Patriarchy

Author Archive

  1. Patriarchy

    July 17, 2009 by Christopher Buxton

    A typical statement – it could have been made at any time in the last fifty years: If not for anything else, I blame the Turkish yoke for imposing an oriental system of values on us.

    When pressed to define oriental values, the speaker, a woman in this case, cites the enduring legacy of patriarchal control, particularly in family relationships. This patriarchy boils down to the authority of the father figure over his wife and his apparently God-given right to command his children’s lives even after those children have reached the age of thirty and way beyond.

    Interestingly these “oriental values’ became a cornerstone of Communist policy between 1944 and 1989 – particularly in the increasing struggle to channel youthful enthusiasm and control its tendency towards rebellion.

    Once the attempt to substitute real fathers and mothers with a portrait of Georgi Dimitrov in every living room and a poem about Mother Party on the lips of every child, had clearly failed, Communists had no choice but to fall back on the traditional family to impose hegemony. The function of the family was stated as: “childbirth, upbringing and educating the children to be boundlessly faithful to the Fatherland”. Todor Zhivkov called on the ‘valuable national traditions and virtues’. Key to this was the practice of passing childcare over to grandparents. And so the Oriental patriarchal traditions prospered.

    One’s children are a resource. They can live the lives that we could only dream of. They can however be used as a weapon against us. This was especially true in communist times. Let us imagine a typical conversation between a functionary of the State Militia and an embarrassed Party official.

    We had to pick up your son, last night. He was with a group of long haired decadent hooligans, singing subversive song in the park. Lucky for him Sergeant Goshkov recognized him, separated him from the rest and sent him home, with a flea in his ear.

    I’m so sorry Comrade.

    Might I suggest you have some strong words with him about his behavior, his dress and the company he keeps?

    As nothing remains a secret in this society, our desperate party official will have to endure the schadenfreude of his colleagues. Comrade X has problems. He can’t even control his own children.

    Communism falls but the underpinning values remain. The way our children make their way in the world is a comment on our own worth as human beings. In the theatre of Bulgarian society, we are judged on their academic, professional and personal successes and failures. We are therefore expected to intervene decisively.
    The following exchange is from a conversation with my neighbour, (we’ll call him Boncho Bonchev). The subject is my son who has just returned to Europe after year long travels in Turkey, Iraq and Iran.

    B.B. : How did you let him go?

    Me: He’s 24 he makes his own decisions

    B.B.: I’ve told my children. They have no business beyond the Bosporus.

    You might reasonably ask how typically fathers like Boncho Bonchev maintain their power over their grown up children. It is through the power of patronage and guilt. In return for significant material help through their adolescence and adulthood, they can expect obedience. The typical Bulgarian father is proud that he supported his children through school and university. Not for them the indignity of part time work!

    I didn’t educate my daughter to serve in a bar or clean floors.

    After they have repaid him in getting a respectable degree so he can treat his neighbours, children can expect further significant help in buying their first car, their first apartment and so on. In return they should respect his pronouncements – at least to his face – and prepare to repay their debts as he gets older by ensuring a female member of the family looks after him.

    The problem is that Boncho did not foresee globalization. Now in the cold alienated capitalist world, children travel to build lives far away from their controlling parents. But if the patriarchal contract is broken, the consequences are not always bright.

    In the UK, even in liberal newspapers an interesting question is being raised. Has Women’s liberation led to the breakdown of social cohesion? Once, frustrated middle class women could only find fulfillment in socially useful local voluntary work. Now freed from their dominant masters, they have become so overtaken by their professional needs that they have no time to bear children, let alone care about their local community.

    From both the UK and Bulgaria, seekers for the traditional values and institutions, so praised by Todor Zhivkov, will need to travel east – to Turkey or Iran.

    It is particularly ironic that the nationalist Ataka party opposes what they call the Turkification of Bulgaria and at the same time whips up nostalgia for the good old days when traditional values held families together, crime was low and groups of pensioners were given carte blanche to control children’s bad behavior in the neighbourhood. Ataka would feel comfortably at home in many parts of the Muslim world.


  2. Fate of two novels

    July 8, 2009 by Christopher Buxton

    It just doesn’t seem fair.

    All these worthy Bulgarian writers slaving away at the mines of Bulgarian reality, have to step away from their back breaking work to see an Indian youngster after just two months stay in Bulgaria produce a book that has gained international acclaim.

    I read Solo by Rana Dasgupta just after finishing Worlds by Vladimir Zarev. Both books are heroic attempts to convey the fascinating, challenging, frustrating present and past that Bulgarians inhabit. Dasgupta seemed to have found the perfect metaphors for failure both in his hero, a hundred year old blind man living in a smelly leaking flat and in his hero’s country, Bulgaria with its history of savage false- democratic dawns. Zarev is equally ambitious in his attempt to put Bulgaria’s fate in a global context. One book will receive plaudits. The other will be ignored.

    Rana Dasgupta’s book has rightly gained critical attention. He has been recommended by no less a writer than Salman Rushdie. Reviews by Kapka Kassabova and Anthony Georgiev endorse the writer’s phenomenal achievement in conveying in unchallengeable detail the tragic history of the Bulgarian state, starting in days of infant cosmopolitan hope in the 19th Century Railway age but soon muddied by various forms of state tyranny that contract boundaries to a tiny flat with urine soaked walls.

    The novel centres on the memories, dreams and fantasies of a semi autistic centenarian failure – one time Chemistry student, son and friend of dissidents, informer for State Security, and finally blind helpless pensioner. Significant markers in this saintly fool’s progress are two murders – that of the poet Geo Milev in 1925 and that the businessman/crook Ilya Pavlov in 2003.

    Dasgupta must have been like a sponge for that two month sojourn in Bulgaria. Thereafter he must have lived in real and virtual libraries rooms to consolidate his research and assemble so much political, cultural, scientific and even topographical information. This he was able to transform into a treasure chest of vivid stories that burn into the reader’s imagination as authentic fact.

    Vladimir Zarev is rightly considered to be one of Bulgaria’s finest living writers. But this is a pretty meaningless description. Zarev’s novel is unlikely to receive any critical attention – especially in Bulgaria where what passes for literary comment is a mere adjunct of marketing. At least as a result of generous subsidies, he has seen his books translated into German. I hope too that there his books have been better bound, printed and edited. They may even be more widely read for who in the daily hurly-burly of Bulgarian life has time to read a 536 page book. Let’s all read Zift instead – an amoral compelling pastiche of pulp noir – which is at least short.

    Zarev’s novel, Worlds, is a thwarted love story. The worlds of the title are of a Bulgarian divorced low paid University lecturer with a suicidal daughter and of an American businessman with a difficult personal past, on a mission to put Bulgaria at the front of the Internet revolution. It conveys the baffling reality of post-communist Bulgaria, where democratically elected well meaning politicians can do nothing without the support of corrupt malign businessmen. The book contains compelling encounters with barely disguised real figures – Philip Dimitrov, Zhelyu Zhelev, Stefan Danailov. It conveys particularly well the state of palpitating panic and shame, experienced by any conscientious Bulgarian who has the task of guiding a foreign visitor through the darker corners of her country.

    The Internet becomes the divisive central metaphor for the book, as hero and heroine struggle with their particular national commitments and predilections. Without any great optimism, I really recommend this book.

    Ah! Pity the poor Bulgarian writer! Recently I attended a seminar organized by the Elizabeth Kostova foundation. The subject was Literary Diplomacy. The subtext was how Bulgarian literature might become better known across the world – particularly the English speaking diaspora.

    And there was Teodora Dimova bemoaning the fact that writers had to become their own self publicists, editors and agents and so lose valuable time away from their garret writing desks.

    Oh for communist times where chosen writers were properly supported andSofia Press would routinely produce literal translations of Dimitur Dimov’s work, alongside such literary masters as Georgi Karaslavov and Stoyan Daskalov.

    The consensus of the meeting was that there was a need for good translators. Having had to screw my eyes to read the faint and bodged printing of Vladimir Zarev’s work, I would add good publishers.


  3. Bulgarian elections

    July 8, 2009 by Christopher Buxton

    Happy new government Bulgaria!

    Boyko Borisov – his very name promises a bout of fisticuffs! The snow-shoveling get-things-done Bulgarian prototype with his serious/mournful expression is now the lauded new Prime Minister of Bulgaria. I am sure he will deal as masterfully with Bulgaria’s crisis as he did with Sofia’s road and rubbish problems. He will lead his team like Christo Stoichkov to resounding victory! (Are you sure about this? ed.)

    An ironic cheer for Ahmed Dogan the only politician to perhaps unwittingly take the election campaign to a much needed ideological level, leading voters to at least a muddy understanding of what kind of people rule us.

    A roar of bafflement at the clown tram driver Stanishev and his total lack of any discernable socialist advocacy. Rightly comparisons have been drawn with the British Labour party and their perceived betrayal of their natural electorate. In Labour heartlands pensioners are voting BNP. In Burgas they vote Ataka.

    A certain satisfaction that the vote buying oligarchs of Lider/Novoto Vreme failed to reach the required four percent despite their smug portraits beneath the sanctimoniously meaningless slogan “We want change”

    A farewell to those style icons of the Tsar’s party, Milen Velchev and Daniel Vulchev, though they are assured photo-shoots for fashion magazines for at least the next three years. – perhaps Spas Roussev can provide his yacht in Monte Carlo again.

    And a really sad farewell to The Ministry of Extraordinary Situations – that fabulous emblem of Bulgarian surreality. It was nice to think in the hurly burly of everyday challenges that next to Saint Nedelya cathedral, site of the 1925 bomb blast, was a Ministry devoted to responding to or perhaps even devising the extraordinary situations that every Bulgarian encounters every five minutes.

    In 1944 Boyko Borisov’s grandfather was brutally murdered by the new Communist masters. Now times are more tender. As a signal of new decisive rule, the ex-Deputy Minister of Extraordinary Situations was arrested yesterday for gross corruption. Sadly for national stereotypes the Minister appears to be of gypsy origin. At least he won’t be shot or turned into soap as some supporters of Ataka would doubtless advocate.

    Finally massive cheers that a whole lot of ruffians whose posters littered Burgas failed to gain any votes. I pay particular attention to Ivailo Drazhev, whose slogan Put a stop to shame I found deliciously ironic given his chequered and unpunished past; and the plump fat neck, former associate of Volen Ziderov, Pavel Chernev, the man famous for not being present when innocent motorists were being beaten on the Plovdiv motorway.

    Well the axe fell and Kostov gained new credibility as the dark brooding face of Borisov rose in the new dawn.

    God bless Bulgaria.


  4. Days of National Mourning

    May 31, 2009 by Christopher Buxton

    As an outsider who nevertheless wishes to understand minutest details of Bulgarian life, I must admit to feeling confused about “a day of National Mourning.” It would be interesting not only to know the criteria on which decisions are made to nominate such a day, but also something about the expectations of public behavior.

    Some years ago I arrived at the Burgas theatre, really looking forward to seeing a reputedly exciting new production. At the time the theatre was performing only one night a week, and this would be my only opportunity to see a Bulgarian play that year. Arriving at the square in front of the theatre, I was surprised to find it deserted. The theatre was dark. The doors were locked. I checked my ticket. I looked about. I hailed a passer- by. He shrugged at my ignorance. Didn’t I know that a day of National Mourning had been declared? Of course on such a day theatres would not be working.

    It was the day after the bus crash in Montenegro, where a number of Bulgarian school-children died in a river while teachers stood on the bus roof and local heroic Moslem gypsies tried to save the drowning kids. So as I walked back through the town I indulged my feeling of guilt. Yes, I was frustrated and angry, that I had been denied my annual theatrical experience. But I should learn to respect another country’s culture. I passed the cinema. It was working. I passed restaurants and bars. They were not only working but heaving with customers. The monotonous voice of the September Cinema bingo caller could still be heard over the racket of hot pop-corn. Music spilled out from everywhere. On the main street, Bulgaria’s day of National Mourning was a day like any other.

    So to this year, I had tickets for Shakespeare’s As You Like It. I am always excited by Bulgarian Shakespeare productions. Unhampered by historical reverence, they can make a sixteenth century text relevant, gripping and entertaining – even to a group of badly behaved school children.

    “We’re off to the theatre!” I tell my neighbour on the stairs. She shakes her head doubtfully. “Today’s a day of National Mourning. Haven’t you heard about the crash at Yambol?” I confess ignorance and so learn about the sixteen pensioners killed in a bus with no brakes – a bus that had somehow escaped any kind of technical check for at least the last ten years.

    My heart sinks. And this time I feel less guilty in expressing my frustration. If theatres closed in England every time there was a bad road accident, they’d go bankrupt. But it turned out As You Like It was not cancelled. We sat in a full auditorium but before the lights dimmed, an actor addressed us in solemn sonorous voice, apologizing for having to perform on such a day. “We are actors. And we have to play.” He sounded almost resentful. Suitably chastened, we all stood for a minute’s silence.

    Then the lights went down and the magic began. Shakespeare’s rather formal pastoral idyll – so often such a yawn in UK theatres – was transformed into a riotously funny sharp commentary on sexual and class relations. Visually it was stunning. Should I feel guilty that the actors had transformed a day of National Mourning into a night of local celebration?

    I read in the newspaper today that a deputy minister has been sacked. His crime was that he attended a birthday party on the day of National Mourning. Of course it wasn’t just any birthday party. It was a fund raising event (?) A cross section of the Bulgarian elite had assembled at a swish restaurant to celebrate the existence on this earth of Ventsi Rangelov, the Chief of Emergency Services. Was there music? Yes, it could be heard from the street by sanctimonious hordes of reporters. Was there dancing? Of course not! And have big contributions been made to unnamed charities? Of course they have. Are Opposition politicians outraged by this insult to sixteen dead pensioners? Of course they are.

    Well I suppose for this outsider, a series of unpolitically correct questions are raised. How many people have to die in a single incident for a day of national mourning to be declared? What if the victims of a terrible road accident had been Gypsies or Turks? Would the Cup Final or a scheduled AC/DC concert be cancelled because of some unforeseen tragic incident. And are Days of National Mourning really a pretext for avoiding some uncomfortable questions about vehicle inspection in Bulgaria and the ways in which at every level and in every context safety is being compromised by money under the table?

    Perhaps the chief of Emergency Services could best answer these questions – or better still the improbably beautiful Minister for Extraordinary Situations.

    “All the world’s a stage,” Jacques declares in As You Like It. And Days of National Mourning could be seen as just part of a spectacle designed to distract the public from raw truths. Except of course the public is all too aware of raw truths and furthermore does not seem to take Days of National Mourning too seriously.


  5. Cold northern git samples some emotional cinema

    May 25, 2009 by Christopher Buxton

    Прогноза (Forecast) Bulgaria, 2008
    Directed by: Zornitsa Sophia
    Writing credits: Emil Bonev, Alexey Kozhuharov
    Cast: Teodora Duhovnikova, Kresimir Mikic, Deyan Slavchev–Deo,
    Assen Blatechki, Julian Vergov, Stefan Shterev

    Quick pitch: Improbable Croatian media magnate pursues Bulgarian beauty all the way from London to a Turkish island where she is windsurfing with unlikely group of Balkan men. Through magnificent sulks and identity crises love wins through.

    What the git learnt:

    Rule number one : all kinds of bad, mad, irrational and sulky behavior are excused if you are of Balkan origin and especially if you are in love. You can bash your bicycle into some strange man’s car in the middle of London, suggest he take you out to dinner, demand he take you back to his place indefinitely but not for sex, discover that he owns a TV station, change your appearance to shimmering blonde, buy him an unwanted goldfish, take the moral high ground over his improbably shallow cynicism, claim to be a journalist and blag a reporter’s job from him, then stand in front of a TV camera crew and say nothing for take after take, then cut up all his clothes, steal his windsurfing board and cross Europe dressed like a prostitute.

    Rule number two: if you find yourself in a decadent western flat where a sharp noise will activate the lights, why not slap your partner’s face really hard. In the hopes that he will retaliate – then you can provide a lights show for the neighbours. It just goes to prove that money and a smart pad in London does not give you identity or happiness. “An address is not a home.”

    Rule number three: when crossing Turkey with your brother and a company of windsurfers make sure you join in a manly pissing contests from a high bridge even if you are a woman. Otherwise you might get left behind and a sulky expression will not save you from lecherous lorry drivers – especially as your skimpy top seems to have lost all sticking power.

    Rule number Four: Balkan peace is possible providing there is wind for windsurfing. Otherwise some provocative journalist will get under the skins of the Bulgarians, the Macedonian and the Serb and suddenly knives are drawn. The Serb calls the Macedonian a southern Serb. Bulgarians add a pepper smeared in toothpaste to red and green hang them round their necks and sing out their defiance and pride in giving the world bacilli and viruses.

    Rule number five: real men cry when their fishing tackle and maggots are blown up. They suddenly discover their Balkan identity. It gives them super-strength to shift heavy rocks to spell out the words: FORGIVE ME.

    Rule number six: Balkan women’s hearts melt when they spot a rocky plea for forgiveness. They gaze out from their cave and allow rear access to their lover.

    Rule number seven: Turks are suckers for love. Even hard fisted lorry drivers will melt when told that the guy who has barred their way onto the ferry is in love.

    Rule number eight: If you have been swept out to sea on a surf board and been exposed to the elements for 48 hours, you don’t need any water to revive you. A Croatian kiss will restore you to full health and even put bounce into your hair.

    In London the film was described as being part of a new genre of “optimistic realism” – no doubt to counter the success of Romanian films whose realism is decidedly negative. And indeed the tone is remarkably sunny. Despite all the outrageous behavior, no-one is hurt and there is nothing to please Volen Ziderov. Turkish rescue services are assiduous in trying to rescue the silly Bulgarian girl and the search is only stopped by the proximity of Greek territorial waters.
    In short, times of national crisis calls for happy slappy stereotypes, romance and oodles of Euro-folk music.