Portal de Periódicos da CAPES

Part 2 — Kharkiv

2022; University of Oklahoma; Volume: 96; Issue: 4 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1353/wlt.2022.0153

1945-8134

Ilya Kaminsky, Al Panteliat, Oleksandr Khodakivsky, Oksana Yefimenko, Victor V Shepelev, Andrii Krasniashchykh, Anastasia Afanasieva, Dennis Kovtun, Katie Farris, Ilya Kaminsky,

Soviet and Russian History

Part 2 — Kharkiv Ilya Kaminsky, Al Panteliat (bio), Oleksandr Khodakivsky (bio), Oksana Yefimenko (bio), Victor Shepelev (bio), Andrii Krasniashchykh (bio), and Anastasia Afanasieva (bio) Translated by Dennis Kovtun, Katie Farris, and Ilya Kaminsky Introduction: In a Circle of Silences by Ilya Kaminsky Click for larger view View full resolution Al Panteliat is a poet from Kharkiv—he and I have been in touch for over a decade, exchanging notes, translating poems. Now, one word that appears often in his writing as I translate his prose and verse is silence—silence after bombardment, inability to choose the right word because Russian, his native language, is also the language of people who bombard his hometown. When I wrote to check on Al, when I offered help, money, he responded: it is not the money I need, but the chance for the world to listen to us. Thus began this sequence of interviews with Kharkiv poets. Another Russian-speaking Kharkiv poet I have corresponded with for years, Anastasia Afanasieva, who won awards and acclaim for her poems in that language, now emails about her refusal to continue writing poetry in Russian: "I won't be able to write in Russian anymore. It is not about hatred of Russian culture. It is a very simple human feeling. I am listening to all those phone calls of Russian soldiers, which were made public. And I feel disgusted to speak and write in the same language as they do." As he speaks to Western politicians, Putin claims that he is sending troops to Ukraine in order to protect Russian speakers. The warplanes bombard mainly Russian-speaking cities in Ukraine, such as Kharkiv, the civilians become refugees, the poets refuse to continue writing in their native language—as the West watches on, trapped in its own circle of silence, which, whether we admit it or not, makes us responsible for what occurs. If our politicians aren't able to take action, then perhaps our journals and publishers can give space to these voices from Ukraine. Fleeing Kharkiv by Al Panteliat Fleeing Kharkivvia a tiny village I see a monumentto soldiersof WW2 the bronze sergeant peers at mefrom the podiumwithso many names names namesI can't readnames more names than people in the village how to read these names I don't know Ino longer understoodmy nativelanguage. Trans. Farris & Kaminsky [End Page 47] AL PANTELIAT When the first explosions begin in the morning, people in Kharkiv do not yet know how to "properly" act. I observe from the window how some residents of my neighborhood hastily pack their belongings into their cars and drive away, while others calmly walk to work. But over the course of several hours, when the explosions do not cease and we regain access to news (we lost internet as the explosions continued)—people outside start running instead of walking. In the next few days, practically no cars remain in parking lots, and there are very few people on the streets. It all turns into a postapocalyptic movie. When, on one of the first days, explosions stop for a moment, we decide to go to the ATM to withdraw cash: there's an amazing contrast between the empty streets, closed shops, and still-working traffic lights and the windless February day. A complete silence on the streets leaves an even bigger impression. It feels almost as bad as the bombings, having turned into a "suspense" that time cannot measure. When we reach the ATM, we at last see people standing in a queue. While we wait in a queue, the "suspense" breaks—a long series of explosions, each reverberating under our feet. It is very strange: to stand and wait for your turn to withdraw money while calmly discussing with neighbors where these shells might have come from and where they will land—ordinary life and the new wartime reality have merged into one. When we hear the air-raid sirens, my family and I grab the backpacks, and our dog, and walk to the nearest basement that serves as a bomb shelter. We stay down there for hours with other residents and...