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Rozmowy z Oksaną (post scriptum)

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Staruszeczce, której rodzina ratowała Polaków podczas rzezi wołyńskiej zdążono jeszcze wręczyć Brązowy Krzyż Zasługi przyznany decyzją Prezydenta RP Andrzeja Dudy. Kilka dni potem odeszła.

Zaangażowani charytatywnie na Ukrainie, całkowicie pochłonięci lovebombingiem ukraińskich nacjonalistów, prominentni przedstawiciele obecnej opozycji odmówili udziału w próbie zorganizowania pomocy lekarskiej ostatniej szansy, jakiej podjął się Wiesław Tokarczuk. Podobnie nie zareagowała Ambasada RP w Kijowie, ale pewnie nie czytają tam wszystkich wpisów na facebooku.

Po ogłoszeniu za wschodnią granicą 2019 "Rokiem Bandery" wypadałoby już tylko spodziewać się "Festiwalu R. Szuchewycza" (tak, tak, pianisty Szuchewycza - według akolitów - takiego samego jak Gilels, Richter, a może jeszcze lepszego, wszak miał grać fruwając w powietrzu jak jakiś Liberace...). W oczekiwaniu na to doniosłe wydarzenie, którego jak najnaturalniej rzeczeni przedstawiciele opozycji będą zapewne honorowymi gośćmi, napisałem tekst po angielsku, jako że skierowany do międzynarodowej publiczności przyszłego festiwalu :

Bandera I the Greatest or the heroes are tired. The post-ideological indigestion syndrome . 

 ”Within both academic and policy discourse the concepts of radicalisation and deradicalisation remain deeply contested. For policymakers there remain challenges in identifying the group that should be the focus of policy interventions and agreeing the terms to be used to describe such groups. Radicalisation can be defined as ‘the processes by which trust in the system declines and people withdraw further and further into their own group because they no longer feel part of society’. The relationship between individuals deemed to have radical views, norms or values and actual participation in violence remains an area that needs to be explored further. There is little known about those who hold views and attitudes similar to those involved in radical groups or organisations but who are not active participants in any group or organisation but rather see themselves as part of a movement. Further research is needed to understand the kinds of support or interventions such individuals would need.” ( 'Stepping Out: Supporting exit strategies from violence and extremism'; project: European Network of Former Extremists, Feasibility Assessment; Institut for Strategic Dialogue, November 2009)

Summer 1991 was a glorious epoch . My Eastern European me found itself exactly where it should have always belonged, that is somewhere along the fantastically non-Eastern European surfer's paradise quest – here I was, in the middle of the southern California. The choice of available activities seemed to be rather modest for nearly exclusively limited to hanging around private beach clubs , turning philosophical next to the Hollywood's golden age relics - the Renaissance Tuscan villas with lapis lazuli pools and lapis lazuli pool houses brought stone by stone from the overseas by their frantic modern day owners and stuffed with the 18th century Mexican silverware , marvelling at spectacular ocean front vistas, hitting with no apparent purpose the number 1 in either direction and dining at the Santa Barbara's Biltmore Four Seasons with my Californian millionnaire sponsor Jinnie. Then more beach, again the beach, beach until the exhaustion and perhaps for the sake of decency some piano practice providing there was any room left in my dense schedule. Many of these places that I used to grace with my Eastern-European sense of being completely out of it actually prohibited their patrons to enter the premises barefoot, now if you ask me I think I remember seeing quite a few 'shoes required' signs at the front door here and there. Or may be it was somewhere else. Anyway, I was living out a Great Gatsby movie, a California dream re-enacted : a reckless sequence of pot, sea, sex and sun, all in a splash of fancy, umbrellitos topped tropical drinks and driven by the mysterious condition commonly referred to around US campuses as ”the yellow fever” . A standard computer back then had the size of a room and Facebook was yet to be invented. It was great and I felt good. My life was terrific.

Then the messenger of doom in a shape of the drop dead gorgeous Yugo girl descended from the messengers of doom's iron heaven. The first Yugoslav war caught up with the opulent, quiet Santa Barbara's suburb of Montecito. The exotic Yugo girl boasted into the local expert scene virtually overnight and became an instant hot-talk celebrity . The area's radio talk-show hosts engaged in a fiery competition to have her over now that she was a 'must' on Eastern European affairs everywhere and more than eager to patiently explain these dramatic but not less weird , far away events as they were unfolding in the real time to whomever happened to be around and in the mood to listen. While doing so she was typically distasteful and going ballistic, leaving audiences frozen in awe at her exotic passion and a genuine obsession with even more exotic, rather imaginary past. Her thinly veiled ethnofanaticism, a shameless display of pristine, ancestral hate, a complete conceptual void were the only random few on a long list of similar, shall we say Eastern European, antics being showcased. She insisted folks ”learned the real history” , her gloomy message was delivered with an unusual frenzy and the language as if it were borrowed straight from some other distant reality on some other light years away planet. The talk around town soon became about a ”payback time” ( and it wasn't the mortgage), ”justified historical revenge”, ”the unalienable right to be a master of one's own, historically ethnic land”, ” heroes and their heroic struggle” and so on . The sunny California of mine, gently wrapped in the ocean's breeze , epitome of the ”cool” attitude, the world's Mecca for the ”dude” movement proponents , the retreat of discreet, fortune kissed art dealers, a final, mythical destination for generations of see-through Chicanos and what-you-see-is-what-you-get gold diggers was being strangely syphoned through the darkest of holes into a time warp, a parallel paleo-Universe where the 40's ”tchetniks” and ”ustashis” suddenly became of relevance and this for the reasons nobody could really encompass, even less understand. The California dream was over. The sticky, suffocating ectoplasm was oozing from the medium's body rhythmically shivering in a mystical trans (1) like thick, cold blankets of the evening's eery silence unperceptibly falling one after another upon the Pacific coastline.

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