When the penis is mightier than the sword. Photo credit: Alexey Plutser

Life in Russia, as you might have already guessed from my rants, is no walk in the park, at least for the common man. Even when we’re not fighting the bloodiest war in history or staging a revolution against whatever corrupt, unelected government that is lining its pockets with our taxes, the people of Russia have never really known the quiet life of prosperous Western countries. Save for the tiny elite, of course, who keep their money in Switzerland and kids in private schools in London.

But there’s one thing that we do really well: that’s sticking it to The Man in various creative ways. Radical political art in Russia has been flourishing since the early 90s. Here’s just a few examples that are internationally known:

A Brief Russian Art Protest History

In 1991 a group of young people who called themselves ETI (“THOSE”) lay on the Red Square, arranging their bodies in a big FUCK YOU (it’s three-letter word in Russia) in front of the Mausoleum before being arrested.

Nine years later, before the elections to the third State Duma (Russian parliament), another group ascended the Mausoleum itself with a white banner saying AGAINST ALL.

The 'Against All' action itself lasted about 20 seconds, but its glory prevails. Photo credit: Andrey Stvolinsky

To put it in proper political context, it was the third ever instance that the people of Russia were allowed to vote after literally hundreds of years of being told to just shut up and work – and they technically had the option to just say “You know what – screw the lot of you”. They could vote against all the parties and if the number was bigger than that of the candidates, the whole election would be recalled, with none of the participating parties allowed to take part in the new one. Yours truly was in the 1999 “Against All Parties” campaign, where in the next election 600,000 more people voted thusly, and in 2006 the ‘Against All’ option was abolished from the bulletins.

This obvious lack of political choice was exchanged for a brief period of relative stability, with even some hints of ‘normal European’ life with mortgages, Toyota Lancers, trendy cafes and other things that only begin to matter once you don’t have to stand in a queue for food for three hours or live in permanent fear of becoming collateral in a gang war. Coincidentally, most radical art degenerated into piles of pretentious shit that you had to pretend to ‘understand’ because you’ve got an office job and you want to impress colleagues and your girlfriend with your cultural prowess.

The Angry Russian Phallus

But then it became apparent that nothing had really changed, and the content and satisfied life was still an illusion. Scratch the surface – and you still saw a country on the verge of hunger riots, with an incredibly corrupt and ineffective government on all levels and, as of recently, rising religious fundamentalism . The correct artistic response? To draw a gigantic penis.

Russian radical artist: if you see him, cross the street. Photo credit: Maja Kucova

The collective behind the most hilarious and ballsy artistic stunt is called Voina, or War, and they’re also behind the recent rise of radical political action that seems to draw much more attention than conventional protests which inevitably end in everybody being batoned down and arrested. Well, of course, you also can’t expect courteous treatment from the police when you paint a massive penis on a drawbridge that faces the windows of the most powerful law enforcement agency, but still the latter definitely gets your point across much better than standing on a square with placards. Alexey Plutser, the group’s ideologist and spokesperson, says: “What we are doing is not trying to communicate with the power. We are just shoving a dick in its face. A dick that is 65 meters tall, 23 meters wide and weighs about 400,000 tonnes.”

You can’t talk to the power rationally, Plutser adds, because it will just drown anything you say in lies and propaganda. But how can you deface a 65m tall penis? Or run a smear campaign against people who participated in a political orgy called “Fuck for the Little Bear, the heir!” (a pun on the name of Russia’s president; “medved” means “bear)?

An overview of Voina’s coolest performances with YouTube videos can be found here. Naturally, they keep being arrested and every member of the group faces several charges of public indecency, disturbance etc. ‘Human rights’ is a very rarely used phrase in Russia. You mess with a cop, even a mall one – you get beaten up, that’s it.

Europe meets Voina

But when Voina extended their artistic and social experiment to Europe, that’s where it got really interesting. One of their latest performances is titled ‘Revolution in a supermarket’. They wander into a large supermarket and just start eating stuff off the shelves. When the security people approach, Voina tells them that they are poor and homeless and they need to eat something otherwise they die of hunger. Thus they test the level of social cohesion and empathy in each country and simultaneously protest against the community-destroying advance of soulless superstores. This happened all over Europe to vastly different results. The most violent and abusive reactions were, naturally, in Russia and Ukraine, while in a Sainsburys here in London nobody even raised an eyebrow. Probably they are reasonable enough to understand that even if a whole regiment of crazy Russian performance artists descends on their store and starts stuffing themselves with discounted chicken tikkas, it still won’t even put a dent on the amount of food the store just throws away every day. Or they just don’t care.

Would you like to see Voina in your local supermarket? Photo credit: Voina

But there was one episode that really, really fucked up everybody’s perception of Western Europe as a calm, safe and human rights-conscious place. There is a town in Dutch-speaking Belgium called Leuven. There, Plutser and his wife Yana were not only violently interrupted duruing their ‘homeless and hungry Russian immigrant’ act – they were detained and, wait for it, escorted to a judge at gunpoint while handcuffed. They are now charged with robbery and facing eight months in jail and being subjected to the worst Kafkaesque bureaucratic nightmare imaginable. All of this for eating a couple of sandwiches.

So this is basically a letter of support to them. Come on Belgium, seriously! Don’t mess with Angry Russians who are also radical performance artists. Something tells me you have worse problems with real immigrants to worry about.

Is European identity fragmented? Photo credit: Hanna Hauck

Every year hundreds of thousands of Europeans go to work, travel, or study in another EU member country. In September 2009, over 300,000 EU citizens were given a National Insurance number in the UK. With no visa requirements, a European citizen only needs a valid ID card or passport to enter the UK. Still, only few people seem to identify themselves with the European Union.

In 2008 Neil Fligstein, a sociologist at the University of California, Berkeley claimed that only about 13 per cent of Western Europeans regard themselves as Europeans first.

German businesswoman Iris Becker is one of the many people who left her home country to work in another EU member state. In the late 1990s she lived in London for three years and has also worked in Africa and India.

“I feel German in terms of my roots. But I feel just as home in India as in Germany. I feel European when I’m in Spain, Italy or Greece. But in England, I felt very far away from Europe. I was surprised how different England is even though it isn’t far from Germany,” she said.

Travelling in Europe and getting to know people in other EU member states has helped Ms Becker feel closer to her European neighbours.

A new generation of European migrants

Chantal Mairesse works for the Genshagen Foundation, an institution supporting the friendship between France, Germany and Poland, as well as European integration. With the ‘European Dialogue’ project, the foundation wants to counteract shrinking identification with Europe. Ms Mairesse believes that growing migration has an impact on the sense of belonging to the EU amongst its citizens.

“Especially concerning students, one thing is clear,” she said. “A generation is growing up who regards it as natural to spend a part of their studies abroad. It’s even mandatory in some cases. It’s expected of them that they learn about other countries and cultures. This will affect their attitudes towards Europe.”

Tuan Ly and Claudia Lage belong to this generation of students. Both decided to attend university in the UK. Claudia Lage came from Portugal to London and Tuan Ly from Germany – one of the top sending countries in terms of EU student numbers in UK universities according to the UK Council for International Student Affairs. They have since graduated and are now working in the British capital.

But do they feel European?

Still, they wouldn’t necessarily first describe themselves as Europeans. Tuan Ly, who is of East-Asian origin, says he is from Germany but feels neither German, nor Vietnamese or Chinese.

“To me the idea of being European is a very vague one. I wouldn’t know how to clearly define the terms of being European. But if you are a European national, should you be considered European? In that case, I would be”, he said.

A new generation of Europeans are feeling more united by studying abroad. Photo credit: Didier Misson

Claudia Lage, on the other hand, feels very rooted in her Portuguese upbringing: “I spent the first 18 years of my life in Portugal. That obviously has an effect on the way I am and who I am today.”

Living in another European country hasn’t caused her to feel more European, she said. But Claudia Lage, as well as Iris Becker, feel more connected to other member states through the Euro, the EU’s common currency.

Nevertheless, Ms Becker and Tuan Ly both admit that they feel they don’t know enough about the EU. Claudia Lage feels that, although information about EU politics and daily affairs is out there, in many cases citizens have to research the information themselves.

Many EU citizens expressed a similar view in a 2007 Eurobarometer survey carried out on behalf of the European Commission. Last month, the Economist’s European columnist Charlemagne even went so far as to say the UK media held a “fierce hostility (…) towards the European Union”. And as many people tend to get their information through national media, this  probably affects their view on European identity – at least in the UK.

Catherine came to London to study in 1998. She became a British citizen last year, and this is her

This moment felt very personal for Catherine

first time to vote – ever!:  “I’m coming from a communist country. I can’t vote in China. I feel like I have a sense of ownership now. Like I properly belong to something and I can have my say about who I want to govern the country”.

Follow Catherine’s once-in-a-lifetime experience in this slideshow:

By Vasya Lozkhin

Oh, sure. Apparently, there are ‘new visa rules’ implemented to at least try and avert the situation where just five Tube stops from Her Majesty’s fairy castle you can barely see a white face or hear a single word of English. And I am to blame for that.

Anyway, there is this new requirement about sacrificing a black goat under a full moon while offering your soul to the Dark Lord. But, of course, you have to used a UKBA approved ritual dagger that costs 666 quid or something. Then you have to wait an eternity in darkness until a demonic voice declares your fate. To their credit, the ladies at the embassy were quite understanding and agreed to make a personal exception for me, so I just had to bite the head off a live pigeon in front of a huge, raving audience.

But, having spent another eternity in various queues in Russia, I can say that this was indeed a bureaucratic nuisance but still a joke. Now, most of my compatriots will agree that if you want to find the worst place in any country, go to your nearest Russian embassy. Not that anyone would really want to do anything like that in the first place, but we just goddamn have to. For example, obtaining a new travel passport – a procedure that takes a couple of forms and a few days of waiting in most countries – is an elephant-sized sore in the arse of every Russian.

By Nikolay Kopeykin

After collecting piles of incredibly detailed stamped and signed papers and enduring hundreds of hours in queues to fat, angry women, one has to wait for another sixteen hours in a tiny, dark, unventilated room with no chairs to finally file their application. And then wait for six months and pray that they don’t lose all your documents or misprint your name. And the worst part is meeting people whose jobs exist simply to make life even more desperate and frustrating for those who don’t have enough useful connections and can’t offer any favours in exchange.

No nation hates Russians (and we aren’t exactly the most popular guy in class) as much as Russians themselves. When we go or live abroad and hear Russian speech, many of us will cross the street or switch to English. When we do have to meet compatriots, this is arguably the most unpleasant experience of being in a foreign country. A visit to the embassy to pick up the most minute paper promises so much stress and humiliation that you have to start psyching yourself up a week in advance. I have a theory that explains the universal mutual resentment, at least as far as Russian embassies are concerned:

Anything that has to do with Russian diplomacy is shrouded in incredible corruption and nepotism. This dates back to Soviet times when only the most privileged had the right to travel abroad, so students of Moscow State Institute for International Relations (MGIMO) considered themselves the crème de la crème of Soviet society. They still do, arrogant pricks. Anyway, you have to bear in mind that these people – or more exactly, their parents – had spent millions of rubles, years of scheming, bartering and arse-licking to get them first through a prestigious college and then into an embassy that was not in some God-forsaken Camelshitistan, but in Paris or London. And then, gleaming with self-importance, they are quite reasonably annoyed at hordes of those begging petitioners who dare to distract them from enjoying their glorious top-of-the-world positions.

This also explains why Russia’s international policy is such a fucking embarrassment, like a drunk uncle who you barely know bragging at a family reunion how he used to wipe your arse when you were four. It’s almost ironic how they at some point have to face the fact that actually there is a goddamn job to do. Please keep in mind that we never elected these ugly mugs, their bad suits or their comically broken English to represent us. They are usurping, lying, incompetent fucktards and the finest move they’d ever come up with is threatening to turn off the gas; or fuck up some ridiculous little republic because they friggin’ can.

(That, by the way, is not said to reinforce the traditional British sense of superiority: eat your greens and don’t choke on Uncle Sam’s lollipop.)

We will gladly credit this photo as soon as we find the photographer

In many aspects we are still living under the Mongol yoke and that pretty much defines all vertical relationships in Russian society. In 99.99% of all cases,  people with just a microscopic bit of power abuse it at every little opportunity. Power is used for little else than gaining some advantage over thy neighbour.

In most Russian offices, official institutions and Metro stations, there is a man in an ill-fitting uniform (okhrannik) or an elderly woman (babka) whose sole function is to reduce unemployment numbers. While in pragmatic societies, the entrance is controlled by magnetic cards and turnstiles, this Soviet artefact will in the most uncompromising tone demand your passport – woe is upon he who does not have the habit of carrying it everywhere! – and then copy your personal data into a greasy notebook. By hand, naturally, and with utmost deliberation. They have all the time in the world and it’s not their problem that you don’t. If you so much as squeak to protest against this invasion into your privacy, prepare to be petrified with the sarcastic “Cho, samiy umniy?” (”You’re the biggest smartarse, aren’t you?”).

It’s still a puzzle to me why anyone in their sane mind would ever want to go to Russia; or why anyone would want to live there in the first place; or why we love our bullying, alcoholic, saggy-titted motherland so devoutly, especially from a safe distance. But that is probably the thing they call the great mystery of the Russian soul. Dabro pazhalovat v Rassiyu, druzia!

More from our Angry Russian:
Angry Russian on Maslenitsa
Angry Russian on the ‘Big Freeze’
Angry Russian on vodka literacy
Rants by an Angry Russian

Photo Credit: Wayan Vota

with Claire Sergent and Jaime Concha

It goes without saying: Moving to a new country is hard. From choosing a decent neighbourhood, negotiating with (sometimes dodgy) landlords, and dealing with new flatmates, getting settled in any city can be a pain. In London, however, it seems every other person has a housing tale to tell—and not a pleasant one. Claire Sergent and Jaime Concha interviewed three people in Cricklewood and West Hampstead about their surprising (and occasionally scary) living conditions.

Do you ever get the feeling that accomplishing basic tasks (such as–oh, I don’t know–getting a phone or bank account) is sometimes FARRR more difficult than it need be?

In fact, has attempting to accomplish these tasks–that are arguably necessary for life even in the middle lane, not to mention the fast lane–ever made you feel like a complete and utter idiot?

No?

Then you musn’t ever have attempted to sloppily paste together a life in Jolly Ol’ England.

Admin Monkeys

Like many out there, I have spent loads more time than necessary at the whim of a whole GAGGLE of admin monkeys. But the admin monkeys have none of those endearing qualities exhibited by our close primate cousins.

The AMs are devoid of charm, sparkle, or even personality, and it’s difficult to imagine that at one point in their sad, wilted lives, they used to dream big dreams, or even–gasp–think for themselves.

These admin monkeys are interchangeable, whether they serve you at the phone shop or at the bank. They wear flimsy plastic nametags that could easily be interchanged with one another(‘Cheryl’ could be a ‘Tony’) and I would be none the wiser.

But the only remarkable thing about these admin monkeys is that each has a uniquely obnoxious—but summarily polite–way of squawking their demands at me.

“Sorry, Ms. Christie, you’ll have to come back with your passport”

“Ooooh, my regrets, Ms. Christie, we’re going to need five copies of your grocery list from last week”

“Ms. Christie, I regret to inform you that we will be needing to conduct a variety of brain and body scans in order to ensure that you are not–in fact–a terrorist/android/Jane Fonda impersonator.”

Frustration

Unless you’ve been in this situation of completely bogus bureaucracy, I’m not sure if you can fully appreciate the irritation of having to travel up and down a single flight of stairs between the “registration” and “records” floors in order to gather an elusive piece of photo ID that-much like the Loch Ness Monster- is rumored to exist but, in fact, does not.

This country—or maybe just this town—seems to take a sadistic pleasure in watching its newbies paddle around like those hollow rubber ducks at the amusement park games.

But although we’ve been caught so perilously in the chump-and-grind of Blighty life, an end does appear to be in sight.  Don’t worry–I have now knocked every piece of wood in site. If all goes according to plan (which it rarely does) I should finish today with both a mobile AND a bank account…what a win for the good guys!

No doubt I will again find myself in the admin jungle again, but for the time being, I have escaped hanging myself with red tape. Phew.

Please enjoy the following vid, illustrating the joys of British bureaucracy