Inside Memory

Qualitative Inquiry
http://qix.sagepub.com Inside Memory: A Story of Living in the Past and Present of a Social and Cultural Movement
Ahna Berikoff Qualitative Inquiry 2006; 12; 886 DOI: 10.1177/1077800406288608 The online version of this article can be found at: http://qix.sagepub.com/cgi/content/abstract/12/5/886
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Inside Memory
A Story of Living in the Past and Present of a Social and Cultural Movement
Ahna Berikoff
University of Victoria, Canada
Qualitative Inquiry Volume 12 Number 5 October 2006 886-907 2006 Sage Publications 10.1177/1077800406288608 http://qix.sagepub.com hosted at http://online.sagepub.com
The following is a story of the author and her mother. This story takes place within a small social and cultural movement of the Sons of Freedom Doukhobors. 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 ancestors into 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.
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: ahnab@uvic.ca. 886
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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 who denounced 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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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 in Russia 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 continued to uphold their beliefs under extreme duress. They walked into the future 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 demonstrated 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 assimilate . . . 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 carried 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 Doukhobor community 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 meaningful 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; within everyone 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 enlightened person 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 universe isas 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 provides 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 awakening 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 stir my 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 manifest 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 God I will live in Christ I will live in nature In the brightness of love The path is shown by the holy hand
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Figure 1 Poem in Russian by My Mother
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 spiritual 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 more than 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.
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I know, Mom says,

My heart was so sore for him. I knew he would be fine with you but it was him 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 awaiting 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 remember 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 the accepted 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 segregation. After the third day we agreed to light a fire in our cells to protest the injustice. 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 autumn day 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 the matrons 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. But I remember when Ivan called and said that the baby was born. He said how difficult 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 was pulled 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
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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 oil drops 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. We were 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 just down 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 exhilarating. 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 frequently 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 sons childhoods. 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 learning 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
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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 language 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) culturally 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 continuance 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; gardening, 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 learning songs and prayers and stories of her culture and past. In 1901, BonchBruevich (1978) was witness to how the transmission of Doukhobor teaching 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 remember and maintain their culture, language, and traditions, which Fine (cited in Gongaware, 2003) describes as bundles of narratives which he contends are imperative to the creation of a movements culture, and without such a shared and communicated culture sustained collective action is impossible (p. 489). ****
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Figure 2 Letter in Russian From My Mother to Me
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 must be 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, now I 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.
****
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Figure 3 Letter in Russian From My Mother to My Sons
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 contents. 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
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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 suffering of our ancestors. For a long time I didnt understand how they could be so 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 generations 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 power of the Doukhobor memory and identity that drove my forefathers, grandparents, 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.
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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 nurses come with the hoses. My heart was beating so hard. I was terrified. I remember 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 consent. 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 her chest 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.
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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 could never 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 sleeping, 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 words and 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 curious glances, 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. ****
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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 devotion to my convictions were not so different than my mothers. I saw parallels 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 didnt seem 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 wheeling 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.
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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 you pray 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 hospital. 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 to me, 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.
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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 showing 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 emotionally 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 her letters. 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 anything that 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 darkness (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
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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. The distance 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 movement 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 did not 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 Berikoff grew 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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Inside Memory

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Qualitative Inquiry

Berikoff / Living in a Social and Cultural Movement

Berikoff / Living in a Social and Cultural Movement

Berikoff / Living in a Social and Cultural Movement

Figure 1 Poem in Russian by My Mother

Berikoff / Living in a Social and Cultural Movement

I know, Mom says,

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

Berikoff / Living in a Social and Cultural Movement

Berikoff / Living in a Social and Cultural Movement

Figure 2 Letter in Russian From My Mother to Me

Berikoff / Living in a Social and Cultural Movement

Figure 3 Letter in Russian From My Mother to My Sons

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

Berikoff / Living in a Social and Cultural Movement

Berikoff / Living in a Social and Cultural Movement

Berikoff / Living in a Social and Cultural Movement

Berikoff / Living in a Social and Cultural Movement

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