Privacy is Not Everything

“It’s your day, so we should be doing something nice for you!”

That was the reaction of some American colleagues years ago to my  invitation to an improvised birthday meal I organized in my own honor. It was one of those subtle cultural differences between Russians and Americans that you don’t notice until they slap you in the face. It reflected a fundamental difference in the Russian and American mentalities: for the former, the collective meant everything and the individual came second; for the latter it is the other way around.

I must admit that these cultural differences have narrowed a great deal in the past few years. Many Russians were shamed by our TV guru (with the vast American background), Vladimir Pozner, who repeatedly noted that the Russian language doesn’t have the equivalent of the English word “privacy.”  What a shame indeed.

And last month, as my wife was making pelmeni to prepare for yet another birthday that had come to slap me in the face, I read a column by Helen Womack in the Moscow Times. There, at the paper’s expense, she publicized her charitable activities, telling readers she is sponsoring the education of a Russian adolescent, whom she had even invited to her home in Yorkshire.

I was bit embarrassed by someone telling me about her generosity urbi et orbi. But then I put it down to cultural differences. In any case, what amazed me even more was something else Womack wrote: “He [her Russian guest] was stunned when he realized that he would have a bedroom of his own. In Moscow, he lives with his five brothers and sisters and has never known privacy.”

The poor Russian ... If it were not for his benefactor from the Moscow Times, he would never have seen how normal people live ... They respect the individual and don’t force everyone to live in collectives.

Though, truth be told, the once-sacred word “collective” has lost much of its meaning here. And even though “privacy” still has no direct equivalent in the Russian language, we do have much more of it than we used to. Some have privacy up to their eyeballs.

But have we become any happier as a result? Yuri Davidov, in our recent interview (see page 23), uttered a very interesting phrase, one which sounds sacrilegious at a time when individual values have become something of a sacred cow: “In terms of people-to-people relations, we have lost much more than we have gained.”

Well, I can’t but agree. I remember my childhood fondly. Until I was six, my family and I lived in a kommunalka (communal apartment)—a two-story, turn of the century house not far from Taganskaya metro. My babushka and dedushka, my parents, my uncle Yuri and his wife—all of us lived together. And right across a small courtyard lived my dad’s cousin, Maryana, whom I loved like my own aunt.

I imagine the adults must have had problems with personal space, and I am sure now everyone enjoys more comfort and more personal freedom in their private apartments. But the funny thing is that, on the rare occasions we get together with a few relatives for a party, we all reminisce about our New Year’s parties and birthdays at the kommunalka. Because the joy and merriment are no longer there. We no longer cook homemade delicacies and have even begun ordering pizzas “to go.” The fact is, we don’t see each other much—if at all.

But something is still engraved deep in my memory. So, this year I decided to resurrect the old Russian habit of doing something for the collective on one’s birthday. I resolved to get all my old relatives from the kommunalka together  around a huge table of homemade Russian delicacies (thankfully, I had a willing spouse).

So the first person I called was my “aunt” Maryana. When she heard my voice, her first reaction was: “Gospodi! Is everything OK with you?!” “Yeah, I am fine, why?” “It’s so unusual for me to hear your voice on the phone, you scared me to death — I thought something happened.”

Well, I was ashamed ... My aunt married late and used to treat me like her own child. She taught me many things, walked with me near Andronievsky monastery, where they have icons by Andrei Rublyov, and even had pillow fights with me. But, since the early 1990s, when privacy began to intrude on our lives, I have only called her four or five times.

Next I called my uncle Yuri. He tried not to show it, but he too was surprised at my invitation. Later, my wife told me Yuri called her back, wondering whether Maryana was invited—he thought I might have forgotten about her ...

I am proud to say I didn’t scare my parents with my invitation—we live in the same district, so I see them regularly. Still, they were also surprised at the composition of the upcoming birthday party ...

For all the shame, I feel better now, almost happy. We enjoyed our “old collective.” And even my kids—representatives of Russia’s New Generation—liked the guests. These kids, by the way, share a bedroom; my son is 12 and my daughter almost 16. I can’t afford to provide them with more privacy for now. Not that I think I should be trying, really. They make a great team together and, when I hear them sing “hits” from the radio in chorus every night in their tiny room, I know they will remember these years as the happiest time in their live.

So, all my relatives were together again. My wife cooked 185 pelmenis; there was food and drink and merriment in this hastily reconstructed kollektiv. Happily, no one seemed in a rush to get back home. In fact, if someone had wanted to stay for the night, they would have been most welcome. It was nice to break the rules of newly-gained privacy for a change. Of course, if I had found myself suffering from a shortage of personal space, I could always try to get some expat to sponsor a trip to Yorkshire. Or better yet, Vermont.