Tshurbes, Mud and blossoming

On August 24, Ukraine marks its Independence Day. In 2026 the date cannot be separated from the war that followed Russia’s full-scale invasion in February 2022. Yet another August comes to mind.

On August 21, 1968, Warsaw Pact forces entered Czechoslovakia and brought the Prague Spring to an end. I was in Košice. Soviet troops detained me and I was imprisoned for a time. What remains after 58 years is not simply the memory of tanks, but the discrepancy between what was happening and what the world still looked like. I wrote this Yiddish poem:

טשורבעס, נורמאַליזאַציע, בלאָטע און בליען / Tshurbes, Normalization, Mud and Blossoming

דער אױגוסט־פֿרי האָט דעמאָלט ניט אױסגעזען
װי אַ נײַער פרק אין דער געשיכטע,
די גאַסן זײַנען געבליבן אוליצעס, די הײזער אומבאַרירט
נאָר די סלאָװאַקישע פּנימער זײַנען פּלוצם פֿאַרדרײט געװאָרן ־

That August morning did not look, back then,
like a new chapter in history.
The streets remained ulitses, the houses untouched,
only the Slovak faces were suddenly twisted—

די װעלט האָט געשטאַנען אױף איר אָרט
אָן צו באַגרײַפֿן װאוּ זי שטײט און אָטעמט..
טאַנקען זײַנען געפֿאָרן װאוּ נאָך נעכטן אױטאָבוסן און מענטשן,
אַ באַפֿעל האָט איבערטראָטן אַ גרענעץ,

the world stood there in its place,
unable to understand where it stood and breathed.
Tanks drove where only yesterday buses and people had passed;
an order had crossed a border,

אָן זינען, מיט אַ טעם פֿון פֿרעמדער אװירה ־
דער שטױב האָט זיך אױפֿגעהױבן, די פֿענצטער אָן ענטפֿער, שטום,
אַ גאַנצע מדינה האָט אַנטדעקט אַ טאָג און פֿאַרלאָזט ניט דעם נעכטן.
זײ האָבן מיך פֿאַרכאַפּט אין קאָשיצע

without meaning, with the taste of a foreign avira—
dust rose, the windows unanswered, mute;
an entire country discovered a day without leaving yesterday behind.
They caught me in Košice,

אָן קײן אַנונג פֿון די געשעענישן,
אפֿשר דװקא קײנער האָט געװוּסט װאָס איז פֿאַרגעקומען,
מע קען פֿאַרמאַכטן די טירן פֿון אַ טורמע ־
ניט װאָס קומט פֿאָר אינװײניק, ניט װאָס גײט אָן אין דרױסן.

with no notion of what was happening;
perhaps, indeed, no one knew what had happened.
The doors of a prison can be shut—
not what happens inside, nor what is going on outside.

The uncertainty was perhaps the strangest element.

די זעלנער האָבן געטראָגן געװער, באַקומען באַפֿעלן,
זײערע אױגן זײַנען געבליבן פֿול מיט אומבאַשלאָסנקײט.
װער זײַנען דאָ געװען די בײַזן ־ אַלע האָבן אױסגעזען װי קרובים
דורך װערטער, תרבות, האַלטונגען,

The soldiers carried rifles, received orders,
their eyes remaining full of uncertainty.
Who were the wicked ones here? All looked almost like relatives
through words, cultures, ways of being.

די װעלט האָט זיך אַריבערגעקערט אָן זיך צו באַװעגן ־
קאָשיצע, פּראַגאַ און דאָס לאַנד האָבן װײַטער געשטאַנען אױף דער מאַפּע ־
אַ װאָרט האָט זיך אַרײַנגעדרײט אין די געגנטן: דער טשורבעס,
כאָטש קײנער װאָלט ניט פֿאַרשטאַנען װאוּהין

The world had turned over without moving—
Košice, Prague and the country still stood upon the map.
A word had twisted its way into those regions: tshurbes,
though no one could have understood where

ס׳װעט פֿירן און מיט װעלכער חשיבֿות.
פֿון װײַטנס דער ראַטן־פֿאַרבאַנד, די רוסן, די אוקראַינער, די װײַסרוסן
זײַנען געקומען, יונגע זעלנער מיט העלמעטן האָבן פֿאַרנומען אַן אומבאַקאַנט לאַנד,
זײ האָבן דערװאַרט שונאים,

it would lead, or what significance it would acquire.
From far away, the Soviet Union – the Russians, Ukrainians, Belarusians –
had come; young soldiers in helmets occupied an unknown country.
They had expected enemies,

מסתּמא װי באַפֿעלן האָבן זײ אױסגעמאָלט ־
געפֿונען כּמעט פּשוטע רעדעס:
פֿאַר װאָס זענט איר דאָ?
די טאַנקען האָבן זיך געשלענדערט דורך די װעגן ־

presumably as their orders had painted them—
and found almost simple words:
Why are you here?
The tanks lumbered along the roads – 

דער ציל גאַנץ אומגעװוּסט פֿאַר די זעלנער.
טשעכן און סלאָװאַקן, יידן און ציגײַנער, אונגאַרן און רוסינען,
רומענער און אַנדערע זײַנען פֿאַרפֿיקסירט געװאָרן אין פֿאַרדרײטע בילדער,
װידער האָט אײַראָפּע אױפֿגעװאַקעלט לשונות, שכים, משפּחות ־

their purpose wholly unknown to the soldiers.
Czechs and Slovaks, Jews and Roma, Hungarians and Rusyns,
Romanians and others became fixed in distorted images;
once again Europe stirred up languages, neighbours, families –

די אַלטן קאָרדאָנען.

the old kordons.

Those old kordons matter. To remember 1968 exclusively through the Cold War is to see the tanks without sufficiently seeing the landscape through which they travelled.

The tanks belonged to the Cold War. The landscape was much older.

Central Europe had already been repeatedly rearranged through the nineteenth century, the Habsburg world, the disappearance of empires after 1918, the catastrophes of the Second World War and the new ideological boundaries after 1945. Czechoslovakia contained peoples whose languages, families and memories could never fit perfectly within a political line.

This is why Yiddish belongs to the story. It had no state on that map, yet it possessed words for what happened to maps. Tshurbes, blote, bardak, kordon, ulitse: words travelled, changed meaning and survived the political arrangements around them.

The peculiarity of tshurbes today is therefore part of its meaning. It preserves something of a European landscape that borders repeatedly attempted to simplify.

In August 1968 the occupation was Soviet and ideological. What it encountered beneath itself, however, was older and more difficult to classify: a Central European human landscape whose borders had changed faster than its languages and memories.

The difficulty with tshurbes is also its usefulness. It is not a political term. It suggests disorder, wreckage, rubbish, something thrown together or thrown away. Its imprecision allows it to describe what official language often conceals.

דער ״טשורבעס״ איז נעבעך געװאָרן אַ בהמה־זאַך,
לאַנגזאַם האָט מען אינעם דער יידישן גנבים־װערטער־שאַץ איז געהערט
פֿון דאגות, שקרים און כאַאָס,
זבל, באַרדאַק, שונד ־ אַלץ װאָס מען װאַרפֿט אַרױס

Poor tshurbes had become a beastly thing.
Little by little, within the Yiddish thieves’ treasury of words, one heard
of troubles, lies and chaos:
zbl, bardak, shund—everything people throw away.

דער טשורבעס האָט זיך אױסגעגאָסן אין ברײַטע בלאָטעס.
און יאַן פּאַלאַך איז בכן געװאָרן דער בראַנד־אָפּפֿער,
דאָס פֿאָלק האָט געשמעקט די פֿרעמדע נאָרמאַליזאַציע
און דער פּאָגראָמישער טשורבעס איז געװאָרן אַ שטרענגע רשימת־כּללים.

Tshurbes poured itself out into broad expanses of blote.
And Jan Palach thus became the burnt offering.
The people could smell the foreign Normalization,
and the pogrom-like tshurbes became a strict reshimes-klolim, a list of rules.

Jan Palach’s self-immolation in Prague in January 1969 belongs here because he protested not only against occupation but against resignation: the frightening ability of the unacceptable to become ordinary.

חורבן איז קײן טשורבעס און טשורבעס איז קײן חורבנישע פֿאַרניכטונג…
אָט אַזױ, אמת, ככה ־
טשורבעס שטײט פֿאַר פֿאַרװישטע פּורעניות,
צערברעכט צײַטן און װערטן ־

Khurbn is no tshurbes, and tshurbes is no annihilating khurbn…
So it is, indeed, kakha—
tshurbes stands for confused calamities,
shattering times and values.

בײַ טאַרקאָװסקי ברענט אַ הױז בעת די װעלט װאַרט אױפֿן העלן מאָרגן,
קרבנות שטאַרבן װען דער באַפֿעל װערט משוגע
און רופֿט צו כּלל־דערלײזונג ־ אָדער?
בײַ תשעה־באָב, משפּחות, ניצולים קומען צונױף פֿון אַלע דרכים און סבֿיבֿות,

For Tarkovsky, a house burns while the world waits for the bright morning;
victims die when the command goes mad
and calls for universal deliverance—or does it?
On Tisha B’Av, families, survivors come together from every road and surrounding,

די חורבנות האָבן ניט פֿאַרמאָגט אַ סוף
מ׳װאַרפֿט אַװעק שטײַנער, נעמען, שילדן,
מ׳װאַרפֿט כאַלױמעס (חלומות), מחשבות און פֿאַרקערטע דערקלערונגען ־
דער פּאַלאַסט, דער ריכטער, דער דין, די פֿאַרװאַנדלונג,

the khurbns have known no end.
Stones, names, signs are thrown away;
khaloymes (חלומות), thoughts and inverted explanations are discarded—
the palace, the judge, the judgment, the transformation

לעבן אומרואיק אין די קװאַקלקנדיקע דערפֿער און אָבלאַסטן.

live uneasily in the tottering villages and oblasts.

That map survived the Habsburg Empire. I encountered this again unexpectedly in 1992. France Inter had asked me to travel through Europe. The Soviet Union had disappeared; Yugoslavia was breaking apart; Czechoslovakia was approaching its peaceful division. During that journey I had a long and friendly conversation with Václav Havel.

I had the strange impression of witnessing not merely the end of Communism, but the very late ending of something Habsburg: not the empire, but a Central European arrangement in which languages, peoples and memories had continued to overlap despite successive political systems.

The Europe I crossed in 1992 was not simply emerging from an ideological system. Yesterday’s language of authority could suddenly become today’s rubbish.

מ׳װאַרפֿן אַרױס די נעכטיקע סדרים,
מען שלאָגט די מאַכט־כּוחות און לאַכט זיך פֿון די גרענעצן,
שילדען, װענט, שײַנע אָדער פּראָסטע זאַכן װערן מיסט,
נעכטן האָבן מענטשן באַפֿױלן ־ הײַנט איז אַלץ געשיקט געװאָרן צום אָפּפֿאַל ־

Yesterday’s orders are thrown out;
the powers are struck down and the borders laughed at.
Signs, walls, beautiful or ordinary things become rubbish.
Yesterday people commanded – today everything has been sent to the dump.

טשורבעס שמײכלט זיך שטיל: מאַכט פֿאַרװאַנדלט זיך שױן אין שמוץ און בלאָטע.
אײַראָפּע האָט ניט פֿאַרענדיקט איר װעג איבער צעבראָכענע זעלן,
די פֿאַרגאַנגענע גרענעצן שלאָפֿן זאַנפֿט, די איציקע שטײן אָן ביטחון,
דער נעכטיקער טשורבעס האָט דאָס באַשטענדיקע אױפֿגעטרײסלט ־

Tshurbes smiles quietly: power is already turning into dirt and blote.
Europe has not completed its journey across shattered souls.
The borders of the past sleep softly; those of today stand without assurance.
Yesterday’s tshurbes shook what had seemed permanent—

און ניט אנטפּלעקט קײנע בעסערע צוקונפֿט.

and revealed no better future.

What can survive, however, is a political reflex: the belief that a neighbouring country’s sovereignty remains conditional, and that another power may decide which direction its history is permitted to take.

It is also important not to project today’s divisions backwards.

Uzhhorod (Ужгород) offers an extraordinary contemporary example. Uzhgorod, Ungvár, Užhorod, אונגווער, Ujhorod: even its names disclose successive and simultaneous histories. Ukrainian, Rusyn, Hungarian, Slovak, Jewish-Yiddish, Romanian and other memories have inhabited the same region while borders moved around them.

A territory can recover an older identity without simply recovering an older border.

Königsberg may remain present within Kaliningrad; Breslau within Wrocław; Czernowitz within Chernivtsi; Ungvár within Uzhhorod. Recovering such names and memories can mean admitting that several historical belongings may continue to occupy the same place.

Perhaps this was what I sensed in 1992 when speaking with Havel. Older Europe had not disappeared underneath it.

Europe fixes its kordonen (borders, ropes). Human landscapes continue to cross them.

The poem turns instead to two figures who understood something essential about Central Europe: Švejk and Kafka. Both inhabit worlds in which instructions remain serious even when their meaning has dissolved.

דער זעלנער שװײק איז אױפֿגעשטאַנען רואיק
און האָט טאַק־סיאַק געהערט אַלערלײַ אָנװײַזונגען ־
דער אורטײל גײט װײַטער און זוכט זיך אַן אמתן גרונד און נוציקײט,
קאַפֿקאַס פֿאַרװאַנדלונג מישט זיך מיטן שכן און פֿאַרלױרענע פּאַראָלן ־

The Good Soldier Švejk has quietly risen again
and tak-syak listened to all manner of instructions.
The judgment goes on, seeking some true ground and usefulness;
Kafka’s metamorphosis mingles with the neighbor and passwords gone astray.

אין צעפֿאָרנקײט, אין אומסדר בלײַבט אַ ברירה:
די לעבעדיקע מענטשן װעלן נאָך בליען
און איבערװינדן די שדים־טאַנצנדיק בלאָטע.

Amid dispersal, amid disorder, a choice remains:
living human beings will yet blossom
and overcome the demon-dancing blote.

But the poem finally leaves both of them behind. Its last opposition is much simpler: blote and blien—mud and blossoming.

This matters on Ukraine’s Independence Day. Ukraine’s history contains Kyivan, Polish-Lithuanian, Habsburg, Russian imperial, Soviet, Jewish, Crimean Tatar, Romanian, Hungarian and many other layers. None can simply be erased; neither can they be transformed into retrospective ownership.

That is why tshurbes remains useful. It is what appears when systems claiming permanence become debris.

Europe will not remain permanently put and quiet. Nor should its future be confused with the resurrection of its past. What remains possible are old identities rediscovered, new forms of belonging created, kordonen respected yet no longer mistaken for the entire human landscape.

Blien.

To blossom.