>> Grant Harris: Well, welcome
to the Library of Congress.
Good afternoon.
My name is Grant Harris.
I am chief of the
European Division.
And I thank you for joining
us today for this event,
International Writing Program,
Celebrating Women's Voices.
The Library of Congress'
Poetry and Literature Center
and the European Division
cosponsor this event
in partnership with the
International Writing Program
at the University of Iowa and
with the Bureau of Educational
and Cultural Affairs,
which is part
of the U.S. Department of State.
The European Division is
excited to be part of this.
We enjoy having programs
with the Poetry
and Literature Center, and it's
great to be able to collaborate
with the University of
Iowa's literature program
and the Department of State.
The library has extensive
collections from
and about every country
in the world,
and that is certainly
true for the countries
of our three women writers
who will present today.
Having these poets, short story
writers, and novelists here
from Macedonia, Russia,
and Ukraine,
countries where Slavic
languages are used,
helps bring our collections
alive.
The library already has
numerous publications by two
of the writers, and we
actually have a couple
of donations just
now from the third,
so we're well represented.
We've collected the
whole set now.
So, please know that the
collections of the Library
of Congress are open to
everyone and we would like you
to come back and use them.
I remind you now to
turn off your cellphones
and recording devices for
the duration of the program.
Also, please know that
this is being recorded
for a later Library
of Congress webcast.
When we have the question
and answer session
after the main presentations,
understand that if you ask a
question you are consenting
to be part of the webcast.
I now give the floor
to Mr. Robert Augburn,
Director of the Office
of Citizen Exchanges
at the U.S. Department of State.
[ Applause ]
>> Robert Augburn: Well,
thank you very much, Grant,
and good afternoon, everyone.
On behalf of the U.S.
State Department,
I would like to thank the
Library of Congress so much
for hosting us today,
and for all of you
for coming out and attending.
It's especially exciting to
welcome the prestigious writers
from the IWP, the
International Writing Program,
who will share their work in a
place that, here in the Library
of Congress, that is so
significant to our country.
I'd like to congratulate
all the writers who are here
on your selection
and participation
in this year's IWP
fall residency,
and we're very honored that
you could take the time
to participate in it.
You know, we, at the
State Department,
as the representatives of
America abroad, we get it.
We understand the
value of literature,
freedom of expression, and
creativity, and we believe
that this program helps
to support strong
civil society voices
in communities around the world.
So, once again, I'm grateful
that you've taken time
to participate in the program
and really look forward
to hearing about your
experiences here in the U.S.
and some the influences
behind your work.
As I've hoped you've
experienced during your time
in the U.S. this autumn,
we're a country of many voices
and many stories,
and we're delighted
that during your
time here in America
that you've had the opportunity
to add your own stories
and experience firsthand
some of ours.
We're also, at the State
Department, very honored
to be working with the
prestigious International
Writing Program at the
University of Iowa.
The IWP staff has
just done wonderful
in their continued
work on the program.
And through our partnership
with the IWP we hope
to enable writers
around the world
to strengthen their voices.
You know, for more than 60
years the U.S. government has
supported exchange programs
that have brought citizens
from around the world to the
U.S., and has sent millions
of Americans abroad, and
writers are often the people
who shape the narratives
in their countries.
So, your willingness to share
your own expertise is very
much appreciated.
It's my pleasure now to
hand over the microphone
to Professor Christopher
Merrill.
He's the Director of the IWP
at the University of Iowa.
He has conducted cultural
diplomacy missions to more
than 50 countries, and
readers around the world,
in more than 40 languages,
have enjoyed your poetry
and your nonfiction and
you've done wonderful service
for the UN National
Commission for UNESCO,
and you're an appointee
to the National Council
on the Humanities.
So, thank you so much.
[ Applause ]
>> Christopher Merrill:
Thank you, Robert.
Thank you, Grant.
Welcome all.
I also want to acknowledge
partners here
from the U.S. State Department,
Jay Rahman, Nina Murray,
Jill Staggs, our
longtime Program Officer.
My gratitude to Rob
Caspar [assumed spelling]
and Anya Creighton
[assumed spelling],
who make this place available
for the writers to come
at the very end of a
three-month long residency.
The writers, this year, we had
28 writers from 27 countries.
We say to them on the first
day of the fall residency
that their main mission
is to write.
I hope that by the
end of the time
in Iowa city they will have
written many new pages,
have made many new friends, and
gathered many new impressions
about life in America and
about the literary traditions
of the writers they
share this space with.
We also give them a
bit of a busy schedule.
We don't demand that
they do everything,
but we try to make it
as enticing as possible,
so time does run short, I think.
So, today the writers you see
here on the stage are going
to give short readings and then
we'll open it up for discussion.
I'll have some questions,
but I hope that this can
become a robust conversation
between all of us.
Just a quick introduction
of the writers.
You have fuller bios here.
Alisa Ganieva, right here to
my left, is a fiction writer,
critic, journalist,
from Dagestan in Russia.
Among the books that she has
published in English are Bride
and Groom and The
Mountain and The Wall.
Her very first book;
however, Salaam, Dalgat,
which tells the story of the
life of a young Dagestani male,
brought her to prominence
in an interesting way.
It was published under
a male pseudonym.
It won the prestigious
debut prize out of something
like 65,000 entrants,
and there was a lag time
between the announcement
of the winner
and the ceremony giving her
the prize, during which a lot
of speculation abounded
in Moscow about,
who is this young
Dagestani male writer?
So, you can imagine the
surprise when Alisa turned
up to accept the prize.
Next to her is Rumena
Buzarovska,
who is a Macedonian
fiction writer, editor,
translator, and professor.
She has a Ph.D. from the United
States in American literature.
I learned over the
course of the residency
that in profound ways she
embodies that very conflict
that we know about between
Macedonia and Greece
over the name of this country,
because on her mother's side
of the family she is Greek.
Her first book in English
translation will come
out next year called,
My Husband.
And sitting next to her
is Kateryna Babkina,
fiction writer, poet,
playwright,
filmmaker from Ukraine.
She published her first
book at the age of 17,
and for American writers
that's enough to make you want
to slit your wrists to hear
stories like that [laughter].
And part of what we do in
the IWP in a UNESCO city
of literature, as Iowa city is,
is we hope that we have
cross-fertilization
of international writers in
discourse with American writers,
and when they hear that somebody
like Kateryna published a book
at 17, you can imagine the
collective sigh or chagrin.
She's published three short
story collections, four volumes
of poetry, two novels, and
during the fall residency we got
to see part of a film that
she made, the proceeds
from which were dedicated to
raising money for the treatment
of pancreatic cancer for
children in the Ukraine.
So, Alisa, Rumena,
Kateryna, the floor is yours.
First Alisa.
>> Alisa Ganieva:
Hello, everyone.
It's a tremendous honor for
me to be in this library,
in this greatest
library in the world.
And thank you, Chris, for
your generous introduction.
I'll read two short
excerpts from my book,
which is called Bride and Groom.
And this, you may guess, from
the title, it's dedicated
to the matrimonial institution
in my native region of Caucasus,
or Dagestan, which is
in the south of Russia,
and which became a part
of Russia 150 years
ago, quite recently.
Iyeda [assumed spelling] strode
over to us tapping her
heels hollowly on the floor
and issued a command, don't
you dare try to keep it secret.
If you meet a guy in
Shala, tell him the truth.
I'm not going to
meet anyone else,
Amishka [assumed spelling],
buried her face into the pillow
and burst out sobbing again.
What do you mean, won't meet
anyone, thundered Iyeda,
though I'm sure she
didn't believe it herself.
First of all, you could
still get Kareem [assumed
spelling] back.
Threaten him, pin
him to the wall.
No way, he'll tell everyone.
He's going to do that anyway,
I couldn't stop myself.
He's already proclaimed
it to the rooftops
that you've lost your owner.
Iyeda jabbed me with her elbow,
sat down next to Amishka,
and stroked her on the back.
Don't be upset, Amishka,
it won't help.
There are all kinds
of guys out there.
There are even some
here in the settlement
who could care less whether
you are virgin or not.
You're lying, Amishka,
blurted out amid her tears.
Lying? Take, Rusik
[assumed spelling] who lives
across the tracks, the one
who takes tango lessons.
Boo-hoo [phonetic],
Amishka just kept bawling.
Look at her, boo-hoo, though
in this case you're right,
they that Rusik doesn't
believe in Allah.
But there are others, Mordan
[assumed spelling], cool guys,
but the main thing is, don't
try to keep it a secret.
Why, Amishka looked
up from the pillow?
Well, first of all, Kareem
might go see your new fiance
and blab everything,
or show at tape.
Did he take any videos?
I don't know, Amishka
burst into tears again.
Well, let's say he
didn't take any pictures
and won't tell anyone, but
then doctors might let it slip.
What do you mean, doctors?
Just listen.
One of our relatives in the
city found a fiance for her son.
Everything's fine.
Everyone is happy.
And after the wedding, a
month goes by, and she runs
into a gynecologist
friend of hers.
The friend congratulates her
and starts questioning her
about the girl, where they
found her, what her name is,
and it turns out that this
fiance was one of her clients
and she had come in
for a hymenoplasty.
So, this relative goes
ballistic, rushes home,
grabs her daughter-in-law
by the hair, and throws her
out the door, and
she was pregnant,
though our relatives
refused to recognize the baby
because they didn't
know whose it was.
Did her parents take
her back, I asked?
Of course not.
She had to go to
Rostov or to Astrakhan
to start a whole new life.
Amishka lay forlorn and crushed.
She had been her
family's favorite.
It was hard to imagine
her [inaudible]
out of the comfortable life
without friends or
anyone who cared.
There are some girls, she
sat quietly and haltingly,
stopping to swallow
the lump in his throat,
like that prostitute,
Angela [assumed spelling].
They run around,
ride in guys cars
with practically nothing
on, spend all their time
in nightclubs, and then,
as though nothing happened,
they put on a veil and become
someone's second or third wife.
Don't judge veiled women based
on Angela's example,
Iyeda frowned.
That's not the point.
It's just that even the
worst of them can get lucky.
But, me, I fell in love,
made a mistake, trusted him.
I also remembered Angela,
she was the daughter
of a divorced woman who worked
as a janitor in the
local prison.
She was the talk of the town.
Rumor had it that [inaudible]
himself had seduced Angela back
in her youth.
After that she passed
from one man to another,
evidently feeling no
shame for her behavior.
I had seen her cruising
down [inaudible] Avenue
in the backseat of a car full
of carousing young men howling
with laughter, or coming back
from the city on the main road
for some reason on foot in a
short skirt, smiling alluringly
at all the guys she passed
under a chorus of catcalls.
What? Did Angela take the
veil, I couldn't help asking?
She did, blabbered Amishka,
and some bigshot crook took
her as his second wife.
He comes out to visit
her sometimes.
Impossible.
My thoughts were all jumbled up.
Maybe you should
take the veil, too?
[inaudible] I was angry.
[Inaudible] what are
you talking about?
If Amishka covers it's not
because that Angela did it.
I heard a shrieking
sound and shuddered.
Amishka was laughing
hysterically, snorting
and beating her hands
and feet on the bed.
She was trying to say something,
but we couldn't understand
a word.
Iyeda ran out again
and brought some water.
The poor girl calmed
down for a second,
but then burst into tears again.
What are you blabbering about?
Stop howling and tell
us, Iyeda chided her.
Amishka buried her face
in the pillow again.
It's just that I think I'll
have to be part of a hard-sell,
forced on men as a bonus, or
like [inaudible], remember her.
What, [inaudible]?
What? You don't remember her?
They lived at the station.
Her eldest sister was gorgeous,
but [inaudible] was cross-eyed,
scrawny, and hideous to look at,
though basically a
nice person [laughter].
And? And, so, these matchmakers
come from [inaudible].
They are after the eldest
sister, the pretty one.
But on the day of the wedding
the bride's mother switched her
out for [inaudible], because
no one would have taken
her otherwise.
She was under the bridal veil
and so they didn't
notice anything.
So, then what?
Did they send her back?
No, they left her
in [inaudible].
The mother-in-law
taunted her for five years
until she gave her a grandson.
She was a kind person and,
ultimately, they got used
to her, came to love her,
and now supposedly her husband
treats her like a queen.
So, you see, I smiled, a
happy ending [laughter].
And there's another excerpt.
After Marat's [assumed
spelling] mother got out
and they pulled away
from the store,
the two friends were
finally alone.
[Inaudible] burst out laughing.
What made you think, Marat,
that my cousin would
be right for you?
She's a real dragon.
Don't you remember that
time she came out to see me?
Marat did remember.
Sabrina [assumed spelling]
had come just once.
They were about nine years old.
The girls had a tea
party for their dolls
in [inaudible] making
[inaudible] cutlets and soup
out of water and
soggy bread crumbs.
Little Sabrina spent the whole
time whining and complaining.
Nothing satisfied her.
She needed to switch the dolls.
She refused to be the guest and
insisted on being the hostess.
Then the boys raided the party
like a plague of locusts,
knocking the neatly groomed and
dressed dolls from their chairs,
tipping the table over,
sending the refreshments flying,
and made off with the soup,
the only thing that was edible.
Marat seemed to recall that
[inaudible] had been with them.
[Inaudible] assured
that he hadn't been.
You are mixing him up with
Abduliv [assumed spelling].
Really? Maybe so.
How's Abduliv these days?
He's got his engagement
party in a few days.
You're going to, Aunt Hadija
[assumed spelling] said so.
Oh, yes, I remember.
Yes, I am.
He's so gullible.
I could make him
believe anything,
all kinds of weird stories that
I had heard in court, though,
who knows, maybe they were true.
Anything can happen.
For example, filthy stuff,
you wouldn't like it.
I expect nothing less from
you, Shah [assumed spelling].
All right then, he's one.
My colleagues told me
about a security guard
who raped a woman, a janitor,
in a village school, or rather,
she said that he had raped her,
but the guard claimed
that she consented.
That's the second time today
this topic has come up,
Marat smirked.
Anyway, this janitor stands by
her story, says she screamed
and tried to get away.
They decide to check it out.
The teachers would
have heard her
if she really had made a fuss.
They conducted an
experiment, Shah chortled.
What's so funny?
Picture this, they set up
everything the way it was
on that day and had them
act the whole thing out,
and the defendant up and
raped her again [laughter].
What the -- I kid you not.
They fired the prosecutor
for it.
Are all your fables
below the belt?
[Inaudible] don't play naive.
There was one more story.
This one supposedly
took place in the city
in the police detective's
office, also rape.
Shah, who does a better job
of entertaining you
than I do, Marat?
So, anyway, this one
involves a carrot.
It was material evidence
and was on a shelf
in the investigator's office.
This coworker comes
in and he's hungry.
Don't tell me he
eats the carrot?
Shah [inaudible] again.
They drove past construction
sites, canopied [inaudible],
and highway petrol
posts barricaded
on all sides with sandbags.
Drowsy soldiers holding
automatic weapons peered
out from behind the sandbags.
So, who is Abduliv
going to marry?
Marat leaned back in his
seat, a regular girl.
I, myself, helped investigate,
check up on her past.
Everything nice and clean.
Though Abduliv has gotten
himself in some deep shit.
There's a girl on the side and
she's about to have a baby.
What? He's a jackass.
When we were in graduate school
he kept wanting to copy me,
envying my success
with the ladies,
and he would spend
his entire stipend
on this one prostitute
once a month,
because that was the only
way he could get laid.
Shah, again, [inaudible]
his strong, white teeth.
I knew about that, Marat said.
I used to get on
his case about it.
Know what else he used to
do, Shah was on a roll?
He'd buy some Viagra in the
drugstore, gulp it down,
then go to the [inaudible]
to the prostitute.
The point was, he could plow
her several times in a row
and save money that
way [laughter].
Marat couldn't stop himself and
joined in friend's laughter.
Abduliv really was an idiot.
What about the girl
who got pregnant?
Did the -- did he buy her off?
It's the prostitute [inaudible]
and she's threatened to come
to the matchmaking ceremony
with her brothers
and ruin everything.
Does the bride know about it?
Not yet, but she will soon,
Shah smacked his
lips and fell silent.
Thank you.
[ Applause ]
>> Rumena Ruzarovska: Hello.
I'm very honored to be here.
Thank you for inviting me, and
also I'm very happy to be part
of the International
Writing Program.
On a matrimonial note, I
will also read a short story
that is the opening sort of
my book called My Husband,
which is 11 short stories
narrated from the perspective
of the wife in the marriage.
And this one was written
in bout of kind of anger,
and it then propelled
the entire book.
My husband, The Poet.
I met Gohran [assumed
spelling] at a poetry festival.
His hair was already
turning white.
It's totally white now.
And I think he hopes this adds
to his new sex appeal,
as he once called it.
He said it as a joke, but I
think he actually meant it.
I wanted to ask if his
thinning hair and his scalp,
with the color and sheen
of lumpy, hardened wax,
were also part of his new sex
appeal, but I stopped myself.
He's not good at
taking criticism.
He gets mad quickly, and
when he's mad he starts
with the insults.
This lasts for days until
I do something self-abasing
to stop him from being
unbearable, such as,
accidentally reciting a
line from one of his poems.
The other day he got really
mad at me when I refused
to read the poems he had
written the night before.
I don't have time now.
How about tomorrow, I told him?
So, you don't have
time for three poems?
I felt the anger in his voice
and right away felt
sorry I turned him down,
but it was already too late.
From now on, he'd take
anything I'd say the wrong way,
so I kept quiet.
All right then, go and
nerd out all you want,
he said, slamming the door.
He tells me to nerd out whenever
I'm preparing to teach one
of my classes, meaning
if I really knew
history I wouldn't have
to prepare for class.
You either know it or you
don't, he once told me
with a rude look on his face.
When it comes to his poems
I really don't know --
I really don't want to read
them, let alone listen to them.
He used to subject me
to that torture, too.
When we still loved each
other and before we had kids,
we would make love and afterward
he would whisper poems in my ear
as we lay there all
sweaty and out of breath.
His poems were always
about flowers of some kind,
about orchids, because they
reminded him of pussies,
about southern winds,
or about the sea,
and there'd always be a
reference to some exotic spices
and fabrics, like
cinnamon and velvet.
Sorry. Something along the lines
of, my taste was like cinnamon,
my skin was like velvet, for
example, or that my hair smelled
like the sea, which
I know isn't true
since my mother told
me that my hair stank.
Either way, in those moments,
his words used to
really turn me on.
I'd get excited and want
to make love to him again,
and even though he often
couldn't do it right away,
I would repeat his
images and words
to myself and get turned on.
He doesn't do that
anymore, thank the Lord.
I find his poetry so
repulsive that I don't want
to read a single line of it, let
alone listen to him reciting it.
Sadly, that's something
I still have to do since,
as I already said, Gohran
tends to get really mad
and I don't want to expose
our kids to these fights,
or myself for that matter.
Ever since we stopped making
love as much as before,
he's been reading his
poems aloud to me instead
of letting me read
them on my own.
I'd watch him standing in
the middle of the living room
under the bright light
of the ceiling lamp,
which emphasized bulbous
nose and ashy complexion,
and it slowly started
to dawn on me
that his poetry really
wasn't very good at all.
Much of it isn't about
anything other than himself
and how he writes poetry.
I think it seriously
turns him on, literally.
Here's an example.
The scent she carries
is like autumn,
dissolving like drops
of rain in her eyes.
The words make this poem mine.
Maybe this isn't
the best example,
but it's if the only
one I know by heart.
Chris, you're making me --
I know why you're
laughing [laughter].
I'm sorry.
[ Laughter ]
Because I sometimes happen
to accidentally recite
the last three lines,
the words [laughter] make
this poem mine, in an effort
to get him to stop
being mad at me.
I hum them rather, which
especially strokes his ego
since he's always
wanted a musician
to put his poetry to music.
He doesn't realize this
would actually be impossible.
His poems have no rhythm
and often no meaning either.
They're just strings of empty
words carelessly thrown together
into verses so that the
uninitiated can spot some exotic
word like cinnamon or velvet
and think his poetry
really is all that.
That's what I used to think,
too, back when I was still young
and stupid and fell
for such tricks.
God, was I stupid.
It really is incredible.
I just can't forgive
myself for it.
Anyway, I was talking
about how we met.
As I already said, it
was at a poetry festival.
I was working there
as a translator,
which was something
I used to do as a way
to make some money before
I started to teach history.
One evening in the lobby of the
big hotel where all the poets
and translators were staying,
we all gathered and sang songs.
I now realized that all
the poets were showing off.
Not only did they write
poetry, these sensitive souls,
but they also understood
traditional music.
They had a musical ear
and they could sing.
That was when Gohran
appeared, too.
Fitting with the
style of the evening,
he wore a white shirt
embroidered
with a traditional
folklore pattern.
I have to admit, he
really did look good in it.
Gohran, after all,
was very handsome.
Now that I think about it,
that was the reason I
fell in love with him.
His chest was like an
exquisitely shaped sculpture,
and his shoulders and arms
were so strong and hairy
that they made you wish
he'd never let you go,
that he'd hold you
inside them forever
and carry you off somewhere.
Anyway, Gohran didn't
sit with everyone else,
but a little apart,
leaning against a wall
with his head tilted to the
side, observing the group.
Suddenly seizing the moment
when everybody had quieted down,
he straightened up and
started singing a folk song.
It surely must have been
[speaking foreign language].
As I later found out, that's
the only one he knows.
With his theatrical
hollering, his eyes closed,
his head thrown back, and the
apple of his throat bobbing up
and down, he looked
like a crowing rooster.
I found him ridiculous,
but at the same time couldn't
stop looking at his arms
and his chest, imagining
him grabbing a hold of me.
When he was done singing people
clapped and he looked my way.
His eyes were a little
teary, probably as a result
of the exertion from
all the crowing.
Back then I thought they
were full of sorrow.
I felt an urge to console him.
That evening I consoled
him in his room,
and that's how the
whole thing started.
He's still going to poetry
festivals all the time.
He goes whenever his
work allows it, which,
by the way, he's lousy at.
I can only imagine what he does
that these poetry festivals.
First of all, he brings
along half a suitcase
of his thin little poetry books
with their cheap
laminated covers.
He's had most of them translated
into English and into several
of the Balkan languages so that
foreigners can understand his
meaningless blabbering.
The language I speak doesn't
interest him, which is why,
as if by some miracle,
he's never asked me
to translate for him.
And besides, he thinks
I'm no good at poetry,
that I don't get it, since I've
been showing little interest
in his endeavors lately.
The translations of his
poems, though, are terrible,
not in terms of content.
His poems are already void
of any content, as they are,
but they're full of
grammatical mistakes, too.
This is because of
his stinginess.
He wants to have his
poems translated,
but doesn't want to pay for it.
So, he finds some poor girls
and, after seducing them
with his mature sex appeal, he
gets them to translate his poems
for free, or for
a miserable fee.
I overheard him haggling
with them a few times,
offering them copies of
his book as compensation.
I find this completely
embarrassing, but what can I do?
Every time he comes back
from his poetry festivals he
shows me the pictures of his --
on his digital camera.
He usually gives the camera
to somebody else and asks them
to take pictures of him.
So, he has a lot of pictures
of himself reciting
poetry while standing
on a podium behind a
microphone and holding one
of his ugly little
books in his hand.
His poetic expression is
captured in all the pictures.
I tell him this openly
since, for some reason,
it seems to flatter him.
His eyebrows are slightly
raised, but one's higher
than the other, as if he
were simultaneously concerned
and moved.
His chest is sticking out.
His hair is always freshly
washed, usually blowing
in the springtime breeze
of the coastal little town whose
festival he especially likes
the frequent.
The other pictures often
show women, actually,
they rarely ever show any men.
I'm not worried about
the girls who work
as volunteers at the festival.
I don't think they'd be
into him since he's too old
and ridiculous for them.
I think he presents
more of a temptation
to a different category
of women, those matrons,
a little on the chubby side with
rolls of fat around their waists
and underneath their armpits
where their bras are
cutting into their flesh.
They're dressed in
tight red or black tops.
Their hair is usually black
and they wear red lipstick.
Not infrequently, they have a
dramatic hat on their heads.
Chunky, shiny jewelry adorns
their fingers and necks.
Their goal is to emanate
mature femininity,
sprinkled with a bit of mystery.
They want to smell like cinnamon
and have velvety soft voices.
Let them. Maybe Gohran can help.
I couldn't care less.
At night, though, he'll snuggle
up to me and say, orchid,
open up, and I open up.
Thank you.
The translation of this is,
by the way, Ekaterina Petrova
from the MFA program in
translation at the University
of Iowa, and I'm really thankful
for her wonderful translation.
Thank you.
[ Applause ]
>> Kateryna Babkina:
Something is missing here.
Hi. I'm very honored to be
here, as well as to be a part
of International
Writing Program.
Thank you very much for that.
And, yeah, after listening
to [inaudible] piece,
I couldn't help recognizing
myself at some parts
of description of her poem.
However, I'm not going to recite
any poetry now, just in case.
I'm going to read the essay
written during my stay at Iowa,
at International Writing
Program, and translated
by Hannah Lalif [assumed
spelling], who was a student
of International
Translation Workshop
of the University of Iowa.
So, everything comes
from Iowa here and now.
So that one was Grandparent.
Whenever you tell me about
it your eyes are shining
as if you reveal a great secret
to me, as if you open your heart
and share the most intimate,
the happiest childhood memory
with me, which might
be as well true.
You tell me about it as if I
don't hear the same scene nearly
every day from those
people, mostly old,
because the young don't
recall their past that often.
You're Ukrainian,
your face lights up.
Oh, you now what?
One of my grandparents
came from Ukraine.
Wow, I say, for the past
100 times I just said, wow,
and fell silent to open
up a space for the story,
if there was one, of course.
Over the past three months
that I lived in and traveled
around the United States, I
looked back to my homeland
and imagined it the way local
people told me about it,
not the way I personally
knew it.
I saw a boundless slant of
grandparents [laughter],
gardens with swings,
endless sunflower fields,
old bikes jingling along
the path, neat little house
and cozy apartments, smelling
of chicken broth and apple pie.
In that country rivers and lakes
were there only for fishing,
[inaudible] forests
to pick eat mushrooms,
follow unusual animal
tracks, watch birds,
and learn plants names.
Flat fell there in the
winter so people could go --
could go sledding and skiing,
while the ice was always nice
and smooth, perfect for skating.
There was only so
much people remembered
about their grandparents.
In that imaginary
country slow-paced,
[inaudible] passing grandmas,
grandparent [inaudible].
They read their grandparentish
[phonetic] newspapers and books,
cook their grandparentish meals,
watch their [inaudible]
grandparentish TV programs,
listen to their grandparentish
morning radio shows,
and came up with new [inaudible]
grandparentish stories.
How did that imaginary land come
into being, you might wonder?
Well, the very first
grandparent, or rather,
great grandparent, arrived
to Jamestown in 1607
in Captain John Smith's ship.
It was only two centuries
later, in 1877,
that the first significant
weight
of grandparents' immigration
brought 350,000 grandparents
to the States, where
most of them worked
at [inaudible] coalmines.
It is a historical
fact that nearly 400
of those grandparents
[inaudible] as slaves
at the [inaudible] plantations,
sharing those experience
that most white Americans
were lucky to escape.
And as of 20,000, the
second wave arrived
between the two World Wars.
During and after World War II
the United States got 100,000
Ukrainian grandparents more.
The first wave of grandparents,
still in there, yes,
[inaudible] on the American
shore in the final years
of the Soviet Union when
the government was too weak
to support the Iron
Curtain, and immediately
after the USSR collapsed.
The fifth wave is
rolling right now.
The fifth wave is
rolling right now,
but it's members have not
become anyone grandparents yet,
that's for sure.
There are as many
Ukrainian grandparents
in the United States as
people living in San Francisco
or Austin, and slightly more
than in Detroit,
Seattle, or Portland.
What do those people tell their
grandkids when they reminisce
about the days when they
lived back in the Ukraine?
What do old people remember best
about their childhood
[inaudible], the time when,
despite all the hardships,
they were strong, beautiful,
full of hope, when their
hearts were burning,
and their future is
promised unknown wonders,
when they could rejoice that
all good scenes were still ahead
of them.
Those were the times
when they fell in love,
did not lose their loved
ones yet, did not think much
about the days passing by,
the times when they could
change anything for the better.
What memories did
they feel like keeping
when they became grandparents?
Only the best ones.
I'm sure I don't need
to tell you about it.
Only the best ones, my dear.
I never heard anyone tell
me so many wonderful scenes
about my home country as you
and the likes of you did,
the things you learned
about my land
from your grandparents' stories.
During various events,
discussions, lectures,
and readings here in the U.S.,
I talk a lot about my country.
I talk about the ongoing war
with Russia that claimed lives
of more than 10,000 Ukrainians,
about the bloody revolution
we went through a couple
of years ago, about the Soviet
legacy we are trying to get rid
of day after day, about our
complicated past with wars
and plunders, ethics and
tributes, slavery, or,
as they call it, serfdom.
The [inaudible] on our language
literature and [inaudible],
the denial of rights for work,
religious freedom, and identity,
famine and genocides,
pogroms and mass shootings,
deportations, arrests, tortures,
and concentration camps,
humiliation, misogyny,
and prejudice.
I talk about all the scenes from
which the grandparents run away,
all the things that
wouldn't let them survive
and become actual grandparents
if they decided not to suffer,
leaving everything
behind and flee.
All the scenes I still fight
against in my country today
since that made us what we are,
things that we are
working hard to change.
But sometimes when I
meet people like you,
people with grandparents
whose faces light up dreamily,
their childhood memories
sparkling in their eyes,
it appears to me that I could
talk a little bit less about it,
then that kind and blessed
grandparent's land would come
to life, at least in those
American grandkids' imagination.
A Ukraine full of strength
and, yes, hopes and promises,
a Ukraine where everything
is possible
and all the good scenes
are still ahead of you.
A Ukraine where everything
will be all right.
Thank you.
[ Applause ]
[ Inaudible ]
>> Christopher Merrill:
Wonderful.
Is this working?
[ Inaudible ]
>> Christopher Merrill:
How's that?
Okay. A wonderful reading.
And we'll open it
up to questions.
Whenever you raise your
hand make sure you wait
until [inaudible] gets to
you with the microphone
so we can get it
on the recording.
I want to begin, I
guess I feel like I have
to begin with [inaudible].
This is a part of the poetry
room and she took some shots
of poets so we said --
>> Rumena Ruzarovska: Oh yeah.
>> Christopher Merrill:
And another point during
the residency, [inaudible],
you talked about
how at this point
in your life you really
want to write about women.
You want to create
women characters,
and yet we have a very
vivid picture of Gohran
for all of his poetry.
Can you talk a little bit about
what motivates the writing?
You talked about anger
initiating this book,
but I think there are other
complexities to this, right?
>> Rumena Ruzarovska: Yeah,
first I have to say that I burst
out laughing because
you were laughing,
and because you've been to this
poetry festival I thought maybe
you recognized the stuff that
happens there [laughter].
And I never married a poet,
or anyone else, but I did --
I did work at that festival
and I saw quite a few poets
from around the world
[laughter].
And, yeah, and they
would crow like that
in the middle of the lobby.
And, yes, they do
wear those shirts
with the traditional motifs
and this is why I'm
always a little weary
when I see someone wearing
traditional clothing
[inaudible] event.
I'm like, I'm not sure
about that one [laughter].
So, yeah, or, you know,
they'll show off that, you know,
they can play some kind of
an instrument, you know.
So, that's what made me
angry, because there's --
you know, this is the thing,
yeah, Gohran is at the center
of the short story, but he is
like so many Macedonian poets,
and also like so many
Balkan poets and, you know,
poets around the world.
But back home it seems like
they really, really are excited
by just writing about themselves
and feeling like Gods.
You know, like men have God
as someone they can
emanate, you know.
And so, you know,
God then superheroes.
And, so, they are
allowed to do this.
Like they can write
about themselves,
about how they create,
and then, you know,
sprinkle us with cinnamon or,
you know, something like that
and then we will
feel great as women
for being their inspiration
or something,
so -- or, their audience.
So, I, you know, in ridiculing
that I, you know, don't feel bad
that I wrote about a guy
because I ridiculed them, him.
In the book I -- you know, I
don't -- I do write, you know,
from a man's -- a man's
perspective sometimes as well,
and it's not like I'm --
but I will sometimes choose
particularly to tell the stories
of women, or from a
woman's point of view.
This particular, yeah, they're
all in the first person in all
of the 11 stories, but they --
you know, and the women in
them are also problematic.
Like this one is
also problematic.
They're not perfect.
And I also want -- I don't want
to idealize women
-- is it working?
>> Yeah.
>> Rumena Ruzarovska: Yeah.
I don't want to idealize
women also.
I mean, I want to show that they
have -- you know, they're human,
just -- and they
also have, you know,
their bad sides and
their good sides.
So, but, yeah, I feel like
there's not many women's voices
in literature and
women's experiences,
so I try to normalize that,
you know, by adding to it,
because Macedonian
[inaudible] is male, too,
but Macedonia especially.
So, and I remember writing
this book and, you know,
speaking to a guy
that I know in a cafe
and he said, oh,
you're a writer.
So, what do you write about?
I said, oh, you know,
I write stories.
What kind of stories?
You know, stories about women.
Would you read them?
He said, nah, I wouldn't
read a story about a woman.
So, this is -- this
is very common.
And I think, you know, he just
said what other people are
also thinking.
So, yeah, this is
sort of my ideology.
And this particular story was,
yeah, written out of the anger
after reading like for the
gazillionth time a horrible poem
somewhere in Macedonia
and someone, you know,
like posting it on
Facebook or in some magazine
and us having to fawn over it.
So, and then I just -- all the
build up from all the years
that I had been to this
festival, you know,
exploded in this short
story, yeah [laughter].
>> Christopher Merrill: Alisa,
when you were reading I
was thinking to myself,
first of all, you
do dialogue so well.
But then I thought, how do
you get all these stories?
I know you travel back
home from time to time,
but you must have your ears
alert in a -- in a special way.
>> Alisa Ganieva: Yes, I
actually hear all the stories
from different sources.
And now I notice that
many of my acquaintances
and relatives back home
shun me and stop talking
when they see [laughter],
because they're afraid
that they'll find themselves
in a book somewhere.
>> They should be.
>> Alisa Ganieva: But, also,
I'm trying not to write
about real people, and all
of my characters are fiction.
But, nevertheless, many of my
readers recognize their uncles
and cousins and their
nephews in my novels,
and they write me letters
asking where on Earth did I find
out about their family story.
So, the situations
are so typical,
as in any realistic
piece of fiction,
that it's very recognizable.
>> Christopher Merrill:
And the new --
is that one of the reasons
why the new novel is set not
in Dagestan, but
closer to Moscow?
Do you have to find
new material?
>> Rumena Ruzarovska:
It was the course
of my natural internal
evolution.
I had to step out of the frame.
So, my fresh novel is
not about Caucasus.
>> Christopher Merrill: Yeah,
can you say where [inaudible]?
>> Rumena Ruzarovska: It's
called Offended Sensibilities,
and the title, it repeats,
literally repeats the name
of the fresh articles in
the Russian Criminal Code,
offending sensibilities
of the believers.
It's one of the newly introduced
absurd laws that is used
against dissenters and all
kinds of, mostly bloggers
and journalists and people
who post things online,
or who play Pokemon game
in a church, for example,
or do some other things.
And everybody heard
about [inaudible] case,
which was also linked
to this situation.
And the definition
of the offending
sensibilities is very blurred,
and nobody can definitely say
what it means, and this allows
to apply it to anyone
who's not favorable
for the government, for example.
>> Christopher Merrill:
Would it --
would you agree that part
of the writer's job is
to offend sensibilities?
>> Rumena Ruzarovska: Yeah,
I'm always offending
someone's sensibilities,
and sometimes I enjoy it.
Maybe I'm [inaudible],
no, sadistic [laughter].
>> Christopher Merrill:
Kateryna,
I wonder if you could
talk just a little bit
about going from forum to forum.
You've written plays,
you've written poems,
you've written films,
you've written novels.
Here's a nonfiction piece.
How do you -- how do you
figure out which forum
to write what you write?
>> Kateryna Babkina: I've
been asked this question
so many times, here in Iowa and
also before, and I never came
up with appropriate answer.
>> Christopher Merrill:
That's why I'm asking.
>> Kateryna Babkina:
Because, yeah --
well, and put in still in
the same situation again.
Thank you, Chris.
I would say it's all
the same thing for me.
Like, transferring the --
some certain kind of
emotional experience.
And then, like, you know,
you need to make a chair and,
depending on what
kind of chair you want
to make, you pick the tools.
Also, normally you can produce
a chair with any kind of tool,
like using this one,
[inaudible] and,
but then you would get different
kinds of chairs delivered.
So, it's the same.
Like I need to transfer
the story
and the emotional experience of
the person being into the story.
So, whether it's a play or the
novel or the poem or the book
for children or the essay,
it only depends on the scale
of the story and on
the size of and variety
of experiences I
want to transfer.
That's it.
Did I explain it well?
No, I didn't [laughter].
>> Christopher Merrill:
I also want to follow
up by having you talk just
a little bit about what --
how the children's book came
about and how that turned
into a fundraising campaign for
children with pancreatic cancer.
>> Kateryna Babkina:
Pancreatic cancer.
Somebody made a mistake
in there.
I know nothing about
pancreatic cancer.
But, well, the first book
for children I wrote
it occasionally.
I wanted to write
a post on Facebook.
It's a long story behind it.
I didn't get a present
for [inaudible]
and I was writing a post for
Facebook about growing up.
And at the [inaudible] I ended
up having the book for children.
It was no St. Nicholas Day or
present or myself mentioned.
And then I was working with this
foundation, Ukrainian foundation
for fundraising for
pancreatic cancer,
and it was the first
book for children.
Because the book became
really popular and I wanted
to get something useful out
of the number of copies sold,
so I made a deal with the
publisher that we're going
to transfer some money from
each copy sold to the foundation
that fundraises for
sick children.
And it worked well.
It worked like -- we raised
quite a serious amount of money.
And then starting working
with his foundation I realized
that we know so little about
what sick people really do
and how their life
looks like in reality.
Because this tragedy of having
a cancer blocks everything else,
but in reality they are, besides
the cancer and the hospital
and the medication, they
still have their daily life.
Like they are playing,
they are having fun,
they are having their
[inaudible],
especially children.
They are living,
even when they are
like literally already dying,
for sure, they are still living.
So, I really wanted
to talk about this.
To make people see those sick
people not only as a cancer,
but also still as
people, as personalities.
So, that's the book
is what about.
And, yes, and then we also turn
it into fundraising campaign
and it was successful.
It was 1 million
of Ukrainian money.
I'm very bad in math,
but it's some thousands
and thousands of
[inaudible] money.
So, it was, I mean, the first
thing that was important
to me is to tell about this
kind of problem in perspective
of daily living with
[inaudible], because normally
when people -- and, also,
like when I was researching
in hospitals, meeting doctors
and children, and actually not,
not when I was researching,
when I was volunteering before,
I saw kids being like really
frustrating when they get
into the hospital, having
these serious health issues,
and because they don't
know what is going on
and they never had this kind of
experience, similar experience.
They never saw it,
so they didn't --
wasn't able to understand
what's going on.
And then there was this book,
like it was a stupid book,
totally, about the monkey.
And the guy and the monkey,
so the monkey got sick
and the monkey went
to the hospital.
And monkey was taking
injections and everything.
And then the monkey
got well and went back.
And; however, the book wasn't
funny at all and nice at all,
but they found this
book really supportive
and children loved it, because
they saw that if this is
in the book, monkey goes to the
hospital, I go to the hospital,
then like nothing
awful is going on.
So, they found it
really supportive.
So, that was also the reason why
I wanted to have this book done.
>> Christopher Merrill:
I should mention
that Kateryna is quite
active on social media
and has a lot of followers.
So, you can see how she
documents her life there.
>> Kateryna Babkina: Yes,
and I love taking pictures.
And then when I was
reading about poet
with digital camera
[laughter], taking his pictures,
it was like [laughter].
Just what all of us done here
when you weren't here
for the sound check.
First thing we done is
like taking pictures
over there like us really --
>> Rumena Ruzarovska:
I participated
in this, too [laughter].
>> Christopher Merrill:
I should also note
that at the closing party
in Iowa city there was
a significant amount
of karaoke, so.
>> Rumena Ruzarovska: Yeah, so,
we know how to hold
a microphone.
>> Christopher Merrill:
Are there questions
from the audience?
[ Inaudible ]
>> Rumena Ruzarovska: Well,
we've never heard a story
from a man's side
before [laughter].
We really want to hear it, too.
[ Inaudible ]
Well, they're not
my feelings, right?
[ Inaudible ]
That's the question?
>> Yeah.
>> Rumena Ruzarovska:
Yeah, I don't know.
You'd have to ask the character,
because I didn't write --
I mean, I'm not the person
in the -- in the short story.
And the short story only
gives you as much as it does,
and the rest of it is
your interpretation.
So, I think my -- what
I -- what I said in it,
you know, is pretty clear.
And I'm glad that I also
raised this issue as you --
I mean, what you did now is also
indicative of what I was trying
to say, so, I -- yeah,
that's all I have
to say about the story.
I hope you can read
it in English
and read it again
when it comes out.
[ Inaudible ]
Thank you, thank you very much.
My English is good
because I lived
in the United States
several times.
So, yeah, I didn't -- you know,
I didn't do this on my own.
I was fortunate, in other words.
The -- I don't write in English.
I prefer to write in Macedonian.
And I don't -- you know,
it's 2 million people,
but it's also a very small
tradition and there's not
that much literature
in Macedonia.
I feel like I'm actually
doing something when I write
in the language, that
I'm adding to it.
And, regardless, even
poets like Gohran do it
when they write their
crap, but -- in Macedonian.
But I feel like this is
-- this is important.
And I don't like to write in
English, but I do translate
into English with help of other
writers, other translators,
so maybe in the future I will
try to translate my own work.
Thanks.
>> Christopher Merrill:
I might just add to that,
we encourage the writers to
write in their mother tongue.
It is the case, from time to
time, that writers want to write
in English, but at
the very beginning
of the International Writing
Program we had the poet
[inaudible], who always wrote
only in Slavonian, again,
a language about the
size of the Macedonian,
and because of translators,
and he had a lot of translators
over the course of his life, he
became quite an influential poet
in American literary circles.
Because he was writing
in his mother tongue
and then translators brought
the poem into English,
that transmission is absolutely
essential to what we try to do
in the International
Writing Program.
I mean, I might ask
Alisa, you also have --
you, in effect, you could have
chosen to write in Russian
or in Avar, I think you made
decisions along this line,
too, right?
>> Alisa Ganieva: Yeah,
so, I have a mother tongue,
which is called Avar, and it's
a very small ethnic minority,
700,000 people, but not all
of them know the language.
So, I spoke it until I was four.
But then I was -- I started
attending a Russian-speaking
kindergarten and I was
silent for two months
because I didn't speak Russian.
So, our supervisors thought
that I was a very
dumb baby [laughter].
And then the whole of my
education was in Russian.
And I was raised in
Russian literary culture,
so our language remained
my household language.
So, I'm not sure that I'm
capable of writing something
in literary of ours, because
mine is very dialectal,
but it sounds peculiar
and it's fun
to pronounce some
tongue-twisters sometimes.
Like [speaking foreign
language], something like this.
>> Wow.
[ Laughter ]
>> Christopher Merrill:
Would you say
that Avar shapes
your understanding
of Russian as well?
Are there any structural ways
in which the mother tongue
on your literary tongue?
>> Alisa Ganieva: Yeah,
any language is separate,
is a different window, like a
poetic window, and point you
to look at the reality.
And one of the fun things
I enjoy doing is comparing
of proverbs or some
metaphorical expressions
and different languages.
Like when our people
get angry, annoyed by --
annoyed by somebody, they say
you're jumping out of my eyes.
So, these peculiar,
these bizarre expressions
that look quite battered and
trivial in other languages,
it's something that
we can learn from.
>> Christopher Merrill:
Kateryna,
do you want to [inaudible]
from the --
you're living in
a country where --
>> Kateryna Babkina:
Russian, Ukrainian,
I knew this was coming
[laughter].
So, I have tell my --
>> Christopher Merrill:
[Inaudible] predictable.
>> Kateryna Babkina:
My mother tongue,
my first language is Russian,
and that illustrates perfectly
the damage that was done
to Ukrainian culture
and Ukrainian language
by years of Soviet Union.
Because both of my parents
and my grandparents were born
at the territories of Ukraine
and when they were children
they spoke Ukrainian and also
like some my great-grandparents
came from Poland
and other territories.
Nobody ever was from Russia.
But due to diversification,
like while diversification,
when I was born all my
family was speaking Russian
and considering themselves
Soviet people
with all the Soviet
stuff in their head.
So, the only persons peaking
Russian now is my mother.
I do speak to some foreigners,
who like learned Russian
and don't know Ukrainian,
so just the language
of communication, I don't
mind Russian language.
But the Russian policy and
nobody supports of Russian --
like this invading parts
of Russian, I don't want
to say Russian culture,
because Alisa is also part
of Russian culture,
but, you know,
like the normal one [laughter].
No, I mean it.
And though I write
only in Ukrainian
and I speak in Ukrainian.
Most of Ukrainians are bilingual
due to the Soviet past,
but it's not because the
languages are so close.
It's all because all the
education is at the start of it,
and all the education
of my parents
and people their age
was in Russian always.
And you had to speak Russian
together like good positions
for work and to be
teaching, and also writing
in Ukrainian wasn't
easy, and you --
it's not that you
won't be published,
but you might have been
taken into concentration camp
for writing certain [inaudible]
in Ukrainian, so it wasn't
like really safe also.
And, so, yeah, I mean, my
English is not good at all.
I'm hardly able to read
this stuff translated
by the good person with
the good English, so,
I definitely never going
to write in English,
but also I don't think I ever
going to do this in Russian,
though my first language
is Russian.
>> Alisa Ganieva: I'll just
add that this situation is --
works for the whole
Soviet territory,
because we have the same
linguistic disaster in Dagestan
when grandparents speak
only their native languages
and grandchildren
speak only Russian,
so they can't communicate.
And parents who are in
their 50's, they perform
as translators between
different generations,
and it's not normal.
>> Christopher Merrill: Yeah.
>> Rumena Ruzarovska: Can I
just add that this would be
like me writing in Serbian or
Serbo-Croatian at the time.
But Yugoslavia was
not, you know,
it was the official language,
but it was not so insistent on,
or, you know, authoritarian in a
way that, yeah, it was official,
we learned it in
school, but it wasn't --
it never was our first language.
So, of course, nobody
who was Slavonian
or Macedonian would write
or speak that language.
So, just, you know, thinking
of it from the perspective
that you were taking about
it, it's really tragic.
And I want to go back to
what you said, you know,
of the writing of
the first language.
There is something, there's an
intrinsic connection, I believe,
between the language that
you write in and the culture
that you're presenting, and
I cannot do that in English.
Like it just won't work.
The idioms will not come out.
And for me, it's
really important to have
that in my own writing,
to feel that it is set
in a particular place.
That's what makes it different
from an American writer.
And I'm not ever going
to try to be one.
So, yeah, a good
translation is something
that is able transfer it in
its own right, but never --
but I would never go as --
you know, I made that decision
a long time ago to never write
in English because of that.
>> Christopher Merrill:
Other questions?
Yeah? This is Sandy
Barkin [assumed spelling],
who one year was the director
of the International
Writing Program.
>> Oh.
[ Inaudible ]
>> I've really enjoyed
these readings.
Kateryna, I -- this isn't really
a question, but just a comment,
because I so loved your story.
We are -- or, not
story, but your essay.
We are so much a
country of grandparents.
And I've never thought
in those terms before.
And I hope that your
story [inaudible] I hope
that your story wins its way up
to our central administration,
because it's so important
to remind us
that we are a country
with grandparents.
>> Kateryna Babkina:
Thank you very much.
By the way, could I
use my chance to ask,
is there some people
in the audience [inaudible]
Ukrainian
grandparents [laughter]?
One, two, three, okay.
Four, okay.
So, that's the situation
normally.
>> Christopher Merrill: I
should note that this book,
this piece will appear
in an online journal
called Off Assignment.
I think you're working on the
edits right now with them, yeah.
So, it's soon to
appear in English.
I think --
[ Inaudible ]
>> Alisa Ganieva: It's too
easy to fall into this trap
of self-pity, tragedy,
dark colors,
and sometimes it's very
important to put the distance
between the tragedy and
the readers, because many
of my readers, for example,
they're used to wallowing
in their sorrows of
[inaudible] of Russia
with all the Islamic
insurgencies and wrangles
and political struggles
and corruption
and police lawlessness, and
sometimes they want to relax
or to find some new
perspective in literature,
and humor makes it possible.
>> Kateryna Babkina: I would
also say it's much more
challenging to make
people laugh then
to make them cry
and feel unhappy.
It's always easier to
transfer the experience of pain
and tragedy and panic
or something like that.
And, yeah, of course, when girls
who are reading [inaudible]
really suffering
because maybe it was
less funny [laughter].
>> Rumena Ruzarovska: I
think also there's, you know,
humor released tension.
It kills sentimentality, which
is something that, you know,
women are normally
associated with.
So, screw that.
And then there is -- yeah,
and it's entertaining.
So, it's a winner.
The other thing is that women
are not considered funny
traditionally, and it goes
to show that that's crap.
And, you know, it doesn't
-- also, it tells us that,
you know, generally when
you have women associated
with humor, actually humor is
out of the bounds for women,
because it does everything
that, you know,
traditionally women
are not supposed to do.
So, lose control
over their bodies.
You know, use their
intellect, and also be,
you know, stimulating, so.
>> Christopher Merrill:
There in the bad, too.
>> Hi. I'm from Iowa originally.
>> Rumena Ruzarovska: Wow.
>> [Inaudible] but, I was just
wondering, could you speak
to the Midwest, perhaps
influences on writing
or Iowa city, or maybe
on the [inaudible]
in general, Chicago,
other areas?
>> Alisa Ganieva: Iowa city --
Iowa city and the whole state
of Iowa is -- I first
came there in 2012.
It was my first time
of participating
in the International
Writing Program.
And I was very lucky
to return this year,
thanks to the [inaudible]
College,
which is like one hour
away from Iowa city.
And it's a fascinating
phenomenon, the juncture
of two lifestyles,
farmers, agricultural,
traditional lifestyle
and the vibrant campuses
with creativity brimming
and with students writing
and reading and asking
questions.
And it's also a fancy
mixture of Democratic
and Republican forces.
And, also, it was -- I was --
it was curious to talk to
my driver, because I try
to [inaudible] every week, or --
and I spend three hours with
a man who voted for Trump,
and it was really interesting to
hear -- to hear his arguments.
And it was a big contrast
with what is generally thought
in campuses, or in Iowa city.
It's beautiful that you
have all these voices
and all these diversities,
and I would love
to come back someday,
I don't know when.
>> Rumena Ruzarovska: I don't
know if it's going to --
it hasn't appeared
in my writing yet,
but this is where I
did a lot of writing.
So, I'm that it will, at one
point, this whole experience
of Iowa will be in there.
I find it -- I've never
been to the Midwest.
I haven't before.
And, yeah, it was -- it was
very strangely hospitable,
on the one hand, but also very,
I wouldn't say there was a
lot of diversity in Iowa.
But then this kind of
open heartedness I found.
I'm still -- my impressions
are still settling.
It was -- it was strange
to spend three months
in a completely different
environment,
which was somehow
contrasting in the --
you know, that we
were on campus.
And we were just saying,
Kateryna and Alisa yesterday,
wow, it's so interesting
to see people
who are not 17 [laughter],
you know what I mean?
So, yeah.
>> Kateryna Babkina: Well, I
have this nice story of my state
in Iowa, because
like it's really
like a very contrasting
experience of [inaudible]
and campus, like liberal
and wise and openminded.
And then some other people from
Midwest who like in the taxis
or meet somewhere in the
shops and in restaurants so,
once I showed up for the
late breakfast at one
of Iowa's restaurants, since we
didn't have kitchen in the hotel
for three months, and
there was a waiting list
for like 40 minutes, and then
there would be this couple,
like [inaudible]
big people, farmers,
but like wealthy
farmers, they invited me
because they were first
in the waiting list
and they got the big
table, so they saw I'm alone
and they invited me to join.
And I was like regretting
maybe should I or not,
because it means also that you
not only like sit the corner
and have you breakfast, you
have to share the conversation.
And I wasn't sure it was nice.
So, the first thing they sit
and speak, in my broken English,
but really I wanted to eat, so I
accepted kindly the invitation.
I decided if something
is wrong I'm going
to pretend I don't
speak English at all,
or speak English like hardly.
And, so, they asked
me, where are you from?
And I tell Ukraine.
And yeah, I don't tell I have
the grandparent from there,
but the first thing
they tell me, Ukraine,
oh my God, have you had poutine?
And I'm like, whoop, and
then they told me, like,
they were supporting this
since like [inaudible]
and Black Lives Matter
and they [inaudible] live
in the farm in Iowa city.
They have 80 sheep or
something like that.
We also saw their sheep later
because they invited some
people to visit them.
So, it's never what
you expect it to be.
It's always surprising.
Sometimes it's like
surprising in a creepy way,
but also sometimes
in a really nice way.
And I definitely
wish I knew it more.
So, probably I will come
again and discover it more.
[ Inaudible ]
>> Rumena Ruzarovska: So,
I think we partially
answered this question.
So, I write in the
language I know the best.
And, but I have to say
that two of my novels,
three of my novels, not two
of them, are set in Dagestan
where people belong to
different ethnic minorities.
They speak several
dozens of languages.
And it's a big linguistic
audacity.
It's a big phenomenon.
And linguists come to
investigate these languages
and to know more about them,
although they are
disappearing nowadays.
But, still, people
[inaudible] in Russian,
because it's the only
common language they can use
to understand each other.
And, so, my dialects
and my colloquial parts
in my novels are
written in this peculiar
and broken Russian language
spoken by the local people
who use their excerpts
from, and expressions
from the local mother tongues,
from Arabic, from Turk language,
from Persian language,
because there were
so many influences
throughout the history.
And, also, this is the
language spoken by men and boys
on streets, and that was one
of their reasons I wasn't
recognized as a female writer
after I published
my first long story.
So, when my personality
became obvious,
some of the people started
rereading my writings
to find the traces
of female pen,
and they said how could you
hear and catch all this --
all this men's talk,
especially in the slang,
in this very peculiar slang?
So, I think we just
follow our heart.
We're not conforming
with anything.
>> Rumena Ruzarovska: I
don't think there's a rule,
just like there is
no rule in terms
of whether you can
translate into a language
that is not native to you or,
you know, your mother language.
Then there's the question of
-- because it's different.
It depends on how comfortable
you are, how long you've lived
in that particular culture.
Then there's the, you
know, the mother language.
What is the mother language?
My mother's language was Greek.
But she -- this is the
language that she speaks,
but she doesn't -- that
she doesn't know that well,
because she was raised
in [inaudible]
where everybody spoke Russian,
and this became her
mother language.
Because, in fact, her mother
language was maybe the language
of your school, of
your education.
And then, you know, she was
Macedonian, so now she speaks --
you know, she was very young,
so then this also
became her language.
So, you know, I think it's maybe
getting [inaudible] to get away
from the language that
I consider tyrannical,
and it's not my language.
It's not Macedonian.
This poor little language that
nobody likes to speak because,
you know, only 2 million
people can read it,
and I think [inaudible]
exists for such a short time.
For me, English is tyrannical.
People are expecting us to
be translated into English
and to become someone
somewhere int his world,
which is such a dream.
Like, I mean, dream in like
the American dream, you know.
It's not going to happen.
So, but it always
puts us in this --
it gives us so much pressure
instead of just, you know,
doing what you're
comfortable with.
So, I believe it has to be --
it has to be individual
for each person.
>> Kateryna Babkina: In addition
to what both [inaudible]
and Alisa said, which I share
completely, I have to tell
that I've been really
lucky to be able to write
in Ukrainian language,
because, well,
once they measured the beauty
of languages, I have no idea,
some British people, like
British [inaudible] did this.
So, Ukrainian [inaudible]
the second place in the list
of most beautiful
languages after the Italian.
I must admit, this language
is then cool for writing.
It is very flexible.
The syntaxes is so that you can
like twist it anyway you need.
You can put a lot of double
sentences, and triple sentences,
and play with the
language and make it funny.
And, also, you can play a
lot with [inaudible] sound
and with the order of
words and sentences.
So, I guess, one of
the best instruments
for writing one can get,
so why wouldn't I use it?
>> Christopher Merrill: So,
maybe by way of closing,
could I ask Alisa
just to give us
that [inaudible] tongue
twister again [laughter]?
>> Yeah, yeah.
[speaking foreign language]
>> Rumena Ruzarovska:
I can't believe it.
[ Applause ]
That's amazing, Alisa.
>> We couldn't repeat
that even if we wanted to.
Well, thank you all for coming.
For thos of you who I haven't
met, I'm Anya Creightney.
I'm the Programs Manager at the
Poetry and Literature Center.
It's a thrill to have you here.
It's a thrill to
have all of you here
for what I say was an absolutely
stimulating conversation.
I say that word intentionally.
Thank you so much.
So, a round of applause, please.
[ Applause ]