Aisha: How do we tell the stories of those whose shoulders we stand on? Black scholar and historian Saidiya Hartman developed the concept of critical fabulation. Early in her work, she became disillusioned with how the stories of enslaved people—her people—were told. These were people whose lives were either absent from archives or documented only through the records of slave owners. Hartman permitted herself to use critical imagination, to fill in or move beyond these archival silences. To me, she is saying something like: “Yes, I will work with archives and documents, but I will also acknowledge their limitations and their gaps. I will exercise my critical imagination to fill these voids with the stories of my people.” How else can we tell the stories of those whose histories have been deliberately erased? How do we talk about our heroes — about the figures who are historically important to us — when we recognize that much of what we know about them is shaped by propaganda, whether Soviet or ethno-nationalist? I know the word “speculation” carries a negative connotation in Russian, but perhaps we need to speculate and imagine getting closer to these figures like Kuzebay Gerd without placing them on pedestals. Can we allow imagination to be part of history?

Darali: It seems to me that the [Russian] state is now taking a cautious approach to national identity, ensuring that it does not become too prominent and extensive. Even in the Udmurt Republic, the Udmurt language is not meant to persist too strongly. The state demands a version of Udmurt culture that is easily comprehensible to all — for example, Udmurt cuisine — fitting into a homogenized, multi-ethnic space. On the other hand, experimental approaches to national identity have faded into the underground.

In the 1990s, the artist and architect Kasim Galikhanov envisioned a Center for Udmurt Spiritual Culture, inspired by Udmurt ethnofuturism and Finno-Ugric cultural connections. Architects like the Finnish Alvar Aalto and the Hungarian Imre Makovecz based their designs on nature, exploring links between nature and the cosmos. At that time, Udmurt ethnofuturism offered more of an abstract and experimental take on national culture. Today, folk culture’s vision has become more conservative; the audacity of ethnofuturism has faded. 

Milana: The present speaks to the past in such a way that a truly satisfying future for us does not seem to be emerging. We view ourselves through the romanticized image of the warrior — the fearless Circassian on the battleground. Often, Circassians know their history through lenses of catastrophe and trauma — starting with the Russo-Caucasian War and onward.

For a long time, I worked for a children’s art magazine — the only children's publication in the Circassian language in our republic. Many Circassian intellectuals from the older generation would visit our editorial office. They were part of a traumatized Soviet generation, nostalgic for the romanticized Oriental past of Circassia. For them, Circassians were held in the highest regard. Yet, from the same people, I also heard that it was the Russian Empire that brought us culture. “We didn’t have writers; then writers emerged. We didn’t have composers; then composers emerged.” It’s astonishing how two contradictory, yet equally colonial narratives can coexist within one mind. 

Circassian gardens are a phenomenon that reveals another side of Circassian culture, but unfortunately, very few people are familiar with it. The more I study this topic, the more I feel the need to find ways of speaking that prevent people from taking sides or dismissing the past and present with a spirit of aggression or self-pity. I want this dialogue to serve as a form of therapy.

Darali: Once, while working at the youth art residency in Izhevsk, I came across a stack of postcards featuring Russian literary classics. I gave all of them Udmurt names. For example, Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin became Sergey Sandyr. In Udmurt tradition, surnames are often derived from patronymics or matronymics. In a way, I “Udmurtised” them. Curator Anton Valkovsky took note of this and recognized it as an artistic statement.