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Reflecting on My Russian Heritage during the War in Ukraine BY MAYA KAPLUN
I hope the war will end and a whole new generation of children will once again witness the transformation of weapons of destruction into tools of comfort and creation.
The “clicks” and “clanks” of Soviet-Era military-grade aluminum reverberate in the air, though the sound comes from an unexpected source, the oreshnitsa. It is not a tool of destruction but rather creation, a harmless cookie skillet originally produced in place of weaponry during post-Soviet demilitarization. The oreshnitsa came into my family’s possession towards the end of the Cold War and since has stood the test of time.
As I hold the oreshnitsa over the stove, the sweet smell of dough and caramel drifts into my nose. While I wait for the dough to bake, I cannot help but think of the significant milestones the skillet witnessed, namely, the collapse of the Soviet Union, my parents’ immigration to the United States, and my family building a life in Rhode Island, the state with the motto “Hope” etched onto its flag. For the last seventeen years, I’ve been afforded the luxury of peace and the ability to display my heritage without hesitation. However, the moment Russia stepped onto Ukrainian soil in February of 2022, the culture I once carried with great pride became a bitter component of my life.
From a young age, I continuously placed my Russian-Jewish heritage on a pedestal. Being the child of two immigrants was a tremendous source of pride. Every holiday season, I strode into school carrying platters upon platters of oreshnitsa cookies as gifts for my teachers and friends. At show-and-tell ceremonies, I boasted about my lineage while displaying unique heirlooms, not knowing the deeper history behind the items. In high school, I wanted to continue to share the lesser-known customs of my heritage that I’ve adored throughout my life. As president of the World Language Club, I excitedly planned a meeting revolving around Russian traditions.
However, all these plans came to a screeching halt when the war in Ukraine began. I believed teaching about an oppressive country, no matter the cultural richness, was insensitive to the millions whose lives were upended all around the world. My heart panged with devastation. I felt my affiliation to my Russian heritage made me complicit in an unjust war. My parents and I spent months reading news article after news article, discussing the developments from the frontlines. I felt mortified. The culture I once proudly represented in my community became a major source of shame. It was no longer okay to weave Russian words into my daily lingo in public. It was no longer okay for my history teacher to jokingly call me “Russian friend”. Even the oreshnitsa cookies, once a symbol of prosperity and freedom, now became tainted.
Instead of desperately trying to compartmentalize my school and personal lives, I decided to act. I spent numerous days working on a new curriculum for my club to support Ukraine and increase cultural awareness in my community. I knew no matter how small my task was, teaching others can and will always make a difference. For the first time since February, I feel hopeful. I am starting to recognize my culture does not define my entire livelihood. No one’s identity should be reduced to the unjust actions of a select few. I now know I can take action, and, most importantly, I can persevere and inspire others to hope. My parents came to the United States as refugees with very few tangible items, but with an abundance of hope. They desired a better future for their children in a country and state founded on those same principles. So now, as I look at my precious oreshnitsa I feel joy again. I hope the war will end and a whole new generation of children will once again witness the transformation of weapons of destruction into tools of comfort and creation. “They shall beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks; One nation shall not raise the sword against another, nor shall they train for war again” (Isaiah 2:4). Until hope is lost, my spirit can never be taken.