inside memory

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Qualitative Inquiry

DOI: 10.1177/10778004062886082006; 12; 886Qualitative Inquiry

Ahna BerikoffSocial and Cultural Movement

Inside Memory: A Story of Living in the Past and Present of a

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886

Authors Note: Correspondence concerning this article should be addressed to Ahna Berikoff,

212B St. Charles Street, Victoria, British Columbia, V8S 3M7, Canada; phone: 250-380-3065;

e-mail: [email protected].

Inside Memory

A Story of Living in the Past

and Present of a Social

and Cultural Movement

Ahna BerikoffUniversity of Victoria, Canada

The following is a story of the author and her mother. This story takes place

withina small social and cultural movement of the Sons of FreedomDoukhobors.

Through a coconstructed narrative, the author captures personal discourses,

thoughts, and memories extending throughout 30 years. Their experiences

and distinct cultural locations reflect a tenacity to preserve cultural identity

while struggling to maintain their relationship. Throughout the story are

glimpses of history, which is woven into their lives. The author demonstrates

how culture, tradition, and motivation transmit the spirit of their ancestorsinto the present. The author looks at how present and past share time and

space, in spirit and in action.

Keywords: cultural identity; collective memory; social movement; narratives

The Doukhobor spirit is in you, whether it rests or burns, it is in you. It

is the same spirit of our ancestors that suffered in Russia, my mother says

as she places her hand on my shoulder. I want to protest, but she sounds so

confident, and I swallow my voice. I allow images of stories told and retold

to take shape in my mind.

****

A group of people stand around a blazing fire; it is 1895. The people are

called DoukhoborsSpirit Wrestlers. They are a group of people

moving against the current of church and tsarist authority, denouncing any

involvement in killing. They are throwing their guns into the growing fire.

Qualitative Inquiry

Volume 12 Number 5

October 2006 886-907

2006 Sage Publications

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Berikoff / Living in a Social and Cultural Movement 887

Their voices integrate into one voice of song, their spirits into one spirit of

faith. They sing stronger as the sound of pounding hooves draws near. They

feel no fear of their impending fate. Singing . . . .

(Our father who art in heaven)

Whips slash faces,

Slash hands,

Slash bellies, breasts and backs

Singing . . . .

(In the garden of Gethsamane he stands alone before death in exhausted

suffering)The singing does not lose its force amongst the cries and screams; the tsarist

soldiers do not lose their brutality. Blood soaks the ground. Singing then and

singing now . . . .

(It happened in the Caucasus, It happened with glorious friends! Our fathers

burnt their guns, under the Banner of Peter)

****

I think about the Doukhobors steadfast and unbreakable will, carrying

this beacon from their pastthe burning of the arms, which truly is a

wellspring of inspiration and faith they continue to carry into the future.

Durkheim (cited in Misztal, 2003) describes an individual as surer of his

faith when he sees to how distant a past it goes back and what great things

it has inspired (p. 125). The Doukhobors lived as a collective interwoven

with living memories, which is reflected in Eyermans (2004) suggestion

that collective identity formation, which is intimately linked with collective

memory, may be grounded in loss and crisis, as well as in triumph (p. 161).

To be sure, Doukhobor history is soaked through with loss and crisis and lit

with an indomitable spirit of triumph.

****

That spirit is in you. My mothers words echo as I question whether this

blood does indeed run through my veins. The blood of a zealous people whodenounced the church because they believed that the spirit of Christ exists in

every person and not inside an icon on a church wall; who denounced killing

and therefore conscription; who took up vegetarianism and regarded their




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888 Qualitative Inquiry

bodies as houses of the holy spirit and therefore did not partake in smoking

or drinking. A simple people perhaps, working the soil, illiterate, but with a

spiritual richness, courage, and strength, fighting for their very survival inRussia and then in Canadathe Spirit Wrestlers. A people so rooted in the

soil, yet so displaced; pushed from place to place, in their Russian homeland

and later in Canada. They followed the rules of their spiritual beliefs and not

of the country in which they resided. In Canada as it was in Russia, similar

struggles and similar resistance continued: The past is not past at allthat

it, instead persists into the present and thus presages the future (Griffen,

2004, p. 545). As Canada imposed its laws, the Doukobors resisted and con-

tinued to uphold their beliefs under extreme duress. They walked into thefuture with a spirit and will from the past.

****

If you dont live by the rules there are consequences, the Doukhobors

were told.

Our allegiance is with God not with authorities. God makes our rules,

not earthly authority, they reply in unison.

Then we will take your land away, reply the Canadian authorities.Take it, we live as God intended, take these material thingsour

homes, our clothesjust know you cant touch our spirit.

****

, the Sons of Freedom, a small group that emerged out of

extreme Doukhobor idealism with enduring resolve. Going forth with demon-

strated zeal for decades of persecution in Canada, they saw a choice between

two pathsoblivion or rebellion.

Doukhobor land is torn away

Take it all until we march with nothing but our nudity,

we wont compromise our spirit; we live by Gods law

let us live by our banner Toil and Peaceful Life

leave us to live simply, by the soil, in our language, prayer and song.

We do not want your schools for our children, we do not want to assimi-

late . . . let us be, just let us be.

And it is not to be,

resistance through protests, fires, and nude marches ensues.

And then

children are torn away, ripped from mothers breasts, ripped from mothers hearts




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1909:

9 men are tortured to death, dead at the hands of the Canadian Authorities

1932:3 babies are neglected until they died, dead at the hands of the Canadian

Authorities

A mother dies in exile, her heart broken over her dead baby

And still spirit cannot be broken

My grandfather 18 years in prison

My grandmother 8 years in prison

My mother 8 years in prison

over years and years and years

****

My mother and I sit together in a room full of memories. Memories

unfold as we speak; they surface, are retrieved, and are replaced by other

memories vying for attention. I sink into recollections and see myself as a

child, living in a town away from any Doukhobor community, language, or

culture. My mother, brothers, sister, and I experienced poverty, but we had

liveliness in our home, a little alley rental. Our home was full of chatter,activity, and warmtheven within the poverty through which my mom car-

ried us. I loved when she smiled, yet I often recall her being tired and sad.

She worked days and went to school at night to learn English, as her first

language was Russian, even though she was born in Canada. I wanted her

to be happy, and as a child I did so many chores to please her, to make her

happy. I felt sad for her. I felt sad for myself that she was so tired and too

busy to pay attention to mejust me.

As I was growing up, my dreams and goals felt attainable. My siblings

and I shared many dreams of where we wanted to go, what we wanted to

do and to become. Our dreams were far from any Doukhobor influence.

You are becoming lost in Canadas society and I dont want that to

happen. I want all of you to know where you came from. You are Doukhobor,

and I would like you to accept that, because it is who you are, Moms

words would tell us.

I heard her words, but at the time I didnt know if it really was where we

came from or just where she came from. Nevertheless, we had no choice in

the matter, and Mom moved my three siblings and myself into the Doukhoborcommunity in which she grew up. It was a community that had meaning for

her. It seemed so far away from where we came from and what was mean-

ingful to us. How foreign this Doukhobor world seemed where everyone

spoke Russian. The Doukhobor culture was everywhere; within the elders





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in their humble homes each with a garden and always something cooking

on the stove, openly beckoning, (come and eat); it was

within the children chattering in Russian amongst themselves; withineveryone there, but not in me. Whenever I met with community adults and

elders, the same question was asked, Who is your mother? Who is your

father? Who are your grandmother and grandfather? They seemed to know

who I was through my relatives. They would be satisfied that I was

(nahsha, ours)one of us. I was an outsider from the present, yet an insider

from the past.

****

My mother hands me a letter she wrote. I dont ask her why it never got

sent or to whom it was written. I just read, and her words offer me insights

into how she is linked to the past within the Sons of Freedom Doukobors:

I was brought up as a Son of Freedom, lived in sacrifice and suffering. I often

thinkdid I choose my parents or by some fate was placed where I am? With

all my heart I hope that one day people will look at the Sons of Freedom

movement with a deeper spiritual understanding. A spiritually enlightenedperson would not judge, but would try to understand. Sons of Freedom

started shortly after settling here in Canada. How did they come about? Just

popped out of no where for some reason? These people chose a much harder

road to travel than the rest of the Doukhobors, being touched by prison time,

leaving husbands, wives and children. Were their thoughts and feelings much

different from our people in Russia, the ones that chose the same hard path?

Did anyone ever think that maybe these are the same souls here in Canada

and are moved by the same spirit?

****

I reflect on my motherss wordsDid anyone ever think that maybe

these are the same souls here in Canada and are moved by the same spirit?

This leads me to think of the writings of Vladimir Bonch-Bruevich (1978),

who collected and put into script psalms and beliefs that the Doukhobors

maintained as an oral tradition. The author captures the essence of

Doukhobor thought on death and existence by relaying their beliefs that the

human soul is eternal in the same way that nature, the world, the universeisas is God. Death is understood as the human shell disappearing, but the

soulmans primary essence remains in this world as something, which

knows no death, which is above death and life, as something that turns into

existence and is eternal. It is eternal in its existence, it is continuous and





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hereditary in humanity. It passes from one individual to another . . . all the time

transmitting with it all its characteristics of divine wisdom (p. XIX). Eyerman

(2004) continues with this line of thought by proposing that memory pro-vides individuals and collectives with a cognitive map helping orient who

they are, why they are here and where they are going (p. 161). Memory is

understood as central to individual and collective identity (p. 161).

****

Recalling my youth, I pondered over whether the Doukhobor past and

memory was living within me and, if so, if it would wake up. I began to feel

comfortable in the sobryani (meetings) of prayer and song, and I allowed

myself to be carried by the voices, chanting through time and space the

same sounds and voices of my ancestors. I felt a gradual development of

affinity with the strange Doukhobor culture and think of that time as awak-

ening memories, which Gongaware (2003) describes as collective memory

creation that develops collective memories from activities by bringing

people up to speed and providing them with details of the memorys object

of reference (p. 486). I learned awkwardly, but with an open heart I became

more and more involved in community activities. Past voices seemed to stirmy soul and awaken in me a knowledge of who I wasa Doukhobor by

blood and spirit.

After 3 years of living in the Doukhobor community, my mother acted on

the stirrings of her spirit. She began to participate in the Sons of Freedom

movement of activism through protest resulting in the start of ongoing stays

in jail. I had come to slowly feel the importance of the Sons of Freedom

movement in conjunction with my love for her. I witnessed her faith mani-

fest through her actions of self-sacrifice and her deep belief in God.

****

I look through pages and pages of my mothers stories and poems. Each

one it seems is an expression of her deep faith in God and her beliefs that

are embedded in the Doukhobor culture and spiritual understanding. I read

from her familiar script (see Figure 1):

I will live in GodI will live in Christ

I will live in nature

In the brightness of love

The path is shown by the holy hand




8/23


Come and do not look back

Soon we will come to the gate of Christ

There you will find peace for your soul

I think over the depth of her expressions. I realize that she has lived these

words on an uncompromising path of strife and strivingfor cultural and spir-itual survival, not for herself but for the Sons of Freedom, for the Doukhobors

past and present.

****

I remember when my mother first embarked on her journey of Sons of

Freedom activism. I told her,

The first time you were in jail I felt that I supported you. But it was morethan that because I wanted to be independent, so I didnt mind. I wanted the

freedom, but I didnt want to look after the family, and yet my heart ached

for Victor [my younger brother]. He really needed support and guidance,

so I stayed.

Figure 1

Poem in Russian by My Mother




9/23

I know, Mom says,

My heart was so sore for him. I knew he would be fine with you but it washim that I was most worried and sad for. I knew that you could handle it and

take care of everything. I expected too much of you.

I dont reply, because we both know it was true throughout the many years of

her incarcerationsme taking care of family and family issues. Nevertheless,

her words release the tightness I feel in my body; I stretch and express await-

ing memories.

I remember the first time I visited you in prison. The place was so big and

looked so ancient. It was gray and damp with a history alive in the stonewalls,

with voices whispering death. I couldnt imagine you in that place. There we

were, Victor and I behind the glass in the visiting room, with the other visitors.

Visiting our Sons of Freedom mothers, fathers, wives and husbands. I remem-

ber the really little ones pressing up against the glass looking at their moms and

dads, not comprehending that those are their mothers and fathers without being

able to touch them. What a relief when the guards allowed everyone into one

room. The mothers taking their small children in their arms and suppressing

their sadness with distorted smiles. I dont remember what we spoke about but

I know that I struggled to suppress the recurring urge to cry.

I know, I know. My mothers voice trails off.

You left again a few years later. It was summer time. Victor and I stayed

together in our house. I tended the garden. It was the first time I took care

of the gardening on my own, it was funny because I never really knew what

I was doing. I kept asking people from the community what to do.

I think back to that summer time so many years ago. The garden was

immense, a typical Doukhobor garden, filled edge to edge with vegetables and

herbs, strawberries, and raspberries. The garden was so lush, with leaves

and colors vying for less and less space during the summer. Our yard was

one big garden of vegetables, flowers, and fruit trees, and there I was taking

care of it. It was early summer, and the plants were just coming up; my favorite

garden time when new growth pushed through the warm soil. That summer

as the corn was just coming up, it was eaten by the crows, just one of theaccepted casualties of gardening. I planted new corn seeds and was so pleased

as every seed seemed to have sprouted.

In addition to being consumed by gardening, the most important thing

on my mind at that time was my upcoming wedding. Getting ready to be





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married at 18 years old. I think back at how young I was, ready and not

ready to be married.

When you left, no one knew when you would be back. I didnt know if you

would be back by September, for the wedding. I couldnt think about having

a wedding without a mother. I wanted you back so badly.

My mother remembers her experience of that summer while she was in jail.

Well, while you were at home, there were five of us in jail. We were put into

separate segregation cells. There wasnt any reason for us to be in segrega-

tion. After the third day we agreed to light a fire in our cells to protest theinjustice. We lit our clothing and mattresses. The smoke filled the cells quickly.

It was scary. We didnt know when they would notice or if they would notice,

to let us out. Finally we heard matrons shouting, they unlock one of the

doors. One sister is let out and she runs to my smoke filled cell window, so

scared. I need to get out, I shout holding a cloth over my mouth and nose,

hurry. The cells are open and I stumble out coughing. The matrons are

yelling, water is sprayed into the cells. The head director comes and begins

to yell at us angrily. They pull the burnt mattresses out of the cells and we are

put back in. Puddles of water with ash cover the floor. We have no mattresses,no clothing, and only one blanket. We cant sleep; it is too cold. For twelve

days we are kept like that. We just pace back and forth it is so cold. Finally a

community member hired a lawyer to have us released before our trial. It was

hard to think of anything but surviving and keeping our faith strong, you

cant lose faith in there, you just keep going.

My mother and I look at each other in silence, lingering on those vivid

images. I wonder about how she endured the cold and damp and think about

how uncomfortable I am when it is cold. Suddenly, our silence is broken by

mutual smiles summoned by the memory of her arrival home that summer.

I remember when you came home, the first thing I wanted to do was show

you the garden. I excitedly and proudly prompted her to the garden to see

the corn I had planted and how healthy it had come up. When we peered

out at the garden, there was not a corn plant in sight. The crows had had

another hearty meal, it appeared. I felt duped. Full-bellied crows, I think,

and laugh at my past selffeeling robbed of a potential moment of pride.

I remember my small, traditional wedding. It was a beautiful autumnday that went by in a blur of activity. My mother was there. I was oblivious

to the paths my new husband and I would take. I was oblivious to any

thoughts of the future and of pivotal times my mother would not be there.

She went back to jail soon after.





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My mother remembers that time in jail. There were so many of us they

didnt know what to do with all of us. So they kept us in our own building.

They called it the Doukhobor building. Do you remember? she asks.Oh yes, quite vividly. I remembered the Doukhobor building with its

open space, a kitchen, a small courtyard, and beds lined along the corridor.

The women transformed it with their hearty spirits, voices, and busyness

into a community home. There were Doukhobor women fussing about

singing, making food, sharing news, and knitting. And there I was sitting on

my moms cot with an itchy, gray, wool blanked neatly on top of it. I felt

surprisingly comfortable within their environment. I was savoring my moms

words, her gestures, and face. I was trying to say everything before thematrons call of times up. There was so much more to share and so much

more to say. I told her that I had recently become pregnant. We felt happy,

but it was overshadowed with sadness. Leaving my mom was difficult as

I felt so alone, and visits to her were rare because we lived far from the

prison. As I was leaving, I had to tense my whole body so as not to cry. I knew

she wouldnt be with me when my baby would be born. With every step

taking me away from her came the realization that she made her choice. She

walked her path and would continue down it.My mother reflects. When everything was well with you, then I felt at

peace. When you needed support and I couldnt be there, I worried. Especially

when you were pregnant. It was hard and so sad for me, Mom says. I needed

to ask her so many times and finally the words escaped, Did you cry? I rarely

saw her cry.

Yes I cried, but you cant let those things get to you or youll be sick. I prayed

constantly, walking back and forth praying, always in prayer, it makes you

feel lighter and you can handle it better, you leave it in Gods hands. ButI remember when Ivan called and said that the baby was born. He said how dif-

ficult it was for you needing to have a cesarean. I was choked and I couldnt

speak. I was glad that the baby was healthy but my heart was aching for you.

****

I remember waking up after the surgery, so groggy. The nurses put a

baby beside me, and then I remembered that I had a baby and that it was

my baby. He shone like an angel, but I couldnt focus my eyes and waspulled back to sleep. Now I knew love for a child. I became a mother and

wanted my mother to witness me as such. I felt transformed, like crossing

a threshold where my heart expanded beyond any previous boundaries of




12/23


love. Mom and I spoke often on the phone; I would tell her everything

I could about Sasha, her first grandson. She offered ongoing advice and

age-old remedies: Prepare barley broth for his colic, use warm olive oildrops for his little ears when they are sore, and dont forget to sing and pray.

When Sasha was 4 months old, Ivan and I bundled him up to make the

journey to visit my mother. It was a long drive from the interior of the

province to the coast where the ominous stone prison sat, its history

absorbed into every crack and crevice of its existence. As we drove through

rolling hills and mountain passes, I was riddled with excited anticipation of

her first reactions to Sasha. On arrival at the prison gates, my pride and

excitement took precedence over the dire environment of the prison. Wewere escorted to the visiting room where my mother awaited our arrival.

I was beaming. She held Sasha with so much love. Grandmother lovesoft

touches, sounds, and looks. The loveliness of those moments was framed

within the sharp edges and sounds of the prison. Our time was over before

it started. Goodbye again. There I was again trying to fight down the tears,

betrayed by a cracking voice. I tried to keep my composure. I wouldnt see

her until she was released, just after my sons first birthday.

My mother was home during the birth of my second son. She was justdown the path taking care of 2-year-old Sasha, excitedly waiting for his

new brother to be born. Misha burst into the world with eyes that sparkled

and a presence that filled our welcoming home. It was joyous and exhila-

rating. My mother and Sasha came in to see the little one. My mother cut

Mishas cord, and Sasha bound into bed to greet his brother. We all laughed,

what a happy day for everyoneespecially for my mom. She was over fre-

quently to help with the boys, and I wondered how long it would last. I didnt

want to think about it. I didnt want her to miss my sonschildhoods. I wanted

them to feel the love of a grandmother.

****

I remember when I was a child the strange and soothing sounds of Russian

would waft through me like magic. I would whisper the sounds that came my

way. They made their way to me through the songs of my grandmother in

the short time I had with her. The sounds came to me in my dreams, and

I embraced them. Just before becoming a mother, I immersed myself in learn-ing the Russian language. I hired a tutor. I read and wrote and stumbled my

way through my speech, until I spoke the language that I felt lived in me.

Sounds were given expression. Year after year the Russian language took up




13/23

its place within me, allowing me to fit into my Russian-ness. It became both

of my sons first language. I whole-heartedly attended prayer meetings and

community functions. I began to teach community children the Russian lan-guage and traditional Doukhobor singing. I was delighted to pass on a rich

oral history to children through story telling. I felt a need to keep our culture

and language alive. I saw language as a carrier of culture, as Durkheim (cited

in Misztal, 2003) suggests the past survives in the present (p. 138) cultur-

ally through the transmission of language. With devotion I lived true to the

principles of not drinking, smoking, or eating meat. My convictions were

zealously maintained. I lived the Doukhobor ideal and contributed to the con-

tinuance of its culture, identity, and memories, which Gongaware (2003)asserts is collective memory and collective identity implying a continuity

of a social movement through time (p. 11).

****

Mother remembers when she was a little girl living in a DoukhoborSons

of Freedom community.

People struggled together, we had very little but did things together; garden-ing, baking, building and I can still hear the singing that went from morning

until nighttime. Children singing and women singing in the gardens and

kitchens. Men singing as they chopped wood and repaired the old homes. We

sang while we picked berries and mushrooms in the forest. Singing as people

gathered for prayer meetings. Prayer and song all day long. I can still hear it.

****

It was during the 1930s and 1940s that my mother was a little girl learningsongs and prayers and stories of her culture and past. In 1901, Bonch-

Bruevich (1978) was witness to how the transmission of Doukhobor teach-

ing is made via the simple process of learning psalms, prayer etc, by heart.

He had the occasion of seeing children of five or six who already knew

by heart up to sixty different psalms (p. 3). The Doukhobors have been

in Canada since the late 1800s, more than 100 years, and they still remem-

ber and maintain their culture, language, and traditions, which Fine (cited

in Gongaware, 2003) describes as bundles of narratives which he con-

tends are imperative to the creation of a movements culture, and without

such a shared and communicated culture sustained collective action is

impossible (p. 489).

****





14/23


I remember singing and prayer becoming a prevalent activity in my own

home. My sons and I sang long drawn out psalms. Mom lets sing(He Lives). There was always time to sing. Singing on morning walks, in the

bath, and while in the car. Our full voices filled every possible space with song.

I remember our favorite traveling song (We Are Going,

Going, Going) and the slow rhythms of song to lull the children to bed.

I can hear Sashas sincere voice telling me, Mama I know how we can

talk to baba (grandmother) without using the telephone.

How? I wonder.

Our singing travels all the way to her, he replies. And I thought it mustbe true, as the threads of songs, like spirit, know no boundaries of time and

space. I imagine my mother singing for pleasure, for protest, and for triumph

and to send us her threads of love.

My mothers pride in her grandsons was felt through the many letters she

wrote (see Figure 2):

How well the boys write to me, this is my great happiness. With the grace of

God let them not forget their Russian language, I am so happy for them, nowI see that everything is the responsibility of the parents if they put the effort

in to teach them, bring them to heartily believe in God this then will stay with

them their whole lives.

****

Figure 2

Letter in Russian From My Mother to Me




15/23


I look at the letters that my mother has brought out and spilled on the

table. It is a small mountain. We randomly pick out letters and scan the con-

tents. I had forgotten the many letters my sons and I wrote to her in Russian.

Years of greetings and stories lay haphazard on the table, so funny and

sweet and sad. The boys used to enjoy receiving her letters, drawings, poems,

and prayers (see Figure 3):

Babooshka (grandmother) misses you both very much and thinks about you

all the time. I pray to God that you dont get sick. Dont forget to read your

prayers so you wouldnt forget them and pray for me too.

I kiss you and love you strongly

Your Babooshka

****

Mom speaks to me as she slips into a far away memory.

When I was a girl I remember my mom crying as she looked at photographs

of our (ancestors). I never understood how photographs could make

Figure 3

Letter in Russian From My Mother to My Sons




16/23

her cry, photographs of people from a long time ago. There were nights that

I could hear my dad crying. Crying and crying. He was crying for the suffer-

ing of our ancestors. For a long time I didnt understand how they could beso moved. But one day it awakened in me, it was the spirit of our ancestors.

It is something that is passed along with time. Its like a seed that is in you

and it comes alive, you dont know when and you cant control it. You try

with your brain but your soul is bubbling, it is so powerful. It was then that I

understood why Mom and Dad cried and how they felt the spirit of the

Doukhobors in them. It is the past spirit of the people; it is the spirit in us.

I could feel their suffering. It was in me come alive.

****

I let the words of my mother settle into my feelings as I envisioned my

grandmother and grandfather crying for something bigger than them. My

grandparents cried in the night for the pain and suffering of those before them,

long before them and yet at the same time within them and within my mother.

Not only did their memory link to the generations of dead with the genera-

tions of living as Shils (cited in Misztal, 2003, p. 138) describes, but I believe

they experienced the past generation as living, as living spirit within them. They

were moved by the persistent visions of their ancestors as

(living memory). Throughout Doukhobor history, these words are passed on

with those who pass away. Findley (1990, p. 7) writes about remembrance as

being more than honouring the dead. Remembrance is joining thembeing

one with them in memory. The Doukhobors have an enduring belief that the

ones who pass away live through our memory. Nussbaum (cited in Misztal,

2003) refers to a connection of memory and soul constituting identities and

further suggests the idea of inner life as sustained by the depth of memory

(p. 7). It is with a certain amount of fear and awe that I think about the powerof the Doukhobor memory and identity that drove my forefathers, grandpar-

ents, and mother to resist, survive, and inevitably suffer.

****

Mom and I sit looking at each other and into each other. We cant leave

the stream of memories that have pushed their way into our space. We pick

them up one at a time and pass them over to each other. Mom, you fasted

so many times. It was painful for me, your suffering and being powerless to

do anything about it, even though I tried, I said.

Yes, but I always thought that you were strong enough to handle it. I didnt

really know how difficult it was for you. I never wanted you to suffer over me.





17/23

And yes, there were many fasts. I remember my first prison fast. I didnt feel

too bad. The two older sisters told me horror stories about force-feeding and

I was hoping it wouldnt happen. But then I saw the prison doctor and nursescome with the hoses. My heart was beating so hard. I was terrified. I remem-

ber how they put the hoses up my nose, it was so painful and I bled. One sister

started to fight them when they tried putting the hose into her. She pushed them

away. They dragged her into a small outdoor courtyard. They pinned her down

and forced the tube into her nose. She fought, by swinging her arms and pulling

at the hoses. There was blood everywhere. The doctor was very disturbed over

it all. He was a good person and he was doing what he thought he had to. After

that incident he said he wouldnt force feed anymore. He took the issue to court

and the court decided that there would be no more force-feeding without con-sent. You have to fight in there, to be heard, to have a voice, to change things.

I reflect over her words in silence. My mother the freedom fighter. I saw her

as such a strong woman. I wonder, is that what strength is all about? If it is,

I do not think I have it.

****

I surrender into the vividness of past images, movements, and feelings.It is a summer evening. The day is slowly giving over to the transition of

dusk. Laughter permeates the warm evening air. My children are darting

around the full-fruited apple trees. My mother runs with them, catching

them, twirling them in the air, embracing them, and laughing with them.

They dont know she will be leaving tomorrow. I watch them and cant get

past my recurring thoughts.

Mom is in and out; so many times I do not count.It seems like so many years, I do not count.

Will she stop? Sometime. Can she stop?

I hold the back the tears, pushing to escape. I wish they wouldnt come

so easily to the surface. I try to push them down, and yet they tease my eyes,

throat, and heart. I cant make the burning lump in my chest disappear. I see

their faces so sunny and joyful. How could Mom smile? How could she

enjoy herself so much when it may be a long time before she can play with

them again, embrace them again. I imagine she has a burning lump in herchest too. That night I lay in bed wondering, How long this time? I know

it is faith that fills her and drives her; it is so strong. I have a mom who lives

her convictions; no matter what they are or what people think, she goes

forth to actualize them. She doesnt live her life in any conventional way.





18/23

What a strange way to have a mother, I think. I am proud of her and yet so

frustrated. I support her, and yet I want her to stop. She is missing so much

of her grandchildren. Will she develop a relationship with them? I couldnever leave my children. If they were ever taken away, as children were in

Doukhobor history, I would grieve myself to death. I look at my sons sleep-

ing, and I experience an unbearable depth of feeling. I block the thoughts

and pain that is evoked and feel fortunate for everything I have.

****

My memory sweeps me into a courtroom of countless,court cases

court cases

nude bodies

shouts

police dragging

and carrying the resisting

Sons of Freedom women into the courtroom,

filled with news reporters and gawking eyes.

Filled with a twisted flurry of wordsand nothing makes sense

I watch my mother. It is so surreal, that that is my mom standing nude,

singing in front of the filled courtroom on display. I feel a combination of

sadness, pride, and horror.

You dont need to come you know, Mom always tells me. But I want to

support her, I want to see. I love her. Her record is read out. It goes on and on.

As long as my arm, she always said, always judged by the past.

Do you have anything to say? the judge asks her.

You already judged me, she replies.

There was one time, when the sentence she was expected to receive would

be short or not at all. The judge announced stoically, One year. I recall my

shock: What? Currents of emotions pushed to be expressed, and I used all

my composure to hold down the tears and keep my voice clear when I told

Mom goodbye. In the hall a friend looked at me with too much sympathy for

me to bear. She hugged me, and sobs like seizures wracked my body. I become

tossed into the current. I could only sob. People passed by throwing curiousglances, but I couldnt stop. I couldnt stop. She held me until I was still. I was

numb. There wasnt anything to do but go home.

****





19/23


I continued my work in the community, teaching, writing, illustrating,

translating late into the nightnight after night. I was getting so tired, but

I was carried by my convictions to keep the culture alive for the children,for the future. My marriage broke down slowly through the years, and I still

did not know how to stop. I still carried on and realized that my own devo-

tion to my convictions were not so different than my mothers. I saw paral-

lels in our life through our determination and devotion to uphold our beliefs

and maintain the existence of our culture. I allowed myself to be pulled in

all community directions. I felt caught up in a tangle of cultural identity and

ended up thinking, Where did Mom start and I end? How could I make

sense of this Doukhobor identity that was so all consuming? There didntseem to be time to sort it out; there was pressure to advocate for my mom

and for the sisters. There were always issues to be resolved, one way or

another. There were phone calls to and from parole officers, prison officials,

and government officials. There were letters to write, To whom it may

concern . . . . There was a constant stream of community meetings about

the women. Peoples voices asked,

What can we do?

Write more letters?To who this time?

Let them be, they get what they deserve.

Let their families deal with it. I would walk home hearing the words,

Let their families deal with it. I wondered, did they even know how much

I was dealing with it? I am getting tired. I just want to be at home with my

sons, I told myself.

****

My mother frames another emerging memory with her steady voice,

which draws me into dramatic images that apprehend my attention.

Its been many days of fasting, I am so tired this time. I lift myself into the

wheelchair to use the washroom. I feel like I will pass out, but I keep wheel-

ing myself down the hall. I pass out. I feel like I am dying and it is okay.

Matrons yell at me but I just drift away. I wake up and I see golden leaves.

Am I dead? I feel so light. I turn my head and see my sisters. I thought I was

in heaven and laugh. I am alive, I am here.

Mom and I laugh together, it sounds sweet, waking up amongst golden

leaves only to realize nothing has changed. But then I realize,

Mom, you almost died.

I know, and I wasnt afraid.




20/23


How did you feel though about us, your children, your grandchildren?

About leaving us?

You know you cant be in that place and survive without faith. And youpray all the time. All the time. Otherwise you go nuts.

But that wasnt my question. Then my mom says something that I always

knew, but when she said it the words darted painfully through my body. Yet

I knew.

The family comes second, she says. I dont like hearing these words,

yet I wonder about the times I put my own family second while I was so

involved with the movement.

****

I quickly ask my mother to tell me more. There is always more, and she goes

back. Its been 40 days of fastingthe others have been taken to the hos-

pital. I still feel all right. The doctor comes by and asks me, How are you?

Still alive, I say. He lifts my blanket to check me. Your feet are blue.

Oh thats from my blue socks.

Mom stops the story and we both laugh at how funny this sounds. She

continues,No your heart is very weak. You will die if we dont do something now.

What will it be? the doctor says.

I leave it to you, and I am taken to the hospital, I let myself over to them.

I look at my mother and try to articulate my own feelings and memories.

I also remember all those fasts but in a different way of course, because they

took their toll on me as well. So many people called thinking I could have

some influence on you; community members, authorities of all sorts said tome, Ask her to eat, she may eat if you ask her. I brought the concerns to

meetings; through letters and phone calls to people that came and went from

my memory. I would talk to you over the phone, Mom, please eat, Mom,

please, yet I knew your convictions were stronger than my pleas.

Mom and I are enveloped in silence, and I stop to wonder and think that I am

not sure if my mother could ever understand the pain I experienced during her

fasts, in the same way that I could not understand the pain she endured. I fall

back into the time of those fasts, which seemed to go on and on.Its been over 40 days, over 50 days, over 60 days, your mother can die

any day now. Something needs to be done. What will you do? Call so and

so and so and so and so and so.

Your mother is dying. I make dinner for my sons.

Your mother is dying. I play with my sons.




21/23

Your mother is dying. I go teach the children.

Your mother is dying. Just be quiet, everyone just be quiet.

My mother is dying. And I still need to go on day by day, without show-ing fear or sadness to my sons or to others. I am strong, I have to be

strong, I think. But its too hard.

Maybe I am dying. I feel disconnected from my body. I am out of sync.

I cant feel properly. My fingers feel fuzzy. My feet dont touch the floor.

What is going on? I cant do this anymore. I want to stop counting the dying

days. I dont want to be reminded every day, every moment.

Its almost 70 days, your mother is dying, you need to do something.

No I dontI thinkit is not my cause anymore. I feel exhausted emo-tionally and spiritually.

I dont do this anymore. Click.

****

I felt torn up and was tormented by my own feelings.

I have a mother. Not a martyr, just a mother. Cant she just be my mother?

I will not advocate anymore. I will talk to her on the phone, I will write herletters. I will not talk to the authorities or the community about it any more.

I dont want sympathy or resentment from others. Why does there have to be

such dramatic solutions, spirit rendering, tearing, pushing, always fighting,

always so visible. Who cares? Yet another call, another letter to write, another

meeting to get the sisters out of jail, to make their situation better, to bring

forth their message. She is my mother. Maybe I dont need any of it; maybe

I dont need her anymore. The distance is more than miles now; this distance is

in my heart. I dont yearn for my mother anymore, there are no more burning

lumps in my throat or threats of tears. I can manage. I pull away from anythingthat identifies me as Doukhobor, as Sons of Freedom. I want it all to go away.

I want to go away. I dont want to love it anymore. And I stop. The strength of

my mother isnt my strength. The strength of the Doukhobor blood isnt my

strength. I want to find my strength. I want to find out about me. I let it go and

it slipped away. I couldnt look back anymore. I didnt want to carry the past.

When the past no longer illuminates the future, the spirit walks in dark-

ness (Tocville, cited in Misztal, 2003, p. 136). I wanted to find a way out.

I wanted to find a different light.I immersed myself in a different world. The one I lived in until age 13.

I went to school, to work, and developed many friendships that had nothing

to do with the Doukhobors, a people I rarely spoke about. My sons and I just

were. It is good, I thought. We lived without any cultural trimmings. We lived





22/23

without the pressure and obligations of immersion and transmission of culture,

of continuous community work and painstaking advocacy.

The language slipped away, the identity slipped away. I did not care. Thedistance between me and my mom and the community grew denser. There

was no way to tease the two apart. For me, pulling away from the move-

ment meant pulling away from my mother. For my mother, me pulling away

from the movement meant me pulling away from not only her but from who

I used to be. She could not recognize me as apart from the movement.

A number of years went by before I softened before my past and before

my rootsbefore I could recognize and value those roots once again.

Maybe the mesmerizing sounds of Russian beckoned me back. Maybe the(ancestors) beckoned me back. Nevertheless, I began to recognize

and accept the beautiful side of Doukhobor history and culture. I could

once more live into the stories and songs already woven into my memories

and heart. I could feel the generosity of the Doukhobor folk spirit through

the sharing of food in warm kitchens, extending a helping hand with wide

smiles and always stories. I could feel an affinity for the soil and for the living

sentiments: Toil and Peaceful Life. Now I could reclaim that blood once

more, as it slowly became something beautiful and meaningful to me. It didnot need to be torrential or a burden to carry. I did not need to fear it but

could embrace it knowing my strength and my voice within it. It did not

really slip away. It was just tucked away for a while.

My mother and I look at each other with so much love and compassion. We

have come to understand each other as mother and daughter and as two women

who have struggled, changed, and continue to change. As we shared our stories

and allowed them to be voiced, we also allowed for forgiveness and heart.

I know the blood that flows through my veins is also her blood. This lifeblood

is expressed through me in so many ways, in my love of life and the passion in

my relationships, visions, and work. But instead of being swept away by its

power, I can now navigate. I navigate with tools of my heart and mind, soul,

and spirit, and with tools that I have not only inherited but continue to cocreate.

References

Bonch-Bruevich, V. (1978). The book of life of Doukhobors. Blaine Lake, Saskatchewan,Canada: s.n.

Eyerman, R. (2004). The past in the present.Acta Sociologica, 47(2), 159-169.

Findley, T. (1990).Inside memory: Pages from a writers workbook. Toronto: HarperCollins.

Gongaware, T. B. (2003). Collective memories and collective identities.Journal of Contemporary

Ethnography, 32, 483-520.





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Griffen, L. (2004). Generations and collective memory revisited: Race, Religion and memory

of civil rights.American Sociological Review, 69, 544-557.

Misztal, B. A. (2003). Durkheim on collective memory.Journal of Classical Sociology, 3(2),123-143.

Ahna Berikoffgrew up in the southeastern region of British Columbia. She moved into a

Doukhobor community at the age of 14, which was a turning point in her life toward ongoing

cultural and community involvement. Her DoukhoborRussian culture informed her work with

children, youth, and families inside and outside of the Doukhobor community, which included

teaching the Russian language, program development, illustrating, writing, and storytelling.

She completed early childhood education programs through Selkirk College in Castlegar, BC,

in 1989 and through the West Coast Institute for Studies in Anthroposophy in Vancouver, BC,in 2000. She has taught various programs for young children and families at the Nelson Waldorf

School in Nelson, BC. She has worked in Nelsons school district as a youth and family worker

within various schools and alternate schools. She received a bachelor of arts in child and youth

care in 2003 from the University of Victoria and is currently an MA candidate in the Department

of Child and Youth Care at the University of Victoria.


inside memory

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