The
recent revolt provided a graphic example of the deep-seated fatalism that
afflicts Russia: the idea that whatever you do, it doesn’t really matter-
things will turn out the same, probably miserably. What will be, will be, the
future’s not ours to see (or change). Russians have had a millenium of
oppression and misery to drum this lesson into them, starting with the Mongols,
who celebrated their conquering of Rus by killing every second person in
Moscow. Under foreign occupations, the tsars serfdom, communist slavery; people
learned that what they wanted and needed didn’t matter—it was better not to
hope, because that only led to greater disappointment. The communists in
particular specialized in creating an interlocking web of mutual exclusivity
carefully designed to crush the human spirit. 2 years ago, the most common
response to any suggestion was: “I think that is impossible, Michael”.
With the
personal and market freedoms of the last 2-5 years however, people realized
that they could influence their fate, change it, even take it to the highest
heights. Businessmen stretched their financial muscles and imagination in the
worlds suddenly opening up to them. Yet
even there, hopeless fatalism didn’t relinquish its grip, with people usually
spending every penny immediately as if they might die tomorrow (and sometimes thusly
provoking that result).
The war
displayed fatalism’s continued pervasiveness, with people blithely crowding
next to machine gun and armored battles, heedless of danger, even as others
nearby were killed and wounded. If you have no control over your life, nothing
you do can endanger it either, or so the thinking goes. At least a dozen people
paid the ultimate price for their entertainment, yet even those seriously
wounded vowed they would do it all again, the same way.
Ironically,
as Russians discover their power to change their world, foreigners are more and
more susceptible to fatalism. In the CNN video of the attack on Ostankino, TV
cameramen film the rebel trucks crashing through the doors... from 6 feet away,
as if they were impervious to the bullets that were bound to come. They weren’t:
6 journalists were killed, 9 wounded (inc. at the White House), probably the
heaviest one-day toll since WW II. Fatalism, as with the defiantly wounded
spectators, engenders serious stupidity.
Apathy
and exhaustion have fuelled fatalism’s power; overwhelmed by the wrenching
changes of the last 2 years (prices increasing 30-100 times in dollar terms and
the majority 2-5 times poorer), many people feel farther than ever from
influencing their destiny.
The
vagaries of fate are usually ascribed to some divine power, but with the
suppression of religion, that was nelzya for the last ¾ century, so people
designated various other powers as the responsible party. The latest such
omniscient authority is the Mafia, who are spoken of with a respect that is
disquieting, if not obscene. When someone is murdered, people knowingly cluck
about “his being involved in something he shouldn’t”, as if criminal
retribution were a form of divine justice, one so dependable that it’s use was
proof of guilt.
As a
technical rock climber I have an intimate knowledge of fate and one’s power to
control it. In 1980, I was packed to go to Mt. St. Helens (Washington St.) to
shoot photos of it’s imminent explosion, but at the last minute I decided not
to go, unsure if anything would really happen. I’d planned to be on Spirit
Lake, about 9 km from the mountain; when it exploded 6 days later with the
power of a 20 megaton bomb, every living thing within 23 km (north) was killed,
and a cool wind blew over my soul from 4500 km away. 7 years later I explored
the area for several weeks: a moonscape of craters, dust, and thousands of sq
km of blown down 80 M trees, lined up like toothpicks, and I became obsessed
with the stories of the victims (60 dead) and survivors, and the arbitrary line
that divided them, since I felt myself among them. In one party of 6, 2 were
killed, 2 seriously injured, and 2 unhurt. Who decides?
Friends
of a band left a record release party a few weeks ago and splashed their Lada
into an oncoming BMW on the deadly Ring Rd near Prospect Mira. “You know, a
week before”, the band’s manager said,”Dima was so drunk he could barely stand,
and I wasn’t letting him leave, then he ran out and drove away. He got home
fine that night, but at the party he didn’t have a drop, and he gets killed. It
doesn’t make sense.” It rarely does.
In a
metro recently, I had to mull over the issues of fate hurriedly when a derelict
stumbled into view. He was a wretched sight: shoeless, ragged filthy clothes,
head bandaged top to jaw and bleeding in 3 places, and staggering 2 M back and
forth. A spot of blood on the floor revealed their previous embrace. As he
reeled to less than a meter from the train pit, I moved close. If he lurched
towards the certain death of the pit (if not from the fall or electrocution,
certainly from the train due in 30 seconds), should I A. grab him and pull him back, B. shove him hard enough to knock
him safely to the platform floor, or C. watch him fall in and study the result
(as 98% of Russians and probably 90% of Americans would do). After all, perhaps
this was his fate, and everybody: the derelict, the people he impacted, his
family, would be better off (except for
the Metro workers). But the man lurched back out towards the exit to live
perhaps a few weeks longer... and the
choice wasn’t forced. Qué sera, sera.
Michael
Hammerschlag is a commentator in Moscow.