Correction: I wrote this yesterday (which was Victory Day).
Today is Victory day in Ukraine, and the city is on holiday. A parade went through the center of the city, and everyone donned the striped orange and black ribbon of victory. I woke up later than usual and scratched any plans of going to the parade in lieu of playing dominoes on the porch with my roommate and Ivan.
Around noon I found the energy to get out of the apartment and walk to the center to meet my friend Anton. The foliage on the trees were bursting along with everyone else who has been given the day off to celebrate the great victory. Women were dressed in their lightest sarafans, and boys and girls chased each other among the crowds while haphazardly avoiding anyone who stepped in their way.
I met Anton in the main park with the statue of Taras Shevchenko. Every city over 300,000 has a park dedicated to the poet; the only difference is the pose Taras assumes in each statue. In Kiev, he’s looking downward, pensive. In Chernigov, he’s relaxed and youthful. In Lugansk, he’s looking forward stoically. Traffic had resumed on the main street, and only a few people remained sitting on the benches lined in from of the World War II monument.
Anton and I found an outdoor café two blocks away, and a few tables stood empty, covered by the shade of the oversized patio umbrellas. After coming back from vacation in Crimea, I swore that I would try my best to stick under the 50 UAH a day allotment by not buying beer or snacks. However, beer is cheaper than juice, and as much as I want to be healthy, saving money always wins.
After an hour of sitting in the shade talking about Ukraine, Russia, and the people walking by, a table of older women began singing together in pre-planned harmonies, full and strong. Their songs began quietly, and most people continued drinking and talking, not paying much attention to the women. I found it hard to concentrate on the conversation with Anton, and the fact the women were right over his shoulder made it much more difficult to concentrate. After trying to be nice and follow the conversation we were having, I abandoned our chat and concentrated on the singing women. All four of them, from the one with dyed red hair to the one who rose slightly out of her chair clapping with a crooked smile, blazed through a repertoire celebrating the great victory without hesitation. There was even a MC who whistled throughout the songs to keep everyone’s attention.
The people surrounding us soon shared my interest, and I noticed more people began focusing their attention to the singing women and the crowd of people gathered around their two tables pushed together. The party next to us even provided harmonies to several of the songs, but without the gust and experience of the older women.
At that moment, I wished I had a camera. Something nice and professional, something I could take a picture with that would be suitable for a National Geographic article. I wanted to capture the woman singing with the open mouth, the red-haired woman whistling with two fingers in her mouth, and immortalize the woman clapping over a table scattered with vodka, juice, and chebureki. I wanted to capture their energy in a photo that was crisp and accurate, leaving everything in the background blurred to compliment the brighter colors of their dress and makeup.
“There is a Ukrainian tradition of singing babas,” Anton said to me. I had grown accustomed to Anton’s use of slang words more appropriate for English speakers, even when the word is used to describe his own culture.
“Does every babushka know how to sing?” I asked, already guessing the answer was probably yes.
“Most of them do. I don’t know where they learn it, but most of them are able to sing. The tradition is dying though, and soon there won’t be any babas left.”
His comment reminded me of a conversation I had with my roommate the day earlier. He said he wouldn’t attend the victory day parade that morning. The parade is the same every year, that is, excepting for the older people – less and less show up each year.
I then started thinking about when these women must have learned the songs they were singing. They must have been girls when they fled Lugansk during the Second World War for the Urals or any other place offering solace. Although the celebrations seemed the same this year: the fireworks, the parade, the classic Soviet cars lined up in front of the theatre, I did get to hear daughters of the war sing the songs they must have learned when they were first sung throughout the Soviet Union on the day ending the war 68 years ago.
С праздником.
Below are a few pictures of my recent trip to Crimea.