It was the morning of May 13, 1993, to be precise, when I checked in as the newest tenant at Rublevskoye Shosse 16, Moscow, Russia. And as I arrived with my 18 pieces of luggage and office equipment — having been transported from Sheremetyevo Airport by two men I didn’t know in a truck that threatened with every bump and pothole in the road to break into a thousand little pieces — I looked at the building that was to be my home for the next several months and silently asked myself:

“What in Heaven’s name was I thinking??!!!”

It didn’t even look this good. The vehicles in the front lot were mostly ancient, Russian-built Ladas and a few disreputable-looking trucks, not the shiny SUVs in this newer picture. And the first-floor restaurant, savings bank, pharmacy, and — of all things — “manicure studio” were not there. But there was mud. Not deep, but everywhere, from the spring thaws.

And strangers. Not one single person I had ever met or spoken to before. The two guys with the truck worked for us, and became my friends and saviors. The lady at the rickety desk in what passed for a lobby (entrance in the rear) was pleasant enough, but never did get over her suspicion that I was somebody’s spy. And the four women I was about to meet soon became my Russian family. But at that moment, I was on my own, with all of my American colleagues back in Washington, and a smattering of the Russian language at my command.

But the apartment itself, which also served as our foundation’s office, was surprisingly large and comfortable. I had two drivers and a housekeeper, as well as three wonderful office assistants. It turned out not to be a mistake after all.

*. *. *

I’ve written earlier in this blog of my overseas experiences — mostly funny, but a few . . . well, not so much. I won’t repeat myself here; if you’re interested, just scan back to Chapters 1-28 and prepare to be amused, surprised, and occasionally even wondering how I survived it all. But for now, I’ve just found myself reminiscing because of recent events in the “new” Russia, and the changes — not for the better — that have taken place there since that day in 1993.

What I found then, as I settled in and became acclimated to my surroundings and familiar with the wonderful new people I’d inherited, was a country experiencing a thrilling transition: full of hope for the future and excitement at the prospects of success and freedom that had been laid out before them by the last previous president, Mikhail Gorbachev. His successor, Boris Yeltsin, was carrying on the programs of “perestroika” (restructuring) and “glasnost” (openness) introduced by Gorbachev. New enterprises were being created; foreign investment was growing; and a disco had opened directly across the highway from my building.

Wait . . . What???

A disco?!! Okay, so they acquired some — actually, a lot — of the bad with the good. But that’s to be expected. I learned to live with the 24/7 noise and the comings and goings of the young, mini-skirted and leather-jacketed nouveau riche. It reminded me of home, only louder and . . . well . . .

Our foundation was there to bring healthy food to children in orphanages and hospitals. Others from the West brought opportunities for previously unheard-of private enterprises — actual profit-making ventures. Everyone was delighted to accept our help, in whatever form, and to learn and grow from our tutoring. And the government encouraged it all. I will always be thankful to have been there at that time.

Because today . . .

Well, as we all know, today is like an icy cold blast from the past — the Stalinist past, when association with foreigners can once again result in your being labelled a “foreign agent,” and simply criticizing the government or the military gets you a cell in a Siberian prison camp. This is the Putinist era, and to put it mildly . . . it’s devastating!

Dissidents, journalists, critics from all walks of life are being held hostage in penal colonies. Some have been murdered, both inside and outside of Russia; others are in peril of suffering the same fate. Peaceful protests are brutally broken up. There have even been cases of “friends” ratting out their acquaintances.

This is not “my” Russia, where I found the warmest, friendliest, kindest, most generous people I’ve ever known; where I discovered the joy of anticipation and promise of a better world; and where I was shown the beauty and mystery of the legendary “Russian soul.” That Russia is disappearing under the heel of one man’s boot, as it did from 1917 until 1991. And I mourn for its people, who want nothing more than to breathe the air of freedom.

And now he wants Ukraine as well . . .

Will it ever be enough?

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
5/20/24