Rus Articles Journal

Belarus and Belarusians of

Part 1. The first impressions

B this, allegedly very not short and subjective, and places to impropriety objective work, I will try to give the modest vision of modern Belarus and Belarusians. On a gray background from the dry facts and rigid estimates I popytyus to splash a few bright flowers out of feelings, emotions and experiences of the simple person who fights thinks suffers. The reader I ask not to judge me in advance strictly as I will seem to one angry and rough, others will count me prejudiced and excessively critical, the third will not understand at all. But in it there will already be not only my fault.

So, Belarus. What do we know about this country? Hash browns, Belarus tractors, VIA “Pesniary“? But it was twenty, thirty years to that. And what occurs to the Russian, the Ukrainian or the Kazakh who never was here when the speech comes about modern Belarus and Belarusians? Perhaps, it is a little. It is not enough.

Than there lives today`s Belarus where it goes how survives? What national lines of the Belarusian character? Tendencies? Traditions? Than there lives the city? Village? What it, Belarusian?

Having got here for the first time five years to that, in 2004, and at first having appeared not in the city, and in the Belarusian remote place, I involuntarily was surprised to annoyingly evident purity and an order. Imagine, you go on small streets of the Belarusian collective farm, and a path equal, without potholes and potholes, borders are fresh are whitewashed, bushes and trees are accurately cut. The local shop is approached by various foreign cars, beginning from unpretentious “Opels“ and finishing with majestic “Land Cruiser“ - and any to you “Zhiguli“ or “Muscovites“. From glossy cars there are pride ladies dressed in the best European traditions with hairdresses and manicure, confident and serious men, nice, well-fad children.

In the shop abundance of sausages (by the way if I had to remember, than the Belarusian earth and its people is famous, I first of all, without delaying, would remember about the Belarusian sausage, but not about tractors or still that) as immediately it became clear, excellent quality. On shelves various dairy products: kefirchik, smetanka, curdled milk and fermented baked milk, cottage cheese and cheese. And all in various packages, packs and bottles, boxes and glasses. Bread of ten names, liqueur - the vodka products - to twenty, &ndash candies; to thirty. Grain, macaroni, drinks. And all this in rural little shop, but not in a capital supermarket! (It already later I learned that not all collective-farm benches burst with such abundance of products and that this shop, as well as the collective farm, in recent time was it is model - indicative. As learned also many other things).

Then I noted about myself what I could not but note and that it was not coordinated with my former ideas of the city and the province in any way: in Belarus distinction between the megalopolis and the village minimum, almost imperceptible. In any case, such is there was my first visual impression about outer side of the rural remote place.

I continually scurried about between the city and the village, and saw at stops of people, on appearance not differing from citizens at all: fashionable, accurate clothes, modern hairstyles and hairdresses, affable manners.

I remembered the native Ukraine or Russia familiar to me with their obvious, insuperable abyss between city and rural, between urbanistic and provincial mentality and the fact that on a surface, and it could not nadivitsya.

By collective-farm cottages with claret roofs, rovnenky as if, the foreign equipment working for them drawn with colored pencils, fields flashed. I remember how I was surprised when I to our village, literally in hundred steps from the house, arrived - the unknown alien ship of brightly red color arrived. A scarlet monster - not the combine, not still that - quietly purred, creeping like a huge may-bug across the field, and the alien in his cabin, under computer climate - control during a thirty-degree heat, knew to himself pressed buttons, operating these the obedient monster. The show really was fascinating!

Share taxis and buses arrived and decreased exactly according to the schedule. If at a collective-farm stop at which a table only one ancient grandmother, it was written 12:52 then it meant that the bus will approach at 12:52, but not at 12:53.

My father-in-law on the money saved for many years bought the apartment in a two-storeyed lodge and for short term issued it. Bought a ground where by immemorial Belarusian tradition right there put potatoes and in addition a shed for pigs and chickens.

My five-year-old daughter was admitted right there to kindergarten, having allocated her a new bed and a locker for clothes, and I was come back to memory by stories of my former compatriots who came back who to Russia who to Ukraine, how they cannot place the child in school or a kindergarten - demand numerous references or a bribe.

She steadily answered the question “Than You Were Fed for Lunch“ with “Chicken or cutlet“. Having sometimes come for it before usual, I had an opportunity to observe how with them tutors are engaged. Already then, in kindergarten, she began to learn English, and on a New Year tree recited the long poem for what she won the first prize.

Her teacher, the young woman with a fashionable hairstyle and the advanced views, with pleasure forced to think of how all remarkable at my child and in its kindergarten in general.

I thought to be engaged in job search, but especially with this a little pleasant occupation did not hurry. It seemed to me that with the experience, conscientiousness and knowledge of three foreign languages to me it will still be managed to put on itself a collar of an immemorial working jade that soon to be tired of everything.

The first days in the country were cloudless and naive. There was an August. The warm sun shone. In a pocket still there were couple of coins. Full, objective and in some degree the tragic understanding of the surrounding new world, with all its imperfections and difficulties, with its injustice and an everyday nonsense, will come later. For now everything was good. Also there was a wish to hope that so will be always.

Part 2. Belarusky character

Starting the description of the Belarusian character, its features and characteristic features, at the beginning It is necessary to tell that the Belarusian - not the Russian living to the west of Smolensk as it is accepted to think many. Between typical Russian and the Belarusian of not so much general, and at times at all there is nothing.

Having visited the first several times Russia and having communicated to the Russian person, I was surprised how the television image of the Russian and his original is not similar. If to try to draw a portrait of the average Russian - Russian, then approximately following potpourri will turn out, in my opinion: average height, sometimes and that is lower, a constitution thick, turning into completeness, the Tatar cheekbones, the same eyes, is pale - blue or brown, hair any - from solomenno light to jet-black, a nose or small, flat on - Mongolian, or potato, large, but seldom correct Roman or Greek form. Of course, to the North, for example, in St. Petersburg, the average Russian looks a little differently - above, and “poblondinesty“, so to speak, but “on average over the country“, I think, the portrait will be approximately such. That is, do not look for cine heroes with regular features in the Russian cities. You are them, hardly you will see. It is remembered, having appeared in the Russian consulate in Brest, I was struck with this inaccuracy of the physical image presented to me earlier. The feeling was that there, in consulate, representatives of the Tatar and Buryat people worked: such they were black and unsightly.

So how Russian blood is diluted Mongol - Tatar, so Belarusian is diluted Polish and Lithuanian. Especially it is notable in that place where I was abandoned by destiny, namely in Grodno that in the West.

It is necessary to tell that, despite the small number - in only ten million, the Belarusian to the Belarusian - discord. Both externally, and internally, on mentality, behavior, customs.

For example, typical grodninchanin as here speak, - though I want to tell grodninets, &ndash all the time; from a distance reminds the German (to Germany from Grodno practically nothing, to jump over Poland). Among residents of Grodno there are many representatives of Nordic, asthenic type. Growth is high, features quite correct, eyes light, big, a straight nose.

The temperament is obviously Baltic, with such Estonian crape, that is sluggish, slow, even sad. Influence of Baltic is felt here how anywhere. Cars on streets, I would tell, stately float, with a speed of forty, at most sixty kilometers per hour. On suburbs of the city the speed of the movement reaches space - eighty kilometers.

The speech of a grodninchanin is silent and slow (if to you the one who chatters without stopping meets, stirring cases, suffixes and sorts in a heap - know, before you most likely not radical grodninchanin in the seventh generation living here, and the representative of the South of the country), and abounds umenshitelno - caressing suffixes where it is necessary and it is not necessary. For example, my especially polite fellow worker communicates with clients as follows: “I to you will leave phone by which you call the driver of the machine then we will carry out an otgruzochka“. Remove from the speech of a grodninchanin all this “phones, machines and otgruzochka“ and tell usually “phone, the machine, shipment“ and the speech for an ear of a grodninchanin will already be “grubovatenky“. However, such linguistic “tenderness“, in this or that form, is characteristic rather of all Belarusians.

Among grodninets, after directly Belarusians, the second place on number is taken by Poles. On - Polish as once, they do not speak any more, but on behavior, a manner to behave and to talk the Grodno Pole nevertheless can be distinguished from the Grodno Belarusian. Belarusians speak about Poles: careful and greedy. I do not undertake to claim that it is Belarusian Poles, but with “careful and greedy“ I continually should face.

At many grodninets, on my taste, beautiful, noble surnames and names. Much among them there is Svyatoslavov, Vladislavov, Genrikhov and Genrikov, Yadvig and Danut.

If to move on the South, to Brest, to Polesia, then there you feel influence of the southern neigbour of Belarus - Ukraine. When I for the first time got to Brest, I was at the same time unpleasantly and is pleasantly surprised. To an eye familiar Ukrainian negligence and even easy, badly hidden by brooms and brooms, a zamusorennost appeared. From a view of roads and sidewalks heart joyfully began to knock: native potholes and potholes! And speech! Loud, tasty, with the Ukrainian patter. Instead of Belarusian “get“ - “it“, was heard native “öå“. Here and there “shokat“ and “gekat“. Here at the station any portly aunt in a hustka (scarf) on - Ukrainian, appear, not only to the neigbour, but also all waiting room, without becoming flustered at all, told about some “I will chuck out shank, sho ached“. And down the street the band of noisy teenagers went. They loudly laugh, rushing all over to the left, to the right, hit themselves with palms on knees, showing as to them it is cheerful, throw back the heads, and again loudly laugh. Here some tramp approaches me and zhalostivo asks to light at first, then money to freshen the nip, then still something. Of course, it is possible to see all this also in Grodno, but nevertheless it is not typical for Grodno. And here, in Brest, I slightly turn the head. I again as if I touch to “to a nenka - Ukraine“. I again as if I am dipped into the childhood.

Externally residents of Brest, as well as Ukrainians, are impaired slightly a little and look not so nobly as the same grodnenets. There are enough also noses - potatoes, and on - Ukrainian impressive, with stomachs, an apoplectic type of husbands. And easy negligence in clothes, in a conversation manner, in behavior. It is a lot of familiarity. Though familiarity, negligence in clothes and noisiness continually pass, come back to familiar “tikhost“, sluggishness and an akkuratizm. Well, and then again: noise and din, a ringing laughter and someone the dropped tasty mot.

Further on the East Belarusian, familiar to much, “typicalness“, increases multiply. Persons are rustic, hands country, unaffected manners. Western, with a claim for nobility, “polskost“, gradually disappears from proximity to Russia. Women are natural, live and smiling. Men are simple in communication, are talkative and naive. However, on vitebchana, mogilevchana and gomelchana I am not an expert. I can judge only so far as, it is superficial also without profound knowledge of a subject.

And here I can describe Minskers not worse than residents of Brest. About Minskers grodnenets speak not really gently - “collective farmers“. I do not know as far as it is right, but among residents of Minsk there is a city luster, a certain haughty manner to behave, feeling of advantage of the resident of the capital before all others as it is felt, for example in the state - Moscow, really somehow is not felt.

Against capital find fault - a teka, high-rise buildings and neon advertizing in the center - of course, on modest Belarusian manners, - the radical Minsker looks is a little lost and gray. Women are moderately elegant. Men are moderately not elegant. All are a little cloudy and sad. However that to me, it and to the best. In total - any Belarusian, and the Minsker, including, is rather polite and affable for any visitor, and it, in my opinion, is better, than highly lifted up nose and a scornful manner in relation to the tribespeople.

Every time, traveling by bus for work, I involuntarily note about myself Slavic, with a subtle Nordic shade - already “from there“, harmony of the Belarusian man. No, women not less, and that, in a proportion, are also more beautiful, than men, but me nevertheless are for some reason noticed the correct lines of man`s shape. A high, clean forehead which and there is a wish to call “forehead“, clear, “innocent“ eyes, often deep blue color, a direct, correct form a nose. If in the Ukrainian man where - nibud in the province, clumsiness, inurbanity of all figure, and in Russian a certain negligence, carelessness and a razbavlennost in tens of other blood is evident, then in the Belarusian man it is felt how speak, breed. Integrity and harmony. If where simple Slavic man`s beauty, then it in the Belarusian man remained.

In women I, first of all, would note not physical beauty, but elegance. The city Belarusian is a good judge of clothes, has taste and is able to dress well. At it can not be legs “from ears“, and her build will not allow it to dress fashionable close trousers on the last peep, but she is a good judge of any graceful scarves and kerchiefs, costume jewelry and a make-up. As one my acquaintance at Belarusians “smooth beauty“ told. Not bright - as at Ukrainians, for example, and smooth. Probably, indeed.

Part 3. About the Belarusian to sausage

For certain as Bach devoted the masterpieces to modern coffee, and Gogol wrote about vareniki and dumplings, it is possible and it would be necessary to express the admiration of the Belarusian sausage. Oh, Belarusian palendvitsa! Oh, Belarusian, finger pikhanny sausage! About the Belarusian zelts! As you are lovely to my stomach! As you gently caress flavoring nipples of my language! As my insatiable lips at the sight of you expire slobbers! Oh, Belarusian meat-processing plants! Glory to you for ever and ever!

And it is valid, I did not eat so tasty, skillfully prepared meat for “vyraba“, as in Belarus anywhere. I habitually thought that my fellow countrymen Ukrainians are a good judge of “kovbaska“ and know how to cook it. Where there! To them it is far to diligent Belarusian kolbasnik. Or I believed, as in Russia sausage not so badly. Where there! Having practised on the Belarusian sausage, language unmistakably defines availability of starch and soy in the Russian sausage and refuses to accept it, becoming a stake in a mouth. Sausage in the European Union - also you will not understand. It seems and tasty and the wrapper beautiful, and feeling of any chemical muck, a sausage butafornost, nenastoyashchesta, nevertheless remains.

Come into any it is whiteorussky butcher shop. At - at - at … Eyes ran in different directions. Right - to the right. Left, wretch, - on the left. Also jumped on counters, on counters. “Doctor`s“, “Moscow“, “Krakow“. “On - Warsaw“, “on - Berlin“, “on - Grodno“. Boiled, it is boiled - smoked, raw smoked. From chicken, a duck, a turkey, pork, beef, a horse-flesh, an elk. Zelts, soltison, flyask. And there is a lot of - much another - not to count.

Palendvitsa. To you I sing the song, about palendviyets! When I for the first time tasted this meat food, I fell in love with it, without knowing as it is called, prepares from anything. Rural, translucent, with amber outflow on a cut meat circles which, having not for long played on the sun, melt in the mouth, leaving there forever the gentle taste and eternal thirst quicker to taste still. Still! Still! And still! Yet the plate will not become empty. Will not bring still yet! You will not be able to sigh yet!

Palendvitsu is trained from okolopozvonochny longitudinal pieces of pork. Cut them long strips, rub with salt and spices and some image dry. Ways of preparation of a palendvitsa, at least, tens up to that pieces of meat hang up for the refrigerator where is warmer. What is interesting, the palendvitsa and fat has the characteristic smack, smack of herbs and still here something which I did not meet any more anywhere. It seems, well sausage and sausage. This is better, that is worse. But it seems taste - that similar. And at the Belarusian palendvitsa it not similar to anything.

And fat here nedurstvenny. Not that - that in vacuum. And that “live“. A little bit privyaleny, grasses rubbed, in the light of countertop lamps shining. His Excellency Salo! To Saltsa! Salushko! Thick, as from snow a pure, white layer and thin, colors of cognac, a meat prosloyechka. Again snow and cognac. Snow and cognac. And asks for a mouth, and asks.

And finger pikhanny sausage, what is her name Belarusians?! Same symphony of taste! Elegy of flavoring receptors! Pleasure of eyes in the evening after difficult day! Especially if meat pieces in “pikhanka“ also melt soft in the mouth. Because there is also “tin“. But even it happily is accepted by the stomach tired with various chemistry because he, poor understands that all this natural, to it for the benefit.

My mother, having arrived to me from Ukraine, fell in love in zelts. Was gone as the little girl! I till thirty years also did not know that such word in the nature exists. It seems the German. A sort, it seems from Poland. But in Poland that, znamo business, almost all good of the old woman - Germany. Prepares zelts from an offal. That is, from meat of the pork heads, ears, a rylets. Sometimes there the liver, lungs and heart enter. But already rather other ode will turn out - it is more to soltison. And so, all this “swinish business“ is packed into a natural cover (sometimes a stomach, sometimes in addition that), a minimum of dyes - all grayish color, and a minimum of other rubbish which is so loved by falshivokolbasnik. Costs zelts time in five cheaper than good sausage - and as! Only “meat of the pork heads“! But from this weighty meat long loaf eyes watch pieces at you, - kusishch - meat, but soy or toilet paper does not stare bashfully! Grodnentsa zelts not really favor. As, only “meat of the pork heads“, but not a breast or vertebral gentle part! And speak: “And, zelts. I will go better “pikhanka“ kuplyats“.

On my taste, sausage is the best that is in the Belarusian character. Before the Belarusian patience or as here speak “ïàìÿðêîâíàñöüþ“, diligence and peacefulness, before all fighting power of the Belarusian frontier guards, rocketeers and seamen, I nevertheless would give preference to the Belarusian sausage. Because it - really national property of the Belarusian people.

Part 4. Features of hotel accommodation, or The one who follows reason &ndash is a little grief

; milks a bull,

the Clever man will be at a loss for certain!

is more profitable to play the fool,

Because reason in the garlic price today Presently.

Omar Khayyam.

Promayavshis month four in search of not a sinecure, but the place which would manage to provide me and my family with a piece of bread it is desirable, with a piece of remarkable Belarusian sausage, I, at last, was accepted on - I quote - “enterprise for release of so and so, largest and oldest in Belarus“. Number working at plant - 600 people, age - year of education of 1954. It is necessary to notice that in Belarus, small by the sizes, and also thanks to gentle, quiet disposition of Belarusians, here everything takes a bit different forms, than in the same cheerful Ukraine or, especially, in boundless Russia where “a taiga - not the wood, hundred poods - not weight“. Any insignificant incident here easily can accept outlines of a significant event, and even tragedies, is frequent in the form of the farce.

(Small retreat). For example, the gain of a bronze medal at the Olympic Games, increases in scales of national success, and accident on the road in which one person died, looks as the national tragedy.

In the evening report of criminal news it is daily told, with a hot pomposity on - Belarusian and surprised pripodnyatiy eyebrows as indignation, about terrible Belarusian criminals: thieves, tyrants, counterfeiters.

Here the dealer“ with fifteen grams of marijuana was detained Belarusian “drags. Received eight years (!!!). And here the Belarusian maniac is detained. In elevators he stuck to girls with obscene offers, made some dissolute actions … with anybody did not enter sexual intercourse, but it does not belittle its manyachny essence. Receive, the Belarusian maniac, 10 years (!!!) . And here dashing Belarusian counterfeiters. Students Sasha and Pasha of 17 - 18 years, “nakserit“ on the color printer of Belarusian “hares“ and went to the next shop to buy beer where were vigilantly exposed by the vigilant shop assistant. Both are threatened by considerable term now.

And about all this it is proud well-fad Belarusian militiamen thanks to whom all these awful crimes are solved report.

As easily in Belarus it is possible to be stuck “from - for nothing“, from - for obvious a trifle, I learned by own experience. In one of my business trips it happened so that, for an hour till midnight, I, knock at the closed door, disturbed the porter of hotel, and, being at the same time, after a banquet, slightly under a shafa, I did not understand yet that I “violated the public schedule which ordered to go to bed not later than ten o`clock in the evening“. I understood it right after, having repeated the artful attempt to get into the room of the porter by means of knock by fingers of the right hand at a wooden door of the person on duty and by that, having strongly excited her and having disturbed, on me the squad of militia which missed somewhere nearby, waiting for artful Belarusian maniacs and drags of dealers was called.

Frankly speaking, at first I was taken aback when I in the doorway of the number uvidat two kind molodets of well-fad appearance in the acquaintance since the childhood, “cheerful“ mouse color, a militia uniform. “Children, you have nothing to be engaged more?“ - having been struck dumb, politely escaped at me. On what to me, in not less polite Belarusian form, suggested to pass in office. Those weak fumes of wine that before so comfortably wandered at me in the head, instantly disappeared. I became more sober than militiamen and the disheveled watchwoman in addition.

Do not carry me to office, the protocol did not begin to be made also (interestingly and what they would write there? What was I having drunk? Or that disturbed the public peace - read a curfew. It is interesting how?) .

And what, I learned next day. I was moved, exposed from hotel (the old Soviet system when “all were equal is remembered and everything was for the person“, that is a portly look the aunt - the person on duty, apparently, including herself is higher than you - whether by situation, whether on what, - haughtily, an oar voice, could “politely“ stop - to throw in your party as to the poor relative from Tambov: “Be moved!“). I was given on collecting half an hour, and at the same time the contempt to me did not express unless the domestic jolly-boat which was peacefully sending fleas on the dirty hair. Only he was also glad to me.

All road, I asked myself a Hamlet question after the own fashion “the Criminal? Not the criminal?“, for some reason, with everyone the subsequent, similar to the Chinese torture, asking, feeling more and more guilty. From what?

At first, having drenched me with the petty-bourgeois prezreniyets, - as such “fulyugan“ only the earth carries? - most likely, without having found what to carp at, I was accused - I quote “In beaten windows and furniture“ from what I nearly choked on own saliva. “What beaten windows?! What, mlya, beaten furniture?!“. I peacefully overslept all night long, turning over a dream behind a dream, and having woken up accurately made a bed and took out garbage, without having left behind also a trace of stay as if I am shade.

All life companions reproached - derided me for mine tranquility and judiciousness. “Is not present in you to spirit“ - my Ukrainian friend Seryozha used to say. “Here you all with the book and with the book. To get acquainted with the girl, to take a walk, properly. Turned sour you live!“ - grimacing as from a lemon, he screwed up the face. It is remembered, my companions wildly were surprised when sixteen years a joy they suddenly noticed me with a cigarette. “You smoke?“ - with astonishment, as if I smoked not usual “Fell down“, but the purest marijuana which is just delivered from the cheerful island of Jamaica, they questioned. “Yes, and that? It is possible for you, and to me is not present?“ - popykhivy to irritation in a throat, and wiping tears from a stinking smoke, it is proud I answered. “On you also you will not tell. Excellent student!“ - they continued to offend me.

“Quiet, judicious, without spirit“, and here - on you! Made defeat in hotel! Bacchanalia! Killed all thirty two windows and broke all furniture in spill! Fuliugang! Bandit! Beast!

Then when their Excellency the CEO of hotel - at him was such mumpish look that there was not enough Award of a garter going from a hip to a shoulder, - in an environment of servile surroundings, samolichno surveyed my number, withering me indignant with a look - a gimlet. Without having found beaten glass and furniture, and without having moderated the contempt at all, to the watchwoman frightened to gastric colic, most likely, charged to revise the version of night robbery. Then, not for long understanding also with all the female ingenuity, that gave rise … not the son, not the daughter, and some unknown animal, having called her Harassment. “Stuck, walking up and down in one underwear“. Better beaten glasses and furniture, than this shame! To me it was worth leaving in pants and an undershirt in a toilet that was outside number as highly moral taste of this chaste vestal - watchwomen was fatally offended, trampled and crushed. It, poor, most likely and invisibilities, fell in deep faints, offended up to the depths of the highly esthetic heart at my shameless look.

On my return from disgraceful business trip, to my management the depeshka - a slander (by the way, Belarusians are able to smear and do it with undisguised pleasure) came from hotel in which as I guess, in all imaginable and inconceivable paints, in the best traditions of fantasts Isaac Asimov and Ray Bradbury, with elements of “horror“ from Hitchcock, my crimes against morals and morality were described. Paper was not allowed to read to me though I asked. But forced to justify themselves. The argument against me was reinforced concrete - “You were in a state of intoxication“ - with a grimace of deep grief, my boy - the chief showed me, itself suffering from the next bodun. As if, time is drunk, so is guilty a priori.

I do not know what nonsense of herd of gray mares and stallions was stated there, and at all the oar to a veseliya, I suddenly sadly understood that in Belarus the criminal can make any. It is possible the thief, the plunderer of the Belarusian property. It is possible the maniac. It is possible … yes anyone it is possible! Over the last two days, from - for the fact that I returned from a banquet tipsy (as if there go that to drink tea with candies) had the nerve to knock at a door on duty after “release“, and for the fact that dared to walk in pants to the bathroom, it was accused of defeat of a hotel room, sexual harassment and alcoholism. Here and so. Never you know what demons doze in you. And in those who nearby.

However, I distracted a little. Means, I got a job hardly on plant. Wash “a work vast experience in the international corporations, in adjustment of corporate spirit among representatives more than thirty nationalities, logistic experience in the international oil companies“ and knowledge of three foreign languages on figs it were necessary for nobody, - all told “uaa“, but looked, how at the Zionist - the imperialist - but in my modest person the bureaucrat scribbling to a floor lime pieces of paper in the field of marketing and management was necessary “ïèñàð÷óê“. Work - sit do not lean out, be not cleverest, vsyak a cricket, know the perch.

Work in Belarus, - well, or is more true on ours “the largest and oldest enterprise“, however, I think that my plant - not an exception of the rule, but the Belarusian norm, - as here speak, “somehow“. The main postulate - be as everything, and catch desires of the administration.

And the administration love here. Only in the east, unless watch the Turkmen and the Turk, I saw such love to higher. Earlier that I believed that I here Europe, a civilization and human rights, and was convinced of what the same is feudal - a slaveholding system, as in the backward countries of the East.

For example as I understood at the very beginning of “vobelorussivaniye“, the administration needs to speak not that you think, and especially not that is actually, and what is necessary. It is necessary for it, the administration. It is necessary to speak so that to it, the administration, it was pleasant. And that it was pleasant to it, it is necessary to have rich imagination. And it, the administration, will also prompt to you as it is necessary to speak, and then, later speeches, pleasant for it, will in every possible way praise you and will render thanks.

But, let the virtuous reader does not hurry to blame on me for my bilious feelings and thoughts: the criticism something does not cancel that good and remarkable at all that here, certainly, is much, and its existence, speaks rather about not indifference, and not vice versa.

Part 5. Belarusky plant

Many state Belarusian enterprises, - well, or that ten - another of plants and factories if to be up to the end truthful that I happened to see, - it is quite tolerable, a photo - and a cinematic image - illusion, with everyone there romashechka and buttercups, a little faded, but, nevertheless, not absolutely erased caramel candy wrapper which you will develop - it seems as well as can be eaten, - lo and behold, and there inside, only the caramel stump, with the jam which flowed out half which wants to be thrown out more, than to put to itself for a cheek.

In the beginning, the external lepota which is accurately induced by works of gardeners, janitors and business executives, really cast easy euphoric nostalgia on days past, “to days of youth fresh“, forcing to think, as inside it can be also cozy, as well as outside.

Facades of buildings are whitewashed, before an entrance a two-three of beds with well-groomed flowers, low shrubs, trees. On a checkpoint with an obligatory Soviet turnstile, surely strict security guard who just like that will not pass and will not let out even the whose person and a figure he knows by heart as the person and a figure of the zhyonka on which he is married thirty years. Here and there, on walls, orders and invitations hang different, painfully familiar of the recent socialist past, the announcement. “In the Palace of railroad workers evening “To a lump for thirty will take place“. We invite everyone“, “To the mechanic Fedorov caught in a state of intoxication strict reprimand“, “150 years since the birth of the English poet Denkins“ and so forth appears.

Further accurate doors - an entrance to monastery of ITR - inzhenerno - technical workers, the old, but purely washed up tiled floor, a board of leaders of production with gloomy persons, on walls without having given tracesit repair, on the left road to shops. If to go directly, by shops, that is the high probability for the casual guest not to spoil the first impression about modest cosiness and an obvious ukhozhennost, let and fashionable foyers, offices and bureau, but, at least, on - Belarusian accurate very narrow corridors, offices and offices are not new. (I remember the first visit on the enterprise. The feeling was it: the Soviet corridors, familiar since the childhood, with hot scents of a broom and a mop. Creaking wooden doors and the same wooden window frames with the cracked paint and the cracks stuck for the winter with the paper tatter which is hanging down at the ceiling. Wooden tables - school desks. And behind them the same persons. As doors, windows and tables. As corridors with traces of a broom and a shvara. Not beautiful and smiling, but simple, pleasant and to disappointment acquaintances).

And here if to go on the left, on the road conducting in shops and further to garages, warehouses and subsidiary farms, then the probability of disappointment with each step importunately will increase, until, there will be yet no desire to turn right there and, having run headlong back, to rush, by accurate walls with traces of modest repair, by an honor roll with sad faces, by a creaking turnstile and the strict security guard to appear outside where, it is for some reason breathed somehow in a different way.

Having appeared for the first time in epicenter, already striving to become the family, plant, I felt such familiar and unpleasant feeling of universal loneliness, melancholy and a hopelessness as if I was the got lost traveler where - nibud in the Kalahari Desert or in mountain chains of the Himalayas.

In shops the archaic, stultifying deafening noise machine equipment, “collected by own efforts still in 60 - e“ - it is still proud sounds from lips of many as it would be possible with the right to be proud of strong pradedovsky bast shoes of own production in a century when all walk in convenient sneakers and the varnished shoes. All these machines constantly fail, break and make marriage, “which we do not have, and cannot be“. Here and there it is possible to see people in quite not greasy overalls, with not absolutely coarsened hands and with intelligence signs on faces. These are technicians, technologists and other repairmen, by own efforts submissively pochinyayushchy this antiquated a miracle - to technician.

Sometimes, in some alkovchik or behind a grid - a fence, aloof from all other machines as if an exotic animal from the far-away overseas country, it is possible to meet some foreign unit shining freshness and fashionable design, “ Made in China “ or even “ Made in Germany “ from a look which to a throat rises a lump tears gather in the eyes and covers feeling of self-pity. And, despite fair feeling of objectivity of the intelligent person, there is a wish to believe that “it is better there foully: both the grass is more green, and people are kinder“. And here … And here, as always.

On a backyard cold garages with same, as well as machines, regularly breaking wheel equipment from which blows as universal cold and melancholy. Badly warmed warehouses with rusty creaking gate behind which even more rusty pieces of iron of all forms and the sizes whose mission does not know itself a zavsklad, but which it stores as an apple of the eye are stored. Some “necessary“ stuff is stored decades there (I own eyes saw on one of rusty huge pokers of mission unknown to me the label erased from time with date 1964).

Further, on perimeter, through the smashed asphalt, rain pools and spots of fuel oil, some rumpled barrels, some bent equipment, for certain, military years, a heap of the fulfilled slag and metal garbage look out.

The picture similar to that which I saw at plant of construction materials on the suburb of our city by which walls and a checkpoint I quite often went. Same bleached facade, in the summer florets, protection box, and everything, it seems as anything. Normally. “Is profitable“. But once, seeing off the tipsy friend in some of holidays through backyards and territories of this combine, I was nearly fatally struck with that surreal landscape of chaos and ruin, real unreality, and painful phantasmagoria which overtook me unawares there. I as if appeared on a backyard of a slaughter of terrible huge mechanisms, terminators and cyborgs who as superfluous covered now with the iron bodies all this latrine. The huge iron containers of different forms which rusted and bent it is sad also in too time with hatred looking at me fragmentary holes - eye-sockets. The cranes mutilated with time and work from which in a dirty tatter wires - veins hanged down. Heaps of the beaten brick twirled in knots of metal and construction debris by sepulchral hillocks stuck out on the right and at the left. And from the sky, on these corpses of former nice work and eternal glory slowly fell unreal bezhevo - the pink snow which is ruthlessly painted by exhausts of pipes of combine from what there was suddenly panic feeling that I am in one of mad Salvador Dali`s pictures under the name “Nuclear Winter“ or “Cemetery of the Killed Cars“.

In one of brick, without signs of former plaster and paint, the building, through the opening reminding an entrance or a manhole inside it is noisy, is furious and with short wind huge sore heart, appear, of all combine knocked. Boom - ooh, boom - ooh, boom - at - ooh.

By, shuffling sapozhishcha, the gloomy dirty worker who is strewn lightly with pink snow proshlepat. Behind a gray wall the rattletrap began to roar. Afterwards began a bark huge shaggy barbos, uvidavshiya us leaving gate of plant.

The impression was the most depressing - to tell the smallest. And in all this discomfort, a restlessness and gray gloom living people still worked. People from flesh and blood. People something else feeling and thinking. People on something hoping. And as in the movie “Terminator 2“ where the main character Sara Connor cuts out a knife on a table “ No fate “ - “There is no destiny“, I wanted to call this vale of melancholy and despair “ No hope “ - “Without hope“.

Of course, the author could be reproached with one-sided bias, picturesque subjectivity and favorable to him, for any of several reasons, unilateralities, the caused simple personal reasons, like a dissatisfaction with working conditions at the enterprise, a salary or meek passion to some economist or the secretary who far-sighted preconsidered the head of department or the director. And all this would be correct. The roots of our misfortunes branching fruitless escapes of the withering trees always go to the soil of our unfulfilled desires. But in mine couples, I could be very happy situation, a salary and the reputation deserved in recent years rather and it is clever to keep mum in a cam. (If, on the fashion which was established in the world, at plant “situation, a salary, the authority“ would take in head to make a rating of all workers, on a scale, then your obedient servant, from more than six hundred available places, for certain, would enter thirty - forty first). However, internal conscientious discomfort, despite the lucrative post, and all occasions to the become not second, but the first nature for my many contemporaries, corporate fidelity - that it is similar to fidelity the homeland or party of our fathers and grandfathers, nevertheless, importunately does not abandon me. (that who did not catch: I write about myself IRONICALLY, not from the NARCISSISM position).

Chapter 5 About criticism

Small retreat: as expected, - however, all this long ago not news to me, I almost got used - along with interest of the third-party readers and few readers from blue-eyed Belarus who read something from chapters 1 from my modest - whether memoirs, whether regional geographic supervision, - I continue to hear obviously dissatisfied indignation of so-called patriots or ex-patriots which sometimes passes, for me in not so clear, spiteful aggression with use of “rich and mighty“ the Russian abuse.

For the same who will try to remain adequate I would like to explain: I do not rank myself as istinoglagolets with a claim for purity of written at all - what told at the beginning about, and, continually, intellectually and is nearly guilty I continue to repeat: My work has character subjective, “backward“ - I do not undertake to argue on correctness or abnormality of a state system, I do not undertake to try to discover in each Belarusian natural and obligatory for all of them low or, on the contrary, sublime qualities of soul and heart, “branding“ the whole people. Even where can seem so, I write only about those people, places and events whom I knew and which participant in a varying degree was. I do not argue on “far America“, hanging labels of humility, rudeness or laziness on the whole people or, on the contrary, I praise some traits of character to skies. I write that I lived and I live - and as always I speak, from subjectivity shares, under the corner.

What can be not noticeable to the aboriginal of the city and country at all what he never thought of and that never concerned him, me as to the one who did not manage to acquire “wives, apartments and the necessary communications here yet“ who kept in himself “that, other spirit“ - bad it or good - the question second - can be evident, jar on, surprise, admire a lot of things. As to that “gentle“ American who after communication at a forum with the Russian girls was perplexed: “Why so aggressive Russian women? I just expressed the opinion, and in reply received a stream of strong language“ - and to the author a lot of things can be noticeable much better though he as this American also is perplexed: “Why people so are indignant, forbidding me to have the view of things?“.

I cannot get rid of chagrin that some continue to stay in captivity of the rusted Soviet propaganda installations: - not to take out litter from a log hut. Even if a log hut thin even if there the furnace not a toplena even if there was a murder - to say that everything is excellent. As Solzhenitsyn in 60 - e wrote: “One - our cruel and coward potayennost, from which all troubles of our country. We not openly to speak and write and to friends to tell that we think and as business &ndash was true; we also are afraid to trust paper“. That is, such “true patriots“ see not worse than the observant author that plants work which - as, and see as clear as day that the television lies, or, for example, the fact that the common sense is brought to please to everyday stupidity, but, with unclear from where the undertaking just indignation, undertake to approve the return, instructively teaching the author: “Ouch - ouch - ouch, the author as it is not a shame to you!“. And it has to is a shame not to author to be: he, at least, writes as thinks and even if he is mistaken, then does not go against conscience, and on a string of the small interests, cowardice and hypocrisy. And here such patriots remind me the angry grandmother who was unintentionally pushed around, and she - in shout: “Guard! Plunder! Already force!“. Or my watchwoman from the previous chapter to which with fear seemed at first beaten furniture and windows, and then and “was sekshuat by a harassment“ “out of the blue“.

Other weighty reproach - narcissism of the author. So, this work also reflected - as simple, ironic reminiscences, recent playful memoirs if you want and how to write memoirs not from the first person - I do not know yet. Yes then, in plain terms: any writer or the poet always writes about themselves as this best, reliable writing. Reflexes. Reflects, passing the world through itself - even when writes from the third party. Unless the count Bolkonsky and Pierre Bezoukhov in “War and peace“ are not Lev Tolstoy? And Remarque`s heroes - not Remarque? And unless Solzhenitsyn throughout the works does not write constantly about himself? About the world? About the experiences? From where here such surprise and reproach? …

The right bored me to explain, even educated and, most likely, to fairly clever readers that they, readers, I have the right to reproach me with lack of own style. In a heap of grammatical and punctuation mistakes. In weakness of the subject line. Yes in anything. Even in what I in general am not capable to write. But to reproach me that I “feel that and I think“ because it is necessary to think and feel here so, here is how, as they are already some inadequacy with deja vue signs from Soviet period.

“How to you the place where you work is not a shame to throw mud?“. You know, bitterly. But it is not a shame. Because if I see nepotism and barefaced protection - and them, believe, I learned to distinguish - I tell that: this nepotism, is protection. And from it it is unpleasant to me, at least, because I, unfortunate, was brought up differently. Or, if I go across the territory of neighbour`s plant and I see balls of the bent scrap metal, a lot of construction debris and gloomy workers who complain to me that the salary hardly is enough for utilities and “a cup with a shkvarka“, and there is nothing any more, and they are forced to say to the administration that all “in an order, everything normally and thank you, darling, Ivan Ivanych“, then I do not think: and here in Africa and that it is worse. In Africa hunger. I think: it - garbage, and it - sad human being. And it is compelled, habitual as the second skin, hypocrisy and lie. And me from it it is sad. Sorry, my silly heart gives rise from these pictures to such feelings, but not feelings of triumph from the fact that “Ur, we still work! To us still something is paid! We are still living!“.

For some reason lie there is a wish to call “lie“. And cruelty - “cruelty“. And intrigues - “intrigues“. And many teach me that all this is called that in a different way.

Will lock - in the form of criticism, including from people of intellectual professions - on own feelings and thoughts what the ban to commit them to paper follows from, in a desirable form, - the worst of what I should hear here. Refuse to the author the right to think as in it it is inherent. To it refuse to feel “from the belltower“ (and unless all of us have not belltowers, and there is one high and “correct“?) . To the person tore off a leg a shell and he cries out with all the might: “Oh, blya! Boughs! Painfully! Mother!“. And to it in an ear: “Blya and boughs - obscene words. They should not be said. Painfully - too it is forbidden. You spoil image of the Soviet fighter. Mother - too, a weakness sign“. “And what that is possible, blya?!“ - the fighter is exhausted. “And it is possible to sing patriotic songs, for example. “Katyusha“, there. Or anthem of the Soviet Union“. And I hear the same: “Belarus - not such as you write. It is fine. And people its hardworking, wise, kind“. Yes I agree. But sometimes I want: “Blya! Boughs! Painfully!“.

And these freaks - installations nest in a great lot of minds. Even my closest people think so. They did not squeeze out from themselves the slave, do not know what is it, and hardly once learn. They quietly, in kitchen, or in a bath shepotets scold the administration, the authorities, neighbors, but they never have courage and conscience to make it at least once to destination. No, to destination, they speak and do at all not as they want, it is necessary and it is peculiar and as from them wait for those whom they secretly abuse, despise, to be afraid. And even, when you have enough conscience to make time as it, conscience, you orders, they, these dear people do the surprised frightened eyes. They begin to reproach you, to abuse, cry. They even hate you because the piece of bread is more expensive to them, let also stale, than all truth of the world combined.

My colleagues and acquaintances are courageous only on the way home, behind a glass of beer or in a bath in own yard. And almost never happen so brave before own conscience where it is necessary.

I remember the colleague with whom we worked side by side three years. I knew it. She knew me. So it seemed to me. Its usual manner with the administration was fawning, it was that cricket who precisely knew the perch. It is offendediya, including, and obscene, it took down silently and always. Cavils and claims in the address - fair and absolutely unfair - were for it a usual thing. She was able to pay a compliment to the administration, to silently swallow offense and is in reply guilty “to wag a tail“ as a doggie that just got under legs. And me personally, green in all this Belarus - corporate kitchen (and why “groundless - Belarusian“? Yes at least because at some representatives of other nations and the people of the similar atmosphere it was not observed) her servile behavior was not absolutely clear and pleasant. But at the end, when also I was already assured in it as in some other, the semi-slave dear (it not an insult, and dry ascertaining without intention to offend), the person suddenly did not sustain. Cracked. And what she told privately with colleagues and at home about what she thought of and what neither her conscience, nor soul agreed with in any way, poperlo from it. That slave got. As shit from the sewerage at what in all cracks, also it appeared outside in some ten minutes. Ten minutes of shout to that high administration which obikhodno and habitually held it for “Manka“, called “blyadyyu in a brothel“, “obezjyany, pressing the buttons“, for all that humiliation, for the compelled servility, for all disrespect. The slave got out outside, stood up straight and gave on a muzzle to the mister.

Of course, she was immediately dismissed. The corresponding formulation was picked up. Once friendly colleagues stopped being so friendly. But where here Belarusian phenomenon? - you ask. Unless the same does not occur daily at one hundred Russian, Ukrainian, American enterprises - however, American here will hardly approach - the petition, and the employer will have that is called a pale appearance. But in the others that, similar behavior, - routine. Established, and not the worst, practice (but there is a work). And Belarusian here the fact that if Russian, with feeling of elementary advantage, the hard worker, against such injustice, shows some activity and will not give itself to mordovat, and Ukrainian will send “sir“ further away and will freely make to it not smaller row, without falling from it into a subconscious state from “impudence“, and at the American it in general is impossible, then for the patient Belarusian it - norm. Norma to suffer. It - that horse who will bring everything. And, as in that parable about a nail on a chair, on it will sit, suffer, but to think “Geta and a treba“.

From here and “belorusskost“. It is possible to write abstrusely and oskomno about Mir Castle Complex and Bialowieza Forest, about purity on the Belarusian small streets and about peacefulness of the Belarusian people. All this is, and about all these fine qualities of the Belarusian soul, as well as about many others, I narrated in the first three parts. But the coin has also other party, garbage which is preferred to be stored under a carpet. Why not? Everyone has to have an option.

One more, very much for me an important point: in my opinion, the writer should not write, somehow to the reader. As it will be pleasant to that to see himself and others. What to say how to look. Otherwise the fiction will turn out. Hollywood. Pulp fiction. Imagine the same Solzhenitsyn painting GULAG with paints which to us will not cut eyes and will soothingly affect them as the reader often wants. Present Remarque not with the “trench truth“ as he endured it, and with that that was waited from it and his heroes by their contemporaries, that is those who about that war knew firsthand. Swift, Gogol, Chekhov. What would turn out? The writer is obliged to write as he sees and feels. It is the indicator. It - a criterion. It - the truth, let also subjective.

The Russian wants to read that its nation great and exclusive. That it has Pushkin, Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky. A victory in Velikoy Otechestvennoy and Yury Gagarin. Ballet and space rockets. Mysteriousness of soul and its generosity. In total so. But the Russian person still has a GULAG and Stalin. Corruption and vegetation of the majority. The present, become habitual aggression and xenophobia.

The Ukrainian wants to read that his nation cheerful and free. That it has Shevchenko, Lesya Ukrainka and Gogol who Russian has also. Same Victory. Kiyevo - Pechersky monastery. Hospitality and kindness. And too it is right. But there are also the Ukrainian greed and untidiness. Political squabbles and alcoholism.

The Belarusian has a Bialowieza Forest, “Pesniary“, BelAZ. Peacefulness and patience. Accuracy and modesty. But also: excessive humility, facade and zabyurakratizirovannost. And I would like to speak about it aloud. But not as pleasantly some.