On Saturday, we journeyed to Sviyazhsk Island (Свияжск). On the way, we drove by the Temple of All Religions (Храм всех религий), and all jumped out of the van to take photos. It was quite remarkable to see, especially with the fresh layer of snow pillowing around steeples, arches, crosses, and crescent moons. There are multiple examples of religious architecture compacted into this one “temple of culture and truth”, representing peace and world harmony.
Our tour guide lives on the island, and we could hear the pride and passion in his voice as he regaled us with its rich, tragic, mystic history. If I were to ever find a real-life unicorn, I think it would be here. Ivan the Terrible made this island his base before conquering the Kazan Khanate in 1552, building a wooden fortress in only one month. Since then, the island has seen a monastery, a prison, a mental hospital, a convent, and, above all, a community full of people, who lost an awful lot to the tumultuous events of the 20th century, particularly in World War I, the Civil War, and World War II (or the Great Patriotic War).
We spent a few quiet moments in the only remaining building from the original wooden Sviyahsk, in which, we were told, Ivan the Terrible prayed before leading his army to Kazan. Next to this small, exceptional wooden church is the temple, “Joy of All Who Sorrow”. Our guide, a deeply devoted Orthodox man, gathered us together inside, and told us to pray for whatever was most important to us, no matter our religion. Then, he faced himself towards the cross and sang a prayer, in a rich and full voice that utterly filled the room - bouncing off the walls, over our heads, under our feet, and up through my thick wool socks all the way to the very tips of my fingers.
At the end of our beautiful, enriching, long, and very, very cold tour of the island, we huddled together outside and happily ate blini-like pastries and warmed up our freezing fingers with hot cups of tea. There were two sad, hungry-looking dogs circling us as we ate. I felt kind of bad for them, but their fur keeps them warm and happy, at least that’s what I like to tell myself. After our yummy snack, we took up some archery practice. Despite my dreams of being a natural talent (shout-out to Katniss Everdeen), I was terrible. Below is a photo. It kind of looks like I know what I’m doing, but, just as I let the arrow fly on my fourth attempt, the guy screamed “NO, NO TOO HIGH!!” Then, my arrow bounced off the ceiling, and fell sadly to the floor. Oh, well. Some dreams were meant to die.
(I was really cold.)
That night, we went to see the worst play that any of us have ever seen. I was horrified and amused in equal parts. It seemed like a good idea, when we read about it online beforehand. On the surface, it is a story about a dog, who leaves home and is then forced to choose between two different dog gangs, in order to survive city life. We thought it would be a great opportunity to learn some Russian slang and colloquial speech, which we have a hard time picking up on in our day-to-day lives in Moscow. There were mostly kids in the audience, around ages 12 to 16. The play started out okay, and then some early-2000’s American rap music started playing and, from there, it all went slowly downhill. Firstly, there was a gratuitous amount of violence, ending with the “hero” tearing out another character's throat, complete with a splattered explosion of fake blood. The moral of the story seemed to be, “If you don’t like your options in life, then kill everyone”, or “If you’re having a bad day, kill everyone”, or “Is that guy bothering you? Tear out his throat.” There were also some unexplainable scenes, in which angry, curse-word ridden rap blasted as a character waved his hands around furiously, or just looked broody. When this happened, all 5 of us silently shook with laughter, hiding our faces in our hands, or grabbing our neighbor’s knee for support. Finally, there was a particularly upsetting torture scene. It was broken up by, what was supposed to be, a comedic interlude, as the torturer tied a pink apron around himself and hummed along to classical music before picking up a knife and continuing on. This scene was greeted with a roomful of children’s laughter, which was pretty sobering. To be fair, I can be overly sensitive to violence, but our entire group looked around at each other with the same “what-the-hell-is-happening-here” look on our faces.
Afterwards, we sat in a restaurant, called Kazan’s Cat, and talked in length about how horrible the play was. Irina was particularly outraged, but shook it off to discuss new slang terms, writing them all down on a paper napkin. She also gave us all gifts, new passport covers, which she individually picked out for each of us!
(Today, a goddess. Tomorrow, a star!)
We finished off our trip by visiting the National Museum of the Republic Tartarstan and the Happy Childhood Museum. Then, we stopped by the market to stock up on candy, dried figs, чак-чак and traditional Tatar pies for the train-ride home.
As I lay in the top bunk of our train compartment that night, I felt so content and happy, like my whole chest was filled with warmth. I’m so grateful to be here and I’m so thankful for my Dickinson companions, for Irina, for my new Russian friends, for feeling like I’m doing something worthwhile, and for feeling genuinely proud of myself, for, what often feels like, the first time in my entire life.