Every morning, on my way to work, I see red slogans sprayed on two of the supports of the Footbridge: “Glory to Ukraine!” and “Glory to the Heroes!” About ten yards farther on someone wrote “You Are Lambs” in blue on a fence. Returning home, I read the blue one first. In other words, I take turns being a hero and a lamb — or I can be both if I so choose. That is precisely how one feels after the Independence Day military parade on Khreshchatyk, held several weeks after the tragedy at the Sknyliv air show. What did our army want to demonstrate? Drills? Not only those remaining true to the great cause of Lenin and Stalin, nostalgic for the old Soviet song, “My Address is the Soviet Union,” wishing to stay in that Slavic triple cradle, unable to speak literate Ukrainian, but also the rest of us believing ourselves to be true sons of independent Ukraine must realize that it was not a parade in celebration but only another formality observed with the usual pomp and circumstance.
Returning to our daily realities, consider our businessmen, those building fortunes selling metal, knowing about rolled briquettes and how to profit from gluten. Five years ago, they drove Ladas, the Soviet parody of the Fiat, changed them for Audis three years ago, and now whoosh past us in their Mercedeses. They no longer play tough or look scornfully through us simple mortals. If they happen to be at the same party with you they will offer you a lift home in their plush air-conditioned limousines. And they make no secret of their business techniques. “I’m not stealing anything for myself; I got what I’m entitled to under the law, and I always fill in all the tax returns. But I have to steal so I can bribe the officials, otherwise I’ll have to kiss to my business goodbye. It’s the officials who’re the real thieves,” they will tell you. And I believe them, because they have no reason to lie. Suppose I report you to authorities, what will happen then, I tell them. No, you won’t, they reply, because no one’s going to find any incriminating evidence, and even if someone does I’ll just slip a somewhat thicker envelope in his pocket. End of story. Actually, I don’t need that Mercedes of mine, but I have to use it visiting them. To save face, you know, it’s less expensive that way.
To change the subject, a woman friend of mine works at a design institute. She told me about her friend. He committed a crime and was sentenced to three years. He is serving his term in a penitentiary not far from Kyiv. As soon as he was signed in he sent an SOS to his relatives and friends. He was being beaten half to death by inmates demanding money. I believed every word she said because I know that she went there and gave a sum in dollars to a major. After that everything went by the book. The man was left alone. I only wonder what that major’s cut was.
On the day of the military parade Kyiv Dynamo played Zhytomyr Polissia on the latter’s home turf. After the game local and visiting fans mixed it up. The militia intervened, of course, then called for backup, and Berkut riot police squads arrived on the scene. We all watched what happened on 1+1 Television. I simply could not believe my eyes: hefty guys in uniform clubbing down a couple dozen teenagers, going about it methodically, taking their time, the kids lying down and offering no resistance. The last time I had watched a scene like that had been after the funeral of Metropolitan Volodymyr Romaniuk. It seemed a very long time ago and I had thought I would never see anything like that again...
Slava Ukrayini (Glory to Ukraine)! Are we, its citizens, heroes or lambs?
