My grandparents left the territory of what would become the Soviet Union long before the 1917 Revolution. They came to America and I thank God they did. Whenever I read about the USSR, I always realize that only a couple of small decisions saved me from being born there, or more probably, saved me from being wiped out there, since I was born during World War II. Fate has a way of creating circles, though, and I've wound up teaching English to people from my grandparents' homeland. It's curious. Many of them are ethnically exactly the same as I am, but it is always obvious that there is a huge cultural gap. OK, they didn't grow up in America. I have never set foot in any part of the former USSR. I have spent the last 14 years peering into their pasts, constantly wondering why they are predisposed to think this way, act that way. I have thought long and hard about the issue, discussed it with many of my students, read their stories, listened to many more. A book like IMPERIUM goes a long way towards helping me understand that difference between me, "the one that got away" and them, "the ones that didn't".
Back in 1988, in a single week, I read three of Kapuscinski's books in a mad dash of fascination. I'd already spent over six years living in various Third World countries and his writing on Iran, Ethiopia and Angola captured something that no one else came close to, especially because he never sneered, he never condescended. No racist platitudes, no grandstanding for a Western audience for Kapuscinski. IMPERIUM, the description of his travels around the Soviet Union in 1958, 1967, 1989-90 and in 1992-93, continues in his own tradition of inserting himself into the most desperate of situations, visiting places where the most extreme sorts of human behavior have taken or are taking place. I feel that at times he does exaggerate certain events, certain facts may be forgotten or left out. (Plus, if you can't read Polish transcriptions, the names will all look strange to you.) No matter. He arrives at a picture that rings with authenticity; he is able to persuade you that you understand what is happening. (Or that nobody can understand what is happening.) This author can somehow portray the stupidity, the bestiality, bravery, and unconquerable human spirit that suffuses every event in our unhappy human history. He does it with a sense of immediacy, crossing every cultural and racial boundary as if it didn't exist. (Do they really exist ? Much less than most people think, I would say.) He visits the frozen horrors of the gulag archipelago, now fallen silent, crumbling into the permafrost. He describes the petty nationalist hatreds that increasingly suffused Soviet life to the end, the economic disaster, the environmental destruction, the brutality of a government that deliberately let ten million people starve to death, the lack of organizational knowhow, a dispirited despair. It is all a dark picture of a country that devoured so many of its own, shot itself in the foot so many times. He did come up with numerous insights that helped me to understand my own past or, as it were, my own non-past. No delving into party history, statistics, or laws and decrees; he cuts straight to the heart of the matter. If you need a single book that will describe the atmosphere in the former USSR, that will help you understand what happened to people there, choose this one.
