Two
years ago, Karmin Dumyn-Sannuto visited Ukraine for the first time and
fell in love with the place. Born in Canada into an Italian-Ukrainian household,
Karmin makes a strong case for feeling Ukrainian national pride.
Karmin
Dumyn-Sannuto
Everyone
should get back to his or her roots. A good way to start is by learning
about where one’s parents or grandparents came from. But I would rather
see people getting back to their roots in a far more literal way. A number
of people in my age group who profess their pride in their ancestors’ country
of origin have never actually been there. So why is it they have this measure
of pride? Surely, in many cases the closest they’ve ever been to “their”
country is staring blankly at a photograph that some relative brought back
from their trip many years ago. It comes down to a question of how people
are brought up in childhood. Being raised in a predominantly Ukrainian
household, I have always had some measure of pride in the country from
which my grandparents emigrated. I would often get into heated debates
with fellow classmates. Not until this summer, when the opportunity to
get back to my roots presented itself, did I realize just how much I had
to be proud of. It was in the city of Lviv, on the westernmost edge of
Ukraine, that I learned more about what it truly meant to be Ukrainian
in two weeks than I would have thought possible in twenty years of living
in Canada.
The
first thing one might notice upon arriving in Lviv would be that until
you reached the city centre, everything seems to be about 15 years behind.
Having been built literally in the middle of nowhere, the airport is surrounded
by a low, wooden fence. This stops the cows that belong to the farmer next
door from wandering onto the runway. I have to admit: that first view of
my country was somewhat disappointing. On the drive to my cousin’s apartment,
I noticed that buildings in the city were either of immaculate design and
looked like they had been built yesterday, or that they were old, dilapidated
structures that appeared ready to collapse should to much pressure be laid
upon them. My cousin, Ihor, explained that the pleasant buildings were
usually examples of centuries old Austrian architecture that would probably
stand for as long as the city did. The old soviet regime however, built
the others. Many people moved to the cities during Stalin’s reign, I discovered.
To accommodate the city’s growing population, the regime built low-grade
public housing that still stands because of a lack of funds for building
something better. Ihor then described how many of Ukraine’s neighbours
had at some point in time or other added various portions of the country
to their own territory. It was only then that I realized why we Ukrainians
hate being called Russians. It insults us in a way that says we have no
culture of our own. What struck me most was that despite the times when
my country was part of Russia, Austria, Poland, Lithuania, or some other
oppressor, we managed to keep our traditions, religion and language alive.
Furthermore, every time Ukrainians lost the battle or the war, which happened
all too frequently, they got right back up again and kept fighting.
I
had been completely unaware of my country’s struggle in the face of adversity.
My newfound knowledge of it almost immediately resulted in an increase
in national pride. I soon discovered that this pride was not shared by
many here. One day while walking through the city centre, I stumbled across
what other passersby were distastefully referring to as a “propaganda rally”.
After listening in for a moment, I learned that this was a gathering of
patriotic flag-wavers who were declaring that “We don’t need the Russians.”
What saddened me about this sight was that of the 830,000 citizens of Lviv,
only a few hundred were there to support the whole reason behind Ukraine’s
own declaration of Independence. It made me think that were I to move to
Ukraine, I would be one of those “lost souls” as the rest of the population
deemed them, standing in the square waving a flag while trying to figure
out why nobody else really cared. This did little to stop my growing patriotism.
In fact it did quite the opposite. Now I think to myself, if 830,000 people
are not interested in displaying the love they have for their country just
one day out of the year, then it is up to the other 300 of us to do so
with increased fervour whenever we can.
About
a year ago, I happened across a man selling flags on the street. You can
imagine my surprise when I spotted, among his extraordinarily limited selection,
a Ukrainian one. While parting with $10 for a poorly made piece of cloth
seemed a bit steep at the time, it was probably the best ten bucks I ever
spent. I promptly hung the flag in my room with little understanding for
what it really meant. I knew the yellow was representative of Ukraine’s
wheat fields, and the blue of its sky. I had no idea that together they
also represented triumph. Not so much in the sense of the word most people
would imagine, but a more subtle type of triumph; one that was, and still
is, celebrated every day that Ukraine remains a sovereign country. It is
a triumph of rising from the ashes, of always fighting for something even
when you get the “hell” beaten out you almost every time, and most importantly
of being proud of your country even when it seems like you don’t have one.
Compared
to what we are used to here in Canada, conditions in Ukraine would probably
seem, to most of us, pitiable. Much of the population is poor, and those
who do not have to resort to begging or selling peanuts on the street can
take little comfort in the fact that they will have few opportunities for
dragging themselves out of their present income bracket. Thankfully, this
is only going to be true for the last generation. One day after I came
back from shopping, I remarked to Ihor about how many people, particularly
the older ones, had been giving me dirty looks. Not caring much for tourists
back home, I suspected that most people in Ukraine would feel the same
way. I had assumed it was because of my brand name clothing that they tagged
me a foreigner. Ihor told me that it was not just my clothing, or the fact
that I looked more Italian than Ukrainian, but because of the way I carried
myself. Many people there, especially those of the old generation, walk
around slumped over, like they’ve given up on life. Most have no confidence
in themselves or anybody else. They seem resentful towards the younger
people for having advantages they never did during their youth. “It’s a
sad state of affairs when so many people lack the confidence they so sorely
need,” I thought to myself. “But don’t worry,” Ihor replied, as if in response
to my thoughts, “It’s getting better.”
To
enter Ukraine today, one still needs a visa. I have been assured that this
will end, probably within the next decade. It is a slow start but things
have to begin somewhere. Before I left, my mother began packing into my
suitcase a number of items she though I might need: toilet paper, Kleenex,
soap, shampoo, and a variety of other everyday products. She told me she
was packing these for me because when she went to Ukraine years ago, their
toilet paper was apparently made of the same material as the newspaper,
and that items such as shampoo and Kleenex were non-existent luxuries.
I scoffed at the ridiculous notion that there would be no shampoo in Ukraine.
And rightly so. I found upon my arrival, as my mother was amazed to learn,
that I had all the comforts of home. Things had changed radically in the
last 20 years and it seemed that they were going to keep changing, hopefully,
only for the better. Today I have a much better understanding of what it
means to be Ukrainian. The flag hanging above my desk has more meaning
to me now than ever before and consequently, it is the first thing I point
out to anybody entering my room for the first time. I am of course, a Canadian
citizen, though not an especially patriotic one. I wouldn’t buy a Canadian
flag to hang on my wall, not because I don’t care, but because I have much
more to be proud of regarding my Ukrainian heritage than I do my Canadian.
My trip made me realize just what it means to have pride in one’s country.
It has shaped the way I think now in the sense that I don’t quite understand
people who don’t know about their ethnic background, or those who don’t
care. All people should get back their roots, at least once in their lives.
Whether or not it will change them in such a profound way as it did me
is unforeseeable, but at least they tried. Oh yes, I’m a Canadian. But
first and foremost I’m a Ukrainian, and given the choice, I’d rather be
there than here.
Karmin
returned to Ukraine this summer and is planning to study history there.