The Russian intelligentsia has a longstanding tradition of grappling with unanswerable existential questions. In the mid-nineteenth century, two such “accursed” questions (проклятые вопрoсы) were raised in debate-provoking novels that were central to the country’s revolutionary movement: Who is to Blame? by Alexander Herzen and What is to Be Done? by Nikolai Chernyshevsky.
In the twenty-first century, these questions persist, including in the form of memes. Meanwhile, wartime has stimulated the evolution of the Russian language, so these classics have been joined by a number of new formulations. Here, we continue our study of СВРЯ (Special Military Russian Language – see Russian Life, Summer 2023) by examining a few “accursed” questions that have recently enriched Russians’ options for expressing themselves.
This catchphrase is used to mock people who don’t take an interest in politics and either pretend or sincerely believe that everything is hunky-dory. The phrase gained meme status in the early months of the war, when Russians were startled by rising prices, a falling ruble, and the departure of Western brands but failed to draw the obvious connection. In early March, a screenshot with the caption: “F***, I went to IKEA and it’s closed. Who knows what happened?” started making the rounds. The gulf between people crushed by the horrors of war and those in a state of clueless denial of reality is also often expressed using a similar formulation: someone sees your gloomy face and asks, “Did something happen to you?” (У тебя чтó-то случилось?)
By now, a year and a half into the war, things have somewhat changed. The initial shock has passed, and people are getting used to the situation. But, at the same time, it’s harder to avoid seeing the connection between war and economic hardship. Nevertheless, “а что случилось?” is still a popular way to make fun of people upset about their deteriorating standard of living while fully supporting military aggression against Ukraine.
The hashtag #НетВойне (#NoToWar) appeared immediately after the start of the full-scale invasion of Ukraine. Soon, posts with this hashtag began to be littered with stereotypical bot comments along the lines of: “Where were these verminous bloggers over the last eight years when the Ukrainian Armed Forces were terrorizing Donbass?” This propagandistic argument would frequently pop up in debates between those placing full responsibility on Russia’s shoulders and adherents of the view that “Ukraine itself is to blame.” One side points to the innocent victims of shelling since February 2022 and the other counters, “Why were you silent when, beginning in 2014, civilians in Donetsk and Lugansk oblasts were dying?”
This question is a variation on the traditional “Who is to blame?”: who attacked first, and what did you do to put a stop to it? Very often, activists, journalists, and other socially engaged people feel it is their duty to earnestly respond. They talk about all the volunteer initiatives they participated in, all the public statements they made and what they achieved, explaining that, no, they did not ignore the problem all those eight years; they just had a different view of the underlying causes.
Yet another, more recent version of “Who is to blame?” relates not to the causes of the war but to Russia’s eternal problem of governmental corruption.
On May 5, 2023, just a few weeks before his rebellion, Wagner Group head Yevgeny Prigozhin released an obscenity-laden video rant. The video featured images of killed mercenaries and some raw rhetoric: “These are someone’s fathers and someone’s sons. And the dregs not giving us munitions, the scum, will be eating their guts in hell. We have a 70 percent ammunition shortfall. Shoigu, Gerasimov: where’s our f***ing ammo?”
His remarks were targeted at Russia’s defense minister, Sergei Shoigu, and the chief of Russian’s General Staff, Valery Gerasimov. This was not the first time he attacked them publicly. He continued his tirade by pointing out that while his mercenaries were dying, high-ranking officials and their children were “sitting in expensive clubs” and “getting off on life.” It was as if the Wagner chief was snatching the anti-corruption banner from the hands of the imprisoned Alexei Navalny, who has spent decades doggedly exposing Russian governmental misappropriation. That video was part of a gradual escalation of rhetoric targeting Russia’s military leadership that culminated in Prigozhin’s march (albeit aborted) on Moscow.
This phrase immediately entered the popular lexicon and is being used both by supporters of the “Special Military Operation” and its opponents in situations that have absolutely nothing to do with the war. Let’s say government-funded repairs are being made to the entrance to an apartment building and the residents are unhappy with the quantity or quality of the materials being supplied. They might bewail, “Where’s the ammo?” It’s a rhetorical question: everyone knows that the allocated funds have been stolen by bureaucrats up and down the food chain.
The television (now YouTube) journalist Katerina Gordeeva often concludes her interviews with this phrase. Gordeeva was famous before the war, but after February 24 of last year her show, Tell It to Gordeeva (Скажи Гордеевой), has become a favorite among oppositionists and has millions of viewers.
The journalist conducts penetrating interviews with figures who play important roles in Russia’s cultural and political life and places special emphasis on questions of personal choice in the face of catastrophe. Some of her guests are wandering the globe, while others have remained in Russia, but, like most Russians, none of them seem to have a clear idea of where life will take them, even in the near future.
To some extent, implicit in the question “Where will we see each other in a year?” is Chernyshevsky’s “What is to be done?” (which could also be translated as “What should I [or you] be doing?”). It encapsulates several questions in one: How are you dealing with what’s happening? What do you plan to do? Where will that take you? Some reply that they simply don’t know; others propose hoping for the best and looking forward to a reunion in a Moscow free from dictatorship; still others reply with the Passover refrain, “Next year in Jerusalem.”
Gordeeva’s question is an ever-present undercurrent of Russian daily life. Where, indeed, will we reunite with our loved ones and friends, scattered by the forces of war and oppression?
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