“Listen closely, for the songs can still be heard drifting across the Siberian landscape,” my Grandfather would start; his eyes shining like two small droplets of water.
“A chant, a drumbeat, the sound of dancing feet shuffling along the periphery of dark shadows unnoticed. We are the keepers of the reindeer, the people of the Chukotka, and for centuries we have danced upon the cusp of earth’s frozen crown like moths dancing around a campfire. We would move from the Sea of Okhotsk to the Kamchatka Peninsula,” he continued, “then inland over the Gydan Range until we hit the Kolyma River.”
Grandfather’s arms were now held up in front of him, his eyes shut.
“From the great river to the west and south we would move our herds into the open plateaus. Such was the cycle of both man and deer.” Grandfather paused, as if lost in memory, and in the distance, a reindeer snorts its displeasure as if pleading with him to continue his story. And so, after poking the campfire, the rising embers turning into stars above our heads, grandfather’s steady gaze falls upon me. I can tell by his slight smile and sad look that I’ve become the object of his melancholy. I avert my eyes and shift uncomfortably on my stool, while my sleeping three year old brother Peetuk, as if sensing my uneasiness, lets out a sharp burst of dream induced laughter. Startled by the outburst, my mother starts choking on a piece of drymeat, so much so that my father has to pound on her back with his fist as if she were a ceremonial drum. Then, out comes the meat, the fist stops its drumming and grandfather continues.
“They do not tell you about our history Tuea at the Russian school. They talk of Mother Russia, but she is a mother who will never recognize us as her children. Mother Russia!” grandfather says again, almost spitting out the words. “Then we are but orphans, for she refuses to hear our songs or listen to our history.” Grandfather pauses again, head bowed slightly as exhausted by the weight of his own words. Then, looking up at me once more, grandfather says in almost a whisper, “Never allow our fires to burn out Tuea, for if you do, then they can never be rekindled.”
All is silent once more. Mother and father take Peetuk to the tent while grandfather slips away to his.
I lean back slightly and stretch my legs, my fifteen year old body tingling in the cool night air. All this summer’s hard work has leaned out my body while the dark whiskers on my chin have started to poke through like weeds on a dirt road. Tomorrow I must head back to the Russian outpost near Susuman with my mother and brother while my father and grandfather take the deer up north for the winter and reconnect with the larger Chukotka herds which are being driven inland from the Bering Strait. I shut my eyes and the wind turns to song, and for one more night at least, I can sit back and enjoy this place of perfect solitude; a place where the moon shadows creep along the tundra moss, playful and unchained.
The next morning, after dismantling camp, I strap Peetuk onto one of the reindeer and prepare for the five day journey back to the outpost. It is now late August and the first dry flakes of snow descend around us like goose down. We say our tearful goodbyes to father and grandfather then turn our deer onto the trail which will take us back home.
Later that week, we arrive back at the outpost at the same time as Mr. Kolya Gregory Buloff, my Russian school teacher, who has also just arrived from Vladivostok. Like his initials K.G.B., Mr. Buloff was also, at one time, captain of the eastern KGB department. Since the dismantling of the Soviet Union over two years ago, Mr. Buloff has now been degraded, as he puts it, to being a school teacher in a land where even God would get frostbite. Mr. Buloff, upon noticing our arrival, steps over and gives me his customary bone crushing handshake; my dark hand momentarily lost in his own massive pink fist. My grandfather would certainly see something in this image.
“Kak Dyela” – “how’s it going,” - he booms, his Russian hitting me in the face like an Arctic wind.
It takes me a moment to find my tongue. “Preekrasna” – “I’m fine,” - I mumble almost inaudibly.
"Ah Ha,” he booms again, “so you have not forgotten your Russian after all.” “I hope that you’ve been giving some thought as to attending the Vladivostok Military Academy for next summer” he continues.
I say nothing while Peetuk begins to shift uncomfortably on the reindeer.
“We must be getting home to unpack Tuea,” my mother cuts in, sensing my discomfort.
“See you in class,” Mr. Buloff grunts and then he turns and marches away leaving us standing alone in the middle of the dusty street.
The Russian outpost, which is adjacent to our winter village, is composed of brightly coloured houses, two to three levels in height, and was built some time in the mid 80’s during the industrial and mineral expansion projects. The houses were built using cement and steel beam foundations, labouriously shipped up to Magadan from Vladivostok, and then trucked up over frozen roads the remaining 200 miles to the outpost.
My grandfather and many of the other elders tried convincing the Russian builders that the ground would not allow for such inflexible materials, as the continuous freezing and unfreezing would cause the terrain to rise and swell like the Kamchatka Peninsula. In response, the head Russian engineer remarked that he had gone to the best engineering school in Moscow and that maybe we should worry more about how we were going to better ourselves as productive Russian citizens rather than hiding away in Russia’s frozen shadows.
My grandfather, not one for holding his tongue, replied, his perfect Russian cutting like a Mongolian sword, “It is better to be hidden and free amongst the frozen shadows than to be forgotten within the icy embrace of Mother Russia.”
The engineer’s face went snow flake white, but he said no more. And so, the foundations went in and the houses went up. By the end of summer everything seemed to be going according to plan; that is until spring came around and mother earth rose up from her deep winter slumber and stretched, shook and shifted as she always has. And, just as predicted by my grandfather, the Russian houses were heaved off their foundations like unwanted ticks being scratched off the back of a half starved wolf. The engineer never did return. Instead, they sent another group of construction workers to prop up and re-stabilize the buildings.
During that time, my seven year old mind thought that the Russian approach to house building was quite innovative. I had never seen houses lean at such angles, like flowers searching for the sun. I begged my parents to build a similar house. My father replied that he would build such a house only if one of my legs grew longer than the other, but until then, we would have to settle for our hide-covered conical winter dwelling.
Now, as we walked through the outpost towards our village, the leaning houses have taken on a more sinister appeal. Even Peetuk can sense foreboding in the way the dark windows resemble black eyes; soulless and desperate; ever searching and ever consuming. We pick our pace until finally we reach our small village. Upon arrival, the sweet smell of salmon and deer meat renew our spirits once again. Once unpacked, we eat and gossip with the other families, while Peetuk and some of the other small children play reindeer hunter, using one of the village dogs as their reluctant object of prey.
Later that night, I dream that my hand is being once again held firmly in Mr. Buloff’s hand. This time, he will not let go. When I glance up at his face, his eyes, which look like two black orbs, focus on the horizon behind me. When I look over my shoulder, I see my grandfather standing close by with his hands outstretched, a sad smile dancing across his face. With relief and joy I reach out with my free hand to grab hold of his hand, but mine passes through his as if passing through smoke. I begin to struggle violently but Mr. Buloff’s grip remains firm, his black eyes burning into mine. I cry out for my grandfather’s help; instead, I’m met with thousands of reindeer running through me as though I were a ghost to my people.
I wake the next morning quiet and ill-humored. Peetuk, in wanting to play, rams the back of my legs with his solid little head. I recover my balance and insist that if I don’t leave then I’m going to be late for school. He wants to come but I tell him to enjoy his freedom while he still can. Then, after prying Peetuk off my leg, I’m out the door, the cool free September air mocking my every step. In class, Mr. Buloff pulls down the huge map of Russia and reviews with us some of the more important cities and mountains within this seemingly immeasurable country.
“Muskva” – “Moscow,” –
“Sankt Petersburg,” – “Saint Petersburg,” –
“Gorye Ooralye” – “Ural Mountains,” – we mechanically mimic, our voices sounding like a moaning herd of oxen.
“Moscow is our great capital,” he continues, “and this is where we are situated.” We watch our teacher walk to the other end of our twelve foot long map, our dark heads following in unison. “Here,” he points slightly out of breath, “is where we are.” Mr. Buloff then turns; his one eyeball twitching ever so slightly which my mother once pointed out was the result of too much vodka; Russia’s answer to relieve stress. “Any questions?” he challenges.
One girl, my age, whose father herds with the Nentsy in the Yamal territory, raises her hand.
“Yes you!” he says, pointing at her with his pink sausage-like finger. She quietly stands up, her narrow dark eyes scanning the map in front of her.
“I don’t understand” she starts, “If our capital city is six thousand kilometers to the west of us, then how can the concerns of our people be of any importance to the people of Moscow?”
Somewhat stunned by her question, our gazes shift to Mr. Buloff, whose eye ball was now rapidly twitching with renewed vigour.
“Your only concern,” Mr. Buloff replies, his face slightly flushed, “is to understand that the people of North East Siberia have always belonged to Russia. You are not some autonomous tribe.”
Undaunted by his remark, her dark eyes flashing, she fires back “ My father says that this land has always been Nentsy and Chukotka land and that the Russian government is only interested in taking our deer and destroying our land with gold mines rather than allowing our people to live in peace.”
“Our people!” he sarcastically blurts, “you see that’s the problem right there, you feel as if you have the right to isolate yourselves from this great country.” Mr. Buloff pauses, his icy stare regarding our class. “It is simple really,” he continues, his voice becoming unusually calm, “you can either take hold of Russia’s merciful outstretched hand or disappear under her feet.”
Remembering my dream, I shift uneasily in my chair. Thankfully the bell rings and we are out of the class room faster than mice running from a grass fire.
School passes by slowly and uneventfully for the rest of the week. Mr. Buloff has again been pressuring me about joining the military academy.
“Many of the other boys will be attending,” he says, his voice squeaking with fake enthusiasm.
I avoid him by running messages and delivering supplies to various locations around the village. The only phone is located at the weather station and it is from here that I pick up the news for everyone else. My older cousin used to find great amusement in winter time by asking the weather station for the day’s temperature.
“Fifty below again today!” my cousin would remark his hands imitating despair. “It’s a good thing we know this. What would our people have done if the Russians hadn’t built this station?”
The weather guards, Dimitri and Ivan, could only sit and stare at my cousin, the dark circles under their eyes, a testament to the many frozen months of sitting in a small building with nothing to do but smoke cigarettes, drink vodka, and play cards.
“Remember,” my cousin would finish saying, a boyish grin spreading across his face, “the fate of Russia’s well being rests in your hands.” With this parting shot he would walk away laughing, leaving the two ill-humoured guards to contemplate their unappreciated sacrifice for Mother Russia.
One evening I told my mother about the dream I’ve been having and of Mr. Buloff’s insistence that I attend the military academy. She continued cooking, her strong hands gracefully guiding her knife along the belly of a freshly caught salmon. After some time her back straightened ever so slightly. Putting her knife down, she turned around to face me. Her eyes were soft, somewhat sad, and her round face glowed in the lamp light. “Tuea,” she begun, her hand gently stroking Peetuk’s little dark head, “your father and grand-father are not doing so well with the herds up north.”
“I need to help them again next summer,” I said softly. “Grandfather calls me in my dreams and he needs me!” I stand up, my face flushed with excitement, “If I go south, then it would be a betrayal to him.” I slump back down in my chair.
“What do you want to do?” my mother asks, taking me by surprise. “What does your heart tell you?” she encourages me.
I pause, and try to reflect honestly upon my mother’s question. “I’ve always thought about seeing other places,” I start nervously, the palms of my hands beginning to sweat. I’ve never talked to my parents about anything except going to school and herding reindeer. I glance up at my mother and see that she is still smiling at me. “But the dream,” I insist, “If I do not go north, then grandfather will be sad.”
Mother raises her hand motioning me to stop, her shadow growing in the lamp light. “That is not what he is trying to tell you Tuea,” her voice echoes the power of her words. “Your grandfather, father, and I only want for you to do what is in your heart. She picks up two small stones and holds them out in front of her at arms length. “These were at one time part of a greater mountain,” she starts, rolling each stone around in the palm of her hand. “Nothing ever remains constant Tuea, not even mountains. Regardless of where these stones may roll, they will always be stones from a greater mountain.”
She then lets the stones roll off the tip of her fingers, the loud thump from each stone betraying its size.
I jump a little at the unexpected sound then let out a burst of laughter.
“See,” mother laughs also, “they’re still little mountains.”
Kicking each stone in different directions she adds, “In your dreams, your grandfather was only communicating that regardless of what path you choose you must never forget who you are and that if you keep our culture in your heart at all times, then not even Mr. Buloff the Great can take that away.”
Standing over me, her hand reassuringly pats my shoulder. “Russia may not recognize us as anything more than a statistic; a dot on a great map, but when I look into your eyes my Tuea,” her face shines brightly, “I know that the voice of our people will be carried across Russia, unbroken and defiant.”
That evening, I drift once again into the dream which has been, up until now, the plague of my anxiety. This time the dream is different. Mr. Buloff is smaller and I notice that he will not look at me in the eyes. When I look down I now notice that it is my dark hand which crushes and envelopes his insignificant pink hand. On my shoulder I can feel the power of my grandfather’s touch moving through my body, his laughter soaring above my head like a song. All around me, the reindeer begin to flow, the pounding of their hooves drumming like an unstoppable heartbeat. I watch as Mr. Buloff is carried away in a sea of antlers, his cries of despair becoming inaudible in a dance that will never cease.
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