Читать книгу Skylarks and Rebels - Rita Laima - Страница 17

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So let it be known: my family hails “from the dark side of the moon” and “a Third World pocket inside Europe,” from a country called Latvia. I am also American, born in the United States in 1960 as a child of refugees fifteen years after the end of World War II. My parents and all their predecessors were born in Latvia, as far as I know. I could claim to be 100% Latvian, but maybe there are some Liv, Estonian, Lithuanian, German, Swedish, Polish, or Russian genes mixed in there due to so many foreigners crossing Latvia over the course of history, breaching ethnic borders, and setting up camps or permanent bases on our lands, taking what they coveted and leaving the rest for my ancestors to subsist on. With all the wars and foreign occupations, fires, the bubonic plague, childhood mortality, waves of emigration, and deportations that went on for centuries years in Latvia, I consider myself and other Latvians alive today to be the survivors of the fittest and most fortunate. My parents’ generation certainly seems to be robust, living to a ripe, old age.

Latvian musicians from Kurzeme in a photograph from the early 20th century. Many Latvian folk songs and melodies are hundreds of years old. Passed down from generation to generation, they symbolize my nation's resilience.

As a tiny link in a very long chain that stretches back in time, I cherish the ancient language passed down to me, as well as the rich treasure chest of Latvian culture: our delightful folk tales; our riddles rooted in everyday life; our witty, wise proverbs; our merry, foot-stomping folk dances and soothing, sometimes melancholic melodies played on the kokle (a wooden stringed instrument), the bagpipes, and the fiddle; the so-called dainas—our unique folk poetry that expresses all aspects of human existence; our traditional crafts; our ethnic jewelry with its ancient, mystical designs; our lovely folk costumes; our wooden architecture that merges so well with our northern landscape; and so on. It is a deep chest that we can be proud of, dip into for inspiration, and share with others.

A 19th century pūra lāde (dowry chest) from the Valka region. (Pauls Kundziņš, Latvju sēta, 1974.)

Latvia, a country slightly bigger than the state of West Virginia, lies on the eastern shore of the Baltic Sea opposite Sweden. Latvia’s neighboring countries include Estonia to the north, Russia to the east, Belarus to the southeast, and Lithuania to the south. Latvia’s geographical location as a country bordering northern Europe’s Baltic Sea, a strategic waterway and transit route, and as a stepping stone between Europe and Russia, has been both a blessing and a terrible curse. A tasty geopolitical morsel, the territory of Latvia has tempted foreign armies to invade, raid, and occupy it, leaving lasting political, cultural, linguistic, and genetic imprints. (Perhaps this is why there are so many beautiful Latvian women and good-looking men.)

The peoples that preceded Latvia’s modern nation.

Source: Wikimedia Commons https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Balts#/media/File:Baltic_Tribes_c_1200.svg

Before German emissaries of the Holy Roman Empire and warrior monks began conquering the territory of ancient Latvia in the 13th century, it had been settled by numerous groups of peoples or tribes. These were: the Kurši (Curonians); Zemgaļi (Semigallians), Latgaļi (Latgalians), Sēļi (Selonians), and the Līvi (Livs or Livonians), a people linguistically related to the Finno-Ugric Estonians, Finns, and Hungarians. Like the ancient Vikings, the Kurši also took to the seas. One after the other, the local tribes ceded land to the Germans who named it Terra Mariana, the official name for medieval Livonia. The “castle hills” of our ancestors, pre-dating German arrival, can be found all over Latvia, many of them concealed by trees and bushes. The impressive stone ruins of the German invaders’ ancient fortified castles still stand today, looking more and more like rocky outcrops of the earth.They are fascinating reminders of the distant past, when peoples and faiths collided under the northern sun.

The Latvian language belongs to the family of Indo-European languages. Latvian and Lithuanian are Baltic languages said to be distantly linked to Sanskrit. Old Prussian was once part of this “family” but died out in the late 17th or early 18th century. The Old Prussians were conquered by the Teutonic Knights in the 13th century. Latvian and Lithuanian are said to be among the oldest languages in Europe.

Janīna Kursīte, a Latvian linguist and literary scholar, says: “It’s mostly true that Latvian and Lithuanian are among the oldest of Europe’s languages. Russian philologist Vladimir Toporov, who was also very familiar with Baltic culture, once said that Latvian and Lithuanian enjoyed a unique status among European languages in that they were both a ‘mother’ and a ‘daughter’ to European languages. The richness of the (Latvian) dainas and their ancient, mythical motifs are unique and archaic; you won’t find anything like the dainas among living languages and European cultures. At the same time, in terms of abstract notions of the modern world, the Latvian language is very recent, much more recent than German, English, and Russian; our modern-day Latvian was ‘created’ in the second half of the 19th century. Atis Kronvalds, Krišjānis Valdemārs, and Auseklis (Miķelis Krogzemis) were among those creating new Latvian words. We are both ancient and young; that is our blessing and our curse.”

It is interesting to note the similarities between the two remaining Baltic languages, Latvian and Lithuanian, and then the Finno-Ugric languages, Liv, Estonian, and Finnish:

English	Latvian	Lithuanian	Liv	Estonian	Finnish
star	zvaigzne	žvaigždė	tēḑ	täht	tähti
sun	saule	saulė	pǟvaļiki	païke	aurinko
sky	debess	dangus	tōvaz	taevas	taivas
river	upe	upė	joug	jõgi	joki
forest	mežs	miškas	mõtsā	mets	metsä
earth	zeme	žemė	mõ	maa	maa
brother	brālis	brolis	veļ	vend	veli
hand	roka	ranka	kež	käsi	käsi

The territory around Rīga, the capital of Latvia, was originally settled by the indigenous Livs. Rīga was founded in 1201 as a political and military base for a holy war against the native pagans by Bishop Albert. The campaign was successful and established a powerful foothold for German rule for centuries to come.

Left: Rīga. Scene on the Daugava River. Original wood engraving by J. Koerner, 1878. Image courtesy of Mark Dechow Antique Prints, Maps, and Rare Books, Hamburg, Germany.

In 1282 the city of Rīga joined the Hanseatic League, an important economic alliance in northern Europe. Over the centuries Rīga was visited and settled by people of various nationalities and cultures. Artifacts from its colorful history—coins, furniture, tools, model ships, and silverware—are on display at the Museum of the History of Rīga and Navigation (1773) in the old town. The stories of the city’s past are evident in its buildings and in Old Rīga’s intriguing street names, which beg to be explained, as well as in its houses of worship. Over the centuries Rīga prospered and grew. The Daugava River served as a gateway between East and West. Other major cities in Latvia include the port cities of Ventspils and Liepāja on the Baltic Sea, Jelgava with its famous palace Rundāle, designed by Francesco Bartolomeo Rastrelli (1700–1771), architect of St. Petersburg, and Daugavpils on the Daugava River.

I am lucky to have in my possession some faded photographs of my Latvian ancestors, my senči. I look upon their faces with love and like to imagine what their day and age in Latvia was like. These photographs, as well as a Bible printed in Rīga in 1794 that was passed down to me by my maternal grandmother, I count as my most precious material possessions. My Grandmother Līvija’s and Grandfather Augusts’ slim volumes of poetry in perfectly preserved bindings (his written between 1914 and 1925—a stormy period than includes World War I, Latvia’s independence from Russia, an invasion by the Bolsheviks, and the first years of the newly independent Republic of Latvia) transcend time and space. We are linked through our mother tongue.

An old family photograph that my grandmother Līvija gave to me of a family wedding in Zemgale, circa 1900.

The language of my grandparents’ poetry, Latvian, is not only ancient, it is beautiful, poetic, and evocative. It was the first language I heard as a child. I can speak and write it, and I am passing it down to my children. I cannot live without the Latvian language. It is as important to me as the air I breathe. It is the deepest part of my personal identity and a link to other Latvians around the world. Russian poet, exile, and Nobel laureate Joseph Brodsky (1940–1996) wrote: “I belong to the Russian culture. I feel a part of it, its component, and no change of place can influence the final consequence of this. A language is a much more ancient and inevitable thing than a state. I belong to the Russian language.” (Poetry Foundation) I can say the same about the Latvian language: it is my spiritual home.

Latvia has been a multicultural country for centuries. Ethnic Latvians comprise its majority. Minorities include Russians, Belarusians, Ukrainians, Jews, Lithuanians, Poles, Roma, etc. Latvia’s ethnic makeup was drastically altered under Nazi and Soviet rule. Its Jewish population was annihilated during the German occupation. Later under the Soviet policy of Russification, Latvia absorbed hundreds of thousands of Russian speakers. Latvia’s Russian speaking population grew at an alarming rate under Soviet rule. This legacy remains a source of social and political tension in Latvia even today, especially in its relations with belligerent Russia.

Rīga Railway Bridge inauguration in May 1914. Until its declaration of independence in 1918, Latvia was part of the Russian Empire. Source: Wikimedia Commons https://commons.wikimedia.org/wi ki/File:Riga_railway_bridge_inaug uration.jpg (© Public Domain)

Prior to the Soviet occupation in 1940, Rīga was a thriving port city that enjoyed trade and commerce with many Western European countries. Around the turn of the 20th century Rīga had a small British community with its own Anglican Church, St. Saviour’s, near the Daugava River. Soil was shipped from across the sea so that the church could be built on British soil. George Armitstead (1847–1912), born into a British merchant’s family, became Rīga’s mayor in 1901. Russian Orthodox churches throughout Latvia attest to Russia’s influence in the region. The tumultuous and tragic events of the two world wars left a permanent impact on Latvia, its population, and its architectural legacy.

A fine son of Rīga’s British community more than a hundred years ago: George Armitstead, Rīga’s fourth mayor, at the turn of the 20th century. Armitstead was an engineer and entrepreneur. His magnificent neo-gothic hunting lodge, Jaunmoku Castle (Schloss Neu-Mocken) in Kurzeme, is a popular tourist attraction. Source: Wikimedia Commons https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:GeorgeArmitstead.jpg (© Public Domain)

Latvia’s Baltic German population, once so powerful in Latvia, is long-gone, forced to repatriate under Hitler’s orders starting in 1939. Germans had been around in Latvia for centuries as masters and commanders and had a great effect on on my ancestors’ culture, customs, religion, character, and mentality. Not all of the influences were negative. Germans left us beautiful parks, churches, manors, and other notable buildings.

Latvia’s synagogues before World War II reflected Jewish history in Latvia that could be traced back to the 16th century. Latvian literature and Latvian folk songs have references to Germans, Jews, Roma, and Russians. Many Jews who settled in Latvia after the war emigrated in the 1970s. The region of Latgale with its distinct Latgalian dialect or language (depending on whom you ask) has also been decimated over time.

The ruins of Eleja Manor in the 1930s. Built in the early 19th century in the style of classicism for Baron von Medem, the estate’s buildings were torched in 1915 by the retreating Russian Army. Image courtesy of the National Library of Latvia collection “In Search of Lost Latvia.”

Latvia’s indigenous Liv population is nearly gone, and the Liv language on the verge of extinction. It may yet survive, thanks to the efforts of some fanatic Liv descendants. In his beautiful book of black and white photographs, Lībieši (2008), Juki Nakamura has documented the last of the Livs living in Latvia today.

“Vanishing voices”: A group of Livs in their Sunday best photographed in their seaside village Sīkrags by Vilho Setele in 1912. “Vanishing Voices” was a compelling article published in National Geographic Magazine in October 2012 about the world’s vanishing languages. Source: www.nba.fi/liivilaiset/Latvia/1Latvia.html

Latvians are “a small, thievish nation that lives in trees and eats mushrooms.” In another version we are “a small, quarrelsome nation.” Someone claimed that Winston Churchill coined this description. Others say it goes back centuries. Silly though it sounds, sometimes it describes us quite well. Our weakness is our infighting, especially in the political realm. We like to perpetuate the myth that our national character is marred by envy, jealousy, malice, and grudges. There are plenty of folk songs that seem to substantiate these claims. Supposedly we will do anything to trip up another Latvian: “Latvietis latvietim gardākais kumoss” (“A Latvian is a Latvian’s favorite morsel”), and so on. These self-deprecating comments are funny up to a point. Yet events in history speak of our ability to consolidate, especially in the face of adversity, which has been our constant companion for centuries.

“Princess Bolete”: a most perfect edible mushroom sitting in a soft carpet of green moss in Kurzeme, Latvia. (Photo by Aigars Adamovičs)

As for real mushrooms, in the late summer and early fall giddy Latvians don rubber boots and head into the forest with baskets and knives in search of glorious edible fungi, of which there is an astonishing abundance. For sautéing, marinating, and drying, mushrooms like King Bolete (Boletus edulis or baravika in Latvian), Slippery Jacks (sviesta beka), chanterelles (gailene), Saffron Milk Caps (rudmiese), Russula (bērzlape), etc. thrill Latvians young and old. In the spring, fungi connoisseurs also hunt for that special delicacy, morels (Morchella sp. or murķeļi). Most Latvians have a countryside retreat where they go to enjoy the outdoors, a bit of gardening, and culinary activities like berry picking and mushroom hunting. This is a marvelous way to stay in shape while enjoying the beauty and bounty of Latvia’s nature.

Our ancestors built their homes with logs and planted oaks, lindens, and other trees around their houses for beauty and shelter. In ancient times their fortified castles on top of castle hills were constructed of timber before the advent of the crusaders. Even when the Germans started grabbing our lands, converting us to Christianity and making serfs of us, our ancestors stubbornly clung to their pagan ways and sought out oak trees, a symbol of male strength and courage, for worship and offerings. Other trees besides the oak were anthropomorphized. The linden symbolizes feminine beauty. Pērkons, our ancient god of thunder, rumbled and grumbled from his celestial perch. Our fates were determined by Laima, the goddess of destiny. Many ancient superstitions have survived into modern times, and some Latvians have sought to revive their ancestors’ pagan religion, which is deeply rooted in nature.

Latvia’s climate is similar to that of Europe’s Scandinavia. Long, dark winters with considerable precipitation—sludge in the capital, snow in the countryside, dreary rainfall—are followed by short but brilliant summers with long days and short nights. Latvia’s climate is excellent for raising crops, including grains, vegetables, fruit, and flowers. My personal favorite, the dahlia, thrives in Latvia’s temperate summers.

The relatively shallow Baltic Sea never really warms up; swimming in it is a cold but refreshing experience. With the soft, white sands of the popular seaside resort Jūrmala next to the Gulf of Rīga, the picturesque, boulder-strewn beaches of the Vidzeme coastline, and Kurzeme’s beautiful, quiet, relatively empty beaches and old fishing villages that stretch along the open Baltic Sea, Latvia’s history has been defined by its meeting with the sea. Centuries ago it attracted foreigners who sought to claim it. At the end of World War II, departing from its shores, thousands of Latvians fled in fishing boats and German ships from the Red Army to Sweden and Germany. Under the communists, most areas along the sea were off-limits to the average Soviet citizen. The beaches were fastidiously patrolled by Soviet border guards, smoothed and combed to track the footprints of anyone attempting to escape from the USSR via the sea. Today the approximately 500-kilometer shoreline is open and accessible to the public. Latvians can still fish in their waters; however, rigid European Union quotas are endangering that age-old way of life captured in Latvian folk ditties: The sea did roar, the sea did hiss, / What lies at the bottom of the sea? / Gold and silver / And some mothers’ dear sons.

A photograph taken at a Liv fishing village in Kurzeme in 1912 of fishermen sorting their catch near Miķeļtornis. Source: Vilho Setele, 1912. http://www.nba.fi/liivilaiset/Latvia

The Baltics have a way of casting a spell on people who have lived there for a longer period of time. American diplomat George Kennan (1904–2005), who worked at the American Legation in Rīga in the 1930s, took note: “(Visiting Stockholm), something in the light, the sunlight, the late Northern evening suddenly made me aware of (...) Latvia and Estonia, and I suddenly was absolutely filled with a sort of nostalgia for (…) the inner beauty and meaning of that flat Baltic landscape and the waters around it. It meant an enormous amount to me. You can't explain these things." (Costigliola, Frank. “Is This George Kennan?” The New York Review of Books. Dec. 8, 2011.) Latvia’s gentle, verdant landscape dotted with gigantic boulders, many of them dubbed velnakmeņi or “Devil’s Rocks,” cast a spell on me, too, when I lived there.

“The Ruler of Vadakste” (Vadakstes valdnieks): a giant of a boulder in Ezere, Kurzeme near the Lithuanian border. The story goes that the last proprietor of Ezere Manor, Baron von Toll, ordered his peasants to move this boulder to his park. This task took the poor men ten years to complete, from 1845 to 1855.

Source: J. Sedols, Wikimedia Commons. https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Vadakstes_vald

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