Immediately after 1991, Belarus was taken to be a straightforward, Russian-controlled puppet state. It was (and apparently still is) the capital of the Commonwealth of Independent States (CIS), which was formed to replace the Soviet Union and to preserve Russian supremacy in a less inflexible form. In 1996, at least in theory, Belarus entered economic union with Russia, aiming to produce a customs union and a common currency within twelve years. In 2002 it even began talks on a Russian proposal for constitutional union. But none of these schemes came to fruition. Instead, they have been supplanted by a series of ever intensifying rows about ‘unpaid debts’, oil prices and gas supplies, and in general about Lukashenko’s disinclination to dance to the Kremlin’s tune. Relations deteriorated to the point of being at best ambiguous. Then in a sudden reversal, the ‘Last Dictator’ travelled to Moscow in 2010, in advance of a looming election, mending his fences and announcing that the oil-price dispute had been settled.10
The European Union was no happier with Belarus than Russia was. Lukashenko has proved resistant to all overtures for meaningful dialogue, always insisting that he will not accept ‘the imposition of alien values from outside’. Protracted discussions preceded the reluctant acceptance of Belarus as a member of the EU’s Eastern Partnership, inaugurated in May 2009. The Partnership complements the Union for the Mediterranean, which deals with the EU’s neighbours in North Africa and the Middle East; it aims to promote good governance, energy security, environmental protection and co-operation on common issues of trade, travel and migration.11
The presidential election of December 2010, therefore, took place amid considerable uncertainty. In the run-up to the elections, President Dmitri Medvedyev of Russia fired off a broadside, accusing Lukashenko of repeatedly breaking his promises; among other supposed offences, he had failed to recognize the independence of Abkhazia and South Ossetia, and had granted asylum to the ousted Kirghiz president, Bakiryev. In an article entitled ‘Batka Stoops To Blackmail’, Russia Today lamented an incident in which Russia’s threat to cut off oil to Belarus had apparently been countered by a Belarusian threat to cut off electricity to Kaliningrad.12 Outside observers concluded that Russia was losing patience. Then, early in 2011, came the Wikileaks scandal. No less than 1,878 of the leaked cables related to Belarus; in a cluster dating back to 2005 American diplomats characterized Belarus as ‘the last outpost of tyranny’ and ‘a virtual mafioso state’.13 But Batka had little to fear. In the polls of 19 December, he had been officially declared to have received 79.7 per cent of the votes.14 Opposition candidates, who had been allowed to stand, were beaten up afterwards by the police. Demonstration were followed by arrests. Diplomats from neighbouring countries reckoned that Lukashenko had probably lost, but he continued on his way unruffled. In an appearance on the state STV television channel, he surprised his audience by breaking into fluent Belarusian, introducing his elderly mother and courting popularity.15
In recent years, the thesis that dictatorships are vulnerable to the growth of new communications and technologies has gathered widespread support. The Green Revolution in Iran in 2009, the ousting of Ben Bella from Tunisia in 2010, and the revolt against President Mubarak in Egypt in 2011 have all been held up as instances where a repressed opposition mobilized itself by cellphones, Facebook and Twitter. A future-technology specialist argues the opposite case. According to Evgeny Morozov, all dictatorships control access to the Internet and possess active cyber-departments to protect their interests. The democratic character of the Net, he says, is a delusion. Morozov is Belarusian.16
*
Even so, the Internet offers a wealth of information about Belarus that was not available when the state came into being. Readily accessible websites list a host of attractions for hardy souls who are considering a visit, and they give a flavour of what awaits. A government-sponsored site follows six headings: Jewish History, Castles and Churches, World War II, Nature, Agro- and Eco-Tourism, and ‘Healthcare Tourism’. The Jewish link informs readers that Marc Chagall, Irving Berlin and Kirk Douglas all came from Belarus, but does not suggest any places to see in connection with them. The ‘World War II’ link recommends the Soviet-era Belarusian National War Memorial at Khatyn (sic),17 and the Soviet memory site at the fortress at Brest.18 The ‘Nature’ link mentions only one of the country’s six national parks, and advises people hoping to explore the Belavezha Forest to approach it via Poland. ‘Do not expect a five-star service anywhere,’ it warns, but ‘you can swim in any lake or river without lifeguard whistling at you’. Under ‘Agro-Tourism’, visitors are urged to watch the harvesting of extremely unlikely local foods ‘such as coconuts, pineapple, or sugar-cane’. Under ‘Healthcare’, one learns that ‘Dentistry is lately on the rise in Belarus’. But only one spa is named, at the salt caverns of Salihorsk.19 Most recently, winter skiing has been introduced. The National Ski Centre is at Logoisk, which has a partner at Silich Mountain. Each resort possesses one hotel.20
‘The medieval martial castle’ of Mir, some 60 miles to the south-west of Minsk, turns out to be ‘the main architectural symbol’ of the country.21 It is also the seat of the national school of architectural conservation, and it well repays the journey. A splendidly illustrated English-language guidebook awaits, showing the castle in all seasons. In 2000, one learns, the castle complex was included in the UNESCO Register of World Heritage Sites.22
The position of the castle on a low mound and surrounded by a lake enhances the illusion of fabulously colossal proportions, as it looms over the water and the lush meadows. Its brick-and-stone battlements were constructed round a broad, interior courtyard, but the most prominent aspect is provided by tall octagonal towers that rise at the four corners, and by the central, fortified entrance gate approached over a bridge. It is the colours, however, that make the most immediate impression. The three-storey palace wing is plastered white, with red brick sills and ribbing; the entrance gate and two of the corner towers are faced with red brick interspersed with white panes and false windows, the roofs tiled in a brighter shade of orange-red that stands out magnificently against the blue sky of the summer’s day or, in winter, against the deep snowdrifts. In autumn, the leaves of the park change colour to match the battlements. Sunsets at Mir are a photographer’s dream.
As presented by the guidebook, however, the account of the castle’s historical development needs some unscrambling. The settlement was first noted in chronicles in AD 1395, ‘in connection with the unsuccessful campaign to Novogrudok of the crusaders’. For ‘crusaders’ read ‘Teutonic Knights’. ‘The Grand Lithuanian Duke Sigismund… granted Mir to his courtier, Simeon Gedygoldovich’ in 1434. So the Lithuanians ruled here. Construction of the present edifice started in the early sixteenth century. Since then, this monument to ‘Gothic-Renaissance architecture’ ‘has remained in original form’.23 One might expect either Gothic or Renaissance, but generally not both.
The guidebook also stresses the multi-ethnic and multi-religious character of the local community. Jews were engaged in commerce. Tartars dealt with leather-dressing. ‘Belarusians’ were engaged in craftsmanship. Gypsies traditionally bred horses. (The grand duke even made Jan Marcinkiewicz ‘king of the gypsies’.)24 The market square once sheltered ‘Orthodox and Roman Catholic Churches, a Mosque, and a Yeshiva with Synagogue’. The church of ‘Saint Trinity’ (its walls painted in a warm shade of magnolia: the onion-domes in bright blue) became ‘the Uniate Church of Basilian Monastery in 1705’ and later ‘an Orthodox church again’, though no explanation is offered. The market square is now called ‘17 September Square’, 17 September 1939 being the date when the Soviet Union entered the Second World War.
The guidebook states how ‘the towers of Mir have withstood the rushes of the conquerors with honour’, but it does not identify the on-rushing conquerors by name (it could have listed the Prussians, the Poles, the Russians, the French of Napoleon, the Germans and others). The most recent private owners, from 1891 to 1939, are named as the ‘Dukes Sviatopolk of Mir’
. Their family mausoleum, built in 1904 by ‘a well-known architect from St Petersburg’, still stands in the park.25
One of the historic monuments not usually mentioned on the websites for foreigners is the manor of Dzyarzhynovo, formerly Oziembłów, in the Minsk region. Renovated in 2004 and opened by Lukashenko in person, this ‘Historico-Cultural Centre’ – a modest, timber-built, three-storey house on the edge of a forest – was the birthplace of Feliks Dzierz˙yński, founder of the Bolshevik secret police, the Cheka, author of Lenin’s ‘Red Terror’, and one of the most fearsome figures in East European history. Its renovation at the start of the twenty-first century says much about Lukashenko’s views and tastes.26
Visitors may be surprised to learn that the Lithuanian frontier is close to all these places in western Belarus. Indeed, given a free run at the customs post, a trip to Vilnius, Lithuania’s capital (which the Belarusians call Vil’nya), can easily be undertaken in a day. The trip is highly recommended, if only because the culture shock is tremendous. Many Westerners were led to believe that all the countries of the Soviet bloc were grey and uniform Russian clones. Today, one sees a different reality. Lithuania is Catholic; Belarus is either Orthodox or non-religious. Lithuanians speak a Baltic language; Belarusians a Slavic tongue, somewhere between Polish and Russian. Lithuanian is written in the Latin alphabet, Belarusian in Cyrillic. Above all, Lithuania is a member of the European Union, and the material gulf between the neighbours is widening rapidly.
The mental gulf between the two countries is already next to unbridgeable. Twenty years ago, both Lithuania and Belarus formed part of the Soviet Union; each of them today looks at their past from diametrically different perspectives. Shortly after crossing the Lithuanian border, a red flag by the side of the road marks the entrance to the Isgyvenimo Drama, an attraction billed as ‘Europe’s Strangest Theme Park’.27 A turning into the forest leads to a vast underground bunker built in the 1980s to house Soviet-Lithuanian television in case of nuclear war:
Soviet anthems blare out from a creaking old radio, the few striplights that are working flicker maddeningly, and damp swarms over the walls like triffids… ‘Forget your past! Forget your history! A colossal bullfrog of a guard in an olive-green uniform is spitting at us in Russian, while a huge Alsatian strains at the leash’… ‘Welcome to the Soviet Union,’ snarls the guard. ‘Here you are nobody’…
We are given mouldy overcoats that are so damp that they are almost liquid, and a cup of Soviet coffee with no coffee in it… The bullfrog gives us our orders; we will answer only in the negative or the affirmative: dissent will be punished with beatings and solitary confinement; and we will forget all thoughts other than the glory of the socialist paradise in which we now live. We stand to attention for the hoisting of the red flag, then down we go into the freezing cold. For three hours, we are humiliated, interrogated, forced to sign false confessions, shown propaganda, and taught to prepare for an attack by the imperialist pigs.
Having failed to answer correctly in Russian, I get [the answer] repeated in broken, angry English. The interrogating KGB officer pushes me against a filing cabinet, and prods me in the chest, hard. ‘You are English? English spy! English spy!’28
The aim is to make people feel what the Soviet Union was really like. ‘Someone always faints,’ the director explains; ‘it’s very easy to break people’s will.’ In neighbouring Belarus, where memories of the Soviet Union are still respected, this sort of exhibition is unthinkable.
Most visitors will need assistance to find their way round this geographical and historical maze. Assistance is again to hand on the Internet:
Who are the Belarusians, anyway? What is this strange country – Belarus – which appeared on the map a few years ago, [and which] used to be called Belorussia, Byelorussia or even White Russia?
Most people in the West don’t even know that Belarus exists, that it has a language of its own and that it has its own history and culture. It is much more convenient to call everything between Brest and Vladivostok ‘Russia’.
One of the great misfortunes of the Belarusians is indeed the fact that their country’s name sounds like ‘Russia’… Ukraine, for example (which is… similar in culture and language), is in a somewhat better position. Most people probably now realise that Ukraine is an independent state and nation.
Unfortunately, Belarus is still not taken seriously… Many people believe that the Belarusians never had a state of their own… Few people know about the existence of the Grand Duchy… the medieval Belarusian state… the heyday of the Belarusian nation.
Belarusian history is not an easy subject to study… One comes across several different versions which contradict each other – the Russian version, the Polish version, the Lithuanian version, the Soviet version and finally the Belarusian version. Belarus is a country [whose] history has been rewritten and falsified so many times that it is difficult to tell who can be believed… Now, after the collapse of the Russia-dominated Soviet Union, it is finally possible to publish the Belarusian version and a number of books have appeared which deal with the contentious issues… Unfortunately they are all in Belarusian and have not been translated…29
In which case, a brief tour d’horizon may not be out of place. This country possesses hidden histories that rarely escape into the outside world.
II
One of the few things that can be said for certain about Europe’s prehistoric peoples is that they all came from somewhere else. Northern Europe, in particular, had to be completely repopulated after the last Ice Age, 10,000 or 12,000 years ago. Repopulation could only be effected by migrants. None of Europe’s modern nations are genuinely native.
This injunction must surely be true even of the Baltic peoples – the Lithuanians, Latvians, ancient Prussians and others – who arrived in the northern parts of the European peninsula long before the historical record. By general scholarly consent, the Lithuanian language represents the oldest European branch of the Indo-European linguistic family.30 The presence of the Balts definitely preceded the advent both of the Finnic peoples, whose ancestors drifted out of Eurasia some 2,000 years ago, and of the Slavs, who followed in the wake of the Germanics at various times during the first millennium AD.
Understanding of the processes of prehistoric settlement has latterly been considerably refined. In the nineteenth century prehistoric migration was conceived in brutal, pseudo-Darwinian terms. In the conflicts between migrant tribes and the sedentary population, the winners took all, and the losers were driven out or obliterated. Such was the conventional picture that was painted, for example, about post-Roman Britain after the arrival of the Anglo-Saxons.
Nowadays, the consensus has shifted. Migrations took place, of course, but they did not necessarily involve wholesale expulsions or mass slaughter; more usually, they caused a high degree of ethnic mixing and cultural assimilation between the incomers and their predecessors. Now that DNA can be tested, it has been discovered that the overwhelming majority of people in England are biologically descended from the pre-Anglo-Saxon and even pre-Celtic populations. One has to conclude that most of the indigenous inhabitants survived the migrations, while changing their language and culture, possibly many times.31
Similar issues arise in relation to the land which, to maintain an impartial air and to avoid anachronistic modernisms, may be called by the convenience label of ‘MDL’ (see below). The initial ethnolinguistic mix was made up of Balts, Slavs, Finnics and Germanics. All were pale-skinned, northern Europeans. All except the Finnics spoke languages of Indo-European origin. The territory was bounded in the north-west by the Baltic Sea, in the south by the vast marshland drained by the Pripyat’ – the Pripet Marshes – in the west by the Vistula basin and in the east by the watershed of the upper Volga.
In ancient times, indeed until quite recently, rivers bore an importance which is often forgotten. The carriage of people and goods was far easier by water than overland, especially in spring and summer. So human s
ettlements tended to develop on the banks of navigable rivers, and at points where access could be gained from one river system to another. The MDL was well supplied by several such interfluvial routes. The Nieman and the Dvina rivers flowed into the Baltic. The Dniepr network flowed to the Black Sea, the Volga network to the Caspian. The area where these networks converged was especially attractive for prehistoric travellers and traders.
The formation of the future state, however, needs to be considered in a slightly wider context, partly because the ethnic mix varied from district to district, and partly because three distinct habitats can be identified. The Baltic coastland was the first. It was exposed to the raids of the Vikings from the ninth to the twelfth century, and later to the seaborne inroads of Danes, Germans and Swedes. The second habitat, lying immediately behind the coast, had been formed by the last great ice cap, and contained a dense jumble of rocky, morainic ridges covered with lakes and dense forests. It was peculiarly impenetrable, and sections of it became the natural fortress of undiluted Baltic settlement. The third habitat, further inland, can be described as the ‘Land of the Headwaters’. It was accessible, especially by river; it possessed attractive agricultural potential; and it became the natural meeting-place of Balts, Finnics, Germanics and Slavs. This was to be the MDL’s heartland.
Each of the ethnolinguistic groupings consisted of numerous tribes, and the names by which they were known have generated enormous controversies. In the case of the Baltic group, for example, conventional modern nomenclature places ‘Prussians’ in the south-west, ‘Lithuanians’ in the middle and ‘Latvians’ in the north-east. Yet the Prussian label became attached to the Baltic Prussians’ Germanized successors. The origins of the Lithuanian label is disputed by their Slavic neighbours, and the Latvian label did not emerge until the modern age. The Finnic group impinged only marginally. The Slavic group, in contrast – or at least the East Slav group – did adopt a generic name: Rus’. Unfortunately, debates about the roots of Rus’-Ruthenia-Rossiya-Russia have filled miles of shelving, and nomenclatural cacophony flourishes.
Vanished Kingdoms Page 28