Of Балеш and Ёлки (Adventures in Magnitagorsk Part II)

December 31, 2007-January 1, 2008

New Year’s Eve. We awake as yesterday morning to a breakfast spread fit for royalty, followed by tea and sweets (we’ve come to realize that offers of “tea” really mean “tea and jam and cookies and bread and45 minutes of conversation). We eat and converse then suit up for an afternoon exploring the “left bank” (i.e. the factory side). Our journeys lead us past an even bigger Lenin and the main square of MMK (Guzial forbids picture taking here), a long desolate street (where Guzial guesses we are the first foreigners to walk), a tank monument that proudly proclaims that 1 in 3 tanks during the Great Patriotic War were made from steel from MMK (this tank, ironically, stands directly facing a monument of a contemplative and hurried Pushkin).

We hope in a marshrutka and head over to the rights side to see two of the latest building additions to the city—a church and a mosque. Another oddity of this city—whereas the centre of most Russian cities and towns is an Orthodox Church, constructed as it was during the 1930s, the church and mosque are fairly out of the way and less than a decade old. We visit the church first which, like all recently renovated Orthodox cathedrals, is ornately stunning and clean. We head past the newly built hockey arena (home of the national champions—the Magnitagorsk Metallurgs) and up Prospket Lenina to the mosque.

While the church is built atop an acropolis, visible for miles around, Guzial laments that the mosque’s real estate is less than ideal—it is located in the middle of an auto market. Guzial tells us she’s been here once before, as she’s lived in Yekaterinburg since the mosque was completed. We enter the building and take off our shoes. Guzial and I make our way to the women’s hall and Mark heads upstairs to the men’s. We eventually make our way upstairs as well, and sit for awhile in the sunlight filtering through an abundance of windows—the decorations here are sparse, but the natural light makes up for this. A man approaches Mark and asks him he is, and, owing to Mark’s beard, the man wonders if he is perhaps Ingush (i.e. from Ingushetia, a Republic in the Caucasus). Mark explains that he is Canadian, and the man proceeds to ask him if he is Muslim, or Catholic, or Lutheran, etc. When Mark replies that he is “bez organisatsiya” (without organization), the man tells him that the mosque is a sacred space. Mark excuses himself and we head back downstairs. As we are about to leave, another man asks us if we want to sit and drink some tea. When Guzial responds that we’re already out the door, the man asks how the weather in Canada is—news certainly travels fast!

We head back to Guzial’s home to prepare for the evening’s celebrations. Guzial’s father has bought a Christmas tree (or, in Russian “yolka”) and we are enlisted to decorate it, as he engineers a flashing “2008” sign to hang above the tree. We move from tree decorating to salad and other dinner preparations, and then decide to bake an apple cake. As Mark and I peel apples, Guzial is rifling through old film strips and vinyl records, recounting stories of New Years gone by, while her father lovingly laments the disorder she is causing to the living room floor. The following hours continue in a similar manner, full of conversation, wonderful smells, and the type of excited anticipation I’m used to at Christmas.

Before long someone remarks that it is almost 10pm and we should start eating. The table spread consists of a number of traditional Russian salads—most containing beets, potatoes, and, Mark’s favourite, mayonnaise—and, the highlight of the evening, balesh, a traditional Tatar pie. To our surprise, Miriam’s friend has brought a gift of champagne for the evening’s celebrations. (Mark and I refrained from buying alcohol, knowing of Guzial’s objections and assuming that, as Muslims, her family did not drink). Though Guzial laments this New Year’s tradition, her mother giddily describes to us her enjoyment of a glass of midnight champagne. We finally sit down to a meal fit for twice our numbers and share in one last candlelight dinner. We are told that for now, we are not celebrating the coming New Year, but bidding farewell to the old one.

We eat and drink until someone remarks that it is almost midnight and we turn on the TV to watch what all Russians are watching tonight (mind you, broadcast 11 different times as each of Russia’s time zones greets the new year)—the Presidential address. A slightly less stern than usual (though equally pasty) Putin appears onto the screen, his figure superimposed in front of a night-time Kremlin scene, the Russian flag flapping proudly at the top of the screen. Putin congratulates his compatriots with their achievements of the rapidly disappearing year, saying that together they have become stronger. He reflects that the coming year will see him end his term as President, though by this time most in the room have lost interest and are busy preparing sparklers. Putin’s speech comes to a close, the Kremlin clock begins to dong, and Miriam rushes to light our sparkles and pour more glasses of champagne. The clock strikes twelve, the national anthem begins to play, and we welcome the New Year with minor indoor fireworks. When the flames have died down, Guzial’s mom is quick to propose a game. She brings out costumes and encourages us to all dress up, and before we know what’s going on, we are holding hands and dancing around the yolka singing to the beloved holiday tree. When the dancing is over, Guzial runs out of the room and returns with the large Pochta Rossiya (Russian Poste) bag she purchased today, full of gifts. In a theatrical demonstration, she bestows an array of very practical gifts to everyone in the room—soap, shoelaces, a broom and dustpan, etc. More gift giving follows, and the evening turns to more fun and games—involving flour, candies, the recitation of poetry, the singing of some more songs (somehow “Land of the Silver Birch” makes it into the mix…), and other similar activities. When we have sufficiently tired ourselves out with these activities, we decide to venture down the road, guided by the new candle lantern Guzial received from Miriam, to the tobogganing hill. We suit up and head out into the crisp new 2008 winter, sleigh in hand. We pause at the top of the hill for a moment to take in the glory of the factory at night. From the dark fog that is the factory erupts a red glow. Mark, startled, asks Guzial what’s going on. She replies that they are simply pouring the steel, though the event, combined with the perpetual flame atop smoke stacks is reminiscent of a scene out of the Lord of the Rings (think Sauron’s Eye and the Pit of Mordor).

After some sledding and a good long observation of the factory we retreat back to the warmth of Guzial’s home. Her parents have just gone to bed, though she remains set on watching the multfilms of her childhood. She arranges the projector to display the slides on the pink wallpaper of the living room, and we fall asleep to her reading the narratives from the bottom of each slide. I vaguely remember moving beds in-between stories, though when I next open my eyes the sun has already risen, the first sun, the first daylight of 2008.

When Yek-burg Freezes Over

Into Magnet Mountain (Adventures in Magnitagorsk Part I)

December 29, 2007

We are on a rickety bus somewhere south of Chelyabinsk, heading south to the Kazakh border. Mark and Guzial have decided to pass the time with Mark’s new magnetic chess board. I try to read the book I received for Christmas—Anna Politkovskaya’s “Dirty War,” a collection of her writings about the most recent Chechen war, reporting for which she was recently murdered—though the poorly-maintained roads, bumping bus, and dim lighting make this task difficult. The woman in front of Guzial tends to the cat she has tucked into her purse—all things go when traveling in Russia.

We are traveling to Magnitagorsk, Guzial’s hometown, to “vstretit” (greet/meet) the New Year with Guzial and her family. When we first met Guzial and found out she was from Magnitagorsk, Mark immediately recounted a book he’d read on the city and Guzial was instantly endeared to him, perhaps the sole Canadian who’d ever heard of this strange city on the Kazakh steppe. Guzial simultaneously laughs and is slightly confused as she reads my Lonely Planet Guide’s description of the city which reports that Magnitagorsk is a “Frankenstein” of a city with “magnificently ugly” panoramas of a factory that “belches dense curtains of smoke in fearfully multifarious colours.” Over the course of the next week, we are to find that “Frankenstein” is quite an apt description.

Evening sets in and Guzial tells us we will soon arrive. It’s hard to make out our surroundings through the frosted windows, though Guzial explains that we will cross from the left bank to the right of the Ural river—from Europe into Asia, or it is the other way around, she wonders—and arrive at the avtovokzal. After some more winding and bumping we arrive. Stepping out of the bus after a long ride we are happy for the fresh air, though the air here is heavy and pungent. We turn up Prospekt Lenina—described by Lonely Planet as “the spine of a re-animated Stalinist city—towards the tram stop. We hope in a marshrutka and begin the journey to Guzial’s family’s home, back across the river into Asia. Although it is dark, through the windows we can vaguely make out our strange surroundings—3/4 of the landscapes of this drive are made up of smoke stacks of the sprawling MMK (Magnitagorskiy Metalurgicheskiy Kombinat), the steel factory for which this city was made and which currently employs upwards of 80% of the city’s residents.

We arrive at our stop and again step out into the night air. There are few lights in the residential area that lies down the hill in front of us. What lies in front of us looks more like a village, comprised of small wooden and stone houses, than a city, Guzial points to a hill in the near distance and tells us that her grandfather built his house by that hill. She tells us that her grandfather, at the age of 18, was sent here along with his father in 1931 to “build the city.” ‘Sent” is, however, too soft a word—they, along with many other Tatars and “represirovaniye” were forcibly relocated here under Stalin after sizeable iron and coal deposits were discovered under “Magnitskaya Gora” (Magnet Mountain). Although a thousand kilometers from Tatarstan, Tatars comprise a sizeable percentage of the city’s population and, as we are to discover, feel at home in this city that their not-to-distant ancestors built with their own hands. In the quiet of the mid-evening and the quaintness of this village-like settlement, Mark remarks that this is quite a beautiful city. “All cities can be beautiful at night,” Guzial responds in English.

A petit man in a fur hat is walking towards us. “I think that is my father,” Guzial says, judging by his figure and his gait. “Ati,” she calls to him, and to us explains that ati is Tatar for “father.” We draw nearer and they embrace. He, like Guzial, is a bubbly and energetic man who eagerly shakes our hands (both of our hands, not just Mark’s, a rare occurrence when meeting men in Russia) and introduces himself, telling us that we can call him abi (Tatar for uncle). As we venture farther up the hill, he warmly welcomes us to their city with an encompassing sweep of his arm. From the top of the hill we have quite a view of the factory at night. He points out the flames coming from the highest smoke stack, and explains with a hint of pride that it is always burning, a symbol of life. Indeed, were that flame to go out, the city would have more than one reason to despair.

We arrive at their family’s home, a small brick bungalow enclosed by an iron fence. Inside Guzial’s mother enthusiastically greets us, encouraging us to take off our coats and sit down at the table to eat. She is the tiniest and most sprightly family member yet—at 5’2’’, Guzial is the tallest in her family—and enthusiastically serves us fresh soup, self-canned cabbage and carrot salad, bread and tea. We welcome a warm and tasty dinner and her friendly motherly chatter. We pass the remainder of the evening chatting, drinking tea, playing the piano—something both Guzial and I have dearly missed—reading, playing chess, and warm

ing to our new surroundings. When it comes time to go to bed, our offers to sleep on the floor or in the smallest room are firmly rejected (even when Guzial tries to persuade them), and Mark is given the double divan while Guzial’s parents sleep instead on the smaller fold-out chairs. Though Mark is a little uncomfortable with this royal treatment, Guzial assures him that her mother would rather not sleep than sleep knowing a guest was uncomfortable. She is the hostess, she
tells us, and we shall abide by her wishes.

December 30, 2007

We awake late Sunday morning, tired from bus travel and the evening’s activities. Guzial has already gone out for a run with her father, and her mother is busy preparing us breakfast. When they return, we sit down to a breakfast of kasha and eggs, then dress for a day of wondering the cold streets. I am persuaded to wear Ramis’ boots, and extra sweater and a borrowed scarf. Guzial’s mother will not let us leave the house under-dressed, and, greeted by a cold wind, we are grateful for her stubborn persistence.

The city looks new as we see at for the first time in daylight. Mark ogles over the expanse of the factory both as we walk to the transit stop and drive into the town. We get out at the “Palatka” monument, a reconstruction of the tents the early builders of the city lived in. The first stanza of a famous poem “mi zhili v palatke” (we lived in tents) decorates the bottom of the monument. To the left is a large banner with the inscription “Slava Stroitelyam Magnitagorska” (Glory to the Builders of Magnitagorsk!). In between the banner and the tent is a view that is, literally, quite breathtaking—over the trees and across the river stands MMK in all its magnificently ugly glory, the sky above an unearthly hue somewhere between orange, brown and green. Short of a picture, the best I can say is to picture Hamilton Harbour multiplied by about 100 plus a few more variants environmentally
-disastrous gaseous waste.

We walk from the monument through a downtown of wide, freakishly straight boulevards lined with typical, 5-storey apartment blocks. The city is noticeably shorter than Yekaterinburg (more than 5-storeys would have required the installation of an elevator), and, even more noticeably, it is ordered in a way comparable to the artificially designed cities of computer games. We greet Lenin in front of the university, an icy Dyed Moroz (the Russian equivalent of Santa Claus) and Snegurachka (his niece and helper) and happen upon a monument to the Komsomols (young Communists) who built the city. Guzial points out the error in this statue, noting that exiled Tatars should be more to thank.

Nearing the river, we come upon the Palace of Culture, watched over by Ordzhonikidze –although most monuments of Stalin no longer exist, Ordzhonikidze, who Mark tells me was Stalin’s best buddy, remains. Beside the Palace is a monument to the soldiers of the front during the “Great Patriotic War” (what we know as WWII). Guzial tells us that her grandfather was not allowed to go to the front as he was a “represirovat.” Mark asks Guzial why he would have wanted to serve the army of a government under whom he’d been repressed, and Guzial is perplexed. “Why would this influence his decision,” she responds. Mark presses further, as confused by Guzial’s response as she by his question, trying to explain why he doesn’t understand why anyone who’d been deported and forced to live in tents while building a city would want to fight for the very people who’d done this to him. How could he forgive them their misdeeds? Guzial’s response is simple yet telling of an attitude shared by many of this city: “Things were bad for lots of people, not just my grandfather. The goal was bigger than just the government—they were fighting for peace in the world” (or, in the Russian double-entendre, “mir miru,” “peace to the world”). “He didn’t want or need to forgive them, just forget and move on.”

We continue along the river’s bank for awhile, taking in an unobstructed view of the factory that is really the heart and pride of this city—it was, after all, the biggest factory in the world at the time of its construction, and continues to produce 20% of all of Russia’s metal products. It is a particularly clear day, and Guzial tells us the smoke stacks are emitting a special colour today, just for us. We make our way past fountains, parks, and a giant sports and recreation complex and I feel as if I’ve stepped into a Soviet propaganda poster. Eventually we arrive at our destination—the enormous 83-tonne Til Front monument, that stands 15m high. The monument is one of three of a kind—the others are located in Berlin and Stalingrad (now Volgograd). This particular monument is of a steel worker handing a sword to a soldier. Here is the Soviet dream depicted. Through industrious hard working labourers is born a factory and a city, the fruits of this labour are in turn used to defend the reigning ideology, to bring peace to the world.

We spend some time taking in the enormity of the statue before us and watching a car doing donuts on the frozen river, then head back towards the bus station to meet Guzial’s sister who’s due to be arriving soon. We meet her at the bus station and head home for an evening of baking, conversing, and Russian multfilms (cartoons), and easily fall asleep after a day that will take many more to digest.