Requiem for a Russian Babushka

April 3, 2008

I came home today to find Mark with a butcher knife in hand, hunched over a pile of fish heads and gallbladders, the fruit of his labour a plateful of 2cm x 2cm fish fillets. “I bought them for 20 roubles from a babushka on the street!” he explains, as if his elderly merchant justifies this seemingly ridiculous purchase. But I can picture him walking down the streets, lured in by the eccentric wares peddled by this elderly woman. He eyes the fish from a few feet away, and then is called in closer. A grandmotherly voice assures him that they are “horoshaya riba” (good fish). He asks the price and is then unable to turn away, and, before he knows it, is walking home with a plastic bag full of fish that look more like bait than dinner. What struck me enough to begin this piece, however, was not the fish but the idea of the woman who sold it to him. And so I begin a long-overdo exposition on a subject that is at times tender or quirky, at times hostile, and at other times still a strange mix of all of these: the Russian babushka.

One of the first words I learned in Russian, probably without even knowing it was Russian, was the word “babushka.” I vaguely recall a schoolmate or two who referred to their grandmothers by this name. I remember one friend, I think her name was Kristen, who also told me the word simultaneously meant “head kerchief.” I’ve found no basis for this alleged second meaning in my Russian endeavours since, but the story is fitting, as you usually don’t find the former without the latter. The wrinkled old women, kerchief tied neatly under her chin, dressed in an ankle-length dress, wool vest, and either rubber boots or valenki (one-size-fits-all knee-high felt boots), depending on the season, is a familiar and at times endearing character in Russia, both past in present. From heroines of ancient literature, to red-kerchief clad women of Soviet propaganda posters, and finally to the woman who sold Mark his fishy dinner, babushki are everywhere, a symbol of Russia through the ages. Everyone has or knows a babushka (a word that literally means “old woman,” but throw a possessive pronoun out front and then you’ve got somebody’s grandmother), and, if not, you don’t have to look far to find out. She is the keeper of raspberry jam and hand-knit wear, moral guardian of the streets (if you do something wrong, you are sure to hear about it quickly from an always-present babushka’s eye), and, in many ways, she is the memory of the nation. She holds the past in a way that is distinct among their fellow Russians, for they have lived through multiple wars, famines, regime changes and pension plans. What’s more, unlike most of her male cohorts, she has survived. She has made it beyond the age of 55 and is still kicking (though it is a distinct possibility that she is 15 year younger than her face suggests).

Perhaps I paint an inaccurate picture in my use of a singular pronoun. Russian babushkas are, after all, a varied lot. While kerchiefs may be almost universal, their livelihoods are not. Some distribute free copies of Pravda in front of Communist demonstrations, still active promoters of KPRF, despite tiring faces. Others have returned to churches, where they can be found selling candles behind musky desks, or feebly prostrating before dimly lit icons of Mary, the suffering Mother of God. Some work as dejournayas, keeping a moral eye and a strict hand on the nation’s student population. They are often spotted labouriously boarding public transit, sometimes to be given a seat, but often not. Some, however, prefer the warmth of metro stations, and are known to belt out their lungs with various instruments in hand, a hat for loose change laid out for passers-by. Others still peddle their wares street side, hand-knit mittens and scarves in winter, raspberry and strawberry jam, underwear, nuts, seeds, cabbage, house plants, potatoes, home-made pickles, fish etc. year round. These sales are illegal; they have no commercial licenses, but take this risk as an alternative to begging. Many of their kind are found doing just that: begging. I have the image of one particular woman seared deeply into my mind, as she sat in the same spot outside of Ural State University every day, come rain, hail, sleet, or snow, constantly rocking back and forth and crossing herself. Tin cans and plastic cups are, sadly, not uncommon accessories, as government pensions (currently around 1000roubles/month, I’m told) are not nearly enough to cover one’s living expenses. When begging doesn’t bring in the necessary funds, garbage bins are a last resort. Some have, luckily, married well, married husbands who’ve lived past 50 by some minor miracle, and who’ve benefited from Russia’s experiments with capitalism. These women often still ride public transit, though in fur coats, with painted lips tightly pursed and leather purses are similarly clutched. A married woman at this age is about as frequent an occurrence as a compassionate Russian politician (she’s probably married to a politician of some sorts anyway).

As this description hints, being a Russian babushka is not an enviable position. Though most Russians may smile with fondness at thoughts of their own babushki, it’s hard to say that being a babushka is a position that is even respected. More often than not, it is a position that is viewed with sadness, pity tinged with a small sense of guilt, or at least bitterness towards the government’s inability to care for this forgotten generation. While in better times she may have been looked upon as a source of wisdom, guidance, support, today she is more often a reminder of yesteryear in a country all too eager to forget about its past (unless, of course, to remember its glory). She, in all her forms, is a symbol of the many transitions Russia has undergone, and continues to undergo. She, in her frequent poverty, is a reminder of everything that’s gone wrong, of what has most definitely NOT worked in Russia’s experiments with “democracy” and capitalism, as she becomes the mascot of the under-classes, the forgotten classes of the New Russia. While her existence seems to be daily threatened with extinction, for now she refuses to let go, to let the country forget and move on. If she were to disappear, what would happen? Would the economy suffer? Except for a drop in the country’s raspberry jam supply, no. Would children everywhere lose their sources of wisdom and guidance? Some may, but many would be to busy looking elsewhere to notice. Would anyone really notice? Or, perhaps the more pertinent question, would anyone even care? I hope my lived-in-Russia-for-seven-months pessimism hunch on this one is wrong. I hope these are superfluous, redundant question, born of a naïve foreign view of this country. For the sake of these old women, I hope this is the case. For the extinction of this cohort would mean much more than a dried-up jam and sunflower seed market. It would mean the extinction of the soul of this country. Without her babushki, Russia would simply not be, for a nation without its memory ceases to exist.