guitar- as we all started to zone out, waiting for earliest buses that would start going at 5.30am, he got his guitar out again- and seriously 'sweet' is the only way to describe it. he can properly play. And i had my first dedication, he had practised an 'english' song that he thoughtwas really 'my song' and played Patrice, "You Only You" to me, despite being very hestitant because of the few words he couldnt remember. Vlad is the type of guy that gives you hope for russian men. As he noticed my sadness forour visitor (who i will explain about later) he told me that people make they're own decisions, so it is up to us who we become. he plans to travel to the US in the summer, and despite admitting that he loves himself and thinks he is confident, he is not arrogant or annoying- just trying to be the best he can; he isnt stubborn or unflexible or cowardly. I can only say good things about this boy, i respect him so much, especially for how easy it was for him to integrate into the really quite random situation, and for how much he seems to believe in me- and not in a sexualised, i think you are pretty kind of way (although Vlad is quickly moving into my 'top people' list- it is completely unromantic. firstly my heart is set elsewhere, and secondly he has a girlfriend), although he did once blush trying to tell me i was pretty- he is intelligent enough to esteem more. He told me that i was amazing because i have a 'strong character', and coming from someone you can respect- that is a compliment you can respect. Vlad is an example, of the 'russian soul' in all its glory. And I am really growing to like Campilla, he is like a brother; as 'truth or dare' spun out of control into 'spin the bottle', he retired with me into the kitchen; because the game 'has no essence'. They invited me to the hostel for dinner in the future, and Campilla is going to email me the music he has produced, and some vocal tracks. Earlier on in the evening i had also accompanied Carlos and Adrian to Moskowski Woksal to pick up a few other friends, it was late- i cant remember the time, butthe underground tunnel was clearing except for a few dandering roamers, and as we sped through, it occured to me that my presence was the chaperoning 'force'. obviously with skin heads it is as more of anignorant gang mentality then any ideological crusade- and therefore, though a few very intimidating looking men eyeballed us as we marched, i am reasonably sure that they would not attack a girl. in fact last week, Sara, unsuspectingly opened the door to a drunkard who demanded to see 'Anna', and forced his way into the apartment. He searched around, as Sara stood in her pyjama shorts and Geraldine slept, and then sat in the kitchen demanding coffee. Obviously he could have had his way, being a middle aged man, in a flat with two vulnerable young women, but eventually just left. of course that isnt to say drunk men or men in general around here, are safe- but generally i dont think the ideal of the 'gentlemen' is completely buried yet.

As for the 'visitor'... -_- at about 1am or something someone started banging on the door- it was a neighbour complaining about the noise. In the end she just wanted us to move the music into another room, as directly above her son was asleep. Im not sure if she arrived intoxicated, but it became very clear that it was her intention. Perhaps because in my fit of 'goodwill to mankind' i greeted her with one of the very few russian phrases i know, 'nice to meet you', or because i started dancing- she began following me around, and not just following- pulling, hugging, squeezing and generally being very forcefully affectionate. She kept calling for me, wanted to speak with me (even as i continually explained that i couldnt understand), and dragged me back to the dancefloor anytime i departed into the kitchen. im not sure if she 'wanted' me from the beginning, but our friendship quickly spiralled into a pursuit; and of course finding it very funny Nikola encouraged her in russian. At some time in the morning, three russian men were pounding against the door- in her element, Kasia flung her body against it- preventing anyone from leaving; convinced it wasan angry husband coming to fetch his vegabound wife. There was a whole uproar, Carlos wrapped his chain around his fist, determined for a fight (which i severely objected to), eventually Vlad went out to speak with them and discovered that really it was just a few middle aged men who had been drinking outside, and wanted to join the party, and offered him vodka. Masha, however- who had previouslytold Magda that she didnt want to go home because her boyfriend beat her, was hiding behind the bed. My heart had already melted of course, from all the stories ive heard of abused wives, and despite everyone elses demands that we just boot her out to 'deal with her own problems' i had concluded that a night free from violence isnt too much to ask. realising that i was maybe the only person who could wring any meagre form of cooperation from her, i attempted to put her to sleep. I dragged her into bed, and sat on the floor with my head rested against my arm besides her, repeating 'sleep' and 'goodnight' in russian, and shooshing her constant chatter. At some point i comprehended that she wanted a kiss, so i gave her a goodnight peck on the cheek, but when it only seemed to inflame her, I, realising what she had really meant, immediately declared 'nyet. ya lublu muchena'; 'no. i love men', which she then also repeated. I tried again to pretend to sleep- but she started whispering fiercely, and began to lick my hands and face! And she bit my arm! At that I let her be of course, and left. But she did fall asleep, and maybe an hour later- got up in a drunken daze, attempting to gather her stuff together. Watching her dazedly lace up her boots and look for her bag made me really sad. That a grown woman of 28, with a child, could be so drunk and impose herself in a flat full of people she can barely communicate with, is just sad. What must her life be like? Vlad only shoke his head and assured me that she is not an example of russian women, but also that it was his shame and 'the biggest problem with our country'. Maybe forty minutes later she stumbled back, and passed out on a bed. Eventually, at 5am in the morning, when she woke and vlad finally forced her to leave, having sobered up, she was a different person. with make up smudged all down her face of stone, sitting in the kitchen demanding a cigarette, totally changed from the carefree oblivious drunkard of the night before. I had pried her fingers from glasses of wine, but hadnt overly objected- or hadnt objected enough. i thought we were giving her a break, but as it suddenly occured to me that upstairs there was a child that would have to deal with this grim, hung over woman, i was just like, man. previously as i protested against just sending her out to the men, TK had said that if we kept her, she would just be beaten tomorrow. of course i had known that, but hadnt truely forseen it. i hadnt looked at her thinking of tomorrow, and if i had, maybe i would have comprehended not only that she would still suffer, but other people might as well. the party wasnt any type of respite for her, it was just oblivion.

as the night and eventually the morning progressed, i became more tired obviously, i was having fun definately, but everywhere i went people seemed to be asking if i was ok, and why i looked so sad. Campilla had told me earlier that i need to learn to change my facial expression whenever someone asks me how i am, because i look bored or sad. Adrian thought i was gone, or distant. he asked me what i was looking for, and i could only reply "God", because man i just want more. how on earth did people ever come to think joy could be poured out of a bottle? i always feel so empty at these things. maybe dancing and mingling can delay it in the beginning, but eventually, as you sit down with these people you have connected with, and are connecting with, there is just something that isnt there. because even when we do really know each other, i feel like there is still such a limitless intimacy waiting beyond, but we always just end up butting our heads against a wall- despite everyones mutual desire to relate on an even deeper level, articulated in the feeblest reflections on the 'meaning of life'. and that spiritual desire for fellowship always just becomes so deformed. why does everything spiral into emptiness? why do we keep degrading the most simple purest instincts for happiness, into something so unsimple, and unpure. and even not as obvious, but therefore more terrible. my friend has had a particularly crap month; his best friend finished his studies and returned to austria, he broke up with his girlfriend and on christmas day- his friend, a small chinese boy was attacked on the bus, as russians sat around and did nothing. i was very conscious of why he came to the party, for closeness. and there is nothing wrong with that, when you are in a place where you are so lonely and frightened, and isolated. but that desire for strength through community, is always so misrepresented as a romantic need. its like with Masha, the russian woman. i want to love you, but not like that. and if i let you get drunk and pass out from some translucent kindness, only so that in the morning you will go home hungover, and ashamed to your family, really i am just deceiving you. that isnt kindness. that is just aiding you in self destruction, it is only leading you up a glass stair case or handing you the gun to end your misery. it is just deceit, for all of us.

im sitting in the kitchen now, have had about three hours sleep. finally in an emply flat big enough to be alone; surrounded by rubbish and cigarette stubs and empty vodka bottles. although i dont want to condemn it because i dont want to condemn anyone, and besides i made new friends, i didnt sin, noone was hurt, noone had sex, noone worshipped the devil; at least consciously, i cant help but to feel like, is the summit of friendship- the epiphany of what we can have together, is this it? does togetherness begin with intoxication and end in mess? and as people began to enjoy themselves more and more, just because of the totally random assortion of it; people who wouldnt usually associate singing and laughing together; Anton in his neat outfit dancing with blunt Kashia; KT singing with Vlad, the toasts became more impassioned, people wanted more photos with me. Campilla congratuled me for what i 'had done,bringing all these people together'. Magda as she danced beside me declared 'i like rachel very much'. I am being such a boast, but it was a pretty awesome party. yet despite the people and telephone numbers and merriment of it all, i am always haunted by this gradual sinking awareness that it isnt what i want. And even when Vlad and i began to talk politics at 4am, i just tasted such a futility in it. Even if he chases knowledge, self respect and perhaps even beauty, there is such a fundamental difference in how we understand, most obvious in what Masha implies; perhaps she could be some fool who has ruined her own life, who isn't 'strong' as he concluded, who hasnt made the right decisions and should deal with her own problems. or, she could be just the same as me. if i am 'strong', my strength comes from your prayars and the only thing i can conclude about life; we are all the same. people dont want to hate or be unhappy, they just dont know what else to do. The only thing that sets me apart from her is luck, and i do mean luck because it is not that i am more blessed, i am just lucky because in the eyes of the world i am comfortable and can be proud. that doesnt strip away responsibility obviously, its just the only way to understand the unfairness, and the ugliness. and if i am so lucky, and she is not; it is not because i am better, she just needs some help. and even if i get a university degree, a prestigious job, and own a shiny car one day, or walk down the less obvious but equally-as-esteemable-in-different-ways walk- if i become a writer, and say wise things, and paint some pictures and live some noble enlightened existence... so what? am i better then her?

o kak. someone keeps ringing the doorbell, and when i put my ear against the door- i hear a group of them; speaking in russian...

24.12.2008

It is officially the 24th December, in Russia anyway. the two days i have been anticipating and then dreading so much have arrived. Christmas Eve and Christmas. and my birthday. And if this lonlieness bites with more venom then usual, i know it will only be for these two days, by Friday time will have started again.

23.12.2008

It is two hours before my nineteenth birthday, and the first gift i have received- and all i can expect to recieve, is the box of sweets Vladimir gave Andrea and I, one each, for our 'european Christmas'. i have never been so overjoyed by a present, so properly elated that i made Andrea laugh by singing all the way to the busstop. Russian sweets are great, they really have a taste for sugar here- and have devised all manner of chocolate 'konfeti' to satisfy it, and even though i really wouldnt say no to a selection box, my pleasure had nothing to do with the content. in the moment he whipped the silver box out from behind his back, i properly just overflowed in gratefullness and joy. the fact that someone had thought enough of me to remember my Christmas, and make the effort to get me a present, made me so happy. I mused before on the spirit of Christmas which has nothing to do with materialism, but with friendship and family, but honestly, without presents what is Christmas? i dont mean barbie doll houses and mobile phones, or argos, i mean simple heart felt giving. i mean a present meant especially for you, destined from its conception- no matter how commercialised- to make someone think of you. So that you know you arent going to be forgotten. There is something so divine in that. God bless Vladimir for showing me that kindness. He is someone that refutes all the condemnation i could ever think of to write about russian men. I got on the bus with a sparkle in my smile- grinning into every set of eyes that passed over the wrapped box sitting on my knee. but by the time i left SFERA office- i was honestly feeling less cheerful.

when your inbox says you have 14 unread messages- you cant help but to get your hopes up, until you open it and discover that they are all 'merry christmas from gap year' or 'free evs placement in Rome' or viagra adds. And I'm sitting here, imagining the hot chocolates and mince pies all my friends are drinking and eating together, and i do just get jealous. and then despondant. its my birthday. But the reason i left SFERA was also what filled me in such warmth and contentment as i made my way home. So that, as i walked down my street i just wanted to vent one almighty whoop of ovrerflowing joy, and ascended into that place of complete bliss and thankfulness which has absolutely nothing to do with where you are coming from, or where you're going but has absolutely everything to do with exactly who and where you are, and what you are doingin that precise moment. and my life was perfect! how could it not be? i am beautiful, blessed and loved; and more then that- i am alive!

At church on sunday, Sara and I were invited by two russian girls; Olga and Eva for tea. At 6pm i met Olga outside church, and followed her literally around a corner, and then into Eva's flat. Despite their misleading maturity (which istypical of most girls my age; as they start university here at 17), both girls are 19- turning 20, Olga was born in Nizhny, whereas Eva moved here to study from a small city closer to Moscow. She lives alone in an apartment whichbelongs to her parents; as they run what i assume is a pretty successful business. her apartment is another one of the reasons that should make you hate your own accomodation, but i just dont really care anymore. Both Sara andI exclaimed that her toilet was bigger then our rooms (it is pretty huge), and the place is generally clean and well furbished. With modern kitchen counters, gleaming wooden floors etc. its just a nice place to be, and such a welcomechange from the broken down volunteer accomodation we've become used to socialising in. And as i sat in the spacious kitchen, dressed in dark colours, i felt like such a freed convict. Having a linguistically talented father- who speaks three languages fluently, Eva was raised to be bi-lingual, conversing with her father in english and her mother in russian; in otherwords, she has what is probably a native speaker's authority over english. also, they've moved alot betweenRussia and the US- where she went to kindergarden. Similarly Olga, who is also studying at the linguistic university, has pretty fluent english. And Stephanie- the pastor's daughter was over as well. She, like most of the missionary kids at vineyard, has been homeschooled, and although she has what is probably quite an advanced grasp of russian, i think she is still hesitant to speak in it. most of Stephanie's friends are the foreign medical students she befriends at Vineyards Christian Fellowship, which in fact is also true of Olga and Eva. We ate fried banana pieces inside a cooked apple, the apple pie her visiting granny had baked and cookies Stephanie made with her mum. Her granny joined us for dinner- what a tender lady. She is a pretty typical babushka, except that she wasnt wearing a freaky floral dress and didnt seem intimidated by the language barrier. And she is siberian. Through Eva, she told us details of her life, and asked about our own. Eventually she left the table, and of course, within minutes of doing so- the topic of conversation spiraled into that subject which can animate any christian girl, and bonds you with every other; boys. more then boys. husbands.

Living in a city with very few other christians, and no propaganda, ive noticed that the christians here compromise much less. In Bangor its easy to be a sort-of christian, with christians friends, christian accountability etc. etc. but here,youre either a christian or not. when you stumble, there is nothing to convict you of sin except your own conscience; faith is much more personal. and these three, having been raised in christian families, are probably much more traditionaland obedient then us lot (or at least me) at home. These girls are really beautiful, all the more because they are so innocent and sincere. Olga, who is in a long-distant relationship with an american who studied here (who she isalso going to visit in the summer), blushed the most sweetish adorable blush everytime someone teased or questioned her. And Eva's description of her husband was the description of a girl who has dreamed long and hard of it, doesnt see the point in dating but anticipates 'courtship' , and wants to be married at 21, because its a family tradition. Its not that these girls are prehistoic or are nuns, they are all very clever and astute, knowledgeable about politics and history- they just have a very pure understanding of marriage. in some ways it could be misconstrued as naive, rather then optimistic, but its so good to be among people who still have expectations. and when i asked if they wanted to marry russian men, they practically shouted NO! like alot of the women, they agree that russian men are bad news.

In fact, an old women who struck up a conversation with Sara at a busstop the other day, asked her if she had come to find a husband. and when she answered no, the woman replied good, because they all drink and beat their wives. But ive also noticed that russians are very romantic, i see men walking around with flower bouquets, and even Luba- a member of the glamourous set at Masha's party, told me she was waiting for her 'true love'. the women dream of men, only because they all went to war. And despite my sermon yesterday, Eva's opinion on the 'Russian knot' is that 'pride becomes before the fall'; and as a people, they still have alot to repent for. when we left, Sara exclaimed that her heart was melting. They were so sweet. So bright eyed and uncomplicated, with such optimistic hopes and dependance on God. So blessed, as we opened the door into the snow, Sara and I wondered what man could be good enough for any of them.