In holiday seasons like these, my thoughts often drift towards home and the gatherings of family and friends. Our previous flat was very quiet – which was nice, but it also meant that I never heard evidence of others around me enjoying the camaraderie of holidays in the home. Last night was the start of a 4-day weekend celebrating the 20th anniversary of Kazakhstan’s independence. The living room above where I am currently camped had a crowd of people over, including many children with happy little feet, and there was laughter, boisterous conversation and let’s-see-who-can-jump-off-the-highest-piece-of-furniture games. Pretending I was at home among the chaos of my large family, I was finally able to trick myself into drifting off to sleep. I was just at that crucial tipping point between wakefulness and sleep when I was jolted awake by an extra-ordinary noise from above. An accordion? Really? But it’s midnight!
Yes. An accordion, belting out what I can only describe as a Russian polka complete with obligatory foot stomping. Then came the melancholic slow verse where a roomful of very enthusiastic, but non-musical singers joined in. Even though I wasn’t there, I could see their faces. The far off look in their eye as they were transported to another time, a time of war and famine and general hardship, but a time that was better because it was in their youth. Reveling in suffering, enjoying the deep emotion of an awareness of being alive; a mix of heart–thumping joy and gut-wrenching sorrow that the Russian culture does so well. I don’t quite know how to describe it. Perhaps this language of the “stiff upper lippers” is ill-equipped to do so. But there must be a Slavic ancestor or two in my blood, because I was able to lie there and wallow in the pathos. At least, for a few rounds of verses and choruses! As the clock rolled past 1:00, however, the part of my blood-line that I share with Queen Victoria took over. "We were not amused."
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