Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Moscow bureau chief: to cover a presidential election in Ukraine, Russia's neighbor to the
west. I have a personal obsession with Ukraine. My Jewish family has roots in the west-
ern part of the country: the city of L'viv, a place with cafés and cobblestones that feels as
European as nearby Poland and Hungary. People speak mostly Ukrainian, and Russia feels
distant on the map and in the mind. In contrast, eastern Ukraine feels bleak and industri-
al, and most people speak Russian. Western Ukrainians want their country in the European
Union. Eastern Ukrainians have more complicated emotions. They generally feel estranged
from the ethnic nationalism preached in the western part of the country. And their harsh
existence and wariness about Western-style democracy make you think they would be soul
mates with the Russians just across the border. And yet there's no comfort level or sense
of connection with Moscow either. Nevertheless, if you imagine Eastern Europe engaged
in an ideological tug-of-war between Western values and Russian thinking, it's hard not to
see Ukraine as the rope, always stretched to the breaking point.
It was the first time Sergei and I would work together, and we decided to spend some
time in eastern Ukraine, where voters were widely expected to back a presidential candid-
ate who was viewed as a stooge of Moscow and an enemy of the West. We were about to
witness a former Soviet republic turn back the clock, erasing years of progress that Ukraine
had made toward joining the European family.
Sergei and I flew to the capital, Kiev, and took an overnight train eastward to the in-
dustrial city of Donetsk. It's a place famous for its coal mines. I grew up in Pittsburgh in
the 1980s, seeing old photos of men covered in soot walking home from the steel plants.
You don't have to search for grainy old photos in Donetsk—the dirty and cruel coal in-
dustry hasn't changed much. The air smells and tastes of coal. Men leave their shifts at the
mines with faces smeared with soot like some primitive tribal war paint, straggling home
stoically, side by side in exhausted silence, their empty lunch pails swinging rhythmically
at their sides. The scene is repeated several times a day when shifts end and men return to
their families too tired to talk, too dirty for a hug.
After a twelve-hour train ride, Sergei and I rolled into town at 7:00 a.m., as the overnight
shifts at the mines were ending. We planned to begin interviewing people about the upcom-
ing election by late morning. It was going to be a day when we took advantage of Sergei's
local knowledge. Sergei is ethnically Russian, nearing fifty years old. He reluctantly ac-
knowledges that he bears a striking resemblance to Vladimir Putin—receding hair, dark
mesmerizing eyes, thin lips, and a face that narrows down to the chin. He is short and un-
assuming when you first meet him, but get to know him and you're treated to his biting
sense of humor and infectious laugh. Sergei grew up in this hardscrabble Ukrainian mining
region during Soviet times. After completing his compulsory military service as a border
guard and graduating from college in Moscow, he became a Russian teacher for foreigners
and a translator, including for Western news organizations.
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