family education

…is the story mightier than the missile…

Kolya Ivanovich Malloff – 2019

Osatka Village Grand Forks, BC

            My relationship to education is something that I often ponder. Historically my family rose from among the ranks of illiterate serfdom to become moderately well-educated. Throughout the bulk of this process the articulation of the shared or learned spaces was mostly an oral practice. There came a point in our family history, notably upon their arrival to Canada which was at the turn of the century, when education became a more pressing issue, as it likely was for many peoples, both natives and immigrants at this particular juncture in history. My great grandparents did not attend any type of formal school. Their education was mostly through the community meetings and ceremonial proceedings of their Christian faith. Some of my grandparents’ generation received a partial elementary school education. My parents’ generation for the most part graduated from secondary school in the public education system in British Columbia, with many going on to obtain a technical certificate or some post-secondary education. Finally, my generation have, for the majority, all gone on to achieve under graduate and graduate level education at post-secondary institutions.

            If I was to assess the attitudes and orientations of my family members throughout the generations with a broad stroke, I would conclude that the suspicions and hesitancy of our people towards education quickly dissolved once the opportunity and clear benefit of seeking an education had become obvious, this was the message from my grandparents to my parents. This also seemed to coincide with a turning point when the cultural cohesion of the communal way of life gave way to the more individual pursuit of seeking knowledge from within the family unit. This was a transitional phase so to speak, where the communal and religious values along with the agrarian peasant social organisation that was brought from Russia gave way to the individual and atheistic educational and social values found in Canada. Coincidentally as we became more individually educated we also became more removed from the communal cultural structure that held us together during the times of persecution, exile and emigration. This added factor of obtaining a higher education and its subsequent transitional period also left us, the second, third and fourth generations loitering within a peculiar void. All the previous generations inherited and held our history in an oral story telling practice. Many of these oral stories and the cultural traditions they embodied slowly began to lose their toehold in our daily life.

            Everyone in my family always stressed the importance of a higher education, my mother, my father, my uncle Steve, my uncle John, my aunt Irene –– everybody. I know that my grandparents also valued education as a mechanism to support oneself, one’s family and to pursue one’s higher purpose. They recognized the value of education as a means to obtain comfort and security and to ultimately find one’s purpose in life. For the majority of my life I felt purposeless. I was extremely unsure what to do with myself. I wanted to be useful and I hoped to achieve positive contributions for myself, for my family, for my community and for my culture. I had no idea what to do with myself. Growing up as a Russian in Canada is also a funny thing. I am third generation Canadian born, but I identify as being of 100% Russian genetic stock. I long for Russian culture, I understand the Russian position in space and time. The living history of the Russian world warms me deeply.

            I remember the bedtime stories my father told me. The stories he passed on from his grandfather. The stories my mother told me. All the stories. These beautiful stories that filled my life. The stories about my grandparents or about my extended family members. Stories that other people from other villages would share with me. These stories were always forthcoming and they gave me a sense of belonging. Nearly all of these stories were passed down in an oral tradition. They were anecdotal, factual, lyrical, creative, embellished, incorrect, argued over –– but in the end they were all true.

            I grew up in a family that was caring, talented, demanding and respectful of traditions. I grew up among people who had the will power to do whatever they wished. This was the spiritual community we all originated from. They worked hard, sacrificed much, gave of themselves in ways I have not seen paralleled often throughout the history books. They took pride in one thing above all –– pacifism. Their motto was and continues to be –– toil and peaceful life.

            Our people burned their guns over one hundred and twenty years ago and vowed not to kill again. Some say we were the first true community that inspired the concept of communism to sweep Russia. Some say we were the first culture to self-declare themselves as pacifist and then will that declaration of morality onto the map. We inspired Leo Tolstoy, Mahatma Ghandi, Martin Luther King, David Thoreau and many others by the sheer determination of our convictions. We endured by means of our faith regardless of the repercussions. We were stubborn in the name of God and we suffered greatly for it. This suffering was seen as less of a burden and more of a liberation. To truly enact God’s will, only the physical dimension needed to be conquered. These were the decisions that governed the people who created the people who became me.

            Now that I stop to reflect on how I might bring such conviction, such faith into my pedagogy without the driving force of this communal spiritual organisation. 

            I was always taught to be proud of my roots. My fore-bearers struggled for something noble, they gave their lives so that my life might somehow be better. Yet their struggle was not just for me, it was done for all of humanity, for our global village. The Doukhobors believed that they were taking a stand as per their perceptions of God’s will. They were doing the best that they could to be true and honourable before the Divine Spirit of Life.

            I have heard it said that ‘tradition is peer pressure from dead people’. I ponder this. I grew up experiencing such a thing. The burden foisted upon my shoulders by the heavy spiritual lifting done by my fore fathers was something I felt. I was ceaselessly reminded to honour their sacrifices by living true to their moral values. I was terrified at the prospect of disrespecting someone who had sacrificed their very life so that my future might be better.

            I loathed Sunday school and the lessons that got drilled into me. The psalms, the prayers and the songs were all so sad. The frequent recounting of the struggle and the suffering was insurmountable. The pressure to be worthy of those who sacrificed themselves for my wellbeing was ever present and always intense. I was always reminded of the pressure to never err or commit a foul lest my ancestors roll in their graves in disapproval. This was heavy. The seriousness or as I like to reflect on it, the starch and upright respect that was demanded for our descendants from within the core of our traditions was something sacred, something heavy, something bigger than me.

            The meticulous discipline required to pursue our traditions and spiritual simplicities was enormous. I wanted to be free to fight and make mistakes, to do whatever I wanted, to not be controlled or regulated by some higher calling. I felt the ancestral pride and yet I also understood that pride was a double-edged sword that both entraps and liberates the spirit. I saw it among my brethren, I understood how our perceptions could lead to a sense of exceptionalism and how it could bring a tone of spiritual superiority to our discourse with others. I also became aware of how others felt when they learned of our past, there was always a gamut of responses ranging from reverence and respect to blatant unabashed racism. I realized that to understand somebody it took more than a walk in their shoes.

            I always felt lucky to be a Doukhobor. I felt like I had the lightness of an inherited cultural charm blessing my lineage, but funny, how I felt heavy and restrained under the rigours of my cultural traditions.

What is freedom?

What is suffering?

How do the two of them become such wonderful dance partners?

In the end I feel an abundance of gratitude towards my family and my culture. This paper in many ways is a tribute to all of them. It has been a long process, full of joy, pain, reward and hardships. My family has opened the door for me, just to kick me out of it so that I might land hard and learn something of value on my own. They have encouraged me to honour my fore-bearers, they have placed expectations on me, they have told me of all the great feats and comical anecdotes that have surrounded the creative, wonderful, nurturing mess that is my gene pool.

Through all of this they have managed to constantly remind me of what it is that I have inherited, the gifts I am to carry in this life and the responsibilities that these inheritances bring. They have provided me with the stories that define my origins and the stories that in many ways foreshadow my future path. They have loved me and at times I am sure they have loathed me, but above all they released me into the world so that I was able to learn how to learn.