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Newsweek: The Last Man in Russia: The Struggle to Save a Dying Nation

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  • Nina Tkachuk Dimas
    http://www.thedailybeast.com/newsweek/2013/04/22/the-last-man-in-russia-the-struggle-to-save-a-dying-nation.html The Last Man in Russia: The Struggle to Save a
    Message 1 of 1 , Apr 24, 2013

      The Last Man in
      Russia: The Struggle to Save a Dying Nation
      22, 2013 4:45 AM EDT

      Inside the soul of a drunk and bitter country.
      Dmitry Dudko wanted to be a priest in a violently atheistic Soviet Union.
      When the KGB came to arrest him in 1948, they demanded he recant poems
      denouncing Stalin. “I won’t sign anything,” he told them. “I spoke the truth.”
      He got 10 years’ hard labor in the freezing mines of the far north. In the gulag
      he continued to pray, continued to write, continued to insist that Christ’s law
      was higher than the Kremlin’s. He was given another 10 years. When he was
      finally released, he began to preach in a cemetery on the outskirts of Moscow.
      He spoke against the state’s attack on the family, chastised the Orthodox
      establishment for toadying to the Kremlin, denounced the KGB for destroying
      communities by making men report on one another, taught Jews and Russians and
      Tatars to huddle together in faith and hope and overcome their ethnic
      PHOTO..Drunk young people sleep on a park bench after a heavy drinking session in
      Moscow. (Martin Roemers/Panos)
      In the 1970s, in a late Soviet period defined by endless cynicism and
      conformism, when no one believed in anything (least of all communism) and
      submission to the Kremlin for the sake of submission became the essence of the
      system, Dudko became legendary. Thousands would come to his sermons. Foreign
      correspondents were so inspired by him, they smuggled Dudko’s works out of the
      U.S.S.R., and his fame spread throughout the world. He became a beacon of
      anti-Soviet dissidence, a religious Solzhenitsyn, a free man in a totalitarian
      system. In 1980 he was arrested again. This time the KGB’s approach was more
      subtle: “we are guilty before you, and the state is guilty before the church,”
      they told him; they agreed that Russia needed to find faith; they hinted that
      they were believers just like him; they blamed all the bad bits of communism on
      the Jews. Wasn’t it time for us Russians to stick together? They said they would
      give him a chance to preach to a much greater audience if only he would do one
      tiny, little thing for them.
      After six months of nonstop interrogations Dudko appeared on state
      television. He seemed happy, healthy. He looked into the camera and, smiling,
      rejected everything he had ever stood for. He confessed that he had been a
      Western tool undermining the fatherland. He turned in the foreign correspondents
      who had smuggled his works to the West. He begged forgiveness from the Kremlin,
      from the church’s hierarchy. Men who had gone to prison defending Dudko were now
      shown his confession and told there was nothing for them to believe in: if Dudko
      could be broken, so could anyone. The movement shattered. When he was released,
      Dudko was finally given his own church. His message changed. Where he had
      preached harmony and hope, he now preached rabid nationalism and anti-Semitism.
      He died lonely and bitter and mad. In Oliver Bullough’s bleak, beautiful The Last Man in Russia, a mix of biography and reportage,
      Dudko’s journey from defiance to submission to self-destruction becomes the
      archetypal Russian story: a broken man representing a broken nation. PHOTO:  Russian tourists at Manege Square in Moscow. (Martin
      The 1970s and 1980s, the period when the current Russian elite matured and
      which is the focus of Bullough’s book, are largely ignored inside Russia. Few
      novels and fewer films focus on the era. The most notable movie about the period
      is German, the Oscar-winning The Lives of Others, which focuses on the
      battle between dissidents and the Stasi in 1980s East Berlin and captures the
      sense of slow-baked fear, granite depression, and moral corruption. When The
      Lives of Others was released in Russia in 2007, local media acted as if the
      film had nothing to do with them. Whereas in the countries of Eastern Europe
      unbroken Soviet-era dissidents have become heroes, Russian dissidents are often
      ignored or censured as traitors: while Václav Havel became president of the
      Czech Republic, Russia chose a KGB man, Vladimir Putin, as its leader. The
      mechanics of Putin’s rule are a 21st-century spin on how Dudko was broken in
      1980: oligarchs are allowed to keep their money as long as they publicly go down
      on one knee to the Kremlin; journalists can have all the fun they want as long
      as they compose Putin hagiographies. The aim is not to simply oppress (how
      banal!), but to make you part of the system.
      When the Kremlin pushed through the recent Dima Yakovlev bill, which banned
      Russian orphans from being adopted by U.S. parents, many Duma deputies and
      senators were privately appalled, but were so terrified, they signed anyway:
      “It’s a way to make us all guilty,” a Duma deputy (one of the very few who
      didn’t sign) told me afterward, “the old KGB trick.” Seen from this perspective,
      the loud Russian debates between choosing a “European” or “Oriental” path,
      between “patriotism” and “modernity,” are all distractions from the great drama
      between brokenness and self-respect that no one wants to talk about. The new
      generation of dissidents, such as Pussy Riot, who have taken to Moscow’s streets
      over the past two years invoke their 1970s predecessors: the protest movement is
      not just about standing up to Putin, but a way to finally deal with the
      unresolved conformism of the 1970s. The new dissidents have resurrected the
      vocabulary of their predecessors: dostojnstvo (dignity), which in the
      language of the dissidents means not betraying your beliefs; poryadochnost (decency), which means you don’t snitch on your friends; ne pachkatsa (not to get dirty by cooperating with the state). But the
      new dissidents remain a disliked minority, accused by state media of being
      Western stooges who are “doing it for money”: in a culture of conformism
      everyone has to be seen to be a cynic.
      The ambition of The Last Man in Russia is to claim conformism is
      literally killing the country. Some estimates see the Russian population
      dropping by almost a quarter by 2050; life expectancy has been largely dropping
      in line with birthrates. Alcoholism and related diseases are a big part of the
      problem: the average Russian now drinks three times the volume of spirits drunk
      by a German and five times that of a Portuguese. PHOTO..A boy jumps off an abandoned car in Surgut, known for being the oil capital
      of Russia. (Martin Roemers/Panos)
      The canonical interpretation, argued by everyone from Putin to Joseph
      Stiglitz, is to say this catastrophe is a consequence of the 1990s, the fault of
      bad IMF advice and a few greedy oligarchs (i.e., the fault of foreigners and
      Jews), which catapulted the country into a sort of national suicide. But
      Bullough takes a scalpel to Soviet statistics and argues that the trend began
      much earlier: consumption of alcoholic drinks increased eightfold between 1940
      and 1980; life expectancy has been falling since 1964. So in the same period as
      the Soviet Union reached socialist near utopia with full employment and
      universal health care—but when the state broke any impulse to freedom—its
      citizens began the slow slide to self-destruction. “It was gin that sank him
      into a stupor every night, and gin that revived him every morning,” wrote George
      Orwell of his hero, Winston Smith, in 1984, after he has been broken by
      the state’s security organs. Bullough quotes the passage, then adds: “In the
      Russian case: for gin, read vodka.” And as he crisscrosses Russia researching
      Dudko’s story, he finds a drunk, suspicious, bitter country where everyone has
      been broken in their own small way in their own little room 101. “The KGB agents
      did their business,” wrote Dudko near the end.

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