What I Learned About Russia Today
Aug. 7th, 2008 03:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
salienneSo, while sitting the car in awful awful gridlock today, I had an idea: why don’t I do an lj post every other day or so concentrating on the facet of Russia that I saw that day? It’d be fun, and hopefully interesting, and it would give me something to come back to.
So, today’s topic:
Well first off let me just say, I really haven’t been to that many American graveyards. There was a small one back in Stoughton, and I wandered an old one in Concord, and we’ve driven past a few, and there was a huge hilly one back in Milton, but a full-fledged wrought-iron fence, fields of grass with tombstones, you need a car to get around, can get lost with all the mausoleums graveyard? Nope, never.
Well this graveyard wasn’t quite like that, but it was enormous. (Technically it was two, one older primarily Jewish one across the street from a non-Jewish somewhat newer one that had wide roads with actual curbs. Other than that, both looked about the same.)
See, one of the primary reasons we came to Russia—besides seeing family—was to visit my grandpa’s grave (mom’s father, grandmother’s husband, died when I was about 7 months old) and to visit the grave of my dad’s parents (both of whom died before I was born). While we have yet to do the latter, we did the former today, and he is buried in a very very beautiful place.
In general, the first graveyard was a largely Jewish graveyard with a huge wrought-iron gate at the entrance. In front of this gate was a parking lot, the street, another parking lot, and another mirror graveyard. Pay the guard at either end 50 rubles, he pushes back the closed half of the gate and you get to bring your car into that graveyard. If you haven’t already bought flowers and want to, right inside is a flower shop where the guard sits.
As for the graveyard itself, it was packed (and I mean packed) full of graves and grass and roads and trees. Trees like you’d find in a forest, that make navigation difficult but offer shade and decoration. Where there wasn’t a road, there was a grave or a tree. And at the ends of many of the roads (at intersections and things) were rectangular brick structures with water faucets; apparently when you leave a Jewish graveyard, you should wash your hands, so I’m assuming these were for that purpose. My mother also reminded me that people work here, so of course they would need to wash their hands, freezing cold water with water trenches underneath or no.
About our trip: Luckily my uncle has a rather small car, because even though these were definite paved roads with other smaller roads or footpaths (and a veritable garden of graves) extending off, these roads were very thin, with gates and tree-branches and brick corners and just grass and dirt making the road even smaller in places. Wooden signs with yellow placards marked by black numbers were set at intervals, marking the areas of the graveyard, and everywhere everywhere everywhere were these amazing tombstones.
See stereotypically, the norm for American graveyards is the gray tombstone with a name and inscription. The nicer ones have statues, a larger area, bigger tombstones, so on and so forth.
But here, every plot had its own spot (usually around 4x4 or 5x5 feet, I think; I’m terrible at guesstimating area), almost all encircled by small black iron fences of varying designs and heights. No matter the height, though, each seemed to have a swinging gate, tied off with ribbon or string or something of the sort, allowing one to enter.
And every single gravestone seemed different, a different stone, a different size, a different shape, some for one person, some for a husband and wife, some family members’ stones sitting side-by-side in the same plot. Now I don’t mean some gravestones were bright pink and the size of a house while others were short and squat and gray and miserable; most were around three feet tall, black or gray, with clear engravings of the people’s names and their years of life and death. Many had, obviously, their own other inscriptions (my grandfather’s, for example, had “To a Kind Husband, Father, and Grandfather”). Many also had the Star of David, as this was primarily a Jewish graveyard.
But what really struck me was that on almost every single gravestone was a photograph of its occupant there beneath the earth. I’ve never seen that at an American graveyard, but it just felt right somehow, to actually see whose grave is there, to really give the gravestone a personality beyond “Here is Stone in Memory of This Amazing but Faceless Person”. Instead of just knowing that there are dead people around, these photographs really made it actually feel like, yes, these are actual people buried here, people who had their own lives, people who had hopes and fears and families and jobs and had to worry about money and the dog running around their feet at dinnertime. And yes, I did shed a few tears at my grandfather’s grave when we left flowers, but anyway.
Besides the gravestones, the plots themselves were all different. One of the newer graves I saw had a black stone floor, the gravestone at the back matching. Others were completely overgrown with weeds, peeking out from the fence, above the fence, around the gravestone, etc. Then there was, of course, everything in between; flowers, just like here in the good ol’ US of A, were very common. Some just had roses and carnations left there, some had vases, some had flower plots, and so on. My grandfather’s grave (a plot for three people, actually, with two gravestones, one for him and one for his parents) had a closed-in bed of flowers in front of it, small and beautiful and freshly planted. This was a cared-for grave, and we left roses and carnations. Took pictures that I will probably put up once I’m back in FL, too.
My mother’s grandparents’ grave had growing flowers but also growing weeds, and my mom and I ripped the weeds out. The final grave we visited was in the second graveyard, that of my grandfather’s brother and his wife. This one was clear with just the gravestone, and we left flowers. The picture on the gravestone was a second version, though, and in the corner by the edge of the fence was the old photograph in a plastic bag; apparently some idiots got it in their head to deface the gravestones, and my great-uncles kids replaced the photograph. It wasn’t our grave to care for so we left the old photograph there, but I hope those idiots got put into jail or something.
But back to graves! At one point we passed a grave that had the person’s face and torso carved in, another had a huge monument to members of the Russian Mafia (according to my uncle) in the form of really large black gravestones at one of the corners, in another spot was a carving of the Virgin Mary in stone, another was a very tall black stone column. Double-crosses were common in the non-Jewish graveyard, and it seemed like variety in design was also more common, though almost every plot was fenced-in. And almost every gravestone had a photograph.
So, yes, it was a good trip, sad and more than a bit chilly but good. And the graveyards were gorgeous. Any questions/comments, feel free to ask/post! :)
And on a lighter note:
Bizarre Moment of the Day: We’re sitting in my uncle’s car at a red light. In front of us, the driver of a large black car decides s/he has had enough of waiting around for silly things like traffic laws. This car drives up onto the curb, over the grass, and onto the sidewalk. It drives along the sidewalk to the gas station up ahead and turns off onto the road currently given a go-ahead by the green light. It then goes off on its merry little way, while we continue sitting at the red light.
My uncle’s explanation: they’re rich and don’t care about paying the fine.
The way these people drive, I believe it.
Also, because I neglected to do this yesterday, a second story for you all.
Bizarre Moment of Yesterday: My mom, uncle, grandma and I are looking at bread in a supermarket. Suddenly someone grabs onto my waist and gently moves me out of the way, like a family member or friend who you’ve known for a while might. I figured it was my uncle (almost okay and sort of annoying) or my mother (okay and sort of annoying).
Nope.
It was an employee. A store employee. A store employee took me by the waist and moved me out of the way to get at the bread. Not even an “Excuse me” or “Sorry.” She just told us to not move the bread around so much. I think she told me to get out of the way, perhaps, but I don’t quite remember.
My initial reaction: O_O
My latter reaction: -_- *Wishes she knew Russian better so as to go and tell this -insert not-so-kind-descriptive-term-here- off*
And that, ladies and gent’s, is that. :D
So, today’s topic:
Well first off let me just say, I really haven’t been to that many American graveyards. There was a small one back in Stoughton, and I wandered an old one in Concord, and we’ve driven past a few, and there was a huge hilly one back in Milton, but a full-fledged wrought-iron fence, fields of grass with tombstones, you need a car to get around, can get lost with all the mausoleums graveyard? Nope, never.
Well this graveyard wasn’t quite like that, but it was enormous. (Technically it was two, one older primarily Jewish one across the street from a non-Jewish somewhat newer one that had wide roads with actual curbs. Other than that, both looked about the same.)
See, one of the primary reasons we came to Russia—besides seeing family—was to visit my grandpa’s grave (mom’s father, grandmother’s husband, died when I was about 7 months old) and to visit the grave of my dad’s parents (both of whom died before I was born). While we have yet to do the latter, we did the former today, and he is buried in a very very beautiful place.
In general, the first graveyard was a largely Jewish graveyard with a huge wrought-iron gate at the entrance. In front of this gate was a parking lot, the street, another parking lot, and another mirror graveyard. Pay the guard at either end 50 rubles, he pushes back the closed half of the gate and you get to bring your car into that graveyard. If you haven’t already bought flowers and want to, right inside is a flower shop where the guard sits.
As for the graveyard itself, it was packed (and I mean packed) full of graves and grass and roads and trees. Trees like you’d find in a forest, that make navigation difficult but offer shade and decoration. Where there wasn’t a road, there was a grave or a tree. And at the ends of many of the roads (at intersections and things) were rectangular brick structures with water faucets; apparently when you leave a Jewish graveyard, you should wash your hands, so I’m assuming these were for that purpose. My mother also reminded me that people work here, so of course they would need to wash their hands, freezing cold water with water trenches underneath or no.
About our trip: Luckily my uncle has a rather small car, because even though these were definite paved roads with other smaller roads or footpaths (and a veritable garden of graves) extending off, these roads were very thin, with gates and tree-branches and brick corners and just grass and dirt making the road even smaller in places. Wooden signs with yellow placards marked by black numbers were set at intervals, marking the areas of the graveyard, and everywhere everywhere everywhere were these amazing tombstones.
See stereotypically, the norm for American graveyards is the gray tombstone with a name and inscription. The nicer ones have statues, a larger area, bigger tombstones, so on and so forth.
But here, every plot had its own spot (usually around 4x4 or 5x5 feet, I think; I’m terrible at guesstimating area), almost all encircled by small black iron fences of varying designs and heights. No matter the height, though, each seemed to have a swinging gate, tied off with ribbon or string or something of the sort, allowing one to enter.
And every single gravestone seemed different, a different stone, a different size, a different shape, some for one person, some for a husband and wife, some family members’ stones sitting side-by-side in the same plot. Now I don’t mean some gravestones were bright pink and the size of a house while others were short and squat and gray and miserable; most were around three feet tall, black or gray, with clear engravings of the people’s names and their years of life and death. Many had, obviously, their own other inscriptions (my grandfather’s, for example, had “To a Kind Husband, Father, and Grandfather”). Many also had the Star of David, as this was primarily a Jewish graveyard.
But what really struck me was that on almost every single gravestone was a photograph of its occupant there beneath the earth. I’ve never seen that at an American graveyard, but it just felt right somehow, to actually see whose grave is there, to really give the gravestone a personality beyond “Here is Stone in Memory of This Amazing but Faceless Person”. Instead of just knowing that there are dead people around, these photographs really made it actually feel like, yes, these are actual people buried here, people who had their own lives, people who had hopes and fears and families and jobs and had to worry about money and the dog running around their feet at dinnertime. And yes, I did shed a few tears at my grandfather’s grave when we left flowers, but anyway.
Besides the gravestones, the plots themselves were all different. One of the newer graves I saw had a black stone floor, the gravestone at the back matching. Others were completely overgrown with weeds, peeking out from the fence, above the fence, around the gravestone, etc. Then there was, of course, everything in between; flowers, just like here in the good ol’ US of A, were very common. Some just had roses and carnations left there, some had vases, some had flower plots, and so on. My grandfather’s grave (a plot for three people, actually, with two gravestones, one for him and one for his parents) had a closed-in bed of flowers in front of it, small and beautiful and freshly planted. This was a cared-for grave, and we left roses and carnations. Took pictures that I will probably put up once I’m back in FL, too.
My mother’s grandparents’ grave had growing flowers but also growing weeds, and my mom and I ripped the weeds out. The final grave we visited was in the second graveyard, that of my grandfather’s brother and his wife. This one was clear with just the gravestone, and we left flowers. The picture on the gravestone was a second version, though, and in the corner by the edge of the fence was the old photograph in a plastic bag; apparently some idiots got it in their head to deface the gravestones, and my great-uncles kids replaced the photograph. It wasn’t our grave to care for so we left the old photograph there, but I hope those idiots got put into jail or something.
But back to graves! At one point we passed a grave that had the person’s face and torso carved in, another had a huge monument to members of the Russian Mafia (according to my uncle) in the form of really large black gravestones at one of the corners, in another spot was a carving of the Virgin Mary in stone, another was a very tall black stone column. Double-crosses were common in the non-Jewish graveyard, and it seemed like variety in design was also more common, though almost every plot was fenced-in. And almost every gravestone had a photograph.
So, yes, it was a good trip, sad and more than a bit chilly but good. And the graveyards were gorgeous. Any questions/comments, feel free to ask/post! :)
And on a lighter note:
Bizarre Moment of the Day: We’re sitting in my uncle’s car at a red light. In front of us, the driver of a large black car decides s/he has had enough of waiting around for silly things like traffic laws. This car drives up onto the curb, over the grass, and onto the sidewalk. It drives along the sidewalk to the gas station up ahead and turns off onto the road currently given a go-ahead by the green light. It then goes off on its merry little way, while we continue sitting at the red light.
My uncle’s explanation: they’re rich and don’t care about paying the fine.
The way these people drive, I believe it.
Also, because I neglected to do this yesterday, a second story for you all.
Bizarre Moment of Yesterday: My mom, uncle, grandma and I are looking at bread in a supermarket. Suddenly someone grabs onto my waist and gently moves me out of the way, like a family member or friend who you’ve known for a while might. I figured it was my uncle (almost okay and sort of annoying) or my mother (okay and sort of annoying).
Nope.
It was an employee. A store employee. A store employee took me by the waist and moved me out of the way to get at the bread. Not even an “Excuse me” or “Sorry.” She just told us to not move the bread around so much. I think she told me to get out of the way, perhaps, but I don’t quite remember.
My initial reaction: O_O
My latter reaction: -_- *Wishes she knew Russian better so as to go and tell this -insert not-so-kind-descriptive-term-here- off*
And that, ladies and gent’s, is that. :D
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-10 02:32 am (UTC)Those Georgians are American allies. They have two thousand troops in Iraq that they probably could use right now. And even though they seem to be the ones who started the current flare-up, Russians bombing Georgian civilians hundreds of miles away from the disputed territory just isn't going to sit well.
This thing might explode into a wider war, especially if the Ukrainians and Poles somehow get involved. NATO might have to go "Kosovo War" on Russia's ass.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-11 11:48 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-11 12:39 pm (UTC)It's a good thing you're getting to see the place now, before Cold War II breaks out.