Trump’s Admiration of Putin Is Extra Scary After You’ve Been to Russia
In 2011, I went along with a group of community college students on a week-long trip to Moscow. It was one patch of the globe I’d never seen. Plus, Russia was a current-events blind-spot for me, so I had only a few points of reference for what to expect there.
In the early 90’s, I’d had a college friend who studied in St. Petersburg for a year. Among the things he did to prepare for his trip was practice taking showers without using hot water. I was baffled. “Why wouldn’t they have hot water?” I said. He said, “Because maybe they don’t have hot water,” clarify nothing. When he came back a year later, a bit pale, I thought, he said they did have hot water after all, and knowing me then, I bet I had a laugh at his expense — all those cold showers for nothing! Ha-ha-ha.
But that was then, over twenty years ago. Surely, life for ordinary Russians today is just about the same as here in the US, I thought. Whatever hurdles there were around providing basics like hot water must be sorted out by now.
Although… I’d heard about Pussy Riot, that Moscow-based feminist protest rock band, which was hard to like because they are kind of in-your-face and crass. Still, it was disturbing that they seemed to be pistol-whipped and thrown into prison with an impossible, head-spinning frequency — Again? I thought they were still in prison from last time!? — until Wikipedia clarified for me that the band comprises about eleven women at any given time, but the specific, rioting women that were beaten or pepper-sprayed during their arrest this time was not necessarily the same women as last time. These women are consumed by their pursuit, like shovels-full of coal keeping a tenuous fire burning, but what exactly they were going on about I was too incurious to find out. Progress for women’s equality is slow for all of us, I thought, vaguely. We must have patience… (Yes, shame on me.) Still, it made me a little afraid to go, even though I’d never done anything to attract the slightest attention of the government of Russia.
I’ll start with one lovely thing about Moscow — the food was excellent at restaurants. It’s not one of the world cuisines you might think of as being exceptional, but it was. Our first meal was at “Art Restaurant,” which served a vast array of traditional Georgian dishes: dumplings, Gurian cabbage, more cabbages stuffed or shredded and cheese bread. Famous guests include Bill Clinton, Helmut Kohl, Yoko Ono, Cindy Crawford, Mick Jagger and Richard Gere — check out the picture gallery. The only thing tainting this memory is that as we left the restaurant to walk back to campus, our guides told us in grave voices that we must stop at the convenience store we would pass to buy bottles of water because water in Moscow is not potable. Old pipes, industrial dumping and what-not. I was grateful this was mentioned on our first day. Another great restaurant is the low-key Café My-My (that’s “moo-moo”), with its Russian salad of peas, potatoes, beetroots and pickles, the fried potatoes with mushrooms, and of course borsch. The short growing season is good for root vegetables, and you could taste the earth in these dishes — in a fabulous way, like Danish new potatoes, or British Colombian stone-fruits.
Our trip was in early March, the perfect time to witness the rugged romance of a land with lots of snow. Our host was Moscow State University. The snow was deep, waist-high. The paths were not shoveled, but stomped-down into narrow, uneven walkways between buildings — rugged indeed. A person with any kind of mobility challenge would not be able to go anywhere until, I don’t know, June? Scampering over the frozen campus hillocks were packs of desperate, wild dogs, which came into view every twenty minutes or so, nipping at each other, pawing at whatever they found in the snow in case it turned out to be edible, and digging in the trash heaps located here or there that I assume contained, at their core, an actual trash receptacle. I stayed well clear of the dogs, having been caught once before on a beach in Belize when one feral dog took refuge from the rest of the pack behind me. But for anyone with a soft spot for dogs — or even just for sentient life, it’s heartbreaking, especially to see one sleeping, tightly curled up in some partially-sheltered corner on discarded scraps of burlap or cardboard, trying to keep warm after the sun went down.
The dormitories at the University — where to start? They’re high-rise, gray, and security is tight. Don’t lose your pass card, and don’t expect it to work between the hours of 11 pm and 5 am. Why is this necessary? I don’t know. Now, go ahead, google image search “dorm Moscow State University” — seriously, do it. And check out this article from The Guardian. I have no problem with thirty to a single toilet. It’s alright with me, as long as my digestive system is functioning properly. I have no problem with dense dormitory bedrooms, although when you can’t all stand up at the same time, it is pushing it. The communal kitchens here are strikingly bare. But here’s the real problem: everything is falling apart. Think of something that can be broken — a window frame, a door, a pot in a communal kitchen, a bathroom tile, a wall, a pipe somewhere inside the wall — it was broken, guaranteed. There was a constant trickle of water running down the inside walls. Every tile in our bathroom was broken. Holes gaped behind them. I wondered as I showered whether I should be concerned about the water running into these voids, but what could I do? Faucets did not shut, but, to be fair, I’ll mention that the water was warm. Walls crumbled. I didn’t allow myself to contemplate the wiring. And bugs skittered around everywhere. My luggage would be quarantined in a shed when I got home.
I met an American student studying there full-time. He looked very pale. When I had a moment alone with him, I felt him out about the dormitory. He laughed nervously, sadly. “You’re in the good dorm,” he said. “They wouldn’t possibly let you see how we live.” I confirmed that he’d actually been inside the “good dorm,” because I couldn’t imagine how it could be worse. Yes, he had.
I also ate my breakfasts in the “good cafeteria,” the one for faculty. The porridge I ate there was bespeckled with weevils as if they were raisins. Yes, I ate them, and washed them down with my liter of bottled water. It was so strange to sit among professors in a university cafeteria and have no one mention that you are all eating weevils. I had no trouble swallowing them, because a pall had descended; in such a circumstance, one feels no disgust for the presence of the weevils, only gratitude for the presence of the porridge.
The University held a forum for us where they showcased some of their achievements. Students performed dances. There were several speeches. The main host was one of the top administrators. He wore a nice suit, and while I do not trust my memory on this detail, in my mind’s eye he’s wearing a red, Trump-style tie, which brings me to my main point. I asked that American student, “Why is it like this?” And he said, “Corruption,” in that stupid-question tone of voice, like I had asked “What heats the Earth,” and he had answered, “The sun.”
I wondered for these students all around me — what does it mean to “succeed” here? If an ethical student thinks they’d make a good university rector someday, do they dare pursue it? What are their chances? How does one live here? Suffer the broken tiles and water running down the walls in silence? Or riot?
You see, we got to see the nice part of Moscow too. A short bus ride past houses in such bad repair you think, no you hope, that they are abandoned not occupied (but they are occupied), and past the old people begging in so many layers of ankle-length coats you will think of the mattresses in The Princess and The Pea, there is Kitai-Gorod, a neighborhood of art museums and galleries and an opulent mall — GUM. Here, close to Red Square and the cheerful, yellow, historic landmark, Osobnyak Vtorova, that is the residence of the U.S. ambassador, the houses are perfectly grand and there are no piles of snow even in March, no piles of trash, no packs of hungry dogs or broken things. This is where the University administrator lives, paid for with money that was supposed to be spent on the crumbling dorms — so said that American student.
You can dig as deep as you want to learn more about corruption in Russia. Independent assessments estimate it consumes as much as 25% of Russia’s GDP and pervades every sphere of life: healthcare, education, housing, etc. The human toll I observed — on ordinary students, the elderly, anyone excluded from society until the snow melts — against the backdrop of immense wealth is nauseating. I’m not blind to the same problem in the U.S. I’m also not blind to it getting worse in both places.
At Domodedovo International Airport, waiting to board for our flight home, I spotted an English-language newspaper lying on a vacant seat. I read an article by a foreign piano student who studied at a Moscow conservatory. Why on Earth did she choose here to study? Didn’t she visit before she committed? I’d love to quote her article here, but I’ll have to paraphrase from memory because I’ve moved since 2011, and a newspaper clipping is small, the boxes of folders endless. She described the pianos, none with a full complement of unbroken keys. She described the rodents bravely seeking a bit of life-preserving warmth in the music rooms, and the stench of their urine. And because there were not enough pianos for everyone, the sign-up slots were ‘round the clock. What a world of difference between my college experience and hers, numb-fingered in front of a broken piano among rodents at three in the morning. Her article closed with a sentence I would not have believed if I had not witnessed a Russian University firsthand. It went something like this: “People wonder how it is that Russian musicians consistently rank among the best in the world. It is because we have no other pleasures here.”
I love travel but this time returning to the U.S. felt good, safe. I came home to a place where life can be what it should be: full of possibility, which hinges on living in a place where corruption is the exception, not the rule. But now, in 2020, I’m not so sure. Images of U.S. poverty with that unnerving backdrop of extreme wealth seem to be all around me now. I’m nervous, because the descriptions of Russian-style corruption sound familiar: “Putin’s system is remarkable for its ubiquitous and open merging of the civil service and business, as well as its use of relatives, friends, and acquaintances to benefit from budgetary expenditures and take over state property.” Trump wishes the US could “get along” with Russia, but I’m afraid the verb he’s looking for is “emulate.” He’s exactly the kind of person who “succeeds” very well when there are no checks on corruption.
Having written this, I have done one small thing to attract the attention of the government in Russia, so I’m pretty sure I won’t go to Russia again… or Ukraine, I guess. Putin’s intimidation tactics are very effective on me. Trump’s? Not so much now, but I’m sure with a little more time the Trump machine could figure out what works, and all of us would learn to live with it. What else would we do? Riot? Those Pussy Riot women are certainly shovels-full of coal — and what is coal but a dense lump of energy formed under extreme pressure? Call it a low-grade diamond. Pussy Riot are fighters raising their weapons, that is, their voices, and storming on beyond the fallen bodies of those who rioted before them. They are so brave. Would you like to see what they think of Trump?
Pussy Riot — Make America Great Again. (Official Music Video) — YouTube
