Lviv and its mixed heritage

There’s something peculiar about Lviv. I sensed it from the time I entered the town. It almost felt as if for good measure, Cyrillic alphabets had been stuck onto the board of a building which houses a McDonald’s restaurant along Shevchenko Prospekt, where my hostel is located. A walk around the city over the 4 days I spent there returned me to Poland, Austria, and to a much lesser extent, Kyiv. In fact, I would go as far as to say that Lviv felt less Ukrainian, or even Russian, than Kyiv. It almost seemed as if I had slipped into some other territory without passing through immigration.

Take the city’s historic heart for example. This part of Lviv survived the bombings of the Second World War and the ensuing occupations by the Nazis and Soviets. It has since been designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site. The many arteries reveal several architectural styles that embellish Lviv. Neglect has however raised concerns, as I found out at an outdoor exhibition. Having read the detailed text and walked around the smaller alleys I came face to face with a city whose facades have grown wrinkly, windows peeled, and courtyards pimpled by loose stones. But awareness is growing and the people are making the effort to reverse this trend.

Before I reached Lviv, I was told that the town is a bite-sized version of Krakow in Poland. This should not come as a surprise, considering Lviv breathed Polish air for much of its history up till the mid-1940s. A stroll in the Lychakiv Cemetery confirms this, as one would find many Polish graves (on a related note, this cemetery is part of the tourist trail and is worth your while if you have time to spare). In the early 1940s, Lviv, which is also known as Lwów in Polish, fell under Nazi control. In 1944 it was captured by the Soviet Red Army. Subsequently, it was subsumed into Ukraine following the Yalta Conference. Poles living in Lviv were relocated, and Lviv was populated by Ukrainians with a Russian minority.  

It is little wonder then that pro-Ukrainian sentiments are the strongest in this part of the country. But this doesn’t mean to say that Lviv has totally shed its Soviet past. Look around and you will find Ladas plying the roads; hidden in some small street on the outskirt of the centre is that Stalinist building; there on another street you find a Soviet-style cafe (e.g. Kabinet Cafe) – perhaps for the tourists, or simply the nostalgic. Yet another reminder of the Soviet past is the absence of some houses on Chornomorska Street. In 1956, as Soviet tanks rumbled through the area, several houses came tumbling down. That space is now a playground.

Nevertheless, while Kyiv seems to turn east towards Moscow, Lviv prefers to assert its own identity and, if at all, lean West. The city claims to be the least Soviet in Ukraine, and its cafe culture is but one testament of its Central European credentials. I had firsthand experience in the form of the Lviv Coffee Festival. It was perhaps the highest form of tribute I have witnessed to a beverage that courses through tens of millions of veins every morning and indeed throughout the day. But how did coffee become synonymous with Lviv? Some say it was during its time under the Habsburg Empire that coffee made its debut in Lviv. Other sources say that it was in fact a son of Lviv who opened one of the first coffeehouses in Europe, even if his version of the drink was referred to as ‘coffee, Vienna style’ (with sugar and milk).

As I was winding up my visit to the city, I met a fellow tourist who arrived from Kyiv: a Russian from the city of St Petersburg who was visiting for the weekend. Several times he lamented the fact that the people refused to speak Russian even though they probably could. ‘They’re different from the Ukrainians in Kyiv’, he swore, ’they won’t even speak English!’ I listened and took his observation into account. My own experience suggested otherwise, because the Ukrainians were more than happy to accommodate an outsider (except Russians, perhaps?). Still, I couldn’t understand why the Ukrainians should be speaking anything other than their own mother tongue. I read somewhere that the Cold War ended over 20 years ago...


p/s I'd like to add that the entire Rus (including a much younger Moscow) originated from Kyiv. This is in relation to my point that Kyiv seems to look east to Moscow -- which refers to the Cold War/post-Cold War era. 

the elephant in the room

When you meet a local in Poland, it is likely that they will speak to you about one of two subjects: the partition of their country, or the Holocaust. The latter figured more prominently in my conversations with the various people I met for obvious reasons—one of which was simply the fact that it happened just 70 years ago.  

Poland once had one of the biggest Jewish populations in Europe. The Second World War and their calculated extermination by the Nazis reduced this number to a mere fraction. Since the fall of communism, it seems there has been some sort of a Jewish revival in the country. The construction of the Museum of the History of the Polish Jews in Warsaw is but one testament to this.

Nevertheless, the Holocaust weighs heavily on the Polish psyche. During the Communist era, the government preferred not to discuss the Jewish question because it was simply uncomfortable. Properties abandoned in the process of Jewish expulsion were redistributed after 1945. But the fall of the Communist government did not make things any easier. Jews who had left started coming back, partly to reclaim what was theirs. In Krakow, Maciek showed me some of the apartment blocks that had been occupied before they had been ghettoised. He added that many of the descendants have since engaged good lawyers in a bid to set things right. But what about the communities that have sprung up in those areas since the late 1940s and early 1950s?  

Beyond the legal tussle, it is the fate of the Jews during the Holocaust that remains a difficult subject. The Nazis built six concentration camps in Poland. Some were used as transit points, others had death written all over them. I visited Auschwitz-Birkenau though initially I had decided against it. The experience was not an easy one, even if I did not get particularly emotional.

I spoke about my visit to the camps with Przemek the next night. I told him how there have been times when I questioned the Holocaust – did it really happen? Why was it necessary to keep reminding the world? Haven’t there been other genocides before and after? Think Rwanda, Armenia, Ukraine, etc. I personally believe no statistic or duration of an atrocity makes one more grave than the other. But perhaps the systematic manner and the scale with which it happened, and the world’s preference to ignore the elephant in the room, offer some answers.

A recent documentary on the History Channel deals with the ghosts of the Third Reich, as does Daša Drndić’s novel, Trieste. Both touch on the descendants of the Nazis and Jews whose lives have been shaped by the events of the Second World War. A common thread that binds them is guilt: the Germans, for what their parents or grandparents did, and the Jews for having survived the Holocaust. One German woman found out about her grandfather’s involvement at a concentration camp. Another sterilised herself for fear of passing down the poison of hate. Elsewhere, the theme of survivor’s guilt is brilliantly explored in the 2010 French film Sarah’s Key. While talking to Przemek and other people I met in Poland, I couldn’t help but wonder if they were trying hard not to betray a personal link, albeit a very distant one, to the Holocaust.  

One link they definitely were distancing themselves from was the one established by US President Barack Obama sometime before his re-election. He described the concentration camps in Poland as ‘Polish’. To say this statement ruffled feathers barely scratches the surface. ‘It suggests that we had something to do with it,’ Przemek told me. ‘It was a Nazi camp, not Polish.’ I believe as much. But in this generation of bite-sized information, who takes notice? All that matters is that Poland is where a physical manifestation of Nazism stands. It is indeed unfortunate that geography was assaulted by politics and produced a history that the Poles continue to negotiate with.

Four days in Kyiv

Statue under the
Friendship of Nations Arch
(Арка Дружби Народів)

Kyiv (kee-uhv) is the capital of Ukraine and the birthplace of the Eastern Slavic civilisation. It was part of Russia for much of about 200 years from 1775. The city underwent intensive Russification before finally becoming the capital of independent Ukraine in 1991, following the collapse of the Soviet Union.
Someone told me that Kyiv is the most Russian city, even if it's no longer in that country. Why not find out for yourself? :)

Kyiv's Top Sights (in my opinion at least)

St Sophia's Cathedral (right): This is the oldest remaining church in the city and is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Photography in the Cathedral itself is not permitted, but you're free to snap to your heart's content from the wedding cake of a belltower at the entrance. Note however that separate fees apply to climb the tower.


Khreshchatyk (Хрещатик) Street (left): The main street in Kyiv is where you'll find Stalinist-era buildings and several international brands. The street is closed off to traffic on weekends. 

a painting on one of the walls of
the Chornobyl Museum

Chornobyl Museum: Don't worry if you can't make it to the site itself (tours can be pretty pricey, depending on how many people are in your group), this museum in Kyiv provides a decent insight into the events surrounding the accident in April 1986. There are some signs in English, but the photographs should speak for themselves.

Andriyivsky Uzviz (Андріївський узвіз) or Andrew's Descent (left): At the top stands the baroque St Andrew's Church, while the street itself is lined with souvenir sellers, restaurants and galleries. There are a couple of museums here too including one for internationally acclaimed  author, Mikhail Bulgakov (it was closed for renovations at the time of my visit).

one of the churches at the
Upper Lavra

Kiev Pechersk Lavra (Cave Monastery--Печерська лавра): This is the most popular tourist site in the city and arguably the spiritual heart of the country. The site is divided into two sections: the Upper Lavra (museums and churches for which there's an entrance fee), and the Lower Lavra (where the cave is located) which is free. The cave houses the mummified remains of monks. You'll need to purchase a candle to light your way down there. It's a pretty short walk, and in that time you'll see pilgrims kneeling and praying at the coffins. There's also an underground church but it's accessible only to believers (don't bother trying to sneak in). Do note that it gets pretty crowded on weekends so it'd be best to visit the cave during the week, especially if you're claustrophobic. Oh, and please dress conservatively.

Further down from the Lavra are the Motherland Statue and War memorials. The Museum to the Great Patriotic War is a must if events related to the Second World War are your thing. Right above museum stands the 62-metre tall Rodina Mat or Defence of the Motherland Monument (right), which is visible even as you enter the city from across the Dnipro River.

Maidan Nezalezhnosti (Майдан Незалежності) or Independence Square (left), located on Khreshchatyk Street. The area is now famous as the place where supporters of the Orange Revolution gathered and camped in October 2004. It is a central meeting place and all around are cafes, souvenir stalls and the post office. Get off at either the Maidan Nezalezhnosti or Kreshchatyk metro stations.

Open-Air Museum of Folk Architecture and Rural Life (Музей народної архітектури та побуту - Muzey narodnoyi arkhitektury ta pobutu): Find out how rural Ukrainians in different parts of the country used to live in the 18th and 19th centuries in this sprawling complex. You'll find restored villages, mills (as shown on the left) and churches , as well as thousands of household and traditional artefacts. To get here, take the metro to Vystavkovy Tsentr station and hop onto bus number 172 at the bus station right above the station. You might have to ask around for the line for the bus because there's no indication as such where the pickup point is. It would be best to have the bus number and your destination penned down for someone to direct you to the pickup point.

Other museums that may be of interest

National Art Museum of Ukraine - dedicated to Ukrainian art ranging from medieval icons to portraits
Mikhail Bulgakov Museum - located at No. 13 Andriyivsky Descent, this museum is a collection of things belonging to the writer
The National Museum of Taras Shevchenko - dedicated to Ukraine's best known poet/writer, this one has 24 halls containing original artworks by Shevchenko, documents about his life and work and rare photographs.

Recommended duration of stay

4 days

Getting In

Flights: Several major airlines fly into Kyiv, including Turkish Airlines, Lufthansa and KLM. There's also AeroSvit, a national carrier, and LOT Polish Airlines.
Trains: There are good international connections from Central Europe and Russia.

Things to take note of

Money: You can exchange some grivna (гривня) at the airport for the bus/taxi into the city, and the rest once you're in the city centre. Money changers are available in many places such as supermarkets. Do have your passport on hand though because some places require identification.

Language: Don't worry too much about the Cyrillic alphabet. There are English signs on the streets, metro stations and most major establishments. Staff at cafes generally speak/understand English as well. But having said that, it won't do you harm to familiarise yourself with some Cyrillic and Ukrainian, both spoken and written. It might seem like hard work but at least you'll know what you're looking for. Plus, it would amuse the locals.

Racism: Much has been said about racism in Ukraine against people of colour. One guidebook I referred to even mentioned how an African guy was stabbed several times at a metro station. But rest assured that Kyiv is as safe or as dangerous as the next European city. In fact, most Ukrainians I encountered were more curious about why I'd chosen to visit their country than to cause any form of harm. As in any other city you visit, exercise common sense and you'll be fine (e.g. stay away from dark alleys, etc).

Pop Patriotism

This article was first written on the 28th of October 2008


The car ride to the Wagah border was symptomatic of several South Asian, and in fact most developing, countries. We were on a narrow two lane road where might is right. Our driver, however, was on a mission to prove that he had what it takes to show the huge TATA lorries who’s boss.

In the backseat, Sanyam’s mother was not too amused. ‘Bhaiyya, we’re not in that much of a hurry,’ she said as she leaned forward. He did not care to respond although I noticed an imperceptible acknowledgement on his part. I turned back to give her an assuring smile: I, the visitor to this chaotic country, the one more accustomed to orderly driving. My eyes were largely unperturbed by the horns whistling past us and the risk of smashing into oncoming traffic. My gaze was fixed on the fields on both sides of the road. On the left, the sun was suspended well above the trees and fields of sugarcane and the like. I was a tad nervous, but overwhelmingly excited: this was the closest I was going to get to Pakistan. 

 I got out of the car and looked around. There were fields stretching beyond the limits of my sight. In the direction of the setting sun, I saw fences and barbed wires separated by a few metres of earth – no man’s land. We walked away from the parking area on to the main road. Most of it was occupied by colourful goods trucks waiting to cross the border. I was told dried fruits and other eatables change hands in these parts. Not too far away from the parking lot was an area that served as a dhaba, a roadside eatery. There were also stalls selling items with the Indian flag emblazoned on them – pins, caps, etc. Others were crowded with candy floss, drinks, and samosas. At some point a group of men in saffron robes starting singing to the beat of a dhol as they walked towards the border. They were joined by a small group who sang and danced along. The guide books were not exaggerating when they said there’s a carnival atmosphere here. But this was only scratching the surface.

About a hundred metres ahead we reached the beginnings of the road into Pakistan. On the left were the stands where spectators could sit and watch the border closing ceremony every evening. We found a spot about six rows from the front. Not too bad, I thought to myself. I could see, fairly well, the soldiers standing at attention in front of me, and beyond them the gates that separated the two countries. On this side was a festival in full swing. People were waving flags and clapping and singing along to patriotic songs being blasted from loudspeakers all around us. As if on cue, some of the girls in the first row climbed over to the side of the road and began dancing. The crowd went wild, as did flashing cameras.

‘You don’t seem impressed,’ I said to Sanyam who was hiding behind his shades.

‘It’s pop patriotism. It’ll die out once the evening is over.’
‘You really think so?’
‘Listen to the song selection. Where does Dil Chahta Hai’s Koi Kahe fit into nationalism? It’s only about sounding better and louder than them.’
He had a point. Every now and then afterwards, a voice would boom over the loudspeaker with pro-India chants: Hindustan, Zindabad! Vande Mataram! The crowd naturally responded with gusto.

On the Pakistani side, things were more subdued. I could faintly hear a song being played, but the spectators seemed more solemn. Perhaps one flag was flying over the crowd’s head. They look just like us on this side, I thought to myself.

The speakers on this side blared a song from the 1955 film, Naya Daur. It was about the land of Punjab: it was romanticism of the kind that Yash Chopra later sought to repeat in his films, most recently with the 2004 Veer-Zaara, about a love that transcends the difficult border. It was his attempt at healing wounds that have divided the subcontinent. 

My thoughts drifted to my grandma. She was born in a Punjab that breathed under an undivided India. The country was born again in 1947, but that independence indirectly forced her out of the country. I don’t remember when my throat began feeling lumpy. As the crowd rose to its feet in patriotic fervour, their fists punching the sky, I quickly wiped away the tears that had slid past almost undetected.

random thoughts: northern india

This entry was first written on the 4th of March 2010



the colours of Holi

in a coffeeshop, before gunpoint

1. Why do so many people I speak Hindi to think I'm the foreigner? (They’re right of course, but my mum gets away without saying anything)
2. An usher at the Agra Fort, together with the ticketing officers/attendants, are probably the only ones who think I'm an Indian national.
3. A guy I bought water from assumed I was from Punjab (rightly so since I was rambling away in Punjabi; does that mean I speak it well enough?).
4. I'm amused, still, by the sales assistant in Amritsar who sharply said 'no way!' when I held up a kurta set I was interested in (he meant to say it wouldn't fit me) just before I asked if it'd be available in my size.
5. I don't get why so many people have to spit virtually everywhere.
6. People I've met or come across complain that India's dirty. Aren't they contributing as well?
7. I've been 'to' gunpoint -- not a very lovely place, I assure you (we were trying to get to the West Gate of the Taj Mahal from the South one after the monument had closed for the day. the guards quickly raised their rifles at us and went 'OYE!' before telling us to take another route)
8. 1984 remains relevant in Delhi it seems (evident in a t-shirt I saw).
9. Bhindranwale still has fans too, as I overheard in a shop today (and it's something that shouldn't be discussed openly too it seems).
10. I wonder when people will stop reproducing like there's no tomorrow and instead think about feeding and educating those that are already here.

Salim Chishti shrine at Fatehpur Sikri

Shimla on a winter's night

 11. Malay is not so foreign a language in Amritsar.
12. Humans are so easily amused by monkeys..the primates must be equally puzzled.
13. I finally saw a cat in Amritsar, disproving my sister's theory that there are none in Punjab.
14. I think the French guy at Gulshan restaurant (in Agra) is rather dubious..and his intentions may involve the children working there.
15. As much as I wish the kids at the restaurant were studying and not working, I think it's better that they're earning a living 'properly' instead of roaming on the streets or doing something dodgy.
16. The Taj Mahal felt over-rated when I visited it (then again, that's because I've been there before)
17. Maybe it was good that there was no snow in Shimla, cold as it already was.
18. I wonder where all of India's wealth is going.
19. I hope Delhi will be ready for the Commonwealth Games.

the Taj Mahal

20. Holi is not meant for the faint-hearted.
21. Visiting the shrine of Sufi saint Salim Chishti was an emotional experience.
22. Walking from India Gate to Paharganj is quite do-able.
23. It's always possible to decide, at the last minute, not to visit relatives (just don't inform them of your arrival).
24. It's a wonderful feeling to be asked for directions in a city that is alien to you.
25. Does cheating someone and then feeling bad about it make it less wrong?

 

Auschwitz-Birkenau

I set out for Auschwitz on Tuesday morning with a relatively heavy heart. I was anxious. What do I expect of this place? Will I be moved? Will I cry?

There were huge crowds already present at the entrance: groups of students, a trickle of individual tourists. Squeezing past them, I entered the blocks one by one. The first few explained the history of hte camp with pictures, some documents. You meet the eyes of anxious Jews frozen on a canvas. This did not move me though, in part I suppose because we've seen such images before. What added to the disconnect was the large groups shuffling in and out of the rooms of each block. There were too many of them being lectured by tour guides. I was glad to be rid of them in some rooms.

Then the goosebumps formed on my skin. When Fei told me about the human hair in one of the rooms, I was expecting a rectangular glass display of some strands. I found myself facing an entire wall filled with plaited dark hair weighing at least a thousand kilogrammes. The had been collected by the Nazis to make nets. Those on display had not made it to German territory for production. Another room had a model of a gas chamber and an incinerator. In Daša Drndić's Trieste, she describes how people would have struggled to fight for survival -- she etched into the mind's eye images of broken skulls, a stampede, people screaming. I tried to find that in the model. I know I never will. 

In Birkenau, images from the Holocaust-related films came to life. The train lines terminating in front of the gas chambers, the barracks. I walked into one. As I stood there, I knew there would be no words to fittingly described how I felt. The gas chambers here are in ruins, as they were destroyed by the retreating Nazis. But skeletons remain as far as the eye can see. On my way out, I saw a man visibly distressed by what he had seen. 

~

My bus for Krakow was supposed to have arrived. There was yet no sign of it. I started pacing up and down, looking this way and that, not wandering too far from the bus stop. Sitting on the grass and pavement around me were those students who had been broken into smaller groups earlier. They were chatting and having sandwiches and drinks.

At some point a man comes up to me. 
'How are you?' he asked.
'Sorry?' I look at him, puzzled. He repeats his question. 
'I'm good,' I finally say.
'Where are you from?' 
'Singapore.'
'Oh! Beautiful city!'
'It's alright.'
He smiles.
'Where are you from?' It was my turn to ask.
'This group is from Israel.' He said before quickly turning away to respond to instructions via his earpiece.
'I figured as much,' I said. Their hooded jackets in Israel's national colours left little to the imagination.  

Across the small road I saw another security personnel, speaking into his device. The man who spoke to me added distance between us as he started herding the students to the safety of their waiting buses. 



Note: This entry was first written on 5th Oct '12

Night train to Lviv

Hurried steps. Ivan's at least. At some point I wonder who's the one travelling out of the city.
'We have 20 minutes. To reach the station, get the ticket, and find the platform,' he said to me as we waited for the metro.
'I hope we have time to buy some bread,' is all I can offer.

At the station we find a mass of people at the main entrance. They have left a huge rectangle empty in front of the building. Long queue, I think to myself. Ivan turns around and hurries in the direction we came from. I swing my trolley and follow as closely as possible.
'What happened?'
'They're saying there's a bomb in the station.'
'WHAT??'
How exciting is that, I think to myself.

We find the platform, I catch my breath. I am reminded of Geet and Aditya from Jab We Met (2007), after they chased down a train in the opening sequence of the film. And just like the two of them, more running is in order. I am buying some bread from a kiosk when an announcement turns heads and ears. As suddenly as the voice drowns all other sounds, the space around me empties of passengers: my train is at another platform.

Ivan is walking very fast. He's not dragging a trolley bag, of course he can move like that, I think to myself. He turns around from time to time to check on my progress. Then he asks for the e-receipt and as I dig for it in my haversack, he grabs the trolley bag and looks for the fastest way to the platform. Even without the load, I am still trying to catch up.

At the platform, the ticket inspector asks for my ticket. I've only got an e-receipt of my purchase. It won't do, she tells Ivan smugly. 'Wait for me here, please'. Ivan runs off towards the station. I look at the clock above us. 10 minutes. A lot could happen in 10 minutes. Or maybe not.

I see Ivan in the distance. He waves me over. I'm now face-to-face with someone of a higher rank. He sounds like he's barking something at me and I try to appear as if I understand every word of Ukrainian. We are marched back to the ticket inspector. He growls at her too, and she becomes a meek little thing. She finally relents and invites me to board. I walk down the corridor lined with a lovely red carpet of Ukrainian design past other compartments, which fills up with families split in pairs. As it turns out, I was not going to be alone in my compartment for two.

Bummer.



This entry was first written on 26th Sep '12.