{"id":230592,"date":"2022-11-30T12:58:58","date_gmt":"2022-11-30T10:58:58","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/uacrisis.org\/sumarokov"},"modified":"2023-01-02T13:46:10","modified_gmt":"2023-01-02T11:46:10","slug":"sumarokov","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/uacrisis.org\/en\/sumarokov","title":{"rendered":"De-occupation in occupied Kherson: drama about himself by Artur Sumarokov"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

He recalls how he came to Ukraine: \u201cFrankly speaking, 1995 was the starting point for me to gain a conscious understanding of the surrounding reality. Back then, I lived with my parents in Mytishchi, the suburbs of Moscow. At that time, my father Oleksandr had already been in business for six years, selling computers and related equipment. At that time, everything was moving to his company\u2019s absorption of some firms outside the former USSR, in Spain, France and the USA, according to his parents. Of course, he regularly faced racketeering by various gangster groups, but at a certain point things got out of control and he was shot dead by a hit man outside his Moscow office, just before the 1995 putsch. The killer wasn\u2019t found, the customer even more so – typical realities of those years. My mother, grandmother and I, with the help of my father\u2019s brother, had to urgently fly to Ukraine. Fortunately, there was a place to live and work in Kherson, as my father\u2019s old business partner lived there.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

These memories are a kind of reflection of the artistic nature of the Kherson playwright Artur Sumarokov. And an explanation why he is called a provocative artist, in whose works the main theme is violence in one form or another.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Public decolonization of himself at an international festival<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The one-man show \u201cDecolonize Yourself\u201d told a story – private and global – with all the fullness of sincerity. The answers to the question of how he got out of the occupation and how this postmodern interactive provocative confessional one-man show in the genre of post-drama appeared to be closely related. Moreover, there is only one answer: UNBEARABLE! It just became absolutely unbearable to live and not create.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy performance is a public, uneasy and uncomfortable reflection on the private and public, personal and political. And I want my voice to be heard,\u201d Artur Sumarokov.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Photo by Marius \u015eumlea<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

First, the play \u201cDecolonize Yourself\u201d was written: for the author, this process was as important as anticipation of our Victory, which means hope for the liberation of Kherson. But even before writing the play about decolonization, the author did exactly that: before the war, he spoke only Russian, from then on – only Ukrainian, because he felt that Russian was the enemy\u2019s weapon, and Ukrainian was the language of resistance, protection, defense. Language holds our sky as well as the soldiers of the AFU. The author\u2019s sense of guilt and remorse is quite understandable: he spoke Russian, so the enemy used him as a weapon too. \u201cMany of us have understood only now: if you speak Russian, the time of judgment will come, armed orcs will knock on your door to kind of liberate you, no matter how much you resist,\u201d the actor reflects. \u201cBloodthirsty Russians have come to kill us,\u201d I add.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Preparations for the first night as part of the Festivalul de Teatru Piatra Neam\u021b 2022 \u2013 146 KM in Romania this September began a day before in the theater\u2019s courtyard. Workers dug a pit-grave, the actor-director-playwright (and it was all him, the only and the unique) prepared props: a Soviet red flag in order to burn it publicly in that grave, with the help of the audience, and himself along with it. But it didn\u2019t go the way it was expected. It rained on the day of the performance, and rain washes away all traces. The stage had to be moved indoors and scenography and props had to changed too: instead of a pit, there was a coffin on the stage, a flag with a big sickle-hammer remained on the actor\u2019s shoulders, and instead of burning it, there were books of Russian literature of the 19th and 20th centuries on the proscenium to tear and scatter scraps of those books on the actor\u2019s head, like ashes… Which exactly? There was Lermontov, Dostoevsky, Prishvin, the Soviet Encyclopedia and a Romanian-Russian dictionary.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The coffin pit was the beginning and the end of the play, and the actor lay fearlessly in it. A symbol of the mass grave of all Soviet people covered with a shroud of red flag with a cutting sickle and a hammer on a bloody background. Having occupied Kherson, the invaders removed Ukrainian flags from everywhere and installed their red rags, which were later changed to tricolors. In that mass grave, the Executed Renaissance and the Silver Age are sprinkled with the same ashes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But it\u2019s a long way to the end of the play, let\u2019s start from the beginning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhich of you knows what it\u2019s like to be under occupation?\u201d – was the first question from the stage from the very first minute of the performance<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

In response – the expected silence. Then one hand was raised timidly, and the spectator remembered that his grandfather had been under occupation in Romania and described it in a very figurative way: \u201cIt’s like you live in a cage and eat only nettles.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Photo by Marius \u015eumlea<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Then the actor started his 45-minute monologue, namely: the transformation of the posed question into the author\u2019s narrative of affirmative and then exclamatory sentences. The war found him in Kherson, where he spent 45 days under occupation. What did he feel? No one can guarantee anything, the more so safety. Queues are like in the USSR. Red Soviet flags fly everywhere. They try to re-erect monuments to Lenin. Monuments of Ukrainian heroes are destroyed. There are \u201cblack cars\u201d near the entrances 24 hours a day, waiting for someone. Fear. No one can be sure that they will not be a new target of the occupiers and local collaborators \u201cto the basement\u201d.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Life under occupation means you don\u2019t know whether you will live to see tomorrow. It means realizing that in war you are nobody. It means fearing that at any moment you may disappear forever. It means feeling a complete loss of control over reality. This means losing the greatest value – freedom. The occupation turned out to be a 45-day nightmare for the author.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Let my people go<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was not an easy decision to evacuate, though at the risk of life, but still… He left on the third attempt, joining a large evacuation convoy that people formed by themselves, helping each other. He was lucky. He recalls that on that day the sky was overcast, the horizon was foggy, but as soon as the convoy crossed the border line between the ruscists and free Ukraine, the sun smiled at him from the sky. He took with him a chip torn from his door as a memory of his home, and now his house, though in such a miserable shape, is always with him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So far he has been out of touch with his relatives, who remained there, for two weeks. Every morning he checks the news feed and calls his family and friends in the occupation. Every day he learns about the kidnapping and torture of Kherson activists.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His name is Artur Sumarokov. Yes, for him the personal is political, the Ukrainian is global, but now Ukraine looks at the world both together and differently at the same time: the bloodshot eyes of Mariupol, razed to the ground, the closed eyes of those shot in the back of the head and raped in the northern regions, the stern gaze of mighty Kyiv under siege, the courageous look of the bombed-out Kharkiv, the sheltered look of Western Ukraine. And the catastrophic gaze of stalwart Kherson from behind the bars of occupation, which captures the daily horrors, the hope for \u201cgreen corridors\u201d, which never existed, not a single one…<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI want the Ukrainian voice from Kherson to be heard, that\u2019s why EVERY Ukrainian voice is important now for the sake of victory in this anti-colonial war,\u201d said Artur Sumarokov.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow do you understand decommunization and how would you decommunize yourself?\u201d-<\/strong> was the second question from the stage.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

This time, the audience was much more active and gave predictable answers: we have to abandon colonial thinking and move away from stereotypes, break a vicious circle of cultural single-mindedness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Photo by Marius \u015eumlea<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

And the third appeal to the audience: \u201cI can\u2019t do this without you\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

In apparent innocence and naivety, the actor turns to the audience for help. Artur asked them to put him into a coffin, cover him with a red flag as if with a shroud and scatter scraps of torn books on his head, like ashes. By the way, the books were displayed on the stage in the shape of the letter Z. Out of fifty spectators, only three agreed to do that – they tore the books and scattered the scraps on the author, who skillfully got into the coffin by himself. During this co-created final scene of the performance, a sweet song \u201cUkrainian cherry tree\u201d was played:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u041e\u0439, \u0441\u0442\u0440\u0443\u0438\u0442\u0441\u044f \u0434\u043e\u0440\u043e\u0433\u0430<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u0412 \u0433\u0430\u0439\u0434\u0430\u043c\u0430\u0446\u043a\u043e\u0439 \u043a\u0440\u043e\u0432\u0438.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u041d\u0430\u0448\u0438 \u0445\u0430\u0442\u044b \u043d\u0435 \u0442\u0440\u043e\u0433\u0430\u0439,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u041d\u0430\u0448\u0438\u0445 \u0432\u0438\u0448\u0435\u043d \u043d\u0435 \u0440\u0432\u0438!..<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u041a\u043b\u0438\u0447 \u0432 \u0411\u043e\u0433\u0443\u043d\u0438\u0438 \u0441\u043b\u044b\u0448\u0435\u043d,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u041c\u0447\u0438\u0442\u0441\u044f \u043a \u041a\u0438\u0435\u0432\u0443 \u0429\u043e\u0440\u0441,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u0418 \u0447\u0435\u0440\u0435\u0448\u0435\u043d, \u0438 \u0432\u0438\u0448\u0435\u043d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u0420\u0432\u0451\u0442 \u043e\u043d \u043f\u043e\u043b\u043d\u0443\u044e \u0433\u043e\u0440\u0441\u0442\u044c!..<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u0420\u0430\u0437\u0433\u0440\u043e\u043c\u0438\u043b\u0430 \u0431\u0430\u043d\u0434\u044b \u0431\u0435\u043b\u044b\u0435<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u041d\u0430\u0448\u0430 \u0441\u0438\u043b\u0430 \u0438\u0441\u043f\u043e\u043b\u0438\u043d\u0441\u043a\u0430\u044f.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u041e\u0439, \u0442\u044b, \u0432\u0438\u0448\u043d\u044f \u0441\u043a\u043e\u0440\u043e\u0441\u043f\u0435\u043b\u0430\u044f,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u042d\u0445, \u0447\u0435\u0440\u0435\u0448\u043d\u044f \u0443\u043a\u0440\u0430\u0438\u043d\u0441\u043a\u0430\u044f!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Listen to it: https:\/\/www.youtube.com\/watch?v=FLXdbYwB3M4&t=92s<\/a> <\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Photo Marius \u015eumlea<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

After thunderous applause and lying a few minutes in the coffin, the author got up and began a full-scale dialogue with the audience, discussing the play.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The play for me alone<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Actually, I was not in Romania at this performance, but I saw it. The author-actor, due to our tender creative friendship, played it from Romania, where he is currently at a theater festival, for me in Italy, where I am now. It was indeed a one-man one-spectator show \u2013 one actor for one spectator. Artur for Halyna. From Romania to Italy. He played it for me on his cell phone. And isn\u2019t it a miracle created by himself? And I also participated in the interactive final scene as effectively as those three girls who had agreed to tear up the books. But I did not agree. I created a different ending.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\u0417\u043e\u0431\u0440\u0430\u0436\u0435\u043d\u043d\u044f\"\/

Photo by Olya Koval<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

If it had been the first version of the performance, in the theater\u2019s courtyard and with matches, I would have been the first to burn the bloody red flag of the cannibalistic empire of world evil and scatter its ashes in the wind. In the second version with books, I really tore that letter Z with my teeth. Because my closest men \u2013 in the occupation and at the front, hold the Ukrainian sky above us. While we are playing at festivals. I did crush the letter Z those books formed, but I did NOT tear the books themselves. I rearranged them alphabetically by author\u2019s names, like on a library shelf.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Different final. Why so? I can give you an answer<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

My life experience, soul and mind cannot allow me to tear books.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

First, the brilliant cultural scientist Toynbee (and the entire world literature) made it clear to me, while I was teaching culturology at university, that the concept of \u201cchallenge-response\u201d is not just words! All human civilization was a response of Reason, Conscience and Spirit to the challenges of social and natural environment. It was this response that moved us “a quarter-circle against the beast.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Second, Jorge Luis Borges\u2019s \u201cBabylonian Library\u201d revealed that a book is not just a source of knowledge, but actually an eternal library of the universe, boundless and periodic, like the creation of God.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Third, the cultural philosophy of Umberto Eco made me fall in love with the symbol and metaphor (bricks of literature) as a means of expanding the content of words and deepening their meaning, as a textual modality, as a possibility of an infinite depth of interpretations of texts opened by semiotic movement in search of eternal values. Umberto Eco\u2019s concept of the cultural code actually proves the unpredictability of the cultural message: \u201cGod did not let us second-guess. How one\u2019d react to words we uttered,\u201d the poet understood 100 years before. The phenomenon of intertextuality provides a sweet freedom of verbal play thanks to the openness of cultural messages.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fourth, \u201cTo write poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric,\u201d philosopher Theodor Adorno said. \u201cBut then Auschwitz will remain, and there will be no more poetry,\u201d writer Dmytro Bykov answered him half a century later.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And here is the clincher: brilliantly gifted Kherson poet Viktoria Kontseva (she is a modest school teacher of Ukrainian and world literature) read her brilliant poem at a literary party in the Freedom cafe in Kherson before the war, which ends with the line: \u201cAnd while I put these 32 letters into words \u2013 I\u2019m alive!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My paraphrase: \u201cAnd as long as you – writers of all times and peoples – put these 32, or 26, or however many there are in your language, letters into words, and I read them – I’M ALIVE!!!”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Photo by Marin German<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

\u0420.S.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The author of \u201cDecolonize Yourself\u201d, Artur Sumarokov, states such obvious things in his theses to the interactive post-drama that I just can\u2019t help ending this art review of mine with them:<\/p>\n\n\n\n