August 15, 2023

Touchpoints


Touchpoints
At a Moscow protest in 2020. "Putin, leave," reads the woman's mask. Elena Rostunova (Dreamstime)

CHMOBIKI, RELOKANTI & TURBOPATRIOTY

Russia’s rapidly evolving wartime reality has been generating a cascade of new concepts and expressions, causing the Russian language to undergo a stunning transformation since February 2022. The way people express their thoughts has changed, and even certain letters now must be used with care. Linguists have given this new language a name: специáльный воéнный ру́сский язы́к (special military Russian language, mirroring the “special military operation” euphemism) or СВРЯ (pronounced Es-Vey-Err-Ya). Navigating all this new, emotionally- and politically-charged vocabulary can be tricky.

As part of a quick lesson in СВРЯ, we’ll start with the neologisms Russians use to classify one another. Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine hasn’t just intensified society’s polarization; it’s created a new landscape populated by “special military” categories of people. Let’s try to sort out who’s who.

If, for example, you see a young woman in the metro wearing a yellow t-shirt and blue jeans carrying a shopping bag emblazoned with the words “все всё понимáют” (everyone understands what’s going on), she’s probably a “нетвойни́стка” (no-to-war girl, based on the protest phrase нет войнé that burst onto social media after the invasion). If you want to be dismissive, you’d instead use “нетвойня́шка.” That’s the feminine form that supporters of the war – “завойни́сты” or “зéтники” – use for those who oppose it (the prefix за suggests “in favor of” and зет refers to the letter Z or zed, which has been appropriated as a prowar symbol). Нетвойни́сты (the masculine plural form) are often very active, holding antiwar signs and speaking out on social media, despite the risks. But they can also play it relatively safe, condemning the war only around the likeminded, or, in public, signaling their feelings very cautiously, through clothing, jewelry, or some other accessory with the colors of the Ukrainian flag.

You can identify the most fanatical завойни́сты – the ту́рбопатриоты – by the геóргиевские лéнточки (black-and-orange striped Saint George ribbons, a symbol dating back to the Order of Saint George, at one point one of the Russian Empire’s highest military decoration and a main symbol of “patriotism” since 2014) or merchandise displaying the letter Z. These turbo-charged “patriots,” seething with hatred for the enemy, might choose a more malicious name for opponents of the war: подсви́нки (a richly evocative blending of the prefix под, suggesting submissiveness or just being under something, and сви́нка or piggy). This neologism was coined by former Russian president and current deputy chair of the Russian Security Council Dmitry Medvedev, who uses it for anyone he sees as kowtowing to the West. The erstwhile head of state’s Telegram channel oozes witrh venom:.

Прóтив нас сегóдня часть умирáющего ми́ра. Это ку́чка безу́мных наци́стов-наркомáнов, одурмáненный и запу́ганный и́ми нарóд и большáя стáя лаю́щих собáк из зáпадной псáрни. С ни́ми разномáстная свóра хрюкáющих подсви́нков и недалёких обывáтелей из рас~павшейся зáпадной импéрии со стекáющей по подборóдку от вырождéния слю́ной.

Today, a part of the dying world is against us. It is a bunch made up of deranged Nazi drug addicts, the people they have befuddled and cowed, and a large flock of barking dogs from the West’s kennel. They are joined by a motley gang of oinking podsvinki and simple-minded philistines from the crumbling Western empires drooling slaver down their chins out of degeneration.

These турбопатриóты sometimes like to dress their children up in prowar symbols, giving rise to the derogatory “вагнеря́та” (Wagner, plus the suffix denoting plural younglings). The word, which is used in reference to the indoctrination of schoolchildren or preschoolers, first appeared this past spring when the Вагнерёнок children’s club was opened in St. Petersburg. The club was established with support from the Wagner private military company that in June drew the world’s attention with its leader’s short-lived rebellion and aborted “march for justice.” Its members are commonly referred to as “вáгнеровцы” (Wagnerites) or “музыкáнты” (musicians – the mercenary group takes its name from the Nazi-appropriated German composer best known for the “Ride of the Valkyries”).

 

 

Those mobilized into the Ministry of Defense’s armed units are referred to as “мóбики” или “чмóбики.” The letter ч stuck in front of the latter comes from the effort’s designation as a “чáстичная мобилизáция” – a “partial mobilization” – but it adds a strong overtone of disdain, as чмóбик sounds like a blending of чмó (something akin to – and possibly etymologically tied to – our English schmo) and мóбик. The term чмóбик evokes the image of a poorly educated doofus from Russia’s backwaters who doesn’t follow the news and winds up in the army either out of inertia, or in the hope it will help take his life up a notch.

The hapless чмóбики stand in sharp contrast with the кузьми́чи: men over 40 whose life experience has better prepared them for war (Кузьми́ч is the patronymic form of the mostly rustic and archaic name, Кузьмá). In their youth, they survived the trials and tribulations of the 1990s, most likely served in the army, and may even have taken part in the Chechen campaigns. Prowar Telegram channels and state television, where these term first appeared, portray the кузьми́чи as a stoic breed (не истеря́т – don’t go into hysterics) not afraid of a scuffle (привы́кли к дрáкам – accustomed to fistfights), who know how to fix any situation (мóгут испрáвить любу́ю ситуáцию), even if it costs them their lives (дáже ценóй своéй жи́зни) – in short, they’re real men (настоя́щие мужики́). Their female counterparts, who provide whatever help they can from the home front, are “сёстры кузьмичéй” (Kuzma's sisters). Although this term has not really entered the popular lexicon, there is some truth to the stereotype. In real life, however, these кузьми́чи tend to be dejected alcoholics for whom the war represents a rare opportunity to feel needed.

The neologism for those uprooting themselves to avoid serving in the army, “релокáнты” (relocators), is applied to anyone who left the country after February 2022. The assumption is that релокáнты have only temporarily changed their place of residence and could return home at any moment, so the term lacks the connotation of tragedy associated with    permanent emigration. While it originated in the corporate vocabulary of companies relocating personnel due to the war and sanctions, it is also used by people who left independently and want to emphasize the temporary nature of their current situation. Prowar завойни́сты quickly appropriated the term, giving it an ironic, derogatory connotation.  Hardcore ту́рбопатриоты would use the stronger “релокну́вшиеся” (echoing долбану́вшиеся – really stupid, crazy people) and “понауéхавшие” (suggesting some sort of horde, like “понауéхавшие мигрáнты” – hordes of migrants). Your typical релокáнты are members of the creative class disdained by the кузьми́чы: software engineers and the like, journalists, and business owners.

Релоканты are engaged in an endless metaphysical debate that at times takes the form of bitter internet clashes with the оставлéнцы (from the verb оставáться, to remain). The оставлéнцы do not support the government but have stayed in Russia for a variety of reasons, ranging from elderly parents to fundamental philosophical beliefs. While a whiff of contempt can be sensed in the term, its connotations are more complicated than outright derision or condemnation and encompass an element of sympathy. Your typical оставлéнцы are mild-mannered intellectuals who didn’t quite have the get-up-and-go to leave their native land but present their decision to stay as based on moral considerations.

The least conspicuous but most commonplace are the “всёслóжники” (the “it’s all so complicated” crowd – the neologism is built out of everything+complicated+nik). These are ordinary people far from the extremes of турбопатриоти́зм or activist нетвойни́зм, who tend to sympathize with the victims of war but avoid directly discussing who’s responsible for their suffering. Sometimes this is just a matter of conformism, but often всёслóжники simply can’t make sense of what’s happening. They may not particularly trust official sources, but they are still influenced by the pervasive propaganda. They can be critical of both the Russian and Ukrainian governments, expressing the opinion that it’s simply too hard to sort out who’s at fault. They prefer to stay “над схвáткой” (above the fray), the source of yet another neologism: надсхвáточники.

We’ll continue to study the evolution of СВРЯ. Surely new categories and concepts will emerge in the wake of the events of late June. 

See Also

Invading Ukraine, Then vs. Now

Invading Ukraine, Then vs. Now

A comparison of Russia's invasion of Crimea in 2014 vs. the invasion of all of Ukraine in 2022 (written two weeks prior to the invasion)
A Nation of Plotters

A Nation of Plotters

Dachas (summer houses) are a concept held dear by most Russians--80% of the population has a dacha, and Russians put them third on their list of material priorities, behind apartments and cars. Yelena Utenkova takes a detailed look at the history and role of the dacha in Russian society.
Language of War

Language of War

A look a the neologisms of the Ukraine war, and Russia's neoactivist Duma.
Memes For Our Times

Memes For Our Times

We explain ten recent memes that best capture the current sociopolitical mood across a large subset of Russian society.

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