Peace Corps Writers Blog

The Western Perspective of a Revolution

From November 2004 --

An orange ocean is probably the best way to describe Lviv during the post-run-off period. The quiet, hibernating winter city suddenly was thrust into energetic life.

But I was nestled in my office. My co-workers took turns visiting demonstrations but we were still “working.” They spent all day on the Internet checking the latest news, listening to the Lviv radio station that before played the endless loop of pop but now had turned into an all-news call-in show where people reported live from every city. People called the radio station from all over Ukraine: Kyiv, Donetsk, Kharkiv, Lutsk, Vinnitsya and told their stories, reporting what was happening, how many people were out demonstrating, what the mood was and, always to end the call, that “Lviv, mi zvamy! (Lviv, we are with you!)” Even a guy from New York called, speaking in Ukrainian saying that New Yorkers were also demonstrating, supporting the movement. His identification as an American made my co-workers smile and turn to one another: “America is with us,” they said. I would shrug and smile.

Friends or family would call from Kyiv and there would be the shouted repeat of what the person on the phone was saying, “HE’S IN MAIDAN! HE SAYS HE’S EATING WELL! HE SAYS IT’S A SEA OF ORANGE!” After the phone call, there would be tea and a retelling of the retelling with observations and cookies, assertions and oranges. We ate a lot of oranges. It was a party.

And that best describes Lviv’s mood: a party. A sober celebration of unity and democracy (the emphasis on sober where the mandate was if you were drinking, you must be for Yanukovich). This was an instant committed fraternity of those who wanted change, who wanted justice and fairness and who weren’t going to be pushed around anymore. University students, teachers, priests, public officials, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, businessmen and children were all standing together. They shouted the same words, had the same messages in their hearts and were going to shout it together to make themselves heard. Yushchenko was not a god, was not perfect, but a symbol of the opposition, the alternative to a criminal president. “I mean, have you heard Yanukovich speak,” one would say. “He can’t even speak Ukrainian,” another might say. “Well, he can’t speak Russian either,” another added. “He’s an illiterate.” “No, he’s a bandit.” “Well, he was in prison twice.” “But indicted four times!” And on, and on…

Why is the west of Ukraine so against Yanukovich? People here say that they are against him because he is part of the current administrative and the current administration needs to go. You’ll also be told that even if you say Ukraine has gotten better, even if it does show economic improvements, they are progressing far slower than the countries it borders. People are demanding to know why that is. They want to know where it all goes. What has been the cost of this improvement? they ask. In a country where the simple right to vote, to speak freely and to have a non-corrupt government is not available, they ask, then what has Ukraine really achieved?

The election was not fair in their minds when counting was not done publicly and tales of intimidation and corruption were coming from all directions. It was so obvious that something very wrong occurred that the entire world had to repeat that fact. The actions of America, Canada and the European Union were not seen as interference but the keen observation that if Ukraine wanted to be treated as a legitimate nation, it needed to start acting like one. People like Putin were suggesting that the west mind its business but then why was the mayor of Moscow in Ukraine making speeches, aggravating the public? Russia pointed an accusing finger but no one had more interaction with the government players in this situation than Putin.

And most obviously, the west of Ukraine wants to be Ukraine.   People here do not want to be Russia. They want to pull away from the east, their past, and look to the future. Here that means westward. In Lviv, you can be in Poland in less than an hour. People here cross the border and immediately feel the smoother roads, see nicer houses and a sense a different, some say better, way of life. They are so close to that border, so exposed to what is available there, and yet once back in Ukraine, it seems so far away.

And so now it is low-tide for the sea of orange in Lviv. Statues still wear orange scarves and people still bear their ribbons, yarn and stickers, but the revolution is on hold. Students return to school, workers keep working and life must move forward. The next round will dictate whether the orange tidal wave needs to return and again show its power.

Orange was everywhere – from an orange shred of yarn in a button hole and orange ribbons in the hair of Plast girls to storefronts changing all the models into orange outfits and full-size “Tak! Yushchenko” flags hanging from the backs of cars. But it wasn’t just the color adorning every man, woman, child, dog, store, restaurant, office, school, government building, church, car, bus and marshrutka. It was the noise of an ocean also. This constant wavelike pounding, clapping and shouting “YU-SHCHEN-KO! YU-SHCHEN-KO! YU-SHCHEN-KO!” An endless tide of horns honking that came only in threes, “Beep Beep BEEP! Beep Beep BEEP!”

Wienies in the Snow

Southern boy that I am, I never dreamed of a White Thanksgiving, but then I never dreamed about the Jewish Autonomous Region either. We had about 18 inches of white, with more falling. It seemed to us that winter started in mid-autumn – we got our first snow about October 15 --and would continue, we were told, until sometime in May. They would be driving cars across the Amur River soon and wouldn’t stop until March. Our institute director said with that manic Russian gleam in his eye, “It’s exciting to drive to Xabarovsk! We like it because it’s exciting!”

I thought, count me out, Anatoly. I’d already had it with exciting Russian machine rides. I rode shotgun with his assistant, Sergei, to Xabarovsk and felt the urge to cross myself even though I’m not a Catholic. Hitting frost heaves at an excessive rate of speed in deep twilight without the lights on while staying on the wrong side of the road around curves is what I call a cheap thrill.

The speedometer safety monitor, which I would have disconnected, kept beeping while I hyperventilated and Sharon’s eyes grew round as a loaf of Russian rye bread. I wanted to avoid any more of that kind of excitement, especially if it were to be on ice. I guess Sergei didn’t turn on his lights because he figured that would run down the battery. I didn’t want to insult him by asking him why he didn't turn them on, but I should have.

It was awfully quiet there in that rural hideaway when the snow descended, but there was sensible fun to be had as well as manic auto tours. The backwaters of the Biro River are soon frozen harder than a Republican’s heart (it had already hit -4F one morning in mid-November), so skates, sleds and cross-country skis were brought out. Kids shot down banks on sleds and sheets of cardboard and out onto the river ice. They hit a pretty good rate of speed as the track got slicker and slicker. (I only saw boys playing hockey once, which surprised me.)

Older guys were ice fishing. (Other than me; I was trying to work up an interest in cross-country skiing. As I said, I'm a southern American by nature.) A bunch of old boys in felt boots and fur hats with ear flaps down stood staring into little holes in the ice, punching them occasionally with picks on poles because they kept refreezing. I had envisioned cartoon-like, neatly sawed circles with dark water in them, maybe three feet across, but these were small holes, maybe a foot wide, so I guess they weren’t expecting to pull up five-foot sturgeons.

I dunno. As a travel writer once wrote about Alaskan glaciers, an afternoon is a long time to stand around staring at a lot of ice unless it’s cubed in a cocktail glass. They didn’t have the comfy fishing shacks of Wisconsin or Minnesota, where the boys drink and play cards when they get bored. Yes, we were living a quiet life in those days.

We finally celebrated the holiday by getting a little raucous at a ramshackle country spa (what isn't ramshackle in Russia?), steaming and picnicking with some institute staffers. Soccer in the snow was fun, as was shooting down a long slide on our butts or bellies, or flopping around on a huge inner tube to bounce kids up and down in the middle. It was kinda different.

So far Russki picnics had been somewhat crude gastronomically, but effective, as the cold and exertion really stoke your appetite.  Frozen turkey wieners from America are tolerable when roasted over broken-up furniture and squirted with ketchup. Even if they have passed their expiration date. Some pickled cabbage and ham on the side, the usual dark wheat bread, more common than rye. Maybe a wee drop of vodka against the cold. A "choot-choot" they call a small drink. Not bad. As my daughter used to say of my own cooking, "It will sustain human life."

But what great fun the folks are. Big (at least big around) Viktor led us into the sauna and laughed when I gasped and made “I’m dying!” faces. "Harasho, da?” he grinned while flogging his remarkable belly with oak branches. “Da, da,” I gasped.

“Good.” It hurt to breathe and my bald spot felt like it had been torched. The wooden seats burned my legs. Were the Russian craftsmen capable of creating a good thermostat? Were they regulating this thing properly, or was it about to burst into flame? Good for your health, right? Roast your flanks, sweat out some of that white lightning.

Viktor then plunged into a tank of cold water in the next room and came up laughing. The guy was tough, as so many Russians are. He must be over 40, but he could still do squat-and-leap Russian folk dances, despite all that kolbasa around his middle.

After roasting ourselves we went into the dining hall and ate and drank some more. If you want to picnic or dine with Russians, you'd better be hungry and thirsty.

The drivers’ little kids danced to disco tapes of Western rock 'n' roll and insisted that we join them. Saunas were toasted, then we toasted each other, then our two countries were toasted, then the toasts were toasted along with the toasters. The drivers’ supervisor, just along for the ride, cadging a freebie — which is a Russian art form — became immobilized with drink, paralyzed. Unable to respond to visual stimuli. Fortunately he was only supervising, not driving. The Russians are very respectful of their zero-tolerance drinking and driving laws.

But most of us had a great time. The Russians ate and ate, the Americans grinned happily, the kids danced and the band played on. It was a happy Thanksgiving.

Keep Cool

During the two years that I served in Iran as an English teacher in the 1960s, travel was strenuous, most routes, unpaved, and communications, almost impossible. People often showed up – or didn’t, even when they had written ahead to say they were coming. So, in September 1966, when Tom Dawson and David Osterberg failed to arrive in Rasht, Gilan, as planned, I was not particularly concerned. Tom had written that they planned to spend a night in Ardabil, then catch another bus down the scenic Astara road, which drops thousands of feet to the shores of the Caspian Sea and, if all went well, they’d arrive in Rasht by nightfall. The next day, we'd go on to our workshop in Isfahan.

I had traveled that road earlier in the summer and knew firsthand about the barbed-wire fences and sentry towers along the steppes of Russia. However, in the fishing village of Astara, where the two men had to change buses, only the shallow Aral River defines the border between Iran and the USSR.

When David finally reached Isfahan, he was shaken up and under strict orders not to reveal Tom’s whereabouts. As we learned later, Russian soldiers had apprehended his friend outside Astara en route to Rasht. After Tom was arrested, Russian authorities transported him to Baku, (in what was then Russian Azarbaijan) and held him for three weeks. Although the government imposed a news blackout in Iran, this Cold War incident made front-page news in the New York Times.

After three long weeks, the American Ambassador in Moscow successfully negotiated Tom’s release. My friend walked freely across the border, only to learn that the Iranian government had declared him persona non grata. For more information about this frightening episode, please visit the March 2004 issue of the online magazine, peacecorpsonline.org and do a search for Tom Dawson.

Needless to say, when I found myself lost in the mountains of Wyoming last summer, I credited my safe return to Peace Corps training where we had been taught to keep cool in unpredictable circumstances.

Three years ago, I journeyed back to Iran with a group of fellow RPCVs. On this trip, we rode in comfortable air-conditioned buses on smooth highways and our tour guide used his cell phone to confirm hotel reservations. But just like the earlier days when I was still fumbling in Farsi, communications sometimes were lacking. One night, for example, a member of our group got locked out of her hotel room (part of a suite.) Although she had a key to the inner door, she couldn’t get past the outer door. She asked me to call down to the front desk for her. I did so in sorely lacking Farsi. The man replied in English: "I will … the bell man and he will … the door for you." Happily, someone came upstairs a few minutes later to let her into her room.

I had been thinking about Iran when my husband and I started out at the Christina Lake trailhead in the Wind Rivers mountain range of Wyoming last summer. We are experienced hikers and Paul was carrying a topographical map as well as a trail description. As usual, I had my compass. We ate an early lunch at the wilderness boundary where 2 trails lead up the mountain – one to Christina Lake and the other to Silas Lake. So far, so good. I stopped at Upper Silas Lake to rest while he climbed further into the canyon. It was about 1:30 p.m. and he promised to be back by 4 since it was only a few miles more up to the end of the trail.

Sometime after 4 p.m., I decided to start down. I’d already done a couple of puzzles, eaten my apple, and changed to a more comfortable spot in plain sight. I’d also gazed at the blue sky, identified the trees around me, listened to birdcalls, and watched a rushing stream below my outcropping. I finally wrote him a note, which I left in the middle of the trail pinned down by rocks so anyone could find it.

On the way down, I met a backpacker who reported, "Paul says he’ll meet you at the car." That was reassuring because it meant he was ahead of me. But twice I got off the main trail. I had to cross a roaring stream on some precarious logs. A swift jog back up the steep grade took most of my drinking water. Then I made yet another wrong turn. Now I had only ¼ of a liter left for the long hike out. However, I saw a lake ahead. Was this Christina Lake? If so, I’d get my bearings. In spite of traveling its full length, I found no trail that headed up to the point where we had eaten lunch. Once again, I’d have to retrace my steps back up the mountain. When I finally caught sight of the sign at the wilderness boundary, I wanted to hug it!

Then I saw the double-blazed blue trail and the red cross-country ski symbols we had followed earlier in the day. Once again, as the two trails diverged. I chose the blue trail. That led me to a large marshy meadow. This was not the right route! I finally reached a campground where a young girl sat at a picnic table. "Is there a driver around who can take me back to the trailhead?" I asked her. By now, my husband was waiting for me just as I had once awaited Tom Dawson and David Osterberg in Rasht, Iran.

Two fellow hikers were there as well. One had already searched the campground; the other was ready to hike up to a high point to use his cell phone and call for help if the need arose.Like Peace Corps volunteers, hikers are always ready to help.

Some day I hope to go back to Iran. But this time, my husband will be at my side.

Jennifer B-C Seaver (RPCV Iran 1966-68)