1991: The View From Moscow

A View of the Belovezha Forest Reserve 

...from the Center of Moscow

The poet Joseph Brodsky once wrote, “If it was your lot to be born in an empire, it is better to live in some sleepy corner of it, by the sea.” 

Yet, what if it was your lot to be born in the very center of the empire and live through a time when its vast expanses were shaken, were trembling as if in fever, when, for a period of several years, the subtle wafting of freedom transformed into a hurricane, sweeping away everything in its path, including the empire itself?

What kind of a time was this, when every month brought something unexpected... earth-shattering changes... when, on every television channel, one heard the kind of talk that would have put you in prison a year earlier... when people marched together in demonstrations (and then, several years later, would not only refuse to shake each other’s hand, but had turned into the bitterest of enemies)? In columns many thousand strong, joyously making their way from Mayakovsky Square to Manezh Square, there were anarchists and monarchists, both Baltic and Russian nationalists... and, as they passed the intersection with Novy Arbat (which still bore the name of Kalininsky Prospect), pregnant women waved at the marchers from the windows of the famous Grauerman Maternity Hospital. In response, the demonstrators chanted, “Don’t give birth to communists! Don’t give birth to communists!”

Outside of Moscow it was a different story. Beyond the Ring Road there spread a vast, unwieldy country, where time moved at a different pace. But in Moscow changes snowballed forward, faster and faster. In the city, it was difficult to find time to do everything. You had to get up at 5:30 in the morning to be near the front of the line at the newspaper stand if you wanted to get a copy of Moskovskiye Novosti (Moscow News) or to hear which journal that month had just published the story that until recently had been passed from hand to hand in back alleys, the forbidden text hidden inside a roll of newspaper. You had to watch the news to find out when the next demonstration would be, which institute was holding a gathering devoted to forgotten people or events that had suddenly risen from obscurity, which theater was featuring the latest sensation, which rock group had emerged from furtive boiler room jam sessions to suddenly record a brilliant disc, or what American film was currently showing in theaters. 

And suddenly all sorts of people who had fled to the West were all about us, and not just diplomats, ballet stars, or other big shots, but our own acquaintances, friends and relatives. They visited and spent hours telling stories about everything they had seen, about amazing and wondrous places, the very names of which would set us reeling. Everyone was ready to listen to these stories, and those telling them arrived in an endless stream.

In that vertiginous, thrilling, constantly changing world, new words and names burst onto the scene with increasing frequency. First there was “Sumgait,” a word tainted with blood. Then, from somewhere far away – nobody quite understood from where – came the term “Meskhetian Turks,” along with a word that had in the past always applied to situations overseas: “refugees.” It turned out that Moscow was not the only place in the former Soviet Union. There was also Armenia and Azerbaijan, which could not figure out how to divide up Nagorno-Karabakh between them. And there was Tbilisi, where soldiers were beating women with shovels that were designed for digging up mines. People’s Fronts emerged, first in one republic, then another, and then yet another, demonstrating and arguing for independence. The empire started to tremble and fell into a fever. 

Strange words and concepts also appeared that had been long-since forgotten. How we had laughed once at the joke about the man who came to Moscow looking for a store called Principle, since he had been told back home that, in Moscow, “in principle, you can buy anything.” And now, suddenly, in principle you could not buy anything – you had to stand for hours in lines for butter, bread, cigarettes, vodka. Ration cards appeared that were sheepishly referred to as “coupons,” and for some reason we had to exchange our money for new money. We were advised to expect price rises and lay in stores of pasta and sugar. 

Everything was reeling, tottering, shaking and falling apart at the seams, careening God only knew where, when one August morning in 1991 there was news that the president was being held in his Crimean residence and some other people were governing us. True, these were the same people we had always seen at the president’s side, but now they were on the other side of the barricade – and suddenly there really was a barricade, and there were tanks and blood was being spilled in Moscow. But even that could not dampen the storm of exultation three days later when it turned out that there were no more communists, no more putschisty, and no more KGB… And that meant that there was also no more empire. 

And the president of the country – the country that was already receding from memory – returned from the Crimea. Only three days had passed, but he was a changed man, with a new, rather piteous face and eyes that had lost their sparkle. He put on a brave face, but he probably understood that this was the end for him. 

For the president of Russia, however, this was just the beginning. The Supreme Council was still meeting, speeches were still being made, statements were issued clarifying this, announcing that, while at the same time, in Ukraine, Georgia and Azerbaijan there were also meetings and demonstrations. Votes were being cast and decisions were being made, and the pieces of the empire broke loose one after the other. There was a lot of fuss and bother, committees were formed, advisory councils were established, negotiations were held, but it was clear that the empire was done for. 

Almost no one noticed this, just as almost no one noticed during the autumn of 1991 how the word “Chechnya” had come up, or that somewhere in the mountains of the North Caucasus things were also changing, independence was also being proclaimed, and someone by the name of General Dudayev wanted to secede from Ingushetia and had become president. Why should anyone get worked up about something like that, since surely nothing important could happen there? And where was this Chechnya anyway? We had more pressing concerns. By now, there really was nothing to eat and winter was coming. Soon it would be New Year’s and somehow we would need to conjure up presents for our relatives and scrounge some sorts of offerings for the holiday table before it was too late…

Wait a minute. What is this about the Belovezha Forest Reserve? Sure, everyone had heard about it, some had even traveled there, on the border with Poland, to see its natural wonders. It is an ancient forest, one of the few places where the European bison still roams, where it is possible to see untouched, virgin nature [since 1640, it has been forbidden to chop down trees there]. It turns out that this was where the Party bosses of Belorussia (what we now call Belarus) would go to hunt, and they would invite their counterparts from Russia and Ukraine to join them. Well, what of it?

Oh, my, was it really all over? On December 7, 1991, we lived in the Soviet Union. On December 8, we are living in Russia. From Belovezha comes something called the Commonwealth of Independent States, but who knows exactly what that is? Who belongs to it? Russia, Ukraine and Belorussia? No, it seems that Kazakhstan will also be a member. Or actually Kazakhstan wanted to join, but was too late. No, it really was not too late – it turned out that Kazakhstan and whoever else wanted to join were given a second chance. 

The whole empire fell apart, broke into pieces. Some of these pieces found themselves up to their necks in blood, while others escaped with just a minor, or not so minor, scare. But a new life had begun, a new epoch, new countries. 

And the sad and forlorn president of the USSR tried to bid a dignified farewell to his people, but nobody paid much attention. At first it hurt to see the vicious spite with which the president of Russia addressed him, and there was a feeling that it was hardly fitting to settle personal accounts on such a joyous occasion. But this was just a fleeting thought – it was too momentous a time to think about one president’s insulting treatment of another. After all, they never liked one another. Later, the astute Igor Irteniyev wrote:

Так и ушел со сцены Горби, 

Так и покинул пьедестал.

Предметом всенародной скорби

Его уход, увы, не стал.

И все ж сказать ему «Спасибо», 

Хотя б подать ему пальто

Вполне мы, думаю, могли бы.

Да воспитание не то.

In the end, Gorby left the stage,

In the end, he left the pedestal.

Alas, his departure did not become

A cause for national sorrow.

But we still could have said, “Thank you,”

Or at least helped him on with his coat.

I think we could have at least done that,

But that’s not how we were brought up.

The empire had fallen, and a new life began – a life both wonderful and awful. We can cry over the broken pieces of the empire and we can rejoice that everything has changed. But one thing is clear. Life will never again be as interesting as it was during those years, when one great era made way for another.  RL