Gitanos de Crimea

Gitanos de Crimea, en: Christian Geißler, Malerische Darstellungen der Sitten und Gebräuche… unter Russen, Tataren, Mongolen und anderen Völkern des Russischen Reichs, Leipzig 1804

Distinguir los subgrupos étnicos gitanos repartidos por los diversos países, que se relacionan entre ellos siguiendo los ajustados grados de una escala que va desde los que son parientes o amigos hasta los enemigos acérrimos, es tarea casi imposible para un no iniciado. Esto es especialmente cierto en Crimea, donde las divisiones tradicionales por tipos de artesanos, dialectos y linajes se doblan con un criterio ulterior básico: si el gitano en cuestión es tártaro, o no.

Gitanos pudientes de Crimea a principios del siglo XX: Gobierno de Stavropol

Tras la conquista rusa de fines del siglo XVIII, para prácticamente todos los grupos étnicos, ya fueran judíos, armenios o gitanos, había dos clasificaciones: tártaros y no tártaros, los «nuestros», y los «recién llegados». Como consecuencia de quinientos años de dominación tártara, incluso los grupos étnicos que debido a su religión u ocupaciones mantuvieron su identidad, habían adoptado la lengua tártara en detrimento de la materna. Los armenios de Crimea y los judíos karaítas, con el tramo de la Ruta de la Seda desde Crimea a Polonia bajo su control, hablaban tártaro ya en la Lemberg de finales del siglo XVII, y reservaban el armenio o el hebreo tan solo como lengua litúrgica. El pequeño grupo de estos últimos que sobrevive en la Halich galitziana todavía hoy talla sus lápidas funerales utilizando caracteres hebreos pero en idioma tártaro. Y ambos grupos se distinguen de los armenios de habla armenia y de los judíos askenazi de habla yidis que se trasladaron a la península de Crimea después de la conquista rusa.

Gitana de Crimea echadora de cartas

El primer grupo de gitanos «tártaros» de Crimea, los gurbets (que se autodenominan turcomanos) llegaron a la península de Crimea —según su propias tradición— a la par que los tártaros, como tratantes profesionales de caballos. Conservaron este oficio hasta la revolución de 1917. Llevaban sus caballos a las ferias de los alrededores, no sólo en el interior de la península sino por toda la estepa de Novorossiya (Nueva Rusia), y la fortuna de sus miembros más ricos se estimaba en veinte mil rublos de plata. Los otros dos grupos más o menos nómadas de gitanos «tártaros» se identificaban principalmente por sus ofcios o labores artesanas: los demerdzhis eran herreros o caldereros ambulantes, los elekchis fabricaban cedazos y tejían cestas, los dauldzhis eran los músicos de las bodas tártaras y las celebraciones del Ramadán. Aunque todos ellos se declaraban musulmanes sunitas, los tártaros los miraban con recelo ya que a la vez mantenían una serie de costumbres chiítas derivadas de sus orígenes iraníes. Algunos de estos grupos supuestamente utilizaban la jaculatoria «No hay otro dios sino Alá y Mahoma es su profeta» con el añadido de «y Ali es como Dios»; y en el mes sagrado de los mártires chiítas recorrían las aldeas con banderas y tambores, lamentándose por Hassan y Hussein.

Gitanos de las montañas de Crimea. Litografía de August Raffe, 1837

Después de la conquista rusa comenzó la afluencia de tártaros no gitanos –conocidos como «lakhins», es decir, polacos– desde otras regiones del imperio, principalmente de Moldavia y Besarabia. Por su profesión, eran principalmente ayudzhi, domadores de osos, titiriteros ambulantes que, además de montar el circo del pueblo, completaban sus escasas ganancias con la cartomancia, la quiromancia y otras prácticas mágicas por el estilo. Hablaban vlach y se declaraban musulmanes, pero no iban a la mezquita; celebraban sus fiestas de acuerdo con costumbres pre-islámicas y en el alistamiento del censo de 1835 dictaron sus nombres de forma doble, musulmana y no musulmana: «Mehmet , es decir, Kili, Osman, es decir, Arnaut, Hassan, quien también es Murtaza…» Su nomadismo se interrumpió con un decreto del zar en 1809 que los obligaba a asentarse. Desde entonces empezaron a aprender los oficios artesanos de los grupos gitanos anteriores, con los cuales, sin embargo, mantuvieron siempre una distancia.

Caldereros gitanos de Bajchisarái. Litografía de August Raffe, 1837

En las grandes ciudades los gitanos se establecieron en barrios propios, donde cada subgrupo mantenía su identidad aparte. La colonia más grande era la Tsiganskaya Slobodka de Simferopol, a las afueras de la antigua ciudad tártara. A principios del siglo XX se contaban allí cerca de trescientas familias romaníes –de ocho a diez personas en cada una– que en su mayoría practicaban la herrería, eran carboneros y vendedores ambulantes de carbón, o fabricantes y reparadores de artículos domésticos. Pero por entonces rusos y tártaros también vivían en buen número en el Slobodka, que era considerado el barrio marginal de la ciudad, un nido permanente de enfermedades, y que a pesar de todos los intentos de reforma se mantuvo así hasta la década de 1940.

«Esta zona», escribe N. A. Svyatsky en su Sobre los gitanos de Rusia y de Crimea (Simferopol, 1888), «no es similar a nuestras calles. Con su aspecto primitivo y desordenado más parece un campamento gitano itinerante. Las diminutas casas pobres se amontonan sin ningún orden, donde les place. A veces unas pocas en fila; y luego el área entre ellas y el próximo grupo de  casas es un descampado común donde las familias gitanas viven su ruidosa vida cotidiana, despreocupada y bulliciosa. Las casas gitanas son en su mayoría una sola habitación de tres por tres metros sin cocina, despensa ni cualquier otra dependencia. La habitación está prácticamente vacía, a menudo incluso sin una estufa. La estufa común está en el patio, en un lugar llamado ‘carro’, protegida del viento por una simple pared de arcilla».

La cuestión de quién era tártaro y quién no se volvió importante de verdad en la década de 1940. El ejército alemán de ocupación, que en Crimea contó con el apoyo de los tártaros, distinguía a los judíos (caraítas y krimchaks) y gitanos considerados de nacionalidad tártara, de los «otros» judíos y gitanos destinados al exterminio. Por tanto, estos gitanos –ayudados por los tártaros, ciertamente– se dejaron alistar como tártaros. Cuando el 9 de diciembre de 1941, los hombres del Einsatzgruppe «D» rodearon la Tsiganskaya Slobodka y comenzaron a hacer subir a los camiones y a llevarse para su ejecución a quienes vivían allí, la acción fue detenida por la protesta del gobierno tártaro. Y en Bajchisarai, donde ya se había juntado a los gitanos locales para eliminarlos, el jefe del gobierno local tártaro se presentó en persona ante el comandante de la unidad alemana y le pidió que seleccionara al azar a tres hombres de entre aquellos gitanos. Entonces, bajándoles los pantalones en presencia del comandante y señalando su miembro circuncidado, anunció que renunciaba a su cargo porque no podía asumir la responsabilidad de la cooperación de la población si los alemanes eliminaban a los musulmanes. La acción también fue detenida en este caso..



Usul-usul. Canción tradicional tártara de Crimea

El 18 de mayo de 1944, cuando regresaron las autoridades soviéticas a Crimea formaron los convoyes con la población que debía ser deportada siguiendo las listas alemanas, incluyendo así a los gitanos que constaban como tártaros. A la protesta de los gitanos, respondieron: «Los alemanes sabían exactamente quién era judío y quién era gitano. Si no os llevaron, es porque sin duda sois tártaros.» Entre los sobrevivientes de los gitanos deportados solo unos pocos padecieron la terrible experiencia que los tártaros, vueltos ilegalmente a Crimea desde la década de 1960, tuvieron que afrontar. La mayoría de ellos vive en la región de Krasnodar, donde todavía mantienen sus caldererías itinerantes y sus oficios artesanos.


En Tsiganskaya Slobodka ya no hay gitanos tártaros, pero el lugar –como un molde social– aún reproduce constantemente la miseria, vertiéndola luego hacia todo el casco antiguo tártaro. La entrada al distrito está al lado de la Mezquita Blanca, donde terminamos nuestro paseo anterior por Simferopol. Aquí se encuentra la antigua mezquita gitana, desde 1945 casa para oficiales soviéticos que la comunidad tártara ha intentado sin éxito recuperar para el culto. Junto a ella se alza el palacio de la Madre del Mundo, la Reina del Trono de las Hadas, la Gobernante de la Tierra, Faraona, Esfinge y Mesías. La reina nos recibe al entrar en el barrio, y por un pequeño donativo como vasallos nos entrega su benevolencia y protección. Que definitivamente vamos a necesitar.

La pobreza es la misma pero la «ruidosa vida cotidiana, despreocupada y bulliciosa» ha desaparecido. Las casas están en ruinas, las puertas cerradas –como si hubiera algo que robar en esos patios desolados de un solo piso–. Un niño pequeño y una vieja se asoman detrás de una puerta. En las calles sólo merodean los perros solitarios rebuscando comida en los contenedores abiertos, y de vez e cuando un transeúnte mira con sospecha a los desconocidos, sin aceptar el saludo. Cualquier tienda o pub, si existe, está cerrado. Desde el portón trasero de un camión aparcado ante un puesto de reciclaje de basuras se venden tres sacos de patatas y unos trozos de sandía.

Las calles cada vez más pobres, estrechas y empinadas se diluyen en una grande y vacía llanura rocosa. Una meseta  dominada por una bandada perezosa de cuervos que permiten a la gente acercarse mucho hasta que echan a volar con graznidos de enfado en el último instante. Un coche vacío en la cima de la colina, sin que se vean sus pasajeros por parte alguna. En la ladera, las ruinas de la Neapolis Scythica, el bastión de la antigua fortaleza escita. Desde aquí se divisa el barrio industrial de Simferopol. Dos personas mayores procedentes de las fábricas acortan campo a través, mientras que un hombre con aspecto de ex-funcionario soviético pasea con un musculoso perro. Se detienen sin dejar de mirar a los desconocidos hasta que, después de rodear la colina, desaparecemos de nuevo en el laberinto de la antigua ciudad vieja.

Una vieja gitana se sienta delante de un patio amplio, mirando a la calle. «¿A qué le estáis sacando fotos?» «A cómo es la vida aquí, cómo viven.» «No hay nada interesante en eso. Todo puede desaparecer sin que nadie se acuerde. En vez de eso, tomad una foto mía, así os llevaréis algún buen recuerdo.»

Crimean Gypsies

Crimean Gypsies, in: Christian Geißler, Malerische Darstellungen der Sitten und Gebräuche… unter Russen, Tataren, Mongolen und anderen Völkern des Russischen Reichs, Leipzig 1804

To distinguish the Gypsy ethnic subgroups living in various countries, which place each other at various points of the scale extending from relative to enemy, is an almost hopeless task for the outsider. This is especially true in the Crimea, where traditional divisions by crafts, dialects and lineage is duplicated by a further, essential criterion: whether the Gypsy in question is a Tatar Gypsy, or not.

Wealthy Crimean Gypsies at the beginning of the century. Stavropol government

After the late 18th-century Russian conquest, for virtually all the ethnic groups, be they Jews, Armenians or Gypsies, there were two classifications: Tatar and non-Tatar: “ours” and “newcomer”. As a result of five hundred years of Tatar rule, even the ethnic groups which, due to their religion or occupation, maintained their identity, adopted the Tatar language in place of their mother tongue. The Crimean Armenians and Karaim Jews, with the section of the Silk Road from the Crimea to Poland in their hands, spoke Tatar even in late 17th-century Lemberg, and used Armenian or Hebrew only as a liturgical language. The small group of the latter that survives in Galician Halich, which we will write about, even today carve their gravestones in Hebrew characters, but in the Tatar language. And both groups distinguish themselves from the Armenian-speaking Armenians and Yiddish-speaking Ashkenazi Jews who moved into the Crimea after the Russian conquest.

Crimean Gypsy fortune teller

The first “Tatar” group of Crimean Gypsies, the Gurbets (who called themselves Turkmens) according to their own traditions arrived in the Crimea together with the Tatars as professional horse traders. They retained this profession until the revolution of 1917. They took their horses around to the fairs, not only in the peninsula, but in the whole steppe of Novorossiya, and the fortune of their wealthiest members was estimated at twenty thousand silver rubles. The other, more or less nomadic groups of the “Tatar” Gypsies were also organized primarily by crafts: the Demerdzhis were itinerant blacksmiths, the Elekchis sieve-makers and basket-weavers, the Dauldzhis the professional musicians of Tatar weddings and Ramadan celebrations. Although all of them declared themselves Sunni Muslims, the Tatars looked upon them with suspicion, because they also practiced a number of Shia customs, referring to their Iranian origins. Some of their groups allegedly used the confession “There is no god, but Allah, and Muhammad is His prophet” with the addition of “and Ali, the God-like”; and in the holy month of the Shiite martyrs they roamed the villages with flags and drums, mourning Hassan and Hussein.

Crimean mountain Gypsies. Lithography by August Raffe, 1837

After the Russian conquest, an influx of the non-Tatar Gypsies, called “Lakhins”, which is to say Poles, started from the other regions of the empire, primarily from Moldova and Bessarabia. By profession, they were primarily Ayudzhi, bear-leaders, wandering entertainers, who, in addition to the village circus, earned their meagre bread by cartomancy, chiromancy and other magic practices. They spoke Vlach, and declared themselves Muslims, but they did not go to mosque, celebrated their feasts according to pre-Islamic customs, and at the time of the 1835 census dictated their names in double, Muslim and non Muslim-form: “Mehmet, that is, Kili, Osman, that is, Arnaut, Hassan, who is also Murtaza…” Their nomadism was ended with the Tsar’s decree of 1809, which forced them to settle. After that time they learned the crafts of the earlier Gypsy groups, from which, however, they kept their distance until the very end.

Gypsy smithy in Bakchisaray. Lithography by August Raffe, 1837

In major cities the Gypsies settled down in Gypsy quarters, where the various subgroups maintained their separate identity. The largest colony was the Tsiganskaya Slobodka in Simferopol, on the outskirts of the Tatar old town. In the early 20th century, nearly three hundred Roma families were counted here, with eight to ten people each, who mostly practiced blacksmithing, charcoal burning and peddling, or prepared household goods. But by that time Russians and Tatars also lived in a fair number in the Slobodka, which was considered the slum of the city and an eternal nest of disease, and in spite of every attempt it remained so until the 1940s.

“This area”, writes N. A. Svyatsky in his On the Gypsies of Russia and the Crimea (Simferopol, 1888), “is not similar to our streets. With its primitive and disordered look it appears rather like an itinerant Gypsy camp. The tiny, poor cottages are built without any order, where they like it. Sometimes a few in a row, and then the area between them and the next houses is a large common courtyard, where the Gypsy families live their noisy, carefree and bustling everyday life. The Gypsy houses are mostly one single, three by three meter room, without kitchen, pantry or any other outbuilding. The room is mostly empty, often even without a stove. The common stove is in the courtyard, at a place called “chariot”, protected from the wind by one single clay wall.”

The question of who is Tatar and who not became really important in the 1940s. The occupying German army, which in the Crimea counted on the support of the Tatars, distinguished the Jews (Karaim and Krymchaks) and Gypsies considered to be of Tatar nationality from the “other” Jews and Gypsies destined for extermination. The Gypsies therefore allowed themselves to be enrolled as Tatars, with the support also of the Tatars. When on 9 December 1941 the men of Einsatzgruppe “D” surrounded the Tsiganskaya Slobodka, and started to put on trucks and carry away for execution those living here, the action was halted on the protest of the Tatar government. And in Bakhchisaray, where the local Gypsies had already been collected for execution, the head of the local Tatar government reported himself to the commander of the German unit, and asked him to select any three men from the Gypsies. Then, dropping down their pants in the presence of the commander, and pointing to their circumcised organ, announced that he resigns his position, because he cannot take responsibility for the co-operation of the population if the Germans massacre Muslims. The action was halted this time, too.



Usul-usul. Crimean Tatar folk song

On 18 May 1944 the Soviet authorities, on returning to the Crimea, also composed the trains of the Tatars to be deported based on the German lists, thus including the Gypsies listed as Tatars. On the protest of the Gypsies they replied: “The Germans exactly knew who was a Jew and who was a Gypsy. If they did not take you away, you are certainly Tatars.” Among the survivors of the deported Gypsies only a few undertook the ordeal which the Tatars, illegally returning to the Crimea from the 1960s, had to face. Most of them live in the Krasnodar region, where they still carry on their itinerant blacksmith and peddling crafts.


On the Tsiganskaya Slobodka there are no Tatar Gypsies any more, but the site as a social mold still constantly re-produces misery, pouring it out into the whole Tatar old town. The entrance to the district is next to the White Mosque, where we finished our previous walk in Simferopol. Here stands the former Gypsy mosque, since 1945 a house for Soviet officers, which the Tatar community has unsuccessfully tried to retake for the purpose of mosque. Next to it rises the palace of the Mother of the World, the Queen of the Fiery Throne, the Ruler of the Earth, Pharaoh, Sphinx and Messiah. The Queen receives you at the entrance of the quarter, and for a small vassal’s fee she provides you her benevolence and protection. You will definitely need it.

Although the poverty is unchanged, the “noisy, carefree and bustling everyday life” has gone. Run-down houses, locked doors – as if there were anything to steal from the one-story long courtyards. A small child and an old woman watch from behind the doors. On the streets, there are only the lonely dogs in search for food in the open sewers, and sometimes a passer-by who looks suspiciously at the stranger, not accepting his greeting. Any shop or pub, if it exists, is closed. In front of a waste recycling post they are selling three bags of potatoes and a few pieces of watermelon from the back of a truck.

The increasingly poor, narrow and steep streets dissipate onto a large, empty, rocky plateau. The plateau is dominated by a lazy band of crows, they allow people to approach quite near, skirring up only in the last minute. An empty car on the hilltop, its passagers are nowhere to be seen. On the hillside, the ruins of the bastion of the former Scythian fortress Neapolis Scythica, from here you can already see the industrial quarter of Simferopol. Two old people coming from the factories cut across the field, while a man looking like a former Soviet party functionary walks with his robust dog. They stop and stare at the stranger until he, having walked around the hill, disappears again into the labyrinth of the former old town.

An old Gypsy woman sitting in front of a long courtyard, watching the street. “What are you taking pictures of?” “On how life is, how you live here.” “There is nothing interesting in it. May it disappear without anyone remembering it. Take a picture of me instead, so you have some nice memories.”

Together in the Crimea

Río Wang’s last tour of this year was organized to one of the most beautiful, and at the same time least known places in Europe, the Crimean peninsula. We wrote about our plans in the invitation, and about the places to see in the table of contents dedicated to the Crimea. And about what we saw, everyone gives account in the following joint post, a nice windup of this year. We hope to see you again next year.

Studiolum

Crimean Diary

Gábor

A Crimea in Impressions

The great Tatar lady speaks Russian clearly and quickly. Proud and principled, she helped to found local schools so that her language wouldn’t die. She tells of past suffering under different regimes but these don’t seem to weigh her down. There’s no heaviness about her and the work of managing a guest house and a family hang lightly on her frame. Things are better now and there is hope for the future.

Bakhchysarai, cultural capital of the Crimean Tatars. Lowing cows, watchful cats, goats, stone sphinxes, and coal smoke. The mellent charm of the muezzin’s call to prayer is warm and welcoming, calling us to god.

A long walk among the tattered ancient streets, a small kitten in our train. A 16th-century Karaite kenassa in near ruins; a number of modest mosques in good repair, dwelling among mud, stones, creeping vines, painted wood, and trickling water. We thread our journey with rides in rattling marshrutkas.

Early morning awake to the chorus of dogs, milky mist unveiling the mountain tops. Omelette breakfast with baklava, black tea with rose petal jam and Turkish coffee. Another place feeling like another time.

Dusty gray-green grass, hillocks. Gold in the scattered trees. Stands of poplars and handsome horses. Hot beams of sun in the face shine back at me as I look out over the domain they lord.

Cerulean. Watercolor stain blots for clouds swarm with black crows chasing smaller birds in the illogic of their own chaotic orbits. Gray sea and glinting sunshine. Gulls, pebbles smoothed to the preciousness of coins. Cold salt wind.

Evpatoria. Tattered streets and tidy squares. Archetype of the Ottoman mosque beside a Byzantine revival church. Why is there a clock in the mosque? Because it tells us the time, my silly one. A square surrounded by arches (in Tuscan stripes) and a high dome.

Palace of the Tatar Khan. Chilly rooms decorated with the Soviet restorer’s touch. Painted walls of a clear blue, divided windows with panes of brightly colored glass pour down colored sunlight, gleaming rosehip red, sea blue, honey yellow. Glass case exhibits, books, inscrutable objects. Splendid garments and musical instruments.

Turbaned tombs. Poplar trees tall and glowing yellow. Proud minarets.

In the bus early for a bit of a drive and a bit of a climb. Trees and vines and berries of black, red and blue. Hills and stones; mountains and stones. A tough climb. Thorny bushes, underbrush, slippery stones, furry moss, false footholds. A cool sweet spring and a ruined city to explore.

Overlooking space, a broad valley, a high ridge. Mist in the air and tart rosehips to nibble. Castle, basilica, and cave.

Eski-Kermen. A citadel on an archipelago of rocks rising from the green valley floor. High, a Swiss cheese of caves and ruins. Friendly cats and hikers. Fog, dew and colored leaves, rock basins filled with green water and plants. A rough gray white stone is the fabric of which rooms are carved, and lookouts, caverns, holes, shrines, and reverent spaces.

Khersonesos. A 50-hectare ruined Greek settlement, a place of legend and supposed seed of Russian Christianity. A new basilica, a buzzing of bees, a holy woman makes a chant that flawlessly melds with the interior space, a gesamtkunstwerk from a single voice, delicate as a breath, warming the cavernous church like a careful fire.

Yalta. A city on the sea, a girl with a little dog. We stroll, a flânerie in Crimea. A shining milky silver sea meets a white softly streaked sky, a horizon effaced. We float. We fly. A roaring ship cuts the boiling glass. A colorful capsule on a groaning thread lifts us up above the surly earth. Leave a flower of the mind behind and descend.

The rack, the ruin, a neglected opulence abashed, hiding behind wrought iron and curtains of greenery. A dignified elderly woman waits in the shadows and cries for her faded glory.

Why is the sea here called black? The Turkic languages use the words white and black to signal the ideas of greater and lesser. Thus, when there are two of anything needing naming, seas, for example, we get a White Sea (for the Turks, the Mediterranean) and a Black Sea.

A song (from a different sea) comes to me.


The seagull song from У самого синего моря (“By the Bluest of Seas,” Boris Barnet, USSR, 1936). (Although this recording sounds like it ends abruptly, this is, in fact, the entire song as it is heard in the film.)

Лети быстрее, чайка! В синем море вечер настаёт Поскорее птица! Узнай-ка как милый живёт! Скажи ему не стану о нём тужить, грустить не устану долго его любить.

Fly faster, seagull! Evening falls on the blue sea. Faster, bird! Find out how my dear one abides. Tell him I do not mourn or grieve; that I will not weary of his love.

Lloyd

I’ve taken photos only with my eyes

…my built-in memory unit is preserving the pictures. Hopefully forever…

The first early morning in Bakhchisaray. You cannot yet see everything, the valley unfolds slowly from the dim light. We climb the steep slope above our house, we can already see the bizarre forms of the huge rocks, the ancient mountains. A barren hillside, sparse grass, spiky, bright green junipers. Goats and skinny cows graze on it. By the time we reach the cliffs, the valley and the opposite hillside emerges from the fog. Beneath us – Bakhchisaray. In the narrow valley, tattered houses and buildings, the Khan’s palace with a  minaret, the roof of a new Armenian church gleaming in the sunlight.

The first cave city. An increasingly steep forest path leads up to the rocks. There, in the rocks, large caverns – cells of monks and a small Orthodox church –, everything in the caverns. There is only one monk living up here, and he guides us. He seems to have come here from Tarkovsky’s Rublev: an incredibly lean and tall figure, with the wind draging back his long, black hair, his beautiful face, tanned skin and dark, bright eyes that reflect attention, intellect, humor and obsession.

Nearing Evpatoria on the bus, we suddenly catch sight of the sea. We stop, run down to the water, and in a moment everyone – as if on command – bend down among the waves creeping onto the beach, and collect treasures – shells, pebbles, dried shrimp.

We advance in the thick leaf litter in the autumn forest. The road passes through a narrow valley, flanked by steep mountains. Among the tree trunks, wherever the eyes can see, are grayish black stones. The cemetery of the Karaim Jews. It seems endless. We do not reach the end (in fact, there is none), for there are four thousand tombstones hidden in the forest. I cannot imagine a more beautiful and comforting final resting place.

A lake glistening in the autumn foliage – Mangup Lake. We climb Mangup Mountain in gleaming sunshine. Along the way, another Karaim cemetery in the forest. On the plateau, the remnants of the ancient Gothic city, “full comfort” cave apartments of several rooms. A pile of stones – this is all that is left from the Karaim synagogue. From the edge of the plateau, a fantastic view of the gorge and the huge vertical rock vall.

We set off in a dense fog. We climb up very steep terrain, with the occasional help of small ladders, and, of course, the boys who form a chain to help up those having difficulty. On the top, the astonishing luxury caves of Eski Kermen unfold in the mist. The fog slowly breaks up, the sun comes out, but not so much that we cannot see the canyon and the mountains over it. The mist of the past is writhing in the depth, it does not reveal everything…

At 6 a.m. in the fog, we go south toward the sea. The sun is just rising when we stop at a lookout point. In front of us, a vertically hillside, and at its foot, the silhouette of a small, onion-domed church is projected against the gray background. The field to the right of the little church is filled with a blanket of clouds. Clouds deep below us. Meanwhile, the sun is rising, and something gleams here and there among the clouds. Soon we realize that it is the sea spread out before us. As the sun rises, the clouds disappear, and the sea is shining in full sunlight. Foros.

We get out of the bus at the edge of a small, poor town. Before of us, beige, crenellated fortress walls. Sudak, the 14th-century fortress of the Genoese merchants. We enter the castle gate, a huge area embraced by a steep curve of rocky mountains. The walls run along the very top of the rocks, with a tower here and there to create a fabled site. Beyond the gate, the mountain rises steeply. We set off to the right, and suddenly among the rocks the sea emerges. I turn to the left, and beyond the cliffs, the sea again. Then I suspect what I soon discover, that our traveling companions who went directly to the highest cliffs, also met the sea above the walls.

Sounds. The song of the muezzin at 5:20 every morning.

Everywhere – even among the rocks rarely visited by people – are well-groomed, well-fed, sleek cats. They come with us. They do not ask for food, but only for company and caressing.

Dorka

Six sentences

1. First we are shocked by the breathtaking natural landscape, which forces us to think about the infinite past – million-year old mountains, chalk cliffs, canyons, basalt columns. Unbelievable shapes and sizes.

2. Then we are amazed by the traces of human life, both in the untouched and the modern landscape, from the already perceivable, but still fabled distant past – cave towns, monasteries, castles, palaces, churches. What colors, what shapes!

3. With the cities you have to work, it is not easy to find beauty in them, but soon you will see the style through the decay.

4. Finally I am astonished to see again the memories of my travel in the Soviet Union some thirty years ago, the tangible traces of socialism recalling ideological and, strangely, comforting memories. But how could it be otherwise? What are these thirty years compared to three hundred and three thousand and thirty million? Merely an instant.

5. I’m really happy to understand the language, more or less. I love its melody, and I’m glad that I can speak a few words with the usually talkative and friendly locals. Why is it that the Russian inscriptions seem more exotic, the old ones too, but especially the scrappy modern ones?

6. And in top of all that, it is so good to speak with my travelling companinos about yesterday, today and tomorrow, while climbing up the mountain and descending into the valley, walking on the promenade and leaning on our elbows at the bar, trembling in the cable car and shaking in the bus, while the landscape, of which we cannot get enough, is just running alongside us.

Kati

Crimea

When I told people in the Netherlands I was going to the Crimea, most of them didn’t exactly know where I was heading. Some Dutch vaguely know of the existence of the Crimea because they have heard of it in school. But nobody I spoke to could pinpoint this region in Europe. That is a pity because this region is beautiful and worth visiting.

If asked how I experienced the trip I can say I loved the Crimea. I could tell about the interesting history, geography, the beautiful landscape, nice climate and our friendly Tatar hosts and the other people. But there are many places in Europe that offer a similar experience. The difference with the rest of Europe for me is that the Crimea is a region that has it all and is a relatively unknown touristic destination in the West. It's not on the beaten path.

In the West the people I know are not so very interested in Eastern Europe. My guess is that language and culture is a barrier. Most Dutch people understand and speak English quite well. To travel in that part of Europe you basicly have to be able to read Cyrillic script and speak some Russian, but Slavic languages such as Russian are just to hard to learn for the occasional visit. The Dutch, if interested in history at all (we are hard working people that like to focus on core business, a term that unfortunately is also applied in our private lives) the focus is on the West. We haven’t learned so much about the East. So a place like the Crimea is something exotic.

Fortunately I had the privilege to travel with a group of Hungarian people that because of the geographic proximity of the their country to the East and their 20th century history bridge East and West. When traveling in Russia (the Crimea has been Russian since 1783 and is still considered by Russians as part of their hinterland) it is quite nice to be in company of group of people that can explain the particular oddities and sensitivities of Russia. Russia is highly exotic, and in my opinion even more than our favourite exotic beach destinations in the far East.

Jan Joost

Two photos

I’m not a great photographer, and I’m quite sure that of everything I’ve photographed there have been made better photos with better cameras. Nevertheless, I send you these two:

The garden of Bakhchisaray with those old vines – not specifically Crimean, but for me nevertheless, they are Crimean.

Sudak from the “ground floor”

Ágnes

What does one get …

…when one’s child is looking for Persian music and literature on the net?!

To Lemberg, then to Odessa, then Maramureș and Bukovina following, interrupted by the Art Nouveau of Szabadka/Subotica, and then lo, she finds herself in the Crimea. More specifically, in the fabulous Bakhchisaray. Thus far it is really fantastic, with the Khan’s palace and the Bakhchisaray Fountain. Then come some smaller and larger surprises, not all of them positive, but never mind: the experience, the details never seen before, and the resulting cohesive whole holds them in balance.

And the Tatars deserve all support. The Crimean Tatars were collectively deported by Stalin, many of them perished, only a handful of them returned to their native land (including our hosts). Each fate, of the living and of the dead, is a bitter one, with real tragedies, of which the traveler speaking no Tatar and just a poor Russian can only scratch the surface. Thus, it is the task of our guide – and organizer of our journey – to let everything roll smoothly, and this is not easy, and sometimes even impossible…

Fantastic scenery, almost forgotten, but wonderfully unique creations of history, Karaim, Tatar and Gothic cave cities (how could they live in them?), Genoese fortresses, interspersed with a few Orthodox cathedrals and chapels and Tatar mosques, and then a series of Crimean palaces, including that of Vorontsov, and of course the Livadiya palace of the Tsars in Yalta, where the memory of Churchill, Stalin and Roosevelt is almost tangible. Then the sea, the Black one (the little brother of the “white” Mediterranean), then the race of the thousand year old Soviet military cars to the spectacular mountain waterfall, but mainly climbing, climbing, and again climbing in the beautiful landscape, on the difficult terrain… If this journey gave me no other experience, then two things are sure: one can sometimes bear more than one would think, and with the heart-warming feeling that in a good group the members sometimes forgot their own fatigue in order to help to each other. It was good to see again the old friends and acquaintances, with whom our relationship has been deepened, and to get to know the new participants. I hope that, in one way or another, we met again.

Anna

Pushkin’s ring

Chufut Kale (Jewish Fortress), the Karaim cave city (Kati’s photo) at the edge of the plateau
with the apses of the two kenasas (Karaim synagogues)

I liked the cave cities the most. It was really a golden autumn, with beautiful colors, and a breathtaking scenery from the top of the mountains. These cities bear witness to a once advanced civilization.

I want to share with you a little story, which I read in a book on the Crimea, that I purchased in Yalta.

Pushkin fell in love with Elizaveta Xaverovna, the wife of Count Vorontsov, governor of Southern Russia. The woman bestowed on the poet one of a pair of golden seal-rings as a token of her love.

The rings were the work of the Karaim jewellers of the famous cave city of Chufut Kale, which we visited.

The seal ring on Pushkin’s finger, and its imprint.
Its inscription is: “Simha, son of the venerable old Rabbi Yosef, let his memory be blessed”

As Két Sheng has pointed out, the above Hebrew transliteration was erroneous as published, from left to right. This is the correct form:
שמחה בכ"ר
יוסף הזקן ז"ל
And with expanded abbreviations:
שמחה בן כבוד רבי
יוסף הזקן זכרונו לברכה

Pushkin wore this ring until the end of his life, and he sealed with it his intimate letters. When he was killed in the duel, his friend Vasily Zhukovsky removed it from his finger and he preserved it until the end of his life. He left it to Turgenev with the condition that he should give it over to Lev Tolstoy. However, this did not happen, because the lover of Turgenev, the Spanish-born French singer Pauline Viardot García donated it to the St. Petersburg Lyceum, where Pushkin had studied. Unfortunately, the school was plundered in 1917, and the ring disappeared.

The ring’s companion was left by Vorontsova to her son, who probably suspected nothing of the romantic story, and he probably squandered it somewhere.

The ring was drawn by Pushkin, and he also wrote a poem about it with the title Save me, my talisman (Hrani menya moy talizman).

Pushkin’s drawing of the ring and Vorontsova

Pushkin: Храни меня, мой талисман (Save me, my talizman). Song of V. Strannik from the film Сгорая пламенем любви (Burning in love’s flames, 2008) about the loves of Pushkin.

Храни меня, мой талисман, Храни меня во дни гоненья, Во дни раскаянья, волненья: Ты в день печали был мне дан.

My talisman, pray, be my guard, In days of strongest agitation, Of prosecution, lamentation: The day, I've owned you, was hard.

Eszter