This piece is going to be completely unsuccessful.
There is a drive to write because the phrase haunts,
fascinates. No, grips. The phenomena, if that is the
right word, is so fundamental to our way of thinking.
There are several examples among the works posted
here that make an attempt to come to grips with
the impact of the phrase and this effort won’t be
any better.
Briefly, let’s start by saying that in considering such
a concept, there should be no question of it. No
question of whether one exists or not. Such a question
at an ordinary level has no sense.
But it is a thought question. It is cognitive. And cannot
exist, that bloody word, one can’t get away from it,
in the real world, the physical, and as a concept can
only be held in the mind. There is no physical basis
for the question.
The value of literature translated into English is the
introduction into the language of ways of being and
experiences quite, well, foreign to the culture.
English speakers are pragmatists. Any glance at
the philosophical tradition will reveal this. Within
the general body of English speakers this pragmatism
is clearly seen. In a word, English speakers are not
given to abstraction.
The European tradition is quite different. The abstract
dominates. Ideologies are generally composed of
abstractions. This is no more so than of Communism,
especially as practiced the Soviet State.
Despite the fact that Communism has vanished from
the former Soviet Union and its satellites, its impact,
its legacy persists in a variety of forms.
This might take the loss of security that Communism
offered. The reasons need not detain us here. (1)
Or the intellectual. This form is the one that bears
consideration.
A theme of a number of books read over the last year or two
pivot around this legacy and extend to those too young to
have fully experienced Communism as adults.
One example is of a work quoted within these posts. (2)
The phrase hangs around the book in the background.
“Ma’am, there’s nothing I can do to help you. According to the state,
this child does not legally exist. You have to listen to what I’m saying.
Do you understand? He does not show up anywhere in our records.
Therefore, you count as the mother of three— your family is not big
enough to qualify for aid. The only possibility I see is to somehow set
the child up with some relatives and get him a birth certificate.”
The social worker had such a sad face and tired voice as she explained
all this to my mother that you would have felt sorry for her.
~ ~ ~ ~
The social worker collected her papers, threw them into a black bag,
said goodbye, and went out. The door had not even shut before Gigo
let out a terrifying wail.
“Mooom, why do I not exist?? Did I die?”
In one arm, Mother held Gigo, who was sobbing quietly. With her
free hand, she was preparing food.
“Gigo, at least stop your crying. Of course you did not die. You exist.”
“You see me, right?” Gigo asked doubtfully.
“That’s enough. You exist and that’s it!” Mom answered, getting angry.
Gigo sat at a low stool by the stove. Time to time he would steal furtive
glances towards Mother. It was obvious he still had a thousand
questions to ask. Then he was talking to himself, but you could not
distinguish what he was saying. Suddenly he turned to me and asked:
“Do you love me?”
“Don’t be silly,” I answered uneasily. No one had asked me that before.
“Tell me.” He wouldn’t leave me alone.
“Stop it, I said.”
“Tell me you love me. If you love me, then I exist.”
~ ~ ~ ~
On the other hand, Gigo was so excited, he could barely contain his
happiness. Then, sympathetically, he asked me:
“You‟re embarrassed right? To say good words? You’re a fool. Though
you do say nice things when we play soccer… It’s OK, you’ll learn…
When I say nice things, I believe I exist.“ (3)
~ ~ ~ ~
The child, Gigo, who is probably 7 years old, a highly
impressionable age, wanders around on his own asking himself
the question.
Now, whether in real life a child of that age would even pay
attention to the word or phrase is questionable. Whether a
child living within the legacy of Communism would be aware
of such a concept, cannot be answered, at least by this writer.
And whether the question would come up in the Western world
is a source too of wonderment.
Nevertheless, the poignancy of the child’s dilemma strikes
home to this reader.
Parenthetically, it might be observed that, at times, Gigo’
is too adult, even if the child were 9. A nine year old
would not cry as Gigo does. But this is to stray from
the discussion.
Is it the case that a social worker or some other public servant
would make such an observation. This is to be doubted. A
Western public official would simply state,
:”We don’t have a birth certificate for that child,”
and leave it at that. But Tskhvediani doesn’t leave it at
that. He puts the phrase into the mouth of the “twenty
something” Georgian Social Worker. Tskhvediani does
not appear to give a time of setting for his short story so
we are uncertain as to how back from the present the
story is set.
There is no overt sense that the set with the Communist
era.
The opening lines of the story result from the fact that
the local gold mine, hence the ironic title, has closed
resulting all the men being rendered without work, since
the gold mine is the reason the town exists .. damn,
that word …
The answer to the question as to what was Tskhvediani’s
purpose in putting this phrase in the mouth of a seven
year old child cannot be given. One can speculate but
that would be folly since there is no guide from the
author.
It is interesting that, for the child Gigo, if he doesn’t
exist then he is dead. This seems far from the
possible comprehension of a child. Were this
to be the case the child would have to be exceptionally
bright.
Perhaps, and it is perhaps, it is that Tskhvediani
through this means wishes to draw attention to
the agony of living in a state that denies the right
to its citizens to exist.
Citizens of most countries are not subject to this
destabling denial of what all the rest of us take
for granted.
We would be unlikely to have been born without
a birth certificate, the state of which we are citizens
would be unlikely to deny our existence.
This is to render the subject a nonperson.
Since this question is central to the story, do I
exist, Tskhvediani is certainly making a point
but, since the story written with a Georgian
audience in mind, the reason may elude us.
At least it does me.
For the moment.
Malcolm D B Munro
Sunday 29 May, 2016
(1) Red Love, Maxim Leo, German, Pushkin Press, Published 2014
(2) Party Headquarters, Georgi Tenev, Bulgarian, Open Letter, 2016
(3) “The Golden Town”, Tsotne Tskhvediani, Georgian, in Best European Fiction 2016, Dalkey Archives
Filed under: poetry