Vovka had returned to Russia. He arrived, he says, and he knelt on the Kremlin pavement, kissing it in a moment of stark realization. The moment carried irony, as it always does, yet the truth remained: he was back. In the January chill, at twenty-five degrees, in a city known for its warmth and cheer, where sane, contented people walked the streets and sang, Vovka found little strength to move forward. He did not glide through taverns toward the sea. He sat on a bench like an old man and lay facedown on a pillow as if he were a corpse. Depression lingered. The irony, stubborn as ever, refused to fade.
Why the depression? Because Moscow’s social strategies simply do not translate here.
What is it like to be Israeli? Coming to the country is only part of the journey. The real task is to go inside and live it fully.
There is a parable about a Buddhist monk leaving Lasa for New York, descending the stairs, and settling onto the asphalt. He sits with his eyes closed, not moving. In deep meditation we think in stereotypes, yet the monk does not meditate. He waits.
On the plane, neighbors hurry past one another on tiptoes. Those who spend more than an hour in flight seem particularly fussy. The neurotic, senseless jumping out of seats and yanking luggage from overhead compartments during taxiing defies rational explanation.
And yet racing to passport control with suitcases remains a favorite pastime for some travelers.
What are you doing here, monk, sitting on the pavement? Why not tear at your luggage, trample your neighbor, and sprint to passport control?
“I am waiting for my soul,” the monk declared with force.
He was physically in a new place. The soul moves at a slower speed, which is why contact with the place must be earned over time.
That is the analogy at play — not only about migration but about immigration as well.
There are immigrants, there are displaced people, there are returnees. They must not be conflated under any circumstances.
Historically, there were immigrants who loved their homeland and left forever, the earlier generations who felt the destruction of their Temple and the irretrievable loss of identity. Then came the movers, who aimed to deter changes. They did not hate the old homeland nor embrace a new one; they simply wanted to live where they felt at home, which makes the old word homeland seem almost ridiculous in the modern world. In an age of globalization, that word sounds like a fossil roaring in the face of a new world.
Third, the repatriated return to a historic homeland. The quip about identity still echoes: who is a Jew if not someone who can pack quickly?
What is it like to be Israeli? What does it mean to be Moscow in spirit? Why do not Muscovites living in Israel simply enter easily?
Are you from Moscow? How do you know? And your face, perhaps, is familiar, the same one you always carried. A joke on one side, a stark truth on the other.
Israelis present a relaxed, joyful face. They sing in the streets. If a Muscovite were beheaded, the impact would last only twenty minutes longer, the sense of decline lingering afterward.
Vovka once traveled from a distant province to Nerezinovsk and found among his own energies a new measure of achievement. That energy, the energy of attainment, became a second nature. He earned the label of a success, much like many who live in the capital of the country.
Not so here. The depression is understood, perhaps inevitable. The suggestion is simple: switch your sport. The social game that worked in Moscow does not translate here. The “Successors” stayed in Moscow, waiting on asphalt for a soul to arrive.
If an official says a transaction is done, the next official may never know. If you chase a target with a referee, the target dissolves like jelly in your hand.
How do Israelis cope? They sing in the streets, measure humility, and hold onto joy. Are you depressed? The speaker knows the feeling but claims mastery of a relaxation science. A clerk’s office becomes a stage, and famous artists sleep between shots, sharing a drink and a smile.
Vovka found Blat and aligned with everyone, yet it all proved hollow. The benefactor deceived him, did nothing for him. The accusation, almost a refrain, lands with irony: the thief has blood on his hands. This, of course, is Vovka with a smile at irony’s edge. It remains a constant companion.
Irony is compelling and elusive. Freud suggested humor diverts the unconscious into the conscious; irony, instead, marks the boundary of the superego. The paradox feels bigger than a joke. The author rejects humor in favor of irony, the sharper, more unsettling force.
Consider Alexander Prokhanov, a figure once the subject of the author’s best column. The exact reason for that column is elusive now; it might rest on the writer’s sardonic or serious edge, or on a question of tone entirely. Does Prokhanov speak with irony when he reports that Liya Akhedzhakova has blood on her elbows? The sight once sparked a loud laugh while behind the wheel, immediately before a traffic stop.
Akhedzhakova appears as a person whose fate in the film Garage becomes a turning point, the role demanding something fatal and decisive. Those who never fight for themselves may be swallowed by their own roles. The scene suggests the power of a character to redefine destiny, sometimes through a single performance that remains with the audience long after the credits.
In the film Garage, someone could be called a gnome. Imagine a small, truth-loving figure with blood on their hands, a carnival image that mirrors a writer who also seems bound to strange, impossible gravity. It is necessary to see these two figures in relation and judge the quality of irony itself.
Vovka, too, voices the accusation: you have blood on your hands, thief. Is the charge aimed at Prokhanov, or at someone else? The speaker cannot be sure, yet the sentiment persists and hints at a larger pattern.
He found that his irony faded in Israel. There, irony comes naturally, a common way of speaking that makes it hard to tell when someone is joking or serious. In Moscow, the irony holds its ground differently, less forgiving, less lighthearted.
Weekends bring a kind of pandemonium in the spas, with mineral waters, muddy pools, and shared baths. Naked bodies mingle in a scene that feels almost like a bold portrait of hell. The narrator remains an extreme individualist, drawn to this unguarded form of entertainment. Perhaps Israelis are more collectivist—kibbutzim, mutual aid, a sense of comradeship—yet nakedness beside one another in the bath hints at a different social texture altogether. In Russia and across the post-Soviet space, stereotypes aside, people tend to live more atomically and choose individual survival strategies, joining with others only when necessary, and otherwise preferring to stand apart.
A fourteen-year-old jokes non-stop in the bath. He is the youngest professional comedian the narrator has seen, fluent in Russian, Hebrew, and English. He is called over by an adult, who admonishes, and the boy quips with a professional grin. The moment is recorded on a phone, but the narrator vows to tell nothing of it. Stand-up culture here is vibrant; a Tel Aviv traffic-jam joke takes shape, borrowing from a Russian flourish that enriches Hebrew with a playful blend of languages and a phrase that means to roll or go forward with momentum.
The narrator embraces change, rejects nostalgia, and keeps a simple motto: let it get worse, not merely like yesterday. A personal creed to stay alert, curious, and open to new chapters. The feeling of being well in this land remains strong, and the humor in everyday life is a steady companion. The narrator may not align with a specific publication stance, but the voice is clear and present, inviting readers to consider what it means to live across borders, with all the irony and warmth that entails.