Perito continues its series with anthropologist Dmitriy Oparin, a researcher from the Passages laboratory (Bordeaux Montaigne University) and co-creator of the podcast Tozhe Rossia (“Russia Too”). In this interview, Dmitry talks with Anastasia Shumilova. Anastasia is Editor-in-Chief of the literary journal Kenesh (“Council”) and author of the popular Telegram channel dedicated to Udmurt literature, “What Does the Votyachka Sing About?” Dmitry spoke with her about why there is no place for literature in the modern presentation of Udmurt culture, what Soviet Udmurt literature could have been if not for Stalin's repressions, how industrial novels about collective farms are now being read in a new way, and what tools there are to popularize the rich Udmurt literary heritage.

On folklore, why Udmurt writers are called “ethnic” and traditional themes of Udmurt literature

Dmitry Oparin: I’ll start way back. A couple of years ago, I participated in a Yandex and Arzamas project dedicated to the folk lullabies. One song was chosen that had been recorded by folklorists during their expedition; it was performed in one language or another. I worked with the folklorists and wrote down the history of the song. However, no matter how incredible the folklore was, this was still just the next in a long line of projects about multiculturalism told through the lens of folklore. There are too many of these already, and folklore, dance, and traditional costumes overshadow other equally important, but less visually striking manifestations of culture. Against the backdrop of this pop-culturalization, behind the folklorization of Russia's multiculturalism, literature written in native languages ​​is overlooked.

Anastasia Shumilova: What you’re saying about folklorization is in the presentation of the “minority peoples” of Russia in mass culture. I see this at festivals of national literature that are held in different cities—the cultures of the native Russian peoples are mostly presented in this way. Once I was at a literary festival in Kazan and came back with thoughts about how national literature is presented—I was introduced there as an “ethnic” poet. For me, this became an impetus to think about what “ethnic” poetry is. I think that only my language makes me an “ethnic” poet—I write in Udmurt. But if an author writes in a “bigger” language, then he or she is not called an “ethnic” writer. I wrote a short column about this in Udmurt.

What you say resonates very strongly with me. About 10 years ago I wrote for the newspaper Dart [(from the Udmurt word for “passion,” “excitement”) is a youth offshoot of the republican newspaper Udmurt Dunne (“Udmurt World”) — a Republican Udmurt language socio-political newspaper — D.O.], a short reflection on culture “Könya sylye vös'yam žuk” (“What's the price of consecrated porridge?”). At that time I noticed that the tourism industry is actively growing in Udmurtia, and the main way of attracting tourists is through the ethnic culture. Look, here we have the Udmurts, an indigenous people, they have their own culture, this stuff known as perepechi [an Udmurt dish. — D.O.], and folk songs. And now they often turn to ethno-centric themes—it’s like a beautiful wrapping paper. Sometimes it’s done carelessly, in a way that’s disrespectful to the Udmurt culture. Sometimes we, the Udmurts, do it ourselves. Once I watched as tourists were brought to a sacred grove where prayers used to be held. There they were fed porridge, which was previously cooked during prayer. It seems that we are selling out our culture.

Whenever Udmurtia is presented, there is always an ensemble in Udmurt costumes, and perhaps the Buranovskiye Babushki contributed to this [an Udmurt-Russian ethno-pop band comprising eight elderly women from the village of Buranovo, Udmurtia. Buranovskiye Babushki represented Russia at the Eurovision Song Contest 2012 where they finished second — D.O.]. On the one hand, their contribution to the popularization of Udmurt culture is invaluable. On the other, it seems that our culture has become exoticized, associated only with perepechi, kumyshka [an Udmurt alcoholic drink — D.O.] and babushkas in folk attire. It’s good that this exists, but it should not be the only thing that does. These stereotyped images are not the quintessence of Udmurt culture.

In literature, too, there is (self)-exoticizing and stereotypical conceptions about “national” literature. What can national authors and poets be found doing at all sorts of different festivals? “How I love my native language,” “how I love my homeland” (both on a small and large scale), “how I love my mother.” To an outside viewer or passer-by who doesn’t delve deeper, it may seem that national literature is very limited in its choice of topics. I know Udmurt literature, for instance, and I know that it’s not all just about beautiful birch trees. But an outsider may only see this aspect.

I remember the artist Alisa Gorshenina telling me that at various contemporary art biennials she has been called a “regional artist” because she is from the Urals.

Yes, there’s always some sort of opposition to the center, to something bigger. But how else can you attract the interest of this center, this “something bigger?” On the one hand, I complain about segregation, but on the other, I know that I would not have been invited to KRYAKK [Krasnoyarsk Book Culture Fair. — D.O.] as just a writer, without the epithets “Udmurt” and “ethnic”—because I am unknown in Russia, I’m not a figure in the media. And there may be questions for me because I am outraged by this presentation, this division, but I still go and participate. How should we present writers who represent the native peoples of Russia? Should they be singled out in a separate category? I do not know.

It seems to me that the language, norms, and ethical guidelines for discussing various non-Russian-language cultures, literature, and poetry in Russia have yet to be developed.

I would add that we also exoticize ourselves. When I speak to non-Udmurt-speaking audiences, I first of all want to draw attention to my “Udmurtness.” I try to read texts that mention the realities of Udmurt culture, or texts that focus on the problems of the Udmurt people. Udmurt or, more broadly, minority cultures.

I actually stopped considering myself a poet because I almost stopped writing literary pieces. I probably write three pieces a year at most. And recently I posted a new poem on social media. I just spoke disapprovingly about the limited set of topics that—as it may seem from the outside—are touched upon by national poets, but this poem I wrote also belongs to this category. I wrote about my language, the poem is called “Kylyly” (“To My Language”). I rarely write now, and it just started writing itself. It all started with a poem by Sergei Gandlevsky, there were these lines: “Stay with me until the end.” I thought about this line—who could I say this to? And for some reason, the first thing that came to mind was the Udmurt language. The poem is sentimental, perhaps even a bit manipulative. It is an appeal to the language: “Stay with me until the end of my life, and please live on after my departure.” It is about how I grew up with the language. I also turn to folklore: the poem contains very beautiful expressions from traditional Udmurt songs.

In this case, perhaps, I need to ask myself: is this an exploitation of my culture or not? Returning to the poem: in it, I imagine a moment when Udmurt completely disappears from life, from everyday life, and at some point the last native speaker remains. And I wondered—what might be the last words spoken in Udmurt, namely by a native speaker? Maybe he or she will say: “Gydyke” (“Dove”) or “Osto, shu!” (“Lord!”). “Gydyke” is an affectionate address to a child. Sometimes in Izhevsk [capital of Udmurtia. — D.O.] I notice a grandmother walking with her grandson or granddaughter. She addresses the child in Russian, and suddenly one word slips out—“nyly” (“daughter”) or “pie” (“son”). I recognize that these are Udmurts, but the child no longer knows her native language. So I thought that perhaps these would be the last words that would remain in everyday life, not learned from books, but transmitted through communication. You think about all this and you want to cry.

Why do you write in Udmurt?

Because I can’t write literature in another language. I tried in Russian—it came out terribly. For me, everything Udmurt is about finding yourself in this world, a way of self-realization. And I’m interested in the language itself, interested in pondering its logic, its structure. It’s fascinating to observe how grammar manifests itself in poetry and to think about how poetry can showcase the features of the language system.

How did you end up so fluent? What family are you from?

I think it wasn’t that hard to grow up bilingual in my generation. I grew up in an Udmurt village, and we spoke Udmurt in kindergarten. At school, we were taught subjects in Russian, but in my time, the program included many hours of Udmurt literature and language. Everyone in my family spoke Udmurt, and I spoke Udmurt with my classmates. For example, I remember our algebra teacher telling us something, explaining it in Russian, and then repeating it in Udmurt. There was a quick switch between languages. Then I entered the Udmurt Philology Department—here, of course, many subjects were taught in Udmurt. The crowd was also Udmurt, and there were various events. It is believed that there is very little Udmurt in Izhevsk, but if you know where to go, you can immerse yourself in a purely Udmurt environment. Most of my friends here are Udmurts. And, of course, my work is also related to the Udmurt language. For some time I taught at the Udmurt State University at my faculty, then I left there to work at the editorial office of an Udmurt newspaper, then moved to the editorial office of an Udmurt literary magazine. Sometimes I think that I live in an Udmurt language bubble and at times, it seems to me that the language is thriving. But when I step outside this bubble, I realize I was mistaken.

On Stalin’s repressions that destroyed many Udmurt authors

To what extent is the scale of the 1930s repressions against the Udmurt intelligentsia now understood? The blossom of culture was destroyed.

Of course, I don’t think we talk about it enough—that our Udmurt intelligentsia was destroyed in the 1930s and that later our writers were subjected to repression. When you read the biography of an Udmurt writer who was active in the 1910s-1930s, it often turns out that his life was cut short during the repressions, or that he was sent into exile. This year we prepared material for the magazine about the writer Arkady Klabukov—he was born in 1904 and lived to be 80 years old. And I was shocked to learn that he was the first Udmurt writer of the first half of the 20th century who lived to such an age.

My friends and colleagues and I periodically discuss the works of some author and say: “If they had not been destroyed then, what kind of culture would we have now?” There is a terrifying book by historian Nikolai Spiridonovich Kuznetsov about the fate of the Udmurt intelligentsia repressed during the Stalin years—“Shimes peymytys'” (“From Darkness”). This book is actually translated into English and is titled “To Light… To Life…”. Also “Čaš'jem nim'jos” (“Murdered Names”) by literary scholar Alexander Grigoryevich Shklyaev—a book about repressed writers who influenced the development of Udmurt literature in the late 19th and first third of the 20th century. Each story is a heartbreaking tragedy. It is terrible to read, for instance, about Ashalchi Oki, the first Udmurt poetess, who managed to write only about forty poems. She was charged in the SOFIN case (Union for the Liberation of Finnish Peoples) because she was friends with Kuzebai Gerd [the most prominent Udmurt poet and writer, researcher of Udmurt culture, 1898-1937. — D.O.]. She had to leave the literary world and she was arrested several times, but then released. She was an ophthalmologist by education—she focused on this career. She was very happy to be taken to the front during WWII, because for her it meant that she was trusted. But even at the front, they continued to follow her. In 1968, when she was called upon to return to literature, memories of her forcibly forgotten work stirred in her. She wrote in a letter: “The soul burns and writhes, like birch bark on fire.”

Kedra Mitrei, the author of the first Udmurt novel, a tragedy, was exiled to the Novosibirsk region, where he died of exhaustion. His death certificate lists the cause of death as malnutrition. Firstly, the man was killed for no reason. Secondly, you understand what significance he had for Udmurt literature and culture. Grigory Medvedev, author of the first Udmurt trilogy, “Lözya besmen” (“Lozinsky Field”), about the life of Udmurt villages during collectivization, was also repressed. He was accused of participating in “Konovalov’s Counter-Revolutionary Group.” Mikhail Konovalov is another talented Udmurt writer, who, for example, wrote the historical novel Gayan about the Pugachev uprising. No matter which one you consider, at the end of their biography you’ll most certainly read that they were repressed, exiled and killed—that they were affected by this repression in one way or another. It is important to understand that in the thirties the literary process was in a difficult situation, it was struggling. Nikolai Kuznetsov writes that when the VUARP (All-Udmurt Association of Revolutionary Writers) congress took place in 1930, an order came from above to discuss the issue of class in literature. This led to a more pronounced split between writers. Ashalchi Oki tried to appeal to the writers' community at the congress, to show that mutual attacks and criticism could acquire a political hue. But they did not listen to her.

Who is the figure of Kuzebay Gerd in Udmurt literature, culture, language?

I thank literary scholars and historians for returning Kuzebay Gerd to us. Now, his name is likely known to every Udmurt, his work is studied, he is a national hero, so to speak. During korenizatsiya [a Soviet political and cultural campaign regarding the issues of national identity in the 1920s and early 1930s, which included the preparation and promotion of representatives of native Russian nationalities to leadership positions, the creation of national territorial autonomies, the introduction of national minority languages in office work and education, and the advancement of media published in native minority languages.—D.O.], he did everything he could. He stands at the origins of the Udmurt autonomy. You read the minutes of Udmurt conferences and Kuzma Chaynikov (Kuzebay Gerd’s real name) appears there. Of course, he contributed to the development of poetry, drama, and prose. Gerd was a folklorist, ethnographer, he went on expeditions and recorded songs and riddles on wax cylinders. He is the author of several academic publications and many articles. In 1921, Kuzebay Gerd founded the first orphanage for Udmurt children in Izhevsk and worked as its director. No matter where you looked, he was everywhere.

His Russian-language works are currently being studied by philologist and writer Andrei Gogolev. Andrei used a very literal, word-for-word translation of Gerd’s 1920 story “Matï” to create his own translation into Russian. He published it as a separate book, and several editions have already been sold out, I think. Thanks to this book, Kuzebai Gerd's story has found a second life. This is a good example of how Udmurt literature and culture can capture the interest of more than just Udmurts.

On modern Udmurt literature and the issue of translation

What is modern Udmurt literature like?

Let me tell you about what I observe as the editor of the Udmurt literary publication Kenesh: the quality of literary texts is falling every year, and the number of texts that come to the editorial office is decreasing, and the Udmurt literary language is gradually becoming more impoverished, the syntax is losing its “Udmurtness.” The issue of who will write in Udmurt in the future also concerns me. Will literature survive? This is, first and foremost, due to the disappearing language. Vera Grigoryevna Panteleeva, a literary scholar and critic, wrote somewhere that in Udmurt literature there is currently no male prose writer under 50 years old. I remember about 10 years ago there was a round table, and they debated the existence of a female Udmurt literary tradition. Now this question sounds silly, because it is mainly women who write—especially among the youth.

Now, our magazine often publishes works by amateur writers. Critic and literary scholar Larisa Dmitrieva published an interesting article about these authors and about Udmurt naive poetry. There is also a video of an interview with Larisa Dmitrieva in Udmurt with English subtitles.

I half-jokingly say that if someone starts writing in Russian, they most often write about romantic love, and when someone starts writing in Udmurt, they most often write about love for their hometown, for their village. I know that it’s very important to write about this. For many, writing poetry becomes a form of therapy; with the help of poetry, people—often elderly people—express their fears and concerns about the future of the Udmurt language or their native village. But much of their writing seems to be composed of pre-made pieces, phrases borrowed from folk songs and classic poems. In my work, I often have to read these sorts of things, and sometimes it gets boring, although now I try to find something good in every text written in Udmurt. Once I compiled a list of expressions that are found in almost every text dedicated to the village. I made a collective poem out of these expressions, a cento [a poem entirely composed of lines from other poems familiar to the intended reader. — D.O.], like Frankenstein’s monster. I posted it on my VKontakte. I was simply interested in people's reactions, and someone wrote: “oh, how wonderful,” “how heart-warming.” Someone else wrote: “Come on, Nastya, you shouldn’t write poems like that.” Now I understand that it was a bit of an arrogant experiment.

I understand the irony. On the other hand, people probably have no way at all to stop the disappearance of their village’s identity, to capture it, to preserve it. And poetry gives them at least some form of agency. Not everyone can make a “Museum of Vanished Villages,” as they did in the Udmurt village of Sep. So what is the scope of these prose and poetic pieces? What themes touch modern poets and authors?

One of the interesting trends in prose now is the reconceptualization of collectivization from how it was described in the Soviet classics. All Soviet Udmurt literature developed in the mainstream of socialist realism. And that is why in our classics, collectivization is good, collective farms are magnificent. And now, dispossessed people are becoming protagonists. For example, Kenesh published Liya Malykh’s novel “Usty sin'yoste” (“Open Your Eyes”), in which she touches on the period during which collective farms were established and the violence that accompanied it. There is no longer such a clear division between black and white. And in the novel “Sanï. Pilemyos dorazy berto…” (“Alexandra. The Clouds Are Returning Home…”) by Mikhail Atamanov, which is about collectivization. The narrator and protagonist is a girl from a dispossessed family. The author shows wealthy Udmurts as hard-working, conscientious people who lived honestly and did no harm to anyone. He writes about how the revolution came to the village and destroyed the established way of life of many people. It seems to me that writers will continue to address this topic in the coming years.

What is the current situation with the translation of literary works from Udmurt into Russian?

In the post-Soviet era, we’ve already had huge problems with translation, because now it is always the responsibility of the author themselves. Do they want to be read in Russian, and what can they do to ensure that they are? Some poets publish bilingual books of poetry—Petr Zakharov, Larisa Orekhova and Alexey Arzamasov, for example, who work within the framework of ethnofuturism.

Can you explain what ethnofuturism is?

There are many definitions of this term. Literary scholar, poet, and researcher of ethnofuturism Viktor Shibanov gives the following: “Ethnofuturism is like a bird with two wings. ‘Ethno’ means a connection with the national-indigenous, ethnic-mythological; ‘futurism’; is the search for one’s place in the current postmodern world order, the desire to survive and be competitive. ‘Ethno’ plus ‘futurism’ means: how, in the harsh conditions of globalization and the dominance of postmodernism, to preserve and carry the ethnic-mythological idiosyncrasies of this people into the future.” He also gave a compelling interview in Udmurt with Russian subtitles.

Let’s return to translation. The stories of Udmurt People’s Writer Vyacheslav Ar-Sergi are translated and published in other languages, first of all because he takes care of this himself, and is a good literary agent in his own right. This year, a group of translators graduated from the Literary Institute, and under the guidance of literary scholar Vera Grigoryevna Panteleeva, they translated a number of interesting Udmurt works into Russian.

Translation of prose can be accelerated using a neural network. This spring, together with a young Udmurt IT specialist Egor Lebedev, who is currently a first-year master’s student at the National Research University Higher School of Economics, we translated “Perepech”, a collection of stories by Bagai Arkash (Arkady Klabukov), into Russian using a neural network. Egor prepared a machine translation, I edited it, and now you can read the ebook online. It should be understood that this is not a literary translation, but neural networks seem like a neat tool that can be used to familiarize oneself with Udmurt literature. So, as for translation, we have tools that simplify the work, but we need people who will do this. We also recently used a neural network to translate Makar Volkov’s story “Parsch Petya” (“Petyr Pig”), and Andrei Gogolev used this to create a literary translation. The book was published in December 2024.

It should be said that a lot of the classics were translated in the Soviet years. Stories, novels, short stories by Pyotr Blinov, Ignatiy Gavrilov, Gennady Krasilnikov, Roman Valishin and other prose writers, poems by Flor Vasiliev, Nikolay Bayteryakov, Vladimir Romanov, etc. All these books can be found on the website of the National Electronic Library of the Udmurt Republic—there is a huge corpus of texts. The quality of translations is another matter, there are also articles devoted to this topic.

Tell me some of the works that you think should be translated into Russian so that they are accessible to more than just Udmurt speakers.

From the things I’ve read recently, probably Darali Leli’s novel “Zornamer no Zanna” (“Zornamer and Zanna”). She is a modern Udmurt writer, incredibly talented. She’s from the Chernov dynasty of writers—her mother and grandmother are poets. Darali’s novel was published serially in Kenesh over the course of three years. I say that it’s kind of like “Bridgerton,” but in an Udmurt setting.

Translations of the poet Rafit Min (Rafit Minnekuzin) are decent. In 2022, he passed away—committed suicide. Rafit lived in Bashkortostan, in his native Udmurt village, ran his own farm and wrote wonderful poetry. Just before his death, he wrote an ode to small Udmurt villages—“Pokčies udmurt gurt'jos” (“Little Udmurt Villages”), in which the Udmurt language and culture are preserved. Despite the poet’s tragic departure, his last text contains a lot of optimism and faith that the Udmurt language will survive, as will the Udmurt villages and the Udmurt people. Writer Ulfat Badretdinov, who also hails from Bashkortostan, wrote the play “Vuzher pi” (“Son of Shadow”), dedicated to the life of Rafit Minnikuzin. He also has an essay “Bajšadïn ulë kyľburči, yake Rossijsys' gurt'joslën adžonzy” (“In the village of Baishady lives a poet, or the fate of Russian villages”), in which the writer’s reflections on the disappearance of Udmurt villages run parallel to reflections on the tragic fate of the poet and how undervalued he was.

How to read Soviet Udmurt literature in a new way and how to make Udmurt literature appeal to the Udmurts themselves

From what I understand, Soviet-era Udmurt literature is dated not just by its time period, but also by its Soviet subject matter. Could it be considered circumstantial? If so, who might be interested in it now?

If we take classic Udmurt texts, they are interesting to me primarily from a linguistic point of view, because today the language in literature is becoming poorer, important vocabulary is being washed out, the syntax is being transformed due to the influence of Russian. But, as I have already said, in addition to the language, I find something interesting for myself in each work in the Udmurt language. In the Soviet-era texts, I see the history of my people, the life of Udmurt society at different times. For example, the novel “Töl gurez'” (“Mountain of Winds”) (1978) by the Udmurt Soviet classic author Roman Valishin, describes the confrontation between a father, who adhered to old moral values, and his son, a Komsomol member. There is a scene in the novel where old man Onikei is conducting a prayer, his son Kostya comes in, overturns a cauldron of porridge and calls on all those gathered to go work in the field. A familiar problem between fathers and their children, but it’s interesting how it manifests, taking into account the peculiarities of Udmurt society. Or the most important Udmurt novel “Vuzh Multan” (“Old Multan”) (1954) by the classic author Mikhail Petrov, about the Multan affair—a trial at the end of the 19th century against the Udmurts of the village of Old Multan, who were accused of sacrificing humans to pagan gods, and then acquitted in 1896 after the intervention of lawyers and journalists. And in general, Soviet literature is good literature with captivating plots and well-written characters. Today, such works are rather rare.

What are your favorite Udmurt literary works?

Lately I have been very interested in the literature of the 1920s, because it was during this time that literature developed rapidly, many new writers appeared who were looking for a new language, new artistic ways of describing reality. I compare this period to a lush garden, in which absolutely unimaginable plants grow. Literary scholar Svetlana Arekeyeva recorded a huge number of genres from that period. For me, the ideal year in Udmurt literature is 1927: how many wonderful books were published then! The repressions had not yet begun, and a few years later, attacks on Kuzebai Gerd began, the stigma of “Gerdovshchina” arose [According to propaganda and slanderous articles from the early 1930s, this word (a noun derived from a surname and intended to describe phenomena allegedly generated by the bearer of this surname) was used to denote traits supposedly characteristic of Gerd, such as indifference to the construction of socialism and bourgeois nationalism. — D.O.]. In 1932 the SOFIN case was fabricated, and this lush garden of literature thinned out significantly. And again you think: what heights could all these writers have reached? We will never know, because many were cut down at the root.

One of the recent things I liked was the story “Begentylo” by Matvey Keldov [Udmurt writer, 1908-1930. — D.O.]. He describes a kulak, an antihero, of course, and describes this man’s psychology so well that you become immersed in his problems and concerns. That is why the term “begentylovshchina” appeared in literary criticism of that time: Matvey Keldov was criticized for sympathizing with the kulaks. This story was translated by a graduate of the Gorky Literary Institute, Luiza Zaripova. I hope we will be able to read the translation in print.

I also mentioned Perepech by Arkady Klabukov. In creating the image of Lokan Petyr, the hero of this cycle of stories, the author was inspired by characters from Udmurt culture, storytellers who humorously recounted events in village life, from the lives of fellow villagers. Each village had a storyteller, and he migrated to Udmurt literature. The stories are very interesting from a linguistic point of view—there are some places that are difficult to understand without knowing the realities of those times. For example, you wonder why in the twenties soap was considered an expensive toiletry in the village. This is also educational literature—the authors of that period wrote that you can’t cook with kumyshka or expressed the need for personal hygiene in an artistic manner, taught people how to protect themselves from trachoma and other diseases. For me, this literature is also an introduction to the everyday culture of the Udmurt people.

Once I read a story by Kedr Mitrei, and I was struck by the phrase “I’m not as touchy as a recently married Udmurt guy, I get over it quite easily.” That is, I read that and realized that there was some kind of stereotype about the vulnerability of a recently married guy. If I hadn’t read Kedr Mitrei, I would never have known about it. And there are many such examples.

It seems to me that people know less about this period of Udmurt literature than about the post-war Soviet Udmurt classic authors, which we mostly study at school: Krasilnikov, Samsonov, Valishin. We are currently releasing a course dedicated to Udmurt literature of the 1920-30s. Three episodes of the book club 'Molot-show' have been released on Youtube. The first episode, dedicated to the novella by Kedra Mitrey, “The Shaken Vuzhghurt” (“Zurka Vuzhghurt”) from 1926. Soon, there will be video readings of three plays and three podcast releases about Udmurt poetry (the podcast is in Russian, and the rest is in Udmurt with Russian subtitles).

What kind of work would you like to see published in Kenesh?

I don’t know what genre it would be and I don’t even know what it would be about, but I would really like for people to read whatever it is and discuss it with their friends, write about it on social networks, pass the magazine around, sit in the kitchen and say: “Did you hear they wrote about this?” There is a novel called “Ulëm potë” (“I Want to Live”), published in 1940, written by Pyotr Blinov about a street boy. The protagonist of the novel was orphaned during the Civil War, as a boy he got into a gang of thieves, but in the end he became a good person, a useful member of society. I was once preparing material for the novel and discovered that the Kuzebay Gerd National Museum contains about 50 letters from readers, all responses to this novel. People of different ages, different professions wrote to the author, shared their thoughts about what they had read. We haven’t had anything like this for a long time—such popular hype around a literary work, so to speak. I really want something like this to happen in our time.

What made you decide to start a Telegram channel on Udmurt literature?

When I came to work at the editorial office of Kenesh, I realized how interesting Udmurt literature and its history are. But, unfortunately, today it is mainly older people who read in Udmurt. When I talk to my peers, I understand that most of them do not have the habit of reading in their native language, there is no interest in Udmurt literature. It was necessary to come up with new formats so that people would find it interesting. In addition, it was 2022, and I myself needed to find a new purpose, some other meaning in life. That’s basically how it happened. I just started writing, and then I got into it, because, firstly, I am interested in it myself, and secondly, it seems to me that if I don’t do this, then no one will. Overall, I want Udmurt literature to become part of popular culture, so that people do not perceive it as something dusty, boring, associated only with collectivization, with what we study at school. Here at school we read about Žapyк Butarov (the hero of Grigory Medvedev's trilogy Lozinsky Field), who builds a collective farm. It is clear that schoolchildren are not interested in this. There are still so many captivating and curious aspects about this work, but these need to be found and shown to the modern reader. I myself read Udmurt literature and I am beginning to understand myself a little better.

You can’t just say: here is Kedr Mitrei's novel “Sekyt zïbet” (“Heavy Yoke”), it’s really good, read it. It is unlikely that anyone will pick the book up after a review like that. But when I talk a little about myself, about the Udmurts, about modern times through this novel—it becomes more relevant to the reader, they understand that this is actually part of our life, that this is not something distant, that this is not about the school curriculum, but about us.

We Udmurts do not have many cultural heroes that everyone knows, there are probably no movie quotes (because there are practically no movies) or literature (because we generally read very little), which would be the basis of the cultural code of the people. If in a conversation with people of my age I want to insert some joke about some literary hero, I know that I will not be understood. I would like literary heroes or quotes from works to turn into memes, to be lasting, relevant. For example, in my channel I often write about the already mentioned Parsch Petya by Makar Volkov, and memes have already been made about it, or, for example, in the Udmurt chat people sometimes bring it up. A long time ago I read on Colta about the Tatarka music video “Altyn,” they wrote there that the video, made as a joke, did more to preserve the Tatar language than official state programs and national holidays. I also want some Zoomer, after learning about some Udmurt work from my channel or even having read it, to say: “Oh, cool.” If there are more Zoomers like that, then our literature will survive.