Serendipity

The days are rolling by quickly now. Although it only comes around every two years, the Olympic TV routine is comfortable and familiar. Time management is key during the waking hours. Exercise is essential but the hotel gym is tiny and not inviting. The pool looks great and the joggers love the promenade along the sea but I've returned to walking.

On my daily 3km walk to the TV compound I pass the mirror-like aluminum covered Visa Pavilion, the natural polished wood of USA House, the Russian Bosco clothing superstore . . . a virtual Olympic village of world commerce. Stuck over in a corner away from the hubub is a place that, by its very existence, fascinates me. It’s the Circassian House. The Circassians are the indigenous people of this area. Today I left the hotel early with the Circassian House as my destination.  Unlike the other places in Olympic Park, Circassian House is actually a tent.

For months before I arrived I felt fear in the back of my mind especially when the quote from some local Muslim extremist came out about the Olympics being “Demonic Games dancing on the graves of our ancestors." America was flush with stories about terrorists attacking the Games.

Those graves we are “dancing” on were, however, Circassian graves. The guys making the violent threats were Chechens who live on the other side of the snow-capped mountains I admire from my balcony every morning. But the people who had suffered the most around Sochi were the Circassians. It's Sochi's Dirty Little Secret.

I have reading been up on Circassian culture and I was intrigued by what I might find there. But before I got to my destination I would get a special surprise . . . a bit of absolute serendipity. A father and son were carrying a giant Russian flag down the street. I rushed over to take a picture.

The man smiled at me and then stopped. добрый день (Good afternoon) he said. Then he launched into rocket Russian. All I could muster was “говорить медленно, я не понимаю по-русски очень хорошо” (Speak slowly I don’t understand Russian very well). Suddenly, out of nowhere a woman appeared and offered to translate. The man and I were both relieved. 

We introduced ourselves. "I am Ruslan." Then he proudly introduced his son Argun. The names were exotic but they triggered something in me . . . I had to ask.

"Are you Chechens," I said, hoping he wouldn't get insulted if I was wrong.

"Yes, we are" he said. "We love Russia.

His smile was so genuine. His face so friendly. They had tickets to speed skating but came early to walk around Olympic Park and wave the big Russian flag. As I raised my iPhone to shoot a picture he stopped me. "Give me your phone" he said through the translator. He took it out of my hand and then handed me the flag. "He wants to take a picture of you with your phone so that you will remember this meeting" the translator said. "He thinks it will be much better for you."

 Photo by Ruslan

Only later would I find out the meaning of the words on the flag.

"While we are United, They will never beat us."

Well, holy shit. We are so conditioned to think that every Chechen is a terrorist. I got goosebumps when I realized what this meant.

So it was on to Circassia. This was already a very interesting walk.

Back in 1864 when slavery was still alive in America and our country was well on its way to 750,000 Civil War dead, serfdom had been abolished in Russia for three years. Tsar Alexander II was looked upon as a great hero in Russia and Europe when he ended centuries of human bondage.

Through the gauze of revisionist history Alexander is remembered as a liberator. Around Sochi they don’t buy that. He was a monster. He was a ruthless ruler who ordered the killing of millions of people, mostly Circassians. In Sochi 1864 was a watershed year.

The other day when I saw the shiny new multi-billion dollar train cruising up to the place they call Krasnaya  Polyana I was thinking about the origins of the name. Loosely translated it means “Red Hill.” There is nothing red up there except the train. The red comes from the color of blood when the Russians massacred thousands of the indigenous Circassians in the final battle of the Caucasian War. The Russian army gave the place its name.

By the end of the Big War in 1864 at least 600,000 Circassians were dead from war, massacres, starvation and disease (Many Circassians use the number 1.5 million or more). It is often cited as Europe’s first mass genocide. Interestingly enough, the lower figure is close to the of American Indians who died in America in the mid-nineteenth century. These parallels fascinate me.

But around here the picture is much more complex. After the war ended in 1864, hundreds of thousands of Circassians were kicked off their land and deported in large boats eventually settling in Turkey, Syria, Jordan, Egypt, Israel . . and later New Jersey. Those boats sailed away to exile just next to what is now Olympic Park. Thousands died here from famine and disease as they waited for the Russian boats to take them to Turkey.

 The Circassians also maintain a major massacre occurred on the land currently occupied by the Athletes Village. And the Cossacks, who took the lead for the Russians in killing the Circassians (They loved to kill Jews too), are managing much of the security at these Games.

The Circassians are essentially a forgotten people. 

The local history museum in Sochi doesn’t even acknowledge them. The museum essentially begins with the first Russian conquest of Sochi in 1820. Now these Circassians aren’t the guys who threatened to blow shit up around here during the Games. Those threats came from Dagestan and Chechnya and other places where Russkie Manifest Destiny took hold. The Circassians only wanted Russia to acknowledge the genocide to the world. To this day the Russians have not. The North Caucasus is so complicated. The Turkish Circassians below made their feelings felt some months back.

By the way, Tsar Alexander’s grandson was Nicholas II, the last Tsar, the man left holding the bag when the Commies swept into power in 1917.

I might have been the first American to visit the Circassian House since they opened 3 days ago. Once the word was out, two ladies rushed to my side and wondered why I had wandered in. The younger woman spoke terrific English. Circassian House has a concert hall and museum. I was eager to see how they dealt with the genocide.

They didn't. There was no sign of it anywhere in the room. When I asked them about this they pursed their lips and shrugged like many Russians do. I began to wonder if this was a metaphysical Potemkin Village.

Yet they were incredibly animated as they painted a picture of what had happened since the collapse of the Soviet Union. After 150 years of exile, Circassians were starting to come home. Their language which was dying is now being revived. Their native arts and culture were once again flourishing. This would have been impossible in the USSR days . . . the ladies then praised Putin for allowing the free return of the diaspora. Just in the past year, they said, many Circassians have fled the Syrian civil war and returned.

But let's say the rest of them are not exactly flooding back to the homeland.

I sensed a deep yearning from these ladies for their nation to be whole . . . but that dream was never going to come true. There are plenty of angry Circassians in exile, who, like the Jews, will never forget. There are now about 5 million Circassians around the world. Only about 750,000 live in Russia. 

I was early for the concert but I did run into one musician in native costume. Maybe I'm a bit cynical but something about it reminded me of seeing Apaches doing at Rain Dance for tourists at the Grand Canyon. 

Then I met Aissa. He motioned me over to an overstuffed chair next to him and told the younger lady to translate. He asked why an American like me had come to this place. We had quite a conversation. With another flick of his hand he signaled to a guy to bring a plate of pastries. Aissa told me that I must eat. All visitors to a Circassian home must eat.

As it turns out, he's the most famous Circassian painter in Russia! We whipped out our phones and showed each other our paintings like they were pictures of our grandchildren. 

Aissa did pose by his masterpiece of a Golden "Nart" riding an eagle near Krasnaya Polyana. The Narts are the super heroes of Circassia. The Eagle was their enemy. But in end, the Narts prevailed.

A note here for my dear friends Paul and Susan Bingham . . . Aissa is available for Maynard Dixon Country in September! His only worry is the Wet Paint Sale. He's not sure that Mark Fehlman will give him a good spot in the front room. He doesn't want to be on the outside wall.

I left the Circassian House and headed back to the compound. On my way I passed the Olympic Superstore. Waiting time to even get in the Joint was at least 45 minutes. Those hoping for a T-shirt back home may be disappointed. I have this feeling that supplies are limited.

Back at the Circassian House they had about 10 visitors while I was there. Priorities!

After all of that I beat the commentators to the compound by 30 minutes.