Of Kalmykian descent and writing in Russian,
Dordzhi Dzhaldzhireev is a poet whose work explores
historic trauma, language loss and suppressed identities.
On the occasion of the comprehensive feature on
his work published in the current edition of the Greek poetry
magazine Teflon, we have conducted an extensive conversation
with him.
Prior to delving into your work, thanks to Ksenia
Kalaitzidou’s article in the current edition of the Greek poetry magazine Teflon,
I was unfortunately unaware of the very existence of Kalmykia -your birthplace-,
its history and traditions.
To what extent and in what ways does your poetry draw
on/restore/vindicate the diverse and complex Kalmykian experience and trauma,
personal and collective?
My poetics, perhaps implicitly, are largely based on
an understanding of the Kalmyk people’s historical journey (at least of the
relatively recent), the events and traumas they have had to endure, albeit in
order to understand how they are changing our future.
It seems to me that a lack of reflection leads to
conclusions, including in art, which are detrimental to the people’s culture,
especially during a period of potential assimilation.
Like many Kalmyks, I have had to deal since childhood
with the insurmountable pain of the consequences of historical trauma, with the
awareness of injustice and unresolved conflicts of Kalmyk identity:
The Dusty March (Torgut Escape) - the resettlement in
1771 of part of the Kalmyks to China due to pressure from the Russian Empire,
the Civil War (1917-1922) and the subsequent migration of parts of the Kalmyk
people;
The Famine in the Volga region (1920), the
collectivization of Kalmykia (late 1920s - 1930s), the Famine of 1932-1934, the
participation of Kalmyks in World War II, the period of Soviet rule and during
the 1990s in the context of the Russian Federation.
The most terrible tragedy, which literally destroyed
the Kalmyk way of life, deserves mention: the treacherous deportation of the
Kalmyk people (1943-1950).
According to various sources, more than 40,000 of the
97,000-98,000 Kalmyks deported to Siberian exile between 1943 and 1950
perished.
Undoubtedly, the most terrible consequences of these
events are felt in descendants (the generations of my parents, these
contemporaries of mine, and later).
Currently, the Kalmyk language is on the verge of
extinction, a vital cultural layer of the people, largely associated with their
nomadic way of life. Unemployment is rampant, and a mass exodus of young
Kalmyks to metropolitan Russia is underway.
The grave consequences, of course, are expressed in a
repetition of the tragic events that occurred on February 24, 2022, which
sparked renewed unrest among the young Kalmyks. The world has changed, has
become a world.
Reflecting on these events led me to the conclusion
that my poetic experience must largely be based on reassembling my identity and
searching for ways to preserve my people’s culture and transform the divisions
among Kalmyks (including after 2022).
Initially, I struggled for quite a while to establish
my poetics, as I hadn’t evolved beyond the more classical structure of poetic
texts, immediately beginning to write in a freer, less formal form.
This, in fact, provoked skepticism and
misunderstanding, as I didn’t directly utilize artifacts of the Kalmyk cultural
code, which was typical for the construction of “national literatures” during
the Soviet period (for example, the use of folklore, the history of local
nature and people, etc.)
I would like to consider that my poetics was “tempered”
specifically within the Kalmyk literary community, so that it could eventually
move beyond other negative characteristics, such as national exoticization.
It was in this region that I began to fully connect
with Kalmyk culture and the collective memory of the people.
My goal is to fully express and convey my sense of
self as a representative of the Kalmyk ethnic group, exploring the creation of
new forms and unique experiences, which, I daresay, could be my contribution to
the development of new Kalmyk poetry.
In the constant experimentation and subsequent
evolution of art forms, I observe resistance to assimilation and colonial
thinking.
My creative work also aims to assist Kalmyk poets and
create low-level horizontal communities among artists for interaction and
mutual assistance, so that through our joint efforts we can enrich Kalmyk
culture and create something new.
In particular, poetry is the emergence of new
connections, implicit or even previously non-existent, which also positively
influences the process of preserving and developing culture, because when you
try to create something new, you also solve old problems.
How much has its focal point shifted or has been
re-evaluated since you relocated from the periphery (Elista) to the metropolis
(St. Petersburg)?
I don’t think my focus has changed at all, as my life
in St. Petersburg is determined solely by the possibility of earning a living, because
it’s very difficult to find work in Kalmykia, and literature doesn’t provide a
steady income.
I have extensive experience relocating to different
cities and countries, but I always returned home.
My upbringing in Kalmykia, perhaps due to my
character, experience, and personality, was quite isolated. I wasn’t
particularly sociable and didn’t find understanding among my peers or the older
generation.
Unfortunately, there were no opportunities to study
poetry -by which I mean no courses on creative writing-, let alone practice it,
so I had to search for all the information blindly. Perhaps this experience was
quite useful for me.
Given this, I can say that my location doesn’t
particularly influence my ideals, especially since it’s possible to create
projects, interact, and communicate remotely.
In what sense do you consider yourself a “decolonial”
poet and activist in the contemporary Russian context?
In a broad sense, decoloniality in the context of my
poetic practice largely pursues the goal of developing a new model of writing
that departs from the tradition of Soviet “national literatures” and overcomes
the historically established centralization of the literary process in Russia,
previously localized primarily in the metropolises.
Since I consider myself a Kalmyk poet, yet one born
into a Russian-speaking family and using Russian primarily for poetry and
everyday communication, an important part of my decoloniality is a direct
rejection of any forms of “great Russian culture” in art, instead developing
and constructing a poetic optic built on Kalmyk identity.
I also study my native language and practice my poetry
in Kalmyk, which further expresses my intentions to combat assimilation,
currently gaining momentum against the backdrop of a reduction in the number of
lessons on the languages of the peoples of the Russian Federation, the change
in the status of Russian languages to “optional” in schools and cultural
marginalization, amid the growing rise of right-wing and militaristic movements
in Russia.
Currently, in the Russian-language literary scene it
is very difficult -if not impossible- for representatives of various peoples of
Russia (without being in migration) to express themselves without state
sanctions.
Literature in the regions, in relation to
institutions, seems to be in a difficult position; in many republics, there are
no literary journals, and neither state nor non-state support is available.
With this in mind, I strive in every way to support
and assist poets and poetesses from among the peoples of Russia to assert
themselves, to develop and communicate their voices through poetry to everyone
(including those who deny us our presence), as I know firsthand the xenophobia
that people from among the peoples of Russia face.
Of course, decoloniality does not mean the
irreversibility of separatism, which, incidentally, does not always lead to
real independence from the mother country, but rather the intention to achieve
the right to independently determine one’s own life, achieving autonomy in
decisions, in terms of the ideals I defend - namely, the right to preserve and
develop one's native culture.
I see the only future for artists from among the
peoples of Russia as finding support only in community, solidarity, and mutual
assistance. Nothing about us without us.
I also see great value in the positive impact poetry
can have on people. My fellow poets and I have organized charity events, the
proceeds of which have gone to aid funds for victims of repression, refugees,
the poor, survivors of sexual violence, and so on.
I share a goal, like others who share my spirit -despite
my obvious vulnerability- to change the often unjust, sometimes even
terrifying, order of things.
Your poetry is regarded as experimental/avant-garde,
and is, for the most part, hermetic and barely penetrable. How do you define
“experimentation” nowadays, both structurally/stylistically and in terms of
content? Is it inherently
political?
The poetic development of my writing began immediately
with intuitively freer forms, as I wrote without thinking anyone would ever see
it, so I was constantly experimenting.
At that time, one could confidently say that my work
was depoliticized.
I enjoyed constructing and being constructed alongside
the text, working with its countless potentialities, sensing my own situational
potential, understanding that the lack of orientation of (any) body is its
invulnerability.
Before I began directly engaging with poetry, I tried
to learn from every gesture, every signification and premonition.
Recalling one of my experiences interacting with a
text, I felt a momentary sense of total tension, like the moment just before
something happens, when space either generates an event or identifies the
possible (what was previously impossible).
I sense that this process, seemingly consigned to the
past, is constantly ongoing, never reaching its logical conclusion.
I feel the same about my other texts.
Each text has its own vision, like a fingerprint or
the retina of the eye, seemingly from the bottom of the water, contaminated by
the history of a dimension (where you and I are), and this sensation (of
vision) glimmers within me like separate worlds.
Perhaps some find interacting with text-centric,
hermetic writing repulsive, but I think it’s like nurturing a black hole on a
windowsill next to houseplants; if it were removed, the room might seem truly
empty.
In other words, I don’t see hermetic writing as
something radically closed. Perhaps, quite the contrary, it’s radically open,
since accessing it requires flexible thinking, free association, and so on.
At the beginning of our conversation, I touched on the
context of generating new experiences, and I consider this the primary goal of
my poetic writing in relation to experimentation.
Previously, I perceived experimentation as a certain
sensitivity, a feeling based more on mythological principles, so to speak.
Now, over time, understanding this process anew, I
understand that it is a purely political gesture.
In my case, experimentation is the basis for
reassembling and constructing a national identity, an attempt to horizontalize
non-human agents and overcome anthropocentrism, overcoming militarism, and
addressing social issues.
“For a Kalmyk poet to write today in a contemporary
way is a multiple challenge, because he is called to choose between the imposed
Russian language and his native one, the natural evolution of which has been
ruptured,” Kalaitzidou notes.
How do you respond to this challenge and how do you
eventually cut this “Gordian knot”?
At the moment, I see no other solution, in my case,
than to write decolonially, as I understand it, resisting the imposition and
marginalization of any “great culture.”
That is, to write while embedding and developing one’s
personal and national identity, gradually transitioning to one's native
language.
This requires considerable time, close community, and
the exchange of experience among all creative people, philologists, and other
scholars, regardless of national origin. Cultural development requires joint
participation.
The main thing I would like to emphasize is that we
must avoid conflicts and mutual accusations regarding, for example,
Russian-speaking representatives of peoples and those who speak their native
language.
I have always seen and continue to see the foundation
of identity as the basis for changing this situation.
The translation of your work also constitutes a
challenge. Do you maintain a close relationship with your translators? How has it been working with Ksenia Kalaitzidou?
That’s true. My texts are very difficult to translate,
I believe, so I’m deeply grateful to everyone who was able to translate them.
It’s a difficult, collaborative process (I consider
literary translation a form of collaborative writing), and the very possibility
of translating my texts demonstrates the translators’ extraordinary abilities
and talent.
I’m happy to have met such people and, I hope, will
continue to meet them in my life.
Ksenia is a very sensitive, professional, and
wonderful translator! I trust her completely, so I didn’t interfere with the
process, but I was always ready to help and answer questions.
I’m very happy and grateful to Ksenia Kalaidzidou for
translating my texts into Greek. To be honest, I never thought my poems would
ever be read by Greek readers, and I thank her from the bottom of my heart!
Your poetry is influenced by the European literary
tradition, mainly modernism, T.S Eliot, Paul Celan, Meta-realism and the Beat
generation, is highly visual and also abundant with neologisms.
Would you like to elaborate on the complexity, the
joys and the pain of the creative process?
Yes, that’s a whole other story.
Of course, the influence of both the European and
non-European literary traditions in my work cannot be denied.
In Russia, for example, some have attempted to
construct a speculative genealogy of me, trying to find similarities or place
me within the context of Mikhail Eremin and Arkady Dragomoshchenko (after whom
the prize I received in 2021 is named), and geographically, with Velimir
Khlebnikov (he’s my fellow countryman).
I view this neutrally and don’t deny the possibility
of continuity if it helps people better understand the context of my poetic
writing.
Moreover, it’s impossible to be a completely original
author.
My first love of music had a very strong influence on
my creative process; I really love hip-hop, dub, reggae, and so on.
As a child, I remember always enjoying improvising,
imitating recitative, producing intricate sounds, glossolalia, and
experimenting with various objects at hand to produce sound, as I didn’t have
any musical instruments.
Perhaps this was influenced by the fact that I had a
severe stutter, and this along with reciting poems (alone, of course) from
ancient poetry greatly helped me correct this speech impediment.
Consequently, early in my career, I began writing
following rhythm, abstract, and sound-producing figures.
This prompted me to undertake a specific work on
phonetics, the goal of which was to derive a certain semanticity not from the
meaning of words, but from phonetic connections. I saw this as a way to obtain
information freed from verbal context.
Again, these were early experiments, so I was not
critical of them, and thus these techniques can still be found in my writing,
which is why readers, translators, and critics began to associate them with the
futurists.
Later, I became very interested in new materialism
(object-oriented ontology), the ideas of de-anthropocentrism, and animal
rights.
At that time, I was involved -and still am- in
eco-activism (in particular, I participated in the cleanup of the oil spill in
Anapa).
I was particularly interested in the phenomenology of
space. Specifically, if we touch on one of the main themes of our conversation,
the connection with the reassembly of identity, then the phenomenon of Kalmyk
space should be mentioned.
This is an entrained spatial potentiality, whose
materialization can occur at any moment. This is a place where literally
anything can happen, a pure chance of nature.
The Kalmyk space, and in particular its steppe, lacks
any possible centrality, being one vast periphery, unlike other landscapes.
The steppe affects not only people (I’ve heard many
stories of people getting lost in the steppe, literally walking in circles- some
have also mentioned visions or hallucinations), but also technology, causing a
mapping drone to literally hallucinate.
Space develops the ability to defend against the
negative influence of capitalism and neoliberalism and the militarism inherent
in them; space is opportunity.
This is also the source of a special interaction with
space: since ancient times, Kalmyks have measured distance by the number of
songs performed along the way.
Based on this experience, I wanted to “infect” the
poetic text, interrupting the linear inertia of writing with printed symbols
(fractions, lines, etc.)
Into these I introduce contextual, viral ramifications
or additions, making the text as autonomous as possible and permanently
emanating in its sensitivity, like a bare wire in water at a spiritualist
séance.
In this sense, I see working with text as a kind of
desire to toss seeds onto a hot frying pan, so that they scatter across the
room from the heat.
What’s surprising is that those texts, dotted with
fractions, lines, and so on, when turned sideways, become very similar to the
Kalmyk script of Todo Bichig (which very few people in Kalmykia, including
myself, unfortunately, speak).
This was unintentional, which once again convinced me
that I may be constructing my method of constructing poetic text correctly (for
myself), accessing collective cultural memory not only through direct cultural
artifacts, traditions, and literature, but also through space, sound,
affectations, and so on.
Of course, in my early work it was much easier for me
to write poetry. I literally followed inspiration. I had no mentor and I didn’t
attend any courses. However, over time, it became more difficult.
I began to work with sources, more critically analyze
the ideas introduced into the poetic text. Writing a poem a day, as I did in
the past, no longer seems true.
Considering that I, perhaps like many others, had to
literally reassemble myself after February 24, 2022.
Also, as a result of many life troubles, including unemployment,
I was depressed and I was in a creative crisis. I tried to get out of it,
mostly by writing poetry for myself, while simultaneously searching for new
poetic practices.
But I have already found the strength in myself to
continue creating, publishing and preparing new projects.
In 2027, my book Beyond Salvation, translated
by Venya Gushchin, will be published by World Poetry Books (USA). I am very
happy about this and I want to separately thank Venya for his enormous work!
You also seem to be fascinated by the Rebetiko microcosm.
Why?
I’ve always felt like I lived in Europe, but the image
of a monumental, cemetery-like Europe, full of triumphs, empires, republics, Enlightenment
and so on, that most people conjure up, always felt alien to me.
On the contrary, I experienced a different Europe, a
living one, a Europe as a land of curses, aspirations, and revelations, a
profoundly anarchic space where heresies and heresiarchs roam chaotically.
I have a certain affinity for Rebetiko and rebetes, as
historically, after the establishment of the Metaxas dictatorship and in the
post-war period, there were attempts to erase the cultural heritage of Rebetiko
from the history of Greek music, and rebetika performers were subjected to
repression.
This resonates deeply with me, because attempts were
also made to erase Kalmyk culture during the deportation of the Kalmyks, with
films, books and records being destroyed.
My childhood and adolescence in Elista, the capital of
the Republic of Kalmykia, where my parents moved from my native village of
Iki-Chonos (named after the ancient Kalmyk Chonos clan, to which I belong,
whose nomadic camps were located in this area), were marked by a high level of
juvenile crime.
I also had direct and indirect contact with the “blatnye”
(criminal underworld) subculture and often suffered from this particular type
of inconvenience.
Finally, Rebetiko culture stems from the fusion of
Europe and Asia, which immediately evokes warm feelings in me, as my culture is
also eclectic: it combines European and Asian influences, and I can’t imagine
myself without them.
Incidentally, I love Greek music, especially folk
music, and I often listen to Roumeli folk songs.
“[His] texts are reminiscent of a magic spell,
a mantra or a delirium coming from afar,” Kalaitzidou concludes. How do you
relate to whatever lies beyond our rational grasp, whether it may be described
as faith or spirituality?
For me, everything around me is a gateway to
discovery, so to speak. I don’t want to live in a world where anything is
inanimate, impossible. It seems to me that every object in our world is
autonomous in its essence.
I don’t see this world as a single living island
amidst an eternity of cold and entropy.
On the contrary, everything we see and encounter every
day seems to me like a perspective, behind which lie the interactions of
objects, hyper-objects, phenomena, and so on, across an infinity of different
dimensions.
When I hear birdsong, I wonder what dialect of their
language they speak and how they would be understood by members of the same
species, say, living 300 kilometers away.
What stories about the creation of the world do they
recount? Did they perhaps have their own Odyssey? The very idea that we once
didn’t exist in their language is astonishing!
Respecting and striving to love everything that not
only grows, breathes, and develops, but also appears to be “lifeless”, frozen
and inert, feels like a purely spiritual act to me.
Being attentive to and compassionate with this world
and sharing in the pain and suffering of those who are defenseless or suffer
alone - that’s what I want to believe in.
According to the article, in the recent past, and “prior
to the sweeping changes in Russian publications and magazines,” you
participated in the cultural life of the country.
What does it take to continue to do so and how would
you describe the Russian cultural life at present?
I participated in charity poetry events organized with
colleagues both before and after February 24, 2022, and also curated several
poetry festivals, such as the “Nomadic Readings” in my hometown of Elista in
2023.
I also curated the section of poets and poetesses
representing the peoples of Russia at the World Poetry Day Festival “Living
Voices/ Voces vivas/ Voix vives,” which was based at George Mason University in
the United States, though the festival itself was held online.
At the moment, in my opinion, work has become more
difficult; there is less space for expression, and censorship is necessary for
safety.
In the context of the Russian literary scene, however,
it was never much easier before.
Despite the closure of some journals and awards, there
are a number of grassroots poetry projects in Russia that are trying to make a
difference, and I am very grateful to them for that.
New authors are emerging, books and journals are being
published, and grassroots communities are being formed.
Of course, it seems to me that the most important
thing is to eliminate possible contradictions, show solidarity, interact more
and support each other.
In a world ravaged by genocides and wars, where the
rule of international law is replaced by the “law” of raw power and humanity
disintegrates, why does it still matter to be engaged with art, in general, and
poetry, in particular?
In my view, the most important thing we can do right
now in order to show compassion and support to all people, animals, and all
non-human agents who have suffered as a result of what is happening around the
world is to engage in life and nothing but life, to try to see life and nothing
but it, because there is nothing but it.
If we do not strive to engage in the art of living,
including the arts in the usual sense, and above all, to unite, accept and try
to understand each other, to show solidarity and support, to defend and fight
for our ideals, to protect the vulnerable, then we will all fall into the arms
of the currently developing necrocracy with all the ensuing consequences on a
global scale.
This, in fact, is more urgent than we might think.
Heartfelt thanks to Dordzhi Dzhaldzhireev for
taking the time to engage with my questions and for providing
his photograph.
I would also like to thank the team of Teflon
magazine for their assistance in the realization of the interview.
An extensive feature on Dordzhi
Dzhaldzhireev’s work, edited/written by Ksenia Kalaitzidou,
is included in the current edition of the Greek “poetic vessel” Teflon.
