“For everything in this world is forgiven in advance, and therefore everything cynically permitted.”
To gather all the books, I’ve read in my life, it would take 3 spacious rooms, no less. And still, every time I step into a bookstore, I see names I don’t know. Today, I’m one of those new names for you. And yes, of course, it wouldn’t hurt for me to introduce myself first.
My novel, THE MINING BOYS, is set to be released this year. In it, I describe how I escaped from Ukraine. I fled because the government banned males aged 18 to 60 from leaving the country. It closed the borders, and ordered representatives of the military registration and enlistment office to catch us and forcibly send us to war. At the same time, all media outlets claimed that only volunteers were going to war, which was true only at the very beginning.
Before we move on to why we’ve all gathered here, I suggest we have some fun. For those of you tired of classic literature, European arthouse cinema, and Netflix series, I propose we imagine ourselves in a small and cozy bookstore. The shopkeeper kindly offers free and rather lousy coffee. Chairs are arranged in several rows. You’re sitting on one of them. The presentation of the book THE MINING BOYS is about to begin.
The room goes dark, and when the lights come back on, you see a guy in front of you. Average height. Black trousers. Black shirt. A black balaclava on his head. He says he wrote THE MINING BOYS and is ready to answer your questions. He’s an openly gay guy who fled Ukraine. He refused to fight, and now in Ukraine, he could be imprisoned for 8 years just for that. He wrote a story about how some Ukrainian girl started dating her rapist, emigrating, because she had no one closer to her in emigration. What would you ask an author of such a story?
Meanwhile, this weird guy in a mask tells you things you won’t hear in the European or American news. For example, that Ukrainian officials have appealed to European countries to close integration programs for Ukrainians so they would return home. That Ukrainian TV openly and amorally discusses the need to force male emigrants who haven’t returned to come back and be faced with a choice: war or prison. By the way, what would you choose?
About 5 minutes later, another guy appears in the bookstore. He’s dressed exactly the same. The same height. Only his eyes and lips are visible under the same black balaclava, but it’s impossible to recognize a person, especially when it comes to a young writer. This person takes a seat right in the center and also starts answering questions. At first, it causes confusion, then laughter. Would you take his answers seriously? Would you ask the administrator to figure out what’s going on?
Meanwhile, writer #1 continues to talk about the pressure Ukraine puts on guys living in emigration. About how they are forbidden from using consular services. There’s no direct prohibition, but without visiting the military enlistment office and agreeing to participate in the war, the guy will be denied the right to use consular services. This means he won’t be able to participate in voting during the next presidential elections. This means he won’t be able to renew his passport when it expires.
“Without a passport, forget about decent work abroad,” writer #3 theatrically declares. He just walked in and is still standing in the doorway, expecting everyone present to pay attention to him. Would you turn around to look at this show-off?
What’s the point of this? Prohibiting the use of consular services. Requests to close integration programs. The thing is, Ukraine has repeatedly appealed to European countries to extradite guys. But European countries refused. So Ukrainian politicians, faced with a shortage of soldiers, have to come up with various tricks to force guys to return home.
“But what awaits us at home?” shouts writer #4. Writer #5 appears just behind him and immediately adds, “Western media have published data – about 50 thousand gays serve in the Ukrainian army. Ukrainian army officials announced that there are no gays among them. Suspicious, isn’t it?”
Both writer #4 and writer #5 are dressed in all black too. What the hell is going on? The bookstore administrator asks the guys in black. Writer #5 responds: “I’d like to know that myself.”
Gathered in one room, five writers create a commotion.
Writer #1: “Who said they make us similar so that life would be easier for us? No, no, they simplify us so that it’s easier to control us! Patriotism. Pride in your nation. For what you happen to be born into by pure chance. Suddenly, everyone became heroes. Are you a hero? And I am! The government makes us patriots and pretends as if it’s us who want to die. But do we really want to?”
Writer #2: “Who said that war can be stopped with weapons? Can you stop pain with a new dose of pain? Can you extinguish fire by throwing paper into it?”
Writer #3: “They throw not just paper into the fire, but books. Who decided that you can hate culture for actions made by politicians? How can you simultaneously promote discrimination based on language and at the same time claim that you stand for European values?”
Writer #4: “I want to say that war is when completely innocent people die for the interests of others. I know you’ve heard this before, but I’ll keep repeating it until we all learn this lesson.”
Writer #5: “Yes, I agree, although I believe that war cannot be stopped by violence, but it can be stopped by an idea. Who said that the principle of ‘an eye for an eye’ will leave the world blind? Was it Gandhi? Do you remember why he said that?”
The tired and slightly bewildered administrator of the bookstore persistently offers visitors free coffee and a short break from the noise.
During the break, the administrator leads the five writers to a storage room. Boxes of books and rolls of packing paper are scattered everywhere. The administrator demands to know what the hell is going on.
The thing is, presentations, even of the most interesting books, are usually as boring as a queue at a pharmacy. That’s why I decided to have some fun. I have to write about war and that forced conscription is a crime because right now thousands of guys in Ukraine are hostages of their own state. Someone has to stand up for them. But besides war, I write erotic stories, not in the style of dime-store novels, but in the spirit of Henry Miller and Jean Genet. Existential journeys from bed to bed.
And so, in this place, I gathered my former partner. But even they didn’t know where they were going or why. I invited each one with a 5-minute difference. Sent instructions: how to dress, where to sit, and loosely described how they should behave. The guys got used to my weird requests. Everything else is pure improvisation. Thanks to this, it’s interesting for the audience, for me, for my lovers, and even for the administrator.
It so happened that I’m attracted to guys roughly my age and body type. That’s why, in identical clothing and balaclavas, we look indistinguishable. The only thing that sets us apart is our voice. But have you ever heard the voice of the writer whose book you’re reading right now? Or the voice of the author of the previous book?
In each of my lovers, there is a part of me, and therefore a part of each of them is in my books. Will the attentive reader guess who among the five of us is the real author, who wrote the story about how, while in exile, he accidentally meets a guy he had been planning to date for 5 years? Naturally, being abroad, the guys go on a date and spend 3 days together. 3 days with no rest.
I have always been drawn to intimacy. I have always been attracted to plots with a limited number of characters in a confined space. In books, I’m interested not in the plot, but in the feelings and thoughts. The attentive reader knows this, so with a couple of questions, they can figure out who among these 5 writers is real one and who is my former lover.
Someone in the audience raises their hand to ask a question. No rules. You can shout out your question without warning. No formalities. To hell with boundaries. A meeting with a writer should either be candid or not happen at all.
A middle-aged woman with thick glasses and acid-blue hair asks the 5 writers what they’re thinking about right now. My lovers talk about trivial things. Plans for the day. Someone forgot to buy a plane ticket. Someone is thinking about food. And I’m thinking about J. Salinger. He could have been damn popular. He could have used that popularity. But instead, he lived his life as a recluse. Now I want to be a recluse too. I want to write to be read, but I’m so bored of talking. After these words, the woman winks at me. Did she recognize me? Maybe it doesn’t mean anything, and she used the wink instead of a period?
We continue. Writer #3 talks about how exactly 2 years ago, a full-scale war broke out between Russia and Ukraine. I mention that my cousin has not left his house for exactly 2 years, fearing he’ll be caught and sent to the war. His stepfather has already been sent to fight. Now he adamantly refuses to go anywhere. He’s gained weight. He answers any question with only ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Now he’s always in a depressed state. It’s bound to affect his mental health. It already has. But the war shows no signs of ending, and the authorities seem to shirk responsibility for his forced isolation.
Why does the government think that if a guy is physically strong, he’s obligated to use that strength to kill others? Why does our society still think that coercion into defense is normal? Why is it that one can suffer for loving another man, but aspiring to kill can make one a hero? And why are we silent about it?
In the audience sits a man who looks like a stern teacher. His demeanor expresses dissatisfaction with what’s happening. He nudges the teenager sitting next to him to squeeze through the aisle and declare:
“So, you’re suggesting surrender? You’re suggesting everyone emigrate, and those who can’t, obediently live under occupation?”
But did I suggest that? My indignation reveals me as the author, so first I give writers #2 and #5 the opportunity to speak up. Only after that do I say that any task needs to be approached systematically. You can’t try to solve all the problems at once. Specifically, I see my goal as sparking a discussion on the topic: Forced mobilization is a crime.
Countries cannot solve their military problems at the expense of guys just because they are guys and were born in that country. Being a soldier is as much a profession as being a writer, and it would be strange if during periods of creative crisis, I forced soldiers to write books for me. The problem is that even many democratic European countries constitutionally require men to participate in war in the event of a military situation. And if this is not reconsidered, then ahead of us are some merry times.
Will there be autographs? Could you write on the receipt that it’s a ticket to the theater of war? Could you? It’s a receipt from purchasing THE MINING BOYS. And mine too! But I have something better. Much better.
In my collection of stories, HOLES IN THE SHAPE OF HUMANS, I described a story in which 2 guys find themselves trapped in a hotel. They met for hookup. The events take place in Ukraine. Suddenly, a Russian missile hits the neighboring building. The guys are scared, but they can’t leave the hotel. The police and rescuers have already arrived at the scene. If the police see them, they could be forcefully sent to war. So now they have to really get to know each other.
Another plot where characters are trapped in a confined space. The novel THE MINING BOYS can be called a road novel, in which the characters escape from Ukraine, finding themselves in Poland, Czech Republic, Austria, and even distant Portugal. But still, it’s a novel about overcoming borders, about attempting to leave a country where borders are open for children, women, and the elderly, but not for you. Confined spaces. Would you like to know what it’s like to be trapped? Would you like to spend the whole night until morning locked in a bookstore with the writer?
Everyone who doesn’t have time leaves the bookstore after these words. The administrator also leaves. He locks the doors. Pulls down the blinds. Only now, with only 9 visitors left, we suggest guessing who among us is the real writer.
Meanwhile, each of the writers takes off their shirt. Slowly. Button by button. Lazily. The fabric slowly slips off the forearms, and the intrigue grows. The spectators try to guess. They recall descriptions of erotic scenes in THE MINING BOYS. They remember the story about the hotel from the collection HOLES IN THE SHAPE OF HUMANS. Meanwhile, we and the guys have already dropped our shirts to the floor and grabbed the edges of our balaclavas with our fingers. Suddenly, the same woman with acid-blue hair says:
“I know! I know who the real Ilya Kharkow is here!”
I’m relieved. At least I won’t have to introduce myself. I look at her and think that not only is there a part of me in each of my lovers, but also in each of my readers. Then the woman turns energetically and points her finger at… you.
Uh… Just kidding. There was no book presentation. In reality, there’s only been a war and a few manuscripts that are just about to become books.
To Annie DeWitt
and Mary Alice
Ilya Kharkow is a queer writer from Ukraine. In Ukraine, he was seen as a criminal because he rejected military conscription. Until now, due to the forced mobilization great number of men in Ukraine are persecuted and humiliated while locked in the country. Fortunately, Ilya was able to escape and rereceive fuge in Europe. The Ukrainian authorities’ had intentions to deport him and war supporters were not Ilya’s friends. Ilya’s native town is occupied by Russia. Every day he experience difficulties of emigration. Ilya takes his experience and his families experience to write and create stories that depict the hard truths of Ukraine.
Learn more about Ilya on his website: https://www.ikharkow.com/author
Support Ilya with a cup of coffe or by reading his Diary