Updated: 8 July 2022 ~ First published: 8 July 2020 ~ Family, Love and Loyalty in Russia
On 28 June 2022, it was reported that President Vladimir Putin signed a decree officially establishing 8 July as the Day of Family, Love and Fidelity. The day is devoted to the preservation of traditional family values and encompasses the spiritual and moral education of Russia’s children and teenagers.
Each year, on 8 July, Russia celebrates family, love and loyalty. The celebration coincides with an ancient Orthodox holiday dating back almost 800 years, which is devoted to the saints Pyotr and Fevronia, who became symbols of devotion and family harmony.
Various events are held throughout Russia to mark the occasion. Cultural institutions, such as museums and libraries, run special programmes, which include lectures and thematic exhibitions. Interactive activities range from learning how to paint souvenirs to participating in yoga classes and, in the larger cities, concerts and firework displays are held. Medals for love and loyalty are awarded to those families whose marriages exemplify love, strength, devotion and family unity. Whatever the character or the scale of the event each embodies the same belief, which is that individual and societal stability, their moral and spiritual foundation, are inextricably linked to the conservation and promotion of traditional family values.
Family, Love and Loyalty in Russia
As a token of today’s emphasis on family, love and harmony, our neighbours left us a gift on the window sill this morning: chamomile flowers, which, according to the ancient tradition, represent innocence and fidelity, along with other garden produce of a more physically sustaining nature ~ which I was pleased to have with my dinner!
Whilst I can safely say that in the UK traditional family values share something in common with the Invisible Man (sorry, person), take heart! ~ in the UK we do celebrate International Women’s Day (from a purely feminist angle, mind), are tickled pink during Gay Pride Month and, oops, how could I possibly forget, Black Lives Matter. Time do you think, for a rethink?
Kaliningrad 20 Years Ago (or Russian Hospitality part 2)
28 December 2000
Andrew’s and Ina’s flat was located in a newer and higher apartment block than the one we had just left. It was situated on an estate of high-rise flats, access to each building being controlled by intercom. This was a more than satisfactory security measure as there was little chance of breaching the heavy metal outer door without the lock being triggered.
Up three or
four flights of steps we went until we reached the door to their flat. We rang
the bell. There was the sound of a dog barking, the sound of a dog being told
to stop barking, the sound of a dog ignoring what it had been told and the door
opened. Standing there was Andrew, whom we had met briefly a few hours ago, and
his wife, Ina. “Hello! Welcome!” she intoned, welcoming us literally with open
arms. Andrew looked on, smiling amiably; the disobedient dog barked and barked
and barked and, whilst Olga and Ina launched into excited conversation, Joss
and I honed our skills in the art of the one-legged boot hop.
Russian Hospitality
It did not
take me long to realise that if Andrew and Ina had been a double act, Andrew would
have been the silent partner and Ina the live wire. Ebullient, expansive ~ both in speech and body language ~ Ina was
a dynamo of questions, curiosity and inquisitiveness. She was also a natural
organiser, a multitasker before the word acquired cult status, delegating
roles, assembling guests and playing the role of the perfect host as if she had
been born to it, which I had no doubt she had. Her social skills and
extroverted flair enabled her to introduce the other people present: her
friends Helen (whom I had met in Svetlogorsk) and husband Valordia and her,
Ina’s, son, whilst transacting other important hostess functions, such as seat
placements, finishing touches to the table arrangements and the all-important
consideration of who wanted what to drink. I did not know at that particular
time that at parties and social gatherings, Ina was often called upon to fill
the role of master of ceremonies, which she did comfortably and with
confidence, but had I have been made aware of this fact it certainly would not
have surprised me.
Of Helen I
have already written, but what of her husband Valordia? Like Andrew, he was another big man. Tall and
broad, with a receding hairline and big, thick, black moustache, he reminded me
of more muscular version of John Cleese and, as he had less English language at
his disposal than Andrew, who only spoke the odd word or two, but did so to
humorous effect, by relying on facial expression as his principal means of
communication Valordia’s John Cleese attributes became finely tuned and
compounded as the night went on, or perhaps, as the vodka went down.
One other person who was in our company that evening, whom I have not mentioned yet was Olga’s daughter, Polina. She was a tall, slim, 16-year-old, so I was not at all surprised when we took our seats at the table that brother Joss was occupying the chair next to her.
Out came
the vodka and before you could say ‘Bugger, that’s a big glass full!’, the
party was underway.
In between toasts
Food aplenty
The table
was already groaning under the weight of several large platters of different
salad mixes, umpteen bowls of pickles, large salvers of meats and fish, plates
of bread of various types and colour, bowls of spuds and other vegetables, and
it just kept on coming. I cast a rueful glance across the battlefield, hoping
that the aggregate diners were supporting an appetite equal to the gargantuan
volumes, and would have been quite content with my little plate of salad to
which Olga, urged on by Ina, kept adding. One thing I could rely on and that
was Joss: his first plate runneth over, and he was having no difficulty in whapping
back the vodka.
Conversation around the table was competing with the rattle of knives and forks on plates and with background music. Russian and English was spoken in sporadic bursts. Ina was keen to know ~ that is, keen to know everything about the British way of life: our customs, traditions, what we valued, how we socialised, our political views. There was no end to her curiosity, and whenever she could not think of the English word she wanted, she would briefly revert to Russian, as she asked Olga or Helen for clarification. All three ~ my wife, Ina and Helen are English language teachers ~ and as this was one of the few occasions when Helen and Ina would get to converse with native English speakers, amongst their other questions were ones which were language related: did we say it this way, was this word correct in this context, and what other idioms did we know? Andrew, who could understand a little English and also speak a few words, would throw in the odd phrase here and there, with humorous intent, whilst Valordia would breathe in with surprise, shake his head wisely, purse his lips when comments got saucy and chuckle whenever appropriate.
Soviet helmet? ~ no, that’s my brother
Kaliningrad Russian Hospitality
It was in
the midst of such frivolity, just as I completed my second course, that ‘the
boys’ jumped up, the lights went down, the background rock music found a new
high level and within seconds everyone had stopped eating and were leaping
around the room. This impromptu dancing spell lasted all of five minutes, after
which ‘the boys’ and some of ‘the girls’ made their way to the large covered
balcony for a smoke.
Before and after this eating interlude, many toasts, some very long and meaningful, soulful and sincere had been made, necessitating the quick downing of a large glass of vodka followed by an immediate refill.
Smoking over and it was back to the grub. I was just deluding myself into believing that I was doing rather well, when out on a huge plate came Ina’s pièce de résistance ~ a monolithic cabbage pie baked entirely with me in mind.
“It’s all
for you,” Olga beamed.
England expects every man to do his duty and I tried, believe me, I tried. But although I had three helpings, and must admit that it was rather good, my blighted guts had by now reached saturation point.
The boys
were up on their feet again; the rock music was blaring; the floor of the flat
was shaking ~ as was the pendant ceiling light ~ as those who had the energy,
not to mention the inclination, strutted their stuff on the ‘dance floor’. And
then it was off to the balcony for yet another smoke.
The evening
continued much in this same manner until no more food, no more dancing, no more
smokes and no more energy was left ~ only the vodka remained, and that we kept
on drinking.
Improving his looks
Relics of the Soviet era
Between times, we somehow made space to consider some nostalgic relics from the Soviet era. A visor cap was produced, of police origin complete with badge; two pairs of shoulder boards ~ one army and the other marine; and, Joss’s favourite, which he could not resist but wear, a rubber gas mask with a long respirator pipe. I mention this last item specifically, since having included the photograph I would not want you to get the wrong idea about what sort of occasion our evening had been.
Both Joss and I came away from this evening well fed and watered. Our hosts could not have looked after us better. We had experienced our first taste of Russian hospitality and in the process had learnt something of each other’s culture on a personal level, beyond the headlines and stereotypical dross bandied around by the media. Years later I came to understand the true significance of this first encounter with real Russian people. It was the first step in the direction my life would take me. I had no knowledge then that the adventure had already begun, but the good and open nature of the people I had met, the glimpse into a cultural world that I never knew existed, and the first faint, barely noticeable but deeply perceived singularity of this strangely magnetic city and region, so structurally imperfect but spiritually complete, had already begun to pull me in.
Kaliningrad 20 Years Ago (or Russian Hospitality part 1)
Diary entry dated 28 December 2000
From our brief excursion to Königsberg Cathedral we were off at last to Olga’s mothers. I wrote in my diary of rattling over roughshod cobbles, dodging one pothole to land in another, of dimly lit streets, an old metal railway bridge overlooking a huge rolling-stock marshalling yard crammed with lines of open wagons and tankers, of winding streets clung onto by tired old German flats and overlooked impersonally by more modern chunks of concrete that looked more tired and shabby than the ones they sought to usurp. I wrote of the street onto which Andrew let us out of his car. (It was the approach road to Olga’s flat, the flat she shared with her son, her mother, daughter and Marsha the cat.) ‘Mean Street’ I wrote, on account of what the road was: a narrow lane that ran along the side of two or three groups of flats, which taken together formed open-ended quadrangles. On our right there was a small shop in a low-level shed-like building, with a thick wooden entrance made of two doors bolted together. We were going to get in there, once we had braved the terrain: an adventurous combination of savaged concrete interlaced with sinews of ice.
It was warm inside the shop; very little, very basic but altogether very warm. Here, I could chalk up another first, my first time in a Russian shop. The fish and meat counter was enough to give a vegetarian a fit of the flying ab dabs, so I focused elsewhere and found that that every packet, every box and every wrapped item, no matter how small it was, had a little bit of paper stuck to it on which the price was clearly written in hand. The shop keeper, a stout and formidable-looking lady, was dressed in an apron of broad stripes, reminiscent of ticking material used in pre-war British deck chairs.
Whilst I
was taking in the ambience and generalities, brother Joss was concerning
himself with the relative prices of things, particularly those things to which he
was most partial, ie meaty things, such as sausages, big chunks of meat on the
bone, plus large cheeses and pickles.
Olga purchased some items to take with us to her flat, and on the way we stopped at another shop, this one built into the end of the block of flats immediately preceding hers. This shop was slightly larger and more enticing owing to its ample stock of alcohol. I remember that the brand selection was impressive, whilst the generic composition was limited primarily to a choice of vodka or beer.
As it was about
5pm, I was surprised to discover that we would not be taking wine with our
afternoon tea but vodka. “It is cranberry flavour,” Olga emphasised, so that
was alright then!
Kaliningrad 20 years ago
It was not
far now to Olga’s flat. The street lighting was worse here than it had been on
our approach and, as we turned into the open-ended quadrangle, our best guide
was the light filtering out from an open door at ground level. The beams of
light seeping out from the hinge side, threw a thin and lurid glow across a
large mound heaped up at the front of the flats. Some of its composition had
spilled out across the path and, as it crunched beneath our feet, we realised
it was coke (ie, the sort you put in the stove to heat your house!).
We passed
through the external door, a big, old wooden affair, blistered, warped,
incapable of being closed that night as it had been, no doubt, for years. We
were now in the stairwell. This was my introduction to the average Kaliningrad
stairwell, typical in its design and appearance to thousands across the city.
The Balham flat
In looking
back on the way I reacted to and described these communal areas, I feel both
reticent and awkward. In England, I had
been brought up in a rural community. My family home was an 18th century thatched
cottage. My closest friend’s father, a farmer, had a large 18th
century hunting lodge set in the most rural and sequestered piece of English
countryside that you could possibly imagine.
It is true that on moving to London, as a postgraduate student and later in my first job, that my flat in Balham was so notorious, I mean in the sense of basic and humble, that it earnt itself the sobriquet of The Balham Flat. But as shabby, disheveled and wanting as it most certainly was, this flat occupied an old Victorian house, the type that in the early 80s was, like numerous other residential Cinderellas, waiting for Thatcher’s golden slipper. These hangbacks from the 1950s, with their garish red and yellow wallpaper, threadbare carpets, doors overpainted in rivulets of gloss, antiquated electric fires, mouse-eaten skirting boards, rising damp, yellowing net curtains and a kitchen and bathroom that looked as if they should have been consigned long ago either to the scrapheap or social history museum, were known and tolerated, loved to some extent, in that quaint way, with reservations, that you might compassionately look upon a gentleman of the road. Such flats were held in affectionate dislike, reviled but revered as home.
Kaliningrad 20 years ago: the flat
For all I
know the residents of Kaliningrad back in the year 2000 may have felt exactly
the same about their flats as we did about our bedsits, but for we westerners,
particularly those who had tasted comparative privilege, no matter how lowly or
secondhand, it was one of the most challenging moments of coming to Kaliningrad
~ how to react to the flat.
I could tell that Olga, who had travelled and stayed in London on at least two occasions and observed such differences as there were, was embarrassed about what we might think or say. We thought, oh dear, this place could do with a coat of paint, the metal stair rails could do with fixing, the concrete steps could do with some attention and the tangled mass of electric wires protruding dustily from every orifice like an old man found in the nude, well, we did not think much of that and, of course, we said even less.
Unlike some flat complexes in Kaliningrad, the block containing Olga’s flat was a mere three storeys, and her flat was on the third floor. We had already passed some of the biggest, burliest doors I have ever seen not standing outside of a nightclub wearing a dinner jacket, and now we were standing outside yet another which did not fit with the rest whilst none of the rest fitted with any.
As with the stairwell, Olga’s flat premiered yet another phenomenon ~ the two-door combination security system. The first door, which was made of metal and looked secure enough to resist yet another revolution, was immediately backed with another, this one as solid as the first but having a button-down padded interior. It crossed my mind that I must have missed the KGB plaque as we entered. However, the ritual awaiting us was surely a special test (as challenging and bizarre as anything that the Masons could have thrown at us).
In Russia shoes must be removed
As is the custom in Russia, and the custom remains today, all visitors must give up their shoes as soon as they cross the threshold of the flat, the assumption being that the streets, in this instance the streets of Kaliningrad, are so bad that …
Anyway, I
had on a large pair of clod-hopping lace-up boots, difficult from which to extricate
myself even in normal circumstances but very near impossible whilst dancing
around on one foot. Being winter, and a harsh winter at that, hopping around wearing
a full complement of heavy clothing in an attempt to connect with your lace,
whilst it may have been good for Jane Fonda, was hardly conducive to dignified
composure and still to this very day leaves you all sweaty and flustered.
Advice for
all of you who are visiting Russia in winter, invest in a pair of winter boots
but make sure that they are zip-fastening.
It did not
take long for us to get acquainted with the Soviet flat, even in a pair of
slippers that were two sizes too big for me. The flat comprised a small
bathroom, two short corridors, one extending from the front door to bedroom and the other to the right, a small
kitchen at the end of this second corridor and before that, to the left, a
medium-sized bed-sitting room. This room opened out onto a balcony typical for
flats in this region: it was narrow, but of a size sufficient to accommodate
two to three people, together with two small chairs and a table. Incipiently,
such balconies were open to the elements, but a trend for boxing them in had
developed, as was the case in this instance. The inclusion of glazed casement
windows converted the humble balcony into an extension of the living space,
giving the occupants somewhere to sit and smoke whilst offering additional
insulation in winter and a semi-open area in which to relax in summer.
The little
kitchen was truly thus, allowing, with cooker and fridge, no more than a small
table in front of the window along with a chair and stool.
The bathroom was likewise space-conscious, the bath, unboxed, having a long-reach, combination-tap fitted with a shower rose and, of course, there was a toilet.
Kaliningrad 20 years ago: the toilet
The toilet
itself, or rather pan system, was a somewhat curious affair, and I must confess
that I had never seen the like in the UK. Looking into the bowl, it consisted
of two parts. At the front there was a small water chamber and to the back a
shaped platform. Without wanting to go into too much technical detail, how this
worked was that one answered the call of nature, turned the handle, a jet of
water shot out of a conduit at the back of the platform and, if luck was with
you, the water chamber did the rest. For young children I suppose it must have
been a far more exciting model than our boring British bog, more of a
successful launch than, to use the vernacular, dump.
Russian hospitality
Moving swiftly
on, two to three sociable hours were spent at the flat.
Whilst feeding Joss presented no gastronomical difficulty, Olga’s mum had solved the vegetarian issues by augmenting various salads with traditional Russian blinee: savoury pancakes with three different fillings ~ cabbage, potato and mushroom. These went down very well with the cranberry vodka purchased earlier.
I have
never asked Olga’s mother what her first impressions were of the two visiting
Englishmen ~ perhaps it is best not to know!! We found her very open,
interesting, sociable and hospitable, and for me, as I was going out with her
daughter, it was nice to know on this cold Kaliningrad evening that the ice, as
they say, had been broken.
Back out
into the cold, we were now to go by taxi to Olga’s friends’ flat, Andrew and Inna’s.
Being a person of moderate food consumption, I was more than a little concerned to learn that Russian social tradition places great store upon the provision and demonstrable enjoyment of a hearty meal and that any show of reluctance or inability to eat what is laid down in front of you could engender serious offence. I cushioned my concern with the self-assurance that a degree of exaggeration may be expected regarding accounts of the size of the meals and the reaction to reasonable restraint from those who had prepared the meals to those about to receive them.
Very soon, I would find out.
Kaliningrad flats: a communal area (this photograph taken 2004)
