Identity by choice
I first heard this sequence of words ― “identity by choice” ― in a conversation with Andriy Shkrabyuk. We talked about Bruno Schultz, a Polish writer who lived and wrote in 20th century. Andriy was the first to translate into Ukrainian the entire corpus of Schultz's stories ― Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass and Cinnamon Shops.
Bruno Schultz, an ethnic Jew, and a citizen of the Austro-Hungarian Empire was born and lived all his life in the territory that is today Ukraine. He spoke German fluently, but was undoubtedly a Pole, a Polish writer; he chose to write in Polish, thus emphasizing his belonging to Polish culture.
I found this idea—identity by choice--very interesting. It signals so much freedom, but also maturity and sense of responsibility.
Still, identity is not a topic we think about every day. The modern civilized world, with its openness and virtuality, makes it easy to not think about where one belongs. The borders are open, and tourism encourages one to travel the world, get to know different cultures, integrate, learn, take from the world everything it offers, and it does offer a lot; it doesn't matter who you are and where you came from, the main thing that matters is that you are here and what interests you. From a person, the modern global world creates, as if from a rib, a cosmopolitan personality. The laws of the market create a being for whom the general human is more important than the national, trying to leave only the essence of the biological species homo sapiens - an inquisitive, open, inventive creature skilled at adapting. Unification opens up market opportunities: let's globalize, unify, become part of the whole world.
Without a doubt, I am among those who are tempted by such an opportunity: I adapt easily, get used to and have learned to feel good anywhere. I feel comfortable in spaces I've never been in before. I can walk through a new city guided not by maps but by architecture alone, choosing houses or monuments and building my route that way - between buildings, squares, parks. My home is where I am.
In fact, I called “home” every place in which I lived for more than a few weeks. I remember each of these as a home in which I felt comfortable, good, safe - as a home should be. It's a phenomenal feeling. I miss each and every one of them.
When traveling, it is enough to only bring along a few things, packed the day before in a roomy black shoulder bag whose Columbia brand patch numerous straps, locks, and pockets, which so conveniently fit everything necessary for a long trip. Seventy liters in which you can fit everything you need. Seventy liters--enough volume to contain a life.
What's in this shoulder bag? What's inside his black dry cube? What is life for me? Every time, something predictable. the same and logical sets. Clothes and hygiene products--of course. Computer and phone—yes. Documents— where can we go without them? And, of course, a book. What is it called, who wrote it? At this moment, memory turns as if a kaleidoscope: the book cover is overflowing with names and titles. It overflows with pictures - because these books are endless. What is it called, who wrote it? In this regard, my memory is like a kaleidoscope, in which the tens or even hundreds of books I took on a trip rotate. Each of these books is like a different image in a kaleidoscope. And just as a kaleidoscope has hundreds of image variations, so there were hundreds of books in my travels. Yes, every time I go on a trip, I take a book with me.
I read on trains and station platforms, in buses and hotels. In this way, the landscapes and spaces that surround me on the road are superimposed on fragments of the text and then forever associate with each other and remind of each other. For me, one of the biggest fears is to find myself in a situation where I won’t be able to read in my native language—hence the book in hard copy that comes with me on every trip. The longer this journey, the bigger the book. Or several of them. All the places I lived in, the places I called my home, are also the books I read there. And vice versa.
A bungalow house on an island in the South China Sea, Thailand. The air is filled with gentle tropical heat. A sliver of the sea is always visible from the spacious terrace, only five minutes away on the scooter parked next to the house. The plastic chairs on the terrace are comfortable. You can put your feet on the handrails and sit perfectly. What am I reading on this terrace? Galápagos by Kurt Vonnegut. An American novel translated into the Ukrainian. A studio apartment with high ceilings on the third floor in the center of Warsaw; windows overlooking the inner courtyard; when my neighbors and I open our windows, we see each other's apartments. Through the windows you can also see the tallest buildings in the city center, the business center of Warsaw. In this room, everything is compact, organized, and modern. The design is high-tech. The table is next to the window, I read there, because it has a lot of daylight. I am reading Bruno Schulz for the first time, his Cinnamon Shops and Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass. Polish stories translated into Ukrainian. And another house on the southern coast of Sri Lanka - a white villa with a large open veranda on the second floor. It is best to read here at dawn, when the sun just appears above the horizon. At that point there still is a state of what might be called mild heat, when heat is just beginning. In this morning haze, I am reading Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel García Márquez. A Colombian novel translated from the Spanish into the Ukrainian. On the intercontinental plane, I read Herman Melville's Moby-Dick. At the airport in Doha, where I wait four hours for the next flight, I read Franz Kafka's Amerika. On the ferry that takes me from the mainland to the island - Three Men in a Boat (To Say Nothing of the Dog), by Jerome K. Jerome.
What is it that unites these books, by writers who wrote in English, German, Spanish? What does--for me--unite Mark Twain from Connecticut, Marquez from Aracataca, Kafka from Prague, Vonnegut from Indianapolis, and Cape Cod? They are united by the language in which I read them - Ukrainian. In Poland, Thailand, Sri Lanka and in the Ukraine - I read them in Ukrainian. Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain was brilliantly translated by Iryna Steshenko, Galápagos by Kurt Vonnegut - by Vadim Khazin, the stories by Bruno Schulz by Yuri Andrukhovych (his translation of Bruno Schulz being the most recent), Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel García Márquez by Victor Shovkun, Moby-Dick by Yuriy Lisnyak, Amerika by Yuriy Prokhasko, Three Men in a Boat again by Yuriy Lisnyak again.
The books I take with me on trips are different, but they are always in Ukrainian. And this element is the most valuable. I feel good everywhere in the world, because with me is my language. My home is my language. That is what defines my identity--not the political one indicated by my passport, but the essential one. I can be anywhere and anyone, but language defines who I really am. Long ago, on long journeys, travelers used to take a handful of earth from home with them, which they kept with them at all times. On my long journeys, books in Ukrainian become such a handful of land - a familiar alphabet, familiar words. If it is a lonely journey, the book becomes my companion, my interlocutor. It speaks Ukrainian with me and that's enough to make me feel comfortable. In a cosmopolitan world, in which there are fewer borders, in which you can adapt easily and quickly, language becomes my home and my refuge. It is a mirror of my identity, It is a beacon of my belonging. My flag, my banner, my symbol.
Of course, if we are strong in spirit, persistent, flexible, educated, ready to learn and accept the values of another culture, we can choose who to be, where to live, what to call ourselves. But one way or another, that basic identity always remains with us. It is in dreams and memories, gestures, manner of behavior, in the rituals and traditions rooted in us. It is in the language we speak on a daily basis, in which it is easiest and most pleasant for us to read books.
I choose to be a person of the world who identifies himself as a Ukrainian. However, in this big modern world, there is enough space for something negative, for the opposite: for non-acceptance of otherness, for oppression, racism, anti-Semitism, and much more. When, for instance, identity is chosen for you, when your originality is not recognized, when you are killed for it. The writer Bruno Schultz was shot dead in 1942. He was returning home late one evening. Drohobych, the town where he was born and lived, had already been occupied by Nazi troops for three years. Schulz was stopped by Gestapo officer Karl Günter. In a moment, he shot Bruno Schultz with his service pistol. Bruno Schulz chose to be a Polish writer. But the Gestapo officer Karl Günter saw in him another identity—a Jewish one. He did not give Schultz the opportunity to choose, he chose for him, and this choice became fatal for Schultz.
Human history is full of such alien choices.
On February 24, 2022, Russia launched a full-scale invasion of the territory of Ukraine with the aim of seizing it, joining it to the Russian Federation and liquidating the sovereign Ukrainian state. They chose our identity over us: Ukraine does not exist, there is no Ukrainian identity.
This is also an identity by choice, only not ours—someone else's.
We defend the right to choose ourselves. And among the enormity of what we are fighting for today: the right to read Huckleberry Finn, Moby-Dick, Love in the Time of Cholera and all other books in the world in Ukrainian and to do so in any corner of the planet. Even when we feel like citizens of the world.
Someday, we will travel the world, settle where we like, choose who we are and what we are called, as should be done in the free world. But the most important thing is that this choice will be ours, personal, free.
For this, we must win. To win, we must be strong. And this applies not only to us, Ukrainians. it applies to everyone. The only possibility of own choice is power. If you want to be someone, you have to be strong. So be strong, persistent, stubborn, indomitable. hoose your identity and surround it with symbols important to you—language, faith, memory, family ties. To be free in this choice is the highest dignity of being human.
Roman MALYNOVSKY is a Ukrainian writer and editor-in-chief of the Library of Babel publishing house, which he co-founded in 2014. His first short story collection Солодке життя [Sweet Life] was published by Meridian Czernowitz and included by PEN Ukraine on the list of the Best Ukrainian Books of 2021. His work has been featured in Mayday Magazine, The New England Review, Harper’s Bazaar Ukraine, Apofenie, Versopolis, and elsewhere.