Paul
Goble
Staunton, February 5 – One of the
aspects of Soviet life many were especially happy to get rid of was the
so-called “nationality line or paragraph in Soviet passports and in almost all
official documents which in almost all cases defined an individual’s ethnic
status for life and in many cases determined his life chances.
Russia banned such “lines” at the
start of post-Soviet era, and that ban was enshrined in the 1993 Constitution
which specified that any citizen of the Russian Federation could choose his or
her own nationality (or none at all) and could not be required to give it or
have it recorded in passports or other documents.
But as in almost all other things
post-Soviet Russian, what many had thought had happened hasn’t. The nationality
line in passports has indeed disappeared. But in many other official documents,
it remains, including birth certificates and marriage licenses. Moreover, “official”
national identities exist as well, as the authorities won’t allow people to
change them.
This reality of Putin-era Russian
life has been highlighted by the case of Aleksandr Lavrenov of Kolomna. He
decided that he would like to change his nationality from Russian to German on
an official document as he has German roots. The registration people refused.
He went to court, and he was turned down again.
Now, Yelena Aprelskaya of Moskovsky komsomolets has recounted “the
details of this anything but banal history,” one that says a great deal about
how officials in Russia today think about nationality (mk.ru/social/2019/02/05/pyatyy-punkt-smena-nacionalnosti-v-dokumentakh-obernulas-dlya-russkogo-sudom.html).
All his life, Aprelskaya says,
Lavrenov, 55, assumed he was a pure-bred ethnic Russian. But in 2005, shortly
before the death of his grandmother, she told him that “the grandmother of your
father was a German. We concealed this out entire lives because we were afraid
of repression.” His brother confirmed
this, and Lavrenov began to explore his genealogy.
Finding information about his family
was very hard. “Many Germans in the
1930s,” he says, “if they spoke Russian well, falsified documents and
represented themselves as Russians because there was a genocide. In those times,
the NKVD hunted them down, they were shot, and Germans sought to hide under Russian
family names.”
Lavrenov registered as a Russian
when he got married in 2002, and it was that marriage document that he hoped to
change his declared nationality from Russian to German. Officials at the
registration office refused and told him he’d have to go to court. That is what
Lavrenov did; and after many attempts, he succeeded in getting a local court to
hear his case.
Both that court and an appeals court
ruled against him because he was not able to produce any documentary evidence
that his ancestors were German. He couldn’t do that, Lavrenov says, because his
ancestors had had to hide their nationality in order to survive under Stalin.
But the courts ignored that argument.
Lavrenov says he had grown up as a
Russian and was taught to believe in internationalism, but he was also taught
to seek the truth. Now he knows he is of German origin and wants that recorded
in official documents. Unfortunately, he continues, “time is passing, I’m
getting older and I simply can’t wait until justice triumphs” on its own.
He tells Moskovsky komsomolets that he has a good reason for seeking to
change his nationality: he plans to emigrate to Germany and having a German
identity officially recognized by the Russian authorities will ease his
way.
What he doesn’t say and what the Moscow
paper doesn’t say either is that this is precisely the reason why such official
nationality has continued. In Soviet times, many Jews whose families had declared
themselves to be Russians in order to escape persecution wanted to recover
their Jewish status officially when it became possible to emigrate to Israel.
And it also happened, although not nearly
as often, that Russians sought to re-identify as Jews so that they could do the
same thing. Often they did so by
marrying a Jew. The author of these lines remembers to this day one of the early
personal columns in the USSR. A Russian declared he was looking for “a single
Jewish woman” to marry and was ready to relocate.
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