Perhaps too often, ex-pats harbor a bifurcated image of Ukraine and its people: Individually, we know Ukrainians to be almost embarrassingly warm and generous, yet in the anonymity of a Metro station during rush hour, they seem all-too-happy to crush the life from fellow passengers to ensure that the last possible person is jammed into a subway car.
Similarly, we see the government as a kleptocracy, where the power of favors and gifts regularly override the rule of law. Yet individual workers are largely underpaid, overburdened and under appreciated.
In a country where the people are poor, property, once lost, is rarely returned. On the odd occasion when items are returned, the assumption is that they were never lost at all, but stolen with the intent to return it in exchange for an extortionate reward.
As all stereotypes are unfortunate and flawed, so are these preconceptions about this country and its people. One recent morning, I laid my briefcase on a counter while changing money.
The transaction completed and my mind focused on coffee rather than my belongings, I was a block down the street before I realized that I didn't have the case. I trotted back to the currency exchange, but the briefcase was no longer on the counter and the cashier denied having seen it. I accepted that my briefcase, an inexpensive item made of genuine Chinese leather and containing personal papers but nothing of real value, was gone.
Two days later, I received a call: A man said that a friend of his had found my case. Would I like it back? Of course, I said. We arranged to meet on Independence Square after work.
The finder had gone to some trouble to locate me: the briefcase contained no business cards or other overt forms of identification other than a building pass with my name and photo and the name of my company. Documents in the case made it obvious that I was an English-speaker and a foreigner. The finder had a friend with knowledge of English track down my company telephone number and call me on his behalf.
My colleagues and I smelled a shakedown in progress, but I decided that I would play along, within limits, paying a small reward. As I left to meet the finder, someone asked, "Who's watching your back?" "Nobody," I said, only half-joking, "I prefer to bleed in solitude."
The finder had me at a disadvantage, I thought as I stood near the post office on Independence Square. He had seen my photo on the pass. I waited, and at the appointed time, two men approached.
"My friend found your briefcase," said the man I had spoken to on the phone, as the finder held the case out to me.
"Thank you," I said, accepting the case and reaching into my coat pocket. "I'd like to offer you a..."
The men turned and strode off into the rush-hour crowd, waving refusal of the yet-to-be produced Hr 50 note in my pocket. The English-speaker briefly stopped, turned and said with a grin, "Don't lose it again!"
It is easily said that for every rule there is an exception, and this may be true. But I would rather put my belief, when I can, in peoples' innate goodness. I would rather believe that for every stereotype we harbor, there is a person or event that will put the lie to it.
- From Scott Lewis
|
