Kiev is a city of hills. One of those, along the bank of the Dnieper, has for centuries been a favoured site for some of the city’s most important monuments. Three of these, spread out along the top of the hill, present very different images of Ukraine from different phases in its history.
At one end of the hill is the colossal ‘Rodina Mat’, the ‘Motherland’ monument, a 62-metre high statue of a female warrior, which sits atop the Museum of the Great Patriotic War. It is an imposing sight, a memorial to the victory that for several decades was perhaps the most important legitimising achievement of the Soviet Union.
Rodni Mat memorial, Kiev
In front of the statue is a park of socialist realism sculptures of Soviet soldiers and workers in heroic poses, biceps bulging, fists punching, weapons held aloft, defiant, all-sacrificing, unconquerable. There is also a series of stone blocks depicting the names of the cities awarded the title of ‘Hero City’ for their courage during the war of 1941-1945. Behind them are photographs of elderly people in uniform, their breasts covered with medals, some of them looking grimly dignified, others with chirpy smiles.
All these images, the statue, the sculptures, the hero cities and the heroic defenders of the motherland appear to have an almost religious significance. Indeed, this is a shrine, as important for the Soviet Union as any Christian shrine, and much of the imagery is reminiscent of and borrowed from Christian images. Rodina Mat reminds at the same time of the figure of Jesus on the cross, arms outstretched, and also of Christ transfigured, shining in glory. Such statues peppered the Soviet Union. They were the cathedrals of communism, marking its victory over its foes. The heroic sculptures are like statues in churches, idealised depictions of workers and soldiers, much like saints and angels in a different setting. The photos of the veterans are like icons of the saints, encouraging people by their example to strive to be model Soviet citizens.
The museum itself walks the visitor through the Soviet Union’s struggle against the German invaders. It is a striking, informative and at times moving display, depicting as well as the titanic struggle between the two countries, the terrible, immeasurable sufferings of the people of Ukraine and the Soviet Union at the hands of the occupiers. But the monument itself stands as a museum to a bygone realm. Like a medieval Christian cathedral standing in a secularised country, a lasting symbol of a religion, in this case communism, that has lost its appeal and its relevance in a world that has moved on.
Next door to Rodina Mat is the Lavra monastery complex. Originating in the 11th Century, it was largely rebuilt in the 18th, in Baroque style, although some medieval elements remain. It did not escape the devastation inflicted on religious buildings around Ukraine and the rest of the Soviet Union during the communist period. At the centre of the monastery, the Dormition Cathedral was blown up during the Second World War, probably by Soviet Partisans. Following the end of communist rule, a replica of the cathedral was rebuilt.
Such vandalism occurred in many places. The 12th Century St. Michael’s monastery in central Kiev was demolished by the Soviets in the 1930s, and rebuilt after the end of the Soviet Union. Thankfully the nearby 11th Century St. Sophia’s Cathedral was left intact.
One of the holiest sites for Orthodox Christians, the revival of Lavra is a turning back to an older spirituality, and away from the discredited prophets of communism represented at the Rodina Mat statue. As at St. Michael’s and elsewhere, the numerous young monks in their long black cassocks (surely horribly uncomfortable in the summer heat) bear witness to the resurgence of Orthodox belief. The Church has recovered its position of respect. Walking through the grounds, monks are repeatedly waylaid by pilgrims asking to receive their blessing and to kiss their hands.
Of particular interest to pilgrims and tourists alike at Lavra is the maze of catacombs, where the original monks lived, prayed and were laid to rest when they died. Their bodies, preserved and mummified in the cool, dry atmosphere, are still there, inside glass cases, in some cases their shrivelled black hands poking out of vestments that cover most of their bodies. For the pilgrims these are saints. They murmur prayers, cross themselves and kiss the glass cases, as they wander through the low, dim passages, lighting their way with candles. For them, it is clearly an intensely moving, even ecstatic experience. For the foreign outsider, it is a little uncomfortable, like a snoop gawping at the private rapture of others which they cannot share and do not understand.
A little further on from Lavra is the ‘Holodomor’ memorial, marking the artificially induced famine which killed millions in Ukraine, as well as southern Russia, in the early 1930s, as a result of the disastrous policy of collectivisation. In front of the monument is a small statue of a frail little girl, dressed in a simple dress, distressingly thin, with an empty, hungry expression. It is an affecting representation of the tragedy of the famine. And it is in sharp contrast to the bombastic sculptures with their heroic figures at the Rodina Mat statue. The little girl seems to stand as a quiet admonition to all the false claims and promises of communism glorified at Rodina Mat.
Underneath the monument is an exhibition, including agricultural implements and household objects from the villages of that era. Screened around the interior walls of the monument, a film is shown, detailing the forced collectivisation and the famine that followed. With footage from the time and documents concerning the policy and its implementation, the film is a distressing and moving account of one of the great crimes of the 20th Century.
With its conclusion, that only since the achievement of Ukraine’s independence has it been possible to discuss the Holodomor openly, the film asserts that all Ukrainians need to realise that only in an independent state can they realise their national consciousness. In a country many of whose people remain attached to Russia and to the Russian heritage, and whose identity as a distinct nation is questioned by some, the Holodomor memorial thus also serves a nation-building purpose.
The film’s presentation of the famine as a deliberate attack on the Ukrainian nation, as part of a policy aimed at the subjugation of the country and its people, is disputed by some. As committed communists, Stalin and his regime saw collectivisation as a crucial element in building the future socialist paradise. They were never comfortable with Lenin’s New Economic Policy, the compromise of the 1920s which sought to restore agricultural production by allowing private farmers to continue to work their land as they knew how. For Stalin, socialism meant the end of private enterprise and the extermination of the class of better-off peasants, the ‘Kulaks’, who farmed the land most effectively.
Collectivisation and the end of private enterprise were a part of the communist creed. The policy was identified with Stalin personally. So when agricultural production fell, it could not have been because the policy was wrong. Rather, as Stalin saw it, it must have been because of sabotage by peasants resisting the building of the socialist future, hoarding food and deliberately failing to meet their quotas. And so they had to be taught a lesson. The grain had to be seized. Their resistance spirit had to be stifled. Protestations that the grain being seized was the last they had, leaving them not enough to plant for the following year, were met without sympathy.
Ukraine and southern Russia were the breadbaskets of the Soviet Union. So collectivisation was particularly significant there, and the consequences of its failure especially serious. When Ukrainian peasants did not deliver the quantities of grain expected of them, they were identified as enemies of the revolution, and as such had to be dealt with without mercy.
So where does the tragedy of the Holodomor leave the proud Soviet veterans, bedecked in medals, the saints of a discredited religion? Of course, most of them had no personal responsibility for the mass murder of the Holodomor. But how to be a hero of a wicked regime once its crimes have been exposed?
During a previous stay in Ukraine, I met a regional leader of the lingering Communist Party, mainly a party of nostalgic elderly people disorientated and left out after the end of the regime. He came across as a kindly, decent man, courteous and friendly. But how, I could not help asking myself, in the light of what we know about the famine and other monstrosities of the communist period, could he continue to fly the banner of a party with such a heritage, with such a responsibility? Should he not rather apologise in the name of his party for the horrors perpetrated in its name?
No doubt the positive personal experiences of some during the communist era, like the feted veterans, outweighed for them its dark side, which most of them must have been aware of, even if only at the dim margins of their consciousness. Although the heroic images at the Rodni Mat statue may be a myth, the sufferings of millions who endured Nazi occupation and fought to defeat it were real enough. But the image presented at Rodni Mat has been brought into disrepute. The older image of the onion domes, the icons and the saints of Lavra, has endured and been revived and holds far greater resonance among Ukrainians today. And the image of the Holodomor memorial, with the statue of the innocent little girl, stands as a far truer testament of the nature of the communist regime than the secular idols of Rodni Mat.
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