Losses beyond the battlefield

The human tragedy in Ukraine is appalling and unconscionable, but similarly tragic is the threat to the country’s cultural legacy with the senseless Russian invasion.

“In the line of fire” (The Economist, March 19th 2022) is an article that pleads for the protection of Ukraine’s museums, architecture and valuable archives.

We do not know much about Ukraine but its recent prominence in world news has made us realize what a haven of history and culture it is – yes, a place we should have traveled to.

And so now, we merely rely on accounts such as this. The country’s supposed jewels are Kyiv, Lviv and Odessa but there are many more charming cities and towns. Ukraine boasts of architecture like the brick Byzantine churches from the medieval Slav princedoms to what is described as “futuristic Soviet-era bus stops and housing projects.”

Recently destroyed are two well-loved buildings, a wooden church in Zhytomyr province and a pink-and-cream neo-Gothic children’s library.

Especially lamented is the loss of about 25 paintings of folk artist Maria Prymachenko, known for her naïve art. Her colorful paintings are well known and have adorned many Ukrainian children’s bedroom walls. It is reported that on the fourth day of shelling which burned a small museum where these paintings were housed near her village, her paintings were reduced to ashes.

Apart from the port of Mariupol, Kharkiv near the Russian border has suffered shelling since the invasion began. It has – or had – many Art Nouveau buildings in the old city center as it was the capital of the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic. Kharkiv’s leading architectural historian, who prefers to speak on condition of anonymity to protect her relatives still living there, says that in both old and new city centers, nearly every building has suffered damage. “Sometimes it’s just one rocket, one hit. .. How will they survive if they have no roof, and their interiors are gone?”

Kharkiv’s Fine Arts Museum has not been spared. Today it stands windowless with tattered blinds. Among its most prized holdings are canvases by Ilya Repin, who made his name in St. Petersburg. The irony, according to a curator, is that “we are trying to save Russian artists’ work from Russians.”

It is dreadful to think that Kyiv, the historic center, would be a next target. Is it wishful thinking that Putin would spare St. Sophia’s Cathedral with its central dome housing a mosaic of the Blessed Virgin, preserved through “nine centuries of warfare and revolution?” He has, after all, referred to the significance of the early medieval kingdom known as Kievan Rus, “from which the cathedral dates and both Russia and Ukraine are descended.”

Another dreaded threat to Ukraine’s heritage is the possible tragic loss of its archives and libraries.  Over the last decade or so, Russia has limited its archives to select researchers. In contrast, Ukraine has granted open access to all researchers, making available the study not only of Ukrainian history but that of the whole Soviet Union. The unnamed Ukrainian architectural historian laments, “They (Putin and company) want to deconstruct not just buildings, not just infrastructure, not just the Ukrainian state. They want to deconstruct us, the Ukrainian people.”

That Russian artists are cancelled out as a result of the backlash against the Russian invasion has happened as an unfortunate consequence. It stands to reason that links of countries with state-controlled institutions like the Bolshoi Theater and the Hermitage Museum have been suspended. Must politics and art be viewed apart from each other? Can these really be held apart?

Many Russian artists have expressed their opposition to Russia’s act of war and have themselves withdrawn from previously scheduled appearances and exhibitions. Alexander Malofeev, a child prodigy, wrote on Facebook, “Every Russian will feel guilty for decades because of the terrible and bloody decision that none of us could influence and predict.”

Because of the nature and universality of art, we are confident that such cancellations will be temporary. And as aptly put, “Even Mr. Putin will not last for ever.”

And how to cancel Russian artists we have held immortal. “Blacklist Tchaikovsky… and you silence a beauty wrenched from the chokehold of repression….Banishing Tolstoy means losing a timeless prophet of peace.”

Precious human lives can never be brought back and neither can man’s priceless and prized creations over the years. Both unspeakable losses.

In our midst, we have our own current cultural battles to confront, with the red-tagging of two independent bookstores, Popular Bookstore and Solidaridad, institutions which have contributed so much to this country’s intellectual life by offering resources which should actually be offered by public libraries which we are deprived of. They have been thriving, despite all odds, to nurture our state of literacy – and now this, red paint splashed on their signage, defacing their frontage. What a total desecration, a vandalism sadly reflecting the values of today’s society.

These are not mere bookshops but cultural havens. Even when I had no money to purchase books as a student, I would visit Solidaridad just to immerse myself in the wealth on its bookshelves and always emerged unfailingly renewed, reinvigorated, enlightened with new learning.

This act of harassment signifies how books, reading and writing are at the bottom of society’s priorities, clearly explaining why and where we are today as a developing country, sadly left behind by our ASEAN neighbors.

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