Saturday
night. Very few lights were on. In the
Russian Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul,
Vespers have just started. The shadowy
silhouettes of the few faithful who were
attending the service became more defined,
as the candles were lit, one by one, in the
candle stand. The iconostasis of the altar
was very imposing; it was something that was
carved by experienced craftsmen at the
beginning of the century…….
It was my
second time at Vespers, years ago… The words
of the prayer “mirthful light” in Slavonic
gave one a sense of inner peace and
relaxation. Everything seemed to be in
prayer at that moment; for the day that
passed and the day that was to come. After
the madness of the day, this refuge of
thankfulness actually calmed the wild beasts
of the mind….
In the
dim, half-light I could discern a few of the
profiles there: an old Russian lady with her
grandchild, a tall, skinny, middle-aged man,
a young girl around fifteen, a young family
with their two children… and suddenly, my
attention was caught by a figure near the
large window. Directly below it, I made out
a silhouette that was completely different
to all the others. It was a fifty-year old
Indian with vivid, characteristic features,
and his long hair tied back in a ponytail
that reached his waist. My gaze stopped upon
him… What a strange figure in here… I
imagined he was just a visitor.
At the end
of the service, I couldn’t fight the urge.
I approached him, eager to meet him.
-Yannis,
I said to him in English. Welcome..
- Vladimir, he replied.
- I’m
Greek. And you? I asked him.
- So am
I, he replied.
I was
stunned…. That was the last thing I expected
to hear!
- Do
you speak Greek? I asked.
He paused
to think for a moment, then quoted in Greek:
- «In
the beginning was the Logos and the Logos
was with God, and God was the Logos».
Just as he
finished saying this phrase, he burst into
laughter. I was lost for words…
- I am
Indian, he said sharply. But somehow, I also feel
Russian and Greek and Serbian and Romanian,
because…. I’m Orthodox…..
A glimmer
appeared in his eye, as it did in my heart…
This was
how Vladimir and I met. His real name
was F.N., before becoming Orthodox and
being baptized as Vladimir. I so craved to
hear his life story – both out of curiosity
as well as genuine interest..
Much
later, we became friends. We shared many
conversations and walks together, especially
in his Indian village. He showed me paths
and manners totally unknown to us white
folks. And always simply and
unpretentiously. With no trace of
arrogance. When I was with him, I always had
a strong sensation of tuition, and whenever
I admitted this to him, he always said that
all beautiful things are mutual….
That first
period has become unforgettable, when I was
swept away by my youthful enthusiasm and
kept asking him difficult questions. He
would always calmly reply:
- I
don’t know – will you tell me?
Once, when
I was fed up with hearing “I don’t know”, I
begged him to tell me something, so, he
showed some pity and said:
- Well, if
you insist, I will tell you, after I ask my
friend first.
He sprang
up and then lay down on the ground, placing
his ear to the earth.
- What
are you doing? I asked.
- I am
asking the earth, he said, and before I
could recover from my surprise, he added
somewhat hesitantly:
- Like
Aliosha Karamazov.
I never
again insisted on replies. I guess that with
him, I was just living the surprise of a
sudden lightning bolt that gives birth to
gentle rain that nourishes the earth…
It has
been some time now, that Vladimir has left
us. His passing away - along with his will
and testament – overwhelmed me. Now that
the feeling of his presence – instead of
fading into oblivion – appears before me
every now and then, I thought I should
record on paper all of his incidents,
images, memories, words and expressions, in
order to sketch a portrait of his presence
amongst us… hopefully so that my ear will
also perceive… the tumultuous silence of the
mother earth of Vladimir - Karamazov to me…
He was
born in the Indian reservation of
Caughnawaga, just outside Montreal, where he
lived all his life, to the day he died. His
village numbers 5.000 Indians today. It was
built by the government, next to the river,
and houses the greater part of the Indians
of that area. The Indians, as the only true
indigenous people of America, along with the
Eskimos, enjoy special privileges and
treatment, due to the fact that they had
ceded vast areas of their “mother earth” -as
they call it- to their white brothers.
These
privileges – such as not needing a passport
yet enjoying state welfare – are sometimes
interpreted as an intentional attempt by
whites to keep the Indians uneducated –
something that is observed extensively. The
percentage of alcoholism is very high. The
struggle for survival –as a group- is their
daily concern, along with the preservation
of their traditions, which they are very
proud of. They are governed in a unique way,
which however may have much to teach
“civilized” politics and social structures.
The
supreme authority is the Confederation of
all the Indian tribes. There is a respect
towards all of the Indian tribes. There is a
respect towards the chiefs and the elders,
and the elderly women of each tribe, from
generation to generation. Their love and
respect for each other is the foundation of
the Confederation.
In the
village Caughnawaga there are basically
three Indian tribes. The majority however
are Mohawk. The village has existed since
about 1600 and comprises the main center of
the Mohawk tribe. The last generations are
mostly involved with steel construction and
building.
«Our
village», Vladimir told me, «along
with other Indian reservations was turned
basically into a Roman Catholic protectorate
in the 18th century. The Catholic
missionaries had actually tried in every way
to forcefully convert our entire community.
Not with love, but with a noose around the
neck. They trampled on centuries-old
traditions and they used other ones as
springboards for their own designs. Myself,
to the age of 32, had kept to the trodden
path. As my mother used to say – who was an
elderly tribal leader of our tribe – “By day
a roman catholic for the eyes of the world
and by night an Indian, for the eyes of the
soul.” But at that age of 32, I couldn’t
tolerate that kind of restriction, that
noose that I was wearing, so I revolted in
my own way… I researched our roots, I
learnt all of our native tongues, I studied
at white men’s universities – which, for an
Indian of my generation, was a very unusual
thing. For years, they had me as a
traveling lecturer of comparative
linguistics. Quite often, I would
dishonestly play the clown at their academic
games, since to them I was a rare, exotic
species of bird, with a different kind of
plumage. I used to compare our words with
their French or English equivalents; our
habits with theirs. There were times that I
felt as though they were observing me like
archaeologists observe fossils. To me
however, those meetings alone – those
cultural meetings – regardless of the
response, contained joy and grief together.
My revolution was still thundering, because
it was muted, like the tread of a rabbit… My
mother – the pillar of our community – was
to me a source of wisdom and immense pain.
She was my…. Indian
Zosimas….”
(He took a
deep breath and continued …..)
«My path
to the Orthodox Church was a “secret path”,
as we say in our tongue. There came a time,
that I became caught in her net, and ever
since then, I have been treading very
discreetly, carrying a very heavy crucifix.
It happened to me through linguistics. It
was always the subject that impressed me
most. By taking linguistics courses, I
became impressed when I happened to read the
lives of saints Cyril and Methodius, who are
known as the Apostles of the Slavs. I was
especially intrigued by the Cyrillic
alphabet and the pursuant Slavonic tongue. I
asked my professor if there was any chance I
could listen to Slavonc being spoken. He
suggested that I should visit one of the
Russian churches. I rang one of them, but I
heard only the answering machine. I rang the
next day, and a friendly voice informed me
that Vespers were held at 7in the evening,
and that Sunday Service was held at 10 in
the morning. I asked if I could attend. He
replied of course I could. I told him I
wasn’t Russian, or Orthodox. He responded
that the Orthodox Liturgy was not only for
the Russians or only for the Orthodox, but
for all people. So, I mustered some courage
and went on a Saturday evening to listen to
spoken Slavonic and to meet the priest, who
had spoken so pleasantly. He was a
priest-monk from Mavrovouni of Serbia. His
name was father Anthony… He too has passed
away now…. Well, anyway, the first Saturday
that I attended Orthodox Vespers in the
cathedral of saints Peter and Paul, I
experienced something unprecedented. Looking
at the icons, listening to the melodies,
observing the penance bows and the
prostrations, the fragrance of the incense
wafting in the atmosphere, were all
reminiscent of my having discovered the
“secret path”…”
«You won’t
believe it, but, every now and then, I can
discern parallels between the Indian
traditions and Orthodox tradition. Somewhere
inside me, this discovery fulfilled my
Indian ethos and supplemented it. At first,
I felt I was floating among the clouds.
During my first liturgy, I asked if I could
stay on, after the benedictions for the
catechumens… They said: you may. So I sat
down, like an Indian dog! Ever since then,
I began to go more frequently. At first, on
Sundays only, then on Saturdays, and later
on, during weekdays, whenever there were
important feasts. It wasn’t much later, that
I noticed confession was taking place in the
evening, after Vespers. It was the period of
Lent. At the end, they all asked for
forgiveness from the priest. He placed his
stole over their head and blessed them with
the sign of the cross. I stood in line, but
they said:
-You
can’t, you’re not Orthodox. This is a holy
Sacrament.
- But our
entire life is a sacrament, I said.
I pondered
again, and asked them:
- So, how
can I become Orthodox?
- Talk it
over with the priest, they suggested.
Not much
time had passed by, when I decided I wanted
to become Orthodox. On the day that it was
to take place, there was a snowstorm that
didn’t allow me to leave the village. It was
postponed, for the feast of the Induction of
the Theotokos. And that’s how it finally
happened…. I was given the name Vladimir.
Much
later, when reminiscing over my induction
into the Orthodox Church, I drew out of my
memories the imposing figure of a Serb
priest, who had visited our village when I
was young. His appearance and his manner
had left a deep impression inside me. I
remember my mother having commented that:
-Now
there’s someone who isn’t making propaganda
with his truth…”.
Quite some
time had passed, when I decided to visit him
again. This time, I went with two of my
friends and a little car, equipped with tape
recorders and microphones, and we departed
one sunny morning for his village,
Caughnawaga. He had suggested that we meet
at the Indians’ radio station since he had
been the radio commentator for several
years, and had promised us walks and
conversations in their territory.
We did
find him at the radio station in the
village, with headphones over his ears,
reading the morning prayer in each and every
Indian tongue. Then in French and English.
Naturally his audience did not…detect him
making the orthodox sign of the cross.
We waited
respectfully until he had finished…. He
removed the headphones and approached us...
He was more talkative than usual, and
somewhat cheerier.
- What
would you like me to tell you? He asked
warm-heartedly. And what could you ever
want to learn from me?
- Tell
us whatever you want, Gregory replied.
Say, for instance,
something about your people, your
celebrations, your mission….
- You’re going too fast, he interrupted.
One thing at a time.
- Well,
my people...
It took
him some time to formulate his reply. He
was seated in an armchair, but found it was
not comfortable for him… he abandoned it and
sat down on the porch with us… he preferred
to be on the same level with us…
«My
people are simple, just like their food. The
chief of the tribe is a man, but he is
elected by the council of woman-elders of
the tribe. All of our group rituals take
place in the “long house”. This has two
doors. The men enter through the eastern
door and the women from the western one. It
is a simple edifice, just like most of our
rituals are. In our marriages, an integral
part of the ritual is the blessing of the
elders. During our funerals, for both men
and women, when they are carried into the
long house they enter through their separate
doors, but the head of the deceased always
faces the east. After nine days, we prepare
the funeral meal, but without salt…”
He
suddenly jumped up, because the record he
had selected to be played over the radio had
stuck. He put on another record, made an
announcement, and came back to us…
«What
were we talking about? Ah,
yes!
The rituals. I will show
you the long house, before it gets too dark…
Now, about our celebrations. The entire year
is a celebration (he
burst out laughing).
We have the mid-winter festival (four days
long); we have the snow festival, the first
bloom festival, the first crop – which is
the berry; the festival of plenteous harvest
(thanksgiving), the threshing festival (4
days), the festival of surplus, of rain and
of sowing, and the cycle starts all over
again.. Something like an ecclesiastic
calendar of our holy earth…”
He took
another deep breath and continued:
«We don’t
say much, nor do we eat much; We don’t get
angry often, we love what was given to us
and we continuously give thanks for the
bounteous gifts...»
- Do
you happen to have any tobacco? He asked
me.
- No,
I said.
- You
know, we chew our tobacco – in other words,
we eat it. We
don’t smoke it.
When you smoke it, it
turns into air, whereas if you eat it, it
becomes one with you, and you bless the
earth that gave it to you… Now, what else
did you ask me? Ah, yes! About my
mission…..
«What can
I say? My people got tired of the
missionaries. They have been coming here for
years, mostly to take rather than to give..
They never showed any interest in what we
have. They just brought on the steamroller,
they flattened everything, and then they
embarked on their…. evangelical sowing.
But that
Serb was different. He actually gave
something, with his presence…he took nothing
from us, except a piece of our heart. That
was what I loved, when I later read about
saint Herman of Alaska and the Orthodox
missionaries amongst the Eskimos… it is
impossible for the mind not to make
comparisons…as hard as it may try…
I still
remember that Jesuit, who told me to my face
that he was instructed to teach
spirituality. When he left our home, my
mother shook her head in disapproval,
saying: “we, my child are a spiritual
people, while he, even if his Christ came to
him, he would sit him down to preach at
Him…”.
- Are
there any other orthodox amongst the
Indians? Gregory asked again.
-
I have met an Orthodox
Eskimo in Plattsburg and one more - a very
tall Mis Mac. There may be others, who I’m
not aware of. But in the Indian hospital we
do have a couple of Serb doctors, the
Moscovitches. Real gems of people; they have
a special love for our world, and they offer
all their assistance.”
Lesley
looked him directly in the eyes.
-
Tell us if you want about
that story with the Indian masks*. It
was in all the newspapers and they all
mentioned your name. What happened exactly
?
Vladimir
sat down, cross-legged, and after taking a
few minutes to think, replied:
«To us,
those masks are sacred. We always keep them
in the dark, and we protect them with silk
material. They represent the…holy personage
that we are in search of. We find it in
silence, in darkness, where we also find the
light of our soul. Our soul is never
displayed in exhibitions, or in artificial
lighting… Those who organized the exhibition
have lost every sense of what is sacred, and
that is why they strive to “gently” remove
it from our souls also…. We love the earth,
because it knows how to keep silent and be
fruitful. We have learnt to humbly love it
and to honor it.. It is something like
Orthodoxy’s Holy Mother….since you like
parallels. But, I have said too much… Let’s
get up now, and I will show you my village…”
We got
into the little car, and I sat in the
driver’s seat. Vladimir was the co-driver.
He began to show us all the landmarks:
«Here in
the center of the village you can see the
catholic church. It is dedicated to saint
Kateri Tekekwitha, an Indian woman whom the
priest proclaimed a saint. We keep her bones
in this church, which perform miracles. This
is a pilgrimage for the laity. Her life is
as beautiful as a fairytale… To me, she was
a fool in Christ… She was a grace-filled
fool.. She would roll over in the snow, to
purify her heart… My fellow villagers –who
became Catholics- are not particularly fond
of catholic propaganda, but they do show
reverence to their saint; it was their
pressure on the Vatican that brought on her
beatification… Next to the church, there is
a small museum. In there, you will find a
map of the confederation, that describes in
detail all of the Indian tribes, the
symbols, the numbers, the places they
originated from, their historical course,
their languages…. Everything has become a
part of the….. museum… Now turn right,
here…. This is our Cultural Center. Above
it, is the radio station where we met…. That
is where I broadcast from… Now, during the
Triodion, and afterwards, during Lent, I
play a lot of western spiritual music and
little by little, I include some Orthodox
innuendos, but only just enough as to not be
provocative. Indian spiritual music is not
permitted over the radio. It is only for the
“long house”. The cultural center is
financially supported by the white
government. The powers outside, of the
“civilized” world, want to help us, but only
on paper; in actual fact, they want to drown
us, to humiliate us, to exhaust us – not so
much us, as our souls and whatever we carry.
They want to turn us into masks for museums,
clowns at parties, research for
archaeologists… They haven’t taken a whiff
of, nor do they suspect what kind
of….tobacco we prefer.”
He burst
into laughter. I nearly lost control of the
steering wheel…I continued to drive on,
following his instructions – left- right –
straight ahead etc….Until, at a bend in the
road, we saw a modern but very unusually
shaped structure..
«This is
our school, Grade School and High School. It
has a good program, I like it. It is truly
Indian. Apart from the classic subjects of
“white” education, we have many other
lessons that are most probably unfamiliar to
the whites. We don’t call them “customs” or
“culture”, but “Indian ways”, “Indian paths”
(the sounds of the earth), Indian dances,
Indian songs and cries (like an ancient
drama), Indian law, and other things. The
grounds surrounding the school are sacred.
We also have a “dark room”, but not for
photographs… it is for the making of
the….mask inside us”
- Now
go straight ahead, eastward. Continue,
until you find the highway. Two-three
kilometers from there...
«This here
is our Hospital. It is a new building and is
a new idea for us. A beneficial one, I hope.
It was built in 1985. Before that, we had
our own medicine men, or we resorted to the
white man’s hospitals. But.. they were
difficult.. Most of their staff was
unaccustomed to our way; it was difficult
for them to look after our old folk. They
have to be in our shoes, in order to
understand… Many try. Besides, you can tell
apart those who truly love and who can be
discerned from the usual professionals….”
Vladimir
N. was the chief of his tribe; he was
their spiritual leader. It was he who
recited at their funerals and their weddings
– he was something like a priest for them.
In the evening, he would sit cross-legged in
the “long house”, listening to his people’s
problems and solving them with the advice he
offered. He had a judge’s role, which was
one of their most powerful traditions. He
was a poet and a translator, and also a
philosopher. He knew their problems better
than anyone else; he also knew the strict
laws that governed their tribes. Those who
denied their ancestral principles and became
Christians were allowed to remain in the
village, but were not given any office. They
would have to leave the council of the wise,
the elders; they would “lose their destiny”
as they described it … in their own special
kind of way, they would be disowned. All of
this may not be of much significance for an
ordinary Indian, but for a chief……
No-one in
the village ever found out –until the day he
died- that their chief was an Orthodox
Christian. And Vladimir –who was F. to
them- lived and worked with them, for them,
with the ever-present fear that they might
find out. He had to be perpetually moderate,
careful, flexible, otherwise his image would
have been smashed inside them. He was in
charge of the radio station for years, and
he also worked at their cultural Center. He
was considered an authority on subjects of
tradition, and was unimaginably touched,
whenever he found “parallels” –as he called
them- in Orthodox tradition. He shared many
of his experiences with us, because he
couldn’t share them with his own people.
What a heavy crucifix to bear….
Whenever I
would see him coming out of the inner
sanctum of the little orthodox church of the
Sign of the Theotokos –which held services
in English and French- dressed as an
altar-boy and holding the candle in front of
priests and bishops, I couldn’t help
wondering what kind of heart that old Indian
wolf had inside him, who persistently said
“God knows”. And he would forever be
prostrating himself on the ground, so that
God would give him enlightenment to govern
his people through tempests and ordeals, and
to give him the strength to hold up the
heavy load that was given to him, right to
the end.
The years
passed. Every friend that visited us in
Montreal had to make the imperative trip to
the Indian village and to meet Vladimir. And
many of them told me that they had recorded
their own experiences there.
One
morning, I received a phone call in
Montreal, telling me that Vladimir had
passed away in his village. The question
that arose in my mind was: who was going to
bury him, what was to become of him? He had
however left a specific, written instruction
for all the rituals to be done in the Indian
tradition in the “long house” and for an
Orthodox priest to read benedictions over
him. Naturally, the Indians had no idea what
he meant by “an Orthodox priest”, but he had
left a few telephone numbers too.
They did
actually phone, and an Orthodox priest went
and recited the funeral service before they
carried Vladimir into the long house.
Unfortunately I didn’t have the opportunity
to attend the ritual in the long house, but
a mutual friend who attended the funeral
conveyed the details to me.
Two days
after the funeral, that same friend,
Michael, brought me the news, together with
a package. He told me that he had attended
the entire ritual. It was truly impressive.
When they go to the long house, the Indians
put on the outfits that befit their rank in
the village. The ritual –which was of course
in their own languages- had a particular
form, much like the old, Byzantine type. At
the end, the tribal chief’s testament was
read out aloud, before all the tribe. In
his will and testament, he mentioned where
he left each of his belongings. Vladimir was
75 years old at the most. He had children,
grandchildren and great-grandchildren. He
left something to every single member of his
family. At one point, the Indian who was
reading the will found some difficulty in
reading a name – a non-Indian name- and,
after grimacing a bit, he put on his glasses
and pronounced the name, in a distorted kind
of way: “Ya-nis Ha-ji-ni-ko-la-ou”. My
friend Michael raised his hand and they gave
him the package, which he in turn gave to
me.
When I
opened the package, I saw what was inside:
it was a book, “The Divine Liturgy”, in
Greek and in English, which I had given to
him many years ago. Inside, on the first
page, it said: “To Yanni”, and below that,
in Greek: “Until we meet again – Vladimir
N.”. I took this to be a very kind
gesture on his behalf; he had in fact
inserted those words before his final
departure; perhaps because he had sensed
that his death was near. He had written the
words “Until we meet again” in Greek. Of
course, the surprise did not end there;
there was more to come. When I leafed
through the book, I was astounded, my mouth
gaping… He had translated the entire text of
the liturgy into the Mohawk tongue, above
the lines of the English text! Of course I
can’t read Mohawk, but I am holding on to
the book as a memento – this orthodox
liturgy by Vladimir in Indian – the entire
Liturgy of Saint John the Chrysostom… If God
bestows me the honor, I may publish it one
day…
Contemporary stories like this one may sound
like a fairytale, because our life seems
equally fleeting. And yet, these stories are
filled with a never-setting light; they are
modern-day testimonies of that blessed
“lunacy” – that yeast, which leavens all of
the dough, from the tiny church atop an
Aegean islet, to the distant Indian
reservations of Canada.
Until we
meet again, Vladimir….Karamazov….
[Reproduced from the magazine “Synaxis” and
the article by John (Yanni) Hadjinikolaou,
titled “The passing of an Indian”]
________________
*
For the
reader’s information, I will briefly report
the events. The Canadian government decided
to open a new museum in Western Canada, in
the city of Calgary, where it would put on
display amongst other exhibits a number of
Indian masks, which it had borrowed in an
‘unorthodox’ manner from a long house, as
folklore artifacts… This provoked the
indignation of the Indians.