Typewriter Rebels: Tracing samizdat readership and distribution networks in Latvia through oral history
Introduction
This oral history project brings forth the stories of samizdat readers in Latvia, an alternative print community during the Soviet Union. This exploration of samizdat is rooted in the format’s qualities of fostering an alternative print culture, its surrounding communities, and speaks to the challenges of archiving the ephemera-based records of politically oppressed groups. The act of distributing samizdat, most often in the form of handwritten, typed, or photocopied texts, was done in the face of a tightly controlled artistic and cultural production sphere restricted by censorship and scarce access to publishing resources. Because assessments of samizdat have only entered official scholarship after the dissolution of the Soviet Union, the role that samizdat played in creating and expanding knowledge infrastructures remains contested.
Between December 2023 and January 2024, I conducted ten interviews in collaboration with the Association of Oral History researchers of Latvia (Mutvārdu Vēsture Latvijā), where the collection will be housed. I came to this project after assessing samizdat in an academic context, where I found that historians have mostly uncovered and discussed the influence of Russian-language samizdat texts. My post-Soviet upbringing in Latvia informed me first-hand that the history of local dissident print cultures was still stuffed in bookshelves, attics, and sold in flea markets, and without the proper preservation and care, was at risk of disappearing. The Latvian samizdat has been assessed for its formal and material qualities by cultural critics such as Pauls Bankovskis and Kaspars Vanags, but a social history of the communities surrounding samizdat, production and distribution practices and perspectives and lived experiences are harder to piece together through traditional scholarship. Samizdat texts, even when preserved in archives, do not provide information about who typed and copied them, who circulated them and who read them. In some ways, the central, unrecorded element of samizdat is at risk of disappearing without first-hand accounts and the personal stories of those involved.
Method
Oral history as a method of recounting and interpreting the past is deeply embedded in relationship, dialogue, and ordinary lived experiences. Assessing samizdat readership through oral history opens up pathways to the more intangible and affective experiences that often are not represented by the archival record alone: affect, perceptions, and internally conflicting perspectives. In the interview process, I often felt that the relationship between the narrator and the interviewer (myself) was a major factor in determining the course of the interview. Just like the decentralized and grassroots qualities of samizdat itself, the search for narrators was based on informal networks and word-of-mouth communication. I began by asking my relatives and neighbors, who gave contacts and recommendations when appropriate. The main criteria for selection were the age ranges of narrators, who were 55 through 83 years old. The diverse age range gave voice to people who lived in different eras and censorship strictures of Soviet rule, and experienced samizdat through different technologies. The ten narrators all represented different professions, interests, and communities. Two of the interviewees were my relatives, though speaking to all the narrators, many of whom represented my own parents and grandparents' generation, I often felt as though I were representing the entirety of my generation. As oral historian and scholar Linda Shopes reflects on her experience of interviewing Polish working class immigrant women:
“I had become a representative of the generation of the narrator's own children, who indeed have no idea how hard their parents and grandparents had it; what began as an interview thus became an impassioned conversation across the generations.” (from “What is oral history?”)
Going into the interviews, I had certain sets of assumptions about what I might hear from the narrators. When conducting oral history interviews though, it is crucial that interviewers resist the urge to lean into those assumptions, for they may stifle the communication between the two parties, and break the trust that the interview is built on. As a result, this resource highlights not only the passages that seem to best capture something about samizdat, but also outliers—moments which countered my expectations, or where narrators actively went against an established narrative.
Defining samizdat
Though each oral history interview is a unique text and relationship, there were several unifying questions I asked all of the narrators. The introductory question for each interviewee was “how would you define samizdat?” Coming into the interviews, I anticipated fairly straightforward answers. Some narrators ascribed to it a higher value in their definitions (such as a vehicle for increased freedom or community building), others included the technical characteristics in their definitions, but most defined the medium as an underground effort to distribute literature that was censored in the Soviet Union.
English
I consider it to be a kind of informal resistance against the existing order, the existing ideology, where certain groups of people expressed their opinion and wanted to introduce it to those who thought similarly. The formats could be varied.
Latvian
Es to uzskatu par tādu neformālu pretestību pret pastāvošo kārtību, pret pastāvošo ideoloģiju, kur zināmas cilvēku grupas pauda savu viedokli, un gribēja ar to iepazīstināt arī citus, līdzīgi domājoši. Formas ir dažādākās.
One narrator, who was coming of age during the 1980s, complicated the idea of defining samizdat, by calling attention to the fact that he is unsure of when samizdat “officially” ended, and further, adding that in his experience, the underground publishing efforts were not referred to as samizdat at all.
English
First of all, as the Russian-language version states, “self-published.” But in my opinion, I further began thinking about until what year samizdat existed, and can we even call it samizdat? And was it called that in Latvia? In my opinion it was not, many things were not called samizdat. It is now, I assume, a more comprehensible term outside of Latvia because of its Russian name.
Latvian
Pirmkārt, kā liecinot krievu valodas izdevums, pašu izdots, ja. Bet, manuprāt, es tālāk sāku domāt par to, līdz kuram gadam tātad vispār bija samizdats, mēs varam saukt, nu vai vispār viņu mēs varam saukt par samizdatu? Un vai Latvijā viņu tā sauca? Manuprāt, arī nesauca viņu nemaz, daudzas lietas par samizdatu. Tas ir tagad es pieņemu varbūt ārpus Latvijas saprotamāks vārds, nu dēļ tā krieviskā nosaukuma.
This narrator's choice to call out the language at the very premise of the interview is an example of the ways in which oral history as a method resists a flattening of narratives, and in the best case scenarios, result in a diverse representation of experiences.
First encounters
The initial encounters and impressions of samizdat, when narrators could recollect them, frequently sparked my interest. Finding out when someone first found out about samizdat, who they received it from, and the texts they first encountered revealed a great deal about the cultural context of these interactions.
Guntis recalled his first experience as a teenager, receiving samizdat from a school friend:
English
That could have been in '57, when a classmate offered me such an interesting book. I don’t remember the author, but the title was The Life of Klim Samgin. It described the atrocities of the Bolsheviks against their people after the revolution, which was something very unusual in those years, but what was unusual was that he offered me to read it in such a mysterious way. And so it was that I sat on top of the shed, periodically reading, and you could say that it was one of the first such education for arriving at my own world view.
I don’t remember anymore who the classmate’s parents were, or who I passed the book along to, but taking into account the fact that at that time my father and his friend secretly listened to all kinds of Voice of America news, it was not a big surprise to me at all. The views were already clear – what was taught at school was... not quite true.
Latvian
Tas varēja būt kāds '57. gads, kad klases biedrs piedāvāja tādu ļoti interesantu grāmatu. Es neatceros autoru, bet nosaukums bija „Kļima Samgina dzīve.” Tur bija aprakstītas boļševiku zvērības pret savu tautu pēc revolūcijas laikā, kas tajos gados bija kaut kas ļoti neparasts, bet neparasts tas, ka viņš man to piedāvāja izlasīt, tā ļoti noslēpumaini. Tā arī bija, ka es to šķūņa aukšā vispār lasīju periodiem, un var teikt, ka tā bija pirmā tāda izglītība, lai nonāktu pie sava pasaules uzskata, ja?
Neatceros vairāk, kas bija klases biedra vecāki, un kam es tālāk atdevu to grāmatiņu, bet ņemot vērā vispār to, ka tajā laikā mans tēvs kopā ar savu draugu slepeni klausījās visādas Amerikas balsis, ziņas, man tas nebija vispār kaut kāds liels pārsteigums. Uzskati jau bija skaidri–tas, ko mācīja skolā bija… ne visai taisnība.
Guntis’s experience was quite unique, especially as he grew up in the small town of Bauska (population <10,000). Most of the people I spoke to did not have their first-hand encounters with samizdat until adulthood, when they started university or moved to a larger city. The other narrator, Uldis, who grew up in Cēsis (current population >16,000), reflected on the fact that samizdat was an urban phenomenon, and was not accessible to him before he moved to the capital city of Riga:
English
In the big cities, especially Moscow and Leningrad, the availability was greater. But only in certain circles. And naturally, many different people and many different circles: literary people, philosophers, historians, religious people, certainly. The main spheres in which the literature was circulated. And for me, as I mentioned, growing up in Cēsis I didn't even know that such a thing as samizdat existed, that such an ethnicity as Jews existed, that homosexuality existed. I simply did not know any of this. I came here and a good amount of time passed until I, okay well (laughing), it took three years from the time I came to Riga and started traveling around the Soviet Union until suddenly I started meeting with the kinds of people who would offer me to read. If I hadn't ended up in such circles, and I assume that enough people didn't end up in such circles, then samizdat as such did not exist to them.
Latvian
Lielajās pilsētās, īpaši jau nu Maskavā, Ļeņingradā toreizējā un tādās, nu tā pieejamība bija lielāka. Bet noteiktos lokos. Un dabiski, ka daudz cilvēku un noteiktu veidu loku: literāti, filozofi, vēsturnieki, reliģiski cilvēki pavisam noteikti. Lūk, galvenās sfēras, kurās tad riņķoja tā literatūra. Un arī man, es jau teicu, ka Cēsīs es nezināju, ne ka ir samizdats, ne ka ir tāda tautība Ebreji, neka ir homoseksuālisti. Vienkārši neko tādu nezināju. Es atbraucu uz šejieni un pagāja diezgan ilgs laiks un toreiz, Nu labi, (smejoties) pagāja pāris gadi pēc tam, kad es ierados Rīgā un sāku braukāt pa Padomju Savienību, kad pēkšņi sāku tikties ar tādiem cilvēkiem, kas man vienkārši piedāvāja lasīt. Ja es tādās kompānijās nebūtu nonācis un pieļauju, ka pietiekoši daudz cilvēki nenonāca tādās kompānijā, tad arī viņiem nekāds samizdats neeksistē.
Risks
Producing, distributing, or even being caught in ownership of samizdat included certain risks, from lengthy interrogations to imprisonment. When researching and going into the interviews, I understood that speaking about samizdat fundamentally required people to open up about conducting activities which were once deemed illegal. I tried to tread carefully and remain aware of people's comfort levels regarding the touchy subject matter.
Laine, who grew up outside of the Soviet Union, recalled the experience of bringing in banned texts, and likened the experience of delivering them to something out of a spy novel. She described knowing the risks involved with smuggling in samizdat. In the same passage where she discusses knowing the risks her actions carried, Laine also emphasizes the importance of bringing in the banned reading materials.
English
Laine: The first such experience was definitely when, as a 17-year-old, I and my schoolmates from Münster Latvian Gymnasium traveled by train to Latvia during the spring holidays, and from Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin through Poland, Lithuania, and... I think with three customs checks. We had quite a few miniature Latvian history books in Latvian with us and George Orwell's 1984, that book was in English, I must say, but all the others were in Latvian, which we smuggled in. We had to hand them over to someone who distributed them further.
Olīvija: How was this arranged?
Laine: Well, at school [laughs] it was arranged at school, and we had arranged where to meet, in Vērmane Garden, then I think it was Kirov Park, or something like that. We had to walk criss-cross, on a specific day, at a specific time, and pass it on. Well, like in a spy novel.
Olīvija: Truly. And do you know what happened to this literature afterwards?
Laine: No, it was distributed here [in Latvia] somewhere. Someone told me that sometimes it was even copied, because there were not large quantities, although we brought in quite a few. But I also know that I have had schoolmates who have been caught with a whole bag. I only had a few copies, but yeah… But this was with the goal of showing the true history of Latvia through an objective lens, which was definitely not available here.
Latvian
Laine: Pirmā tāda pieredze noteikti ir kad es kā 17 gadnieks kopā ar saviem skolas biedriem no Minsteres latviešu Ģimnāzijas braucām ar vilcienu pavasara brīvdienās uz Latviju, un no Checkpoint Charlie Berlīnē caur Poliju, Lietuvu, un… man liekas ar trīs muitas pārbaudēm. Mums bija diezgan daudz miniatūru Latvijas vēstures grāmatu latviešu valodā līdzi un Džordža Orvela, em '84. gada, nu to viņa grāmatu angļu valodā, jāsaka, bet parējās visas bija latviski, ko mēs ievedām. Bija jānodod kādam, kas tālāk kaut kur izplata.
Olīvija: Kā šis tika sarunāts?
Laine: Nu ēm, skolā [pasmejas] skolā tas tika sarunāts, un mums bija sarunāts kur satikties, un es zinu, ka mēs Vērmanes dārzā, kas tad man liekas bija Kirova parks, vai kaut kas tamlīdzīgs. Tur bija jāiet krustām šķērsām, kaut kādā īpašā dienā, kaut kādā īpašā laikā, un jānodod tālāk. Nu tā kā spiegu romānā.
Olīvija: Gluži tā. Un Jūs zinat kas notika tālāk ar šo literatūru?
Laine: Nē, nu viņa tika izplatīta kaut kur šeit. Man kāds ir teicis, kā viņu, man liekas, ka viņu pat kopēja dažkārt, tāpēc ka nebija jau viņa ļoti lielos daudzumos, lai gan mēs diezgan daudz ievedām. Bet es arī zinu, ka man ir bijuši skolas biedri kuri ar veselu somu ir saķerti. Man bija tikai daži eksemplāri, bet jā… Bet nu ar mērķi parādīt patieso Latvijas vēsturi tā objektīvi, kura noteikti nebija šeit pieejama.
Materiality
One of the first things that attracted me to samizdat as a medium was the materiality of the object itself. The most common forms of samizdat were typewritten, handwritten, photocopies/photographs, rotaprint, and xerox. The types of samizdat that people had access to was often determined by the available technology, and therefore, representation of voices from different generations was crucial here. Each of these means of reproducing a text came with their own characteristics and quirks, and impacted the reading experience.
In this clip, Zigurds recalls from his childhood that access to printing and copying resources was tightly surveilled.
English
Another format was the copiers, copy machines to be exact, and I can quite confidently say that they: a) were around, b) were very strictly surveilled by State Security, each one of them, very strictly. I can judge this based on the fact that my mother was one of the managers in a local sewing company, quite an experimental one, quite a large one for Latvia, with around 200 people. She was the head engineer, and after (national) independence ran the whole operation. Yeah, and sometimes I used to sneak copies of sheet music for guitar there, but generally it was quite strict, and there could not be any large copying and the number and contents of pages was tracked.
Latvian
Savukārt vēl otrs formāts bija kopētāji, tieši kopēšanas iekārtas, un tur es varu to diezgan droši apgalvot, ka viņas a) bija, b) viņas bija ļoti stingri uzraudzītas no Drošības Komitejas puses, katra no viņām, ļoti stingri. Es varu to spriest pēc tā, ka es zinu, ka mamma bija viens no vadītājiem vietējā šūšanas uzņēmumā, ja, tātad diezgan nu tādā eksperimentālā, nu priekš turienes palielā Latvijas, un var teikt mazais, ka 200 cilvēki, cik tur bija. Viņa bija galvenais inženieris un pēc neatkarības tad vadīja to visu. Ja, un es zinu tur pa kluso kādreiz kādu nošu lapu priekš ģitārām varēja dabūt nokopēt, ja, bet principā bija diezgan stingri, skatījās pakaļ un nekādas lielas kopēšanas nedrīkstēja būt un reģistrēja lapas un skaitu, ja. Bet noteikti gan jau bija kādas vietas, kur atkal tika klāt kaut kādi cilvēki.
Irita, a historian at the National History Museum of Latvia, describes her experience of receiving a copy of “Latvijas saule,” a monthly history publication active between 1923-1931, as a set of photographed pages:
English
I was given, I don't even remember where I got it, but such (showing size with hands), I don't know, ten by ten centimeter pages. They were on photopaper, a photographed version of the history journal “Latvijas saule,” which was basically only about Latvian history, ethnography, hillforts, about archeological findings. Well, this information was absolutely harmless, but you couldn't read that magazine, it was on the list of forbidden books. And the photo paper curved up, you know? And the print was so small, you basically needed a magnifying glass to read it, and you had to break the pages in so they would stand more or less straight. So this, of course, impacted the reading speed, and desire too, a little bit. But if you want to know something then, of course, these were no obstacles at all.
Latvian
Man iedeva, es pat neatceros no kurienes es dabūju, bet man tādas apmēram tāda formāta (rāda ar rokām) nu es nezinu, desmit reiz desmit tādas lapiņas. Nu tā, ka fotofilm– uz fotopapīra, un nokopēta bija tas senatnes žurnāls „Latvijas Saule,” ja, kur faktiski tikai par Latvijas vēsturi, par etnogrāfiju, par pilskalniem, par arheoloģiskajiem atradumiem. Nu tāda informācija, absolūti nekas nekaitīgs, bet to žurnālu nevarēja skatīties, viņš bija aizliegto sarakstā. Un, un tas, tas fotopapīrs, viņš tā liecās uz augšu, vai ne? Un burtiņi maziņi, tur principā tikai ar palielināmo stiklu varēja lasīt, un tad bija kaut kā speciāli jāatlauž tas, nu lai viņš stāvētu daudzmaz taisni tā, kā tas, protams, to lasīšanas ātrumu, kāri un tādu arī it kā drusciņ ietekmē. Bet nu ja gribās kaut ko zināt, tad, protams, šķēršļi nekādi jau īpaši neeksistē.
To my surprise, this topic brought on a source of tension for some narrators, who did not find the materiality of samizdat to be among its most memorable characteristics. Ramona insisted that the materiality of the object had little to no effect on her experience of the text, as she was entirely focused on the content.
English
Olīvija: So you mentioned, samizdat really left a greater impression in its contents rather than any technical characteristics, when it, for example–
Ramona: Insofar as, the pages were shabby and maybe at times some text had already been erased (laughing). No, no, no, it was content, content, and only content. The meaning that was derived from it, of course.
Latvian
Olivija: Tad kā jūs minējāt, tas samizdats tiešām atstāj lielāku iespaidu saturā un nevis jebkādā tehniskajā formā, ka viņš tur, piemēram–
Ramona: Tas tik daudz, cik jau tās lappuses bija apbružātas varbūt un reizēm kaut kur bija padzisis tas teksts jau (smejoties). Nē, nē, nē, saturs un saturs un vēlreiz saturs. Tā jēga, kas nāca no tā, protams.
Community
Many dissidents viewed samizdat as one of the few ways of communicating a personal or individual message outside of official channels. Interviewees mostly shared experiences where samizdat organically began circulating in already solidified communities, such as among students or groups of creatives.
Photograph of Anda holding up a drawing of a goat/Kaza. Photo by Olivija Liepa.
Community featured prominently in Anda's narrative. As a young architecture student, she would spend time in Kaza (translated to English: Goat), a cafe nicknamed for its casino (kazino) which operated between 1962 and 1970. Kaza became known as a place which fostered a community of creatives and free thinkers, and it attracted well known figures to come and speak about their experiences. In this passage, Anda reflects on the fact that samizdat was not the key binding element in her community at Kaza, but just one of the many ways that the group would share knowledge amongst each other.
English
Maija Silmale, a very interesting and serious woman who went through Siberia and all of that, and she passed away quite young when she returned here. There is a book written about her, too. The fact remains that she tried to translate Camus, and then she was imprisoned again. It's all so horribly cruel that it’s quite awful to talk about it, but she brought it to Kaza as well. At the time she was older than all of us, but she could tell us a lot about literature. Similarly, I have to admit, Valentīna Freimane, who recently passed two years ago, has also published a book, with a second book due to be published soon, about those times, what she went through. Because she was one of the most captivating women, a film scholar who traveled to Moscow, she had a film cooperation between Moscow and Riga, and she received a lot of film from her friends, which some got to view only ten years after, but we saw what she was able to show us in places where she could show it. I have forgotten where I watched them, but either way… She was also a very good lecturer. For my generation, older or younger, all of this came with us, all of the art, the first abstractionists and so forth, whose exhibits would get shut down four hours after opening. Kunts Skujenieks, who had also returned from Siberia, I remember with Uldis Bērziņš and a crowd of people attending his lectures about where he had been and hat he had been working on, he would do readings for us. He has also passed away now, very unfortunately. And so it was a group of us, both older and younger, students, and later on even younger ones came from the Academy of Arts and from literature departments, there was basically a big community of us who greatly strengthened the arts and literary scene in Latvia.
Latvian
Maija Silmale, ir tāda ļoti interesanta, nopietna sieviete, kas ir arī visas Sibīrijas un tā tālāk izgājusi, un viņa arī diezgan jauna aizgāja tai saulē atbraucot te. Par viņu arī ir sarakstīta grāmatiņa. Fakts ir tāds, ka viņa mēģināja Kamī tulkot, un tad viņu atkal apcietināja. Tas ir viss tik šausmīgi nežēlīgi, ka to visu stāstot [ir] diezgan drausmīgi, bet viņa ienesa arī Kazā. Viņa bija tajā laikā vecāka par mums visiem, bet viņa spēja mums daudz ko literatūrā pateikt. Tā pat arī, jāatdzīstās, Valentīnai Freimanei, kas arī aizgāja nesen, divus gadus atpakaļ, kura arī uzrakstīja pirmo grāmatu, tagad nāks otrā grāmata, arī par tiem visiem laikiem, ko viņa ir pārdzīvojusi. Tā kā viņa bija viena no saistošajākām sievietēm, kino speciāliste, kura braukāja uz Maskavu, viņai bija sadarbība starp Maskavu un Rīgu par kino, tad viņa vienkārši caur draugiem dabūja daudz filmas, ko mēs daži labi, tikai pēc desmit gadiem varēja skatīties, bet mēs redzējām ko viņa varēja parādīt vietās kur var rādīt. Es pat esmu aizmirsusi, kurā vietā es tur skatījos, bet nu katrā ziņā… Viņa arī ļoti interesantas lekcijas deva. Tas viss kopā manai paaudzei, jaunākai vai vecākai, nāk līdzi, visas mākslas, pirmie abstrakcionisti un tā tālāk, kuru izstādes pēc četrām stundām kā viņi atvēra atkal aizvērās ciet. Knuts Skujenieks, kurš arī atbrauca no Sibīrijas, es atceros mēs ar Uldi Bērziņu vesels bars vēl gājām klausīties ko viņš stāsta: kur viņš ir bijis, un ko viņš tagad par jaunu ir uzrakstījis. Viņš mums lasīja priekšā. Nu viņš arī aizgājis tai saulē, diemžēl, ļoti žēl. Tā kā, tas bija tāds, gan vecāku, gan jaunāku, gan studentu un arī pēc tam vēl jaunāki nāca klāt gan no Mākslas Akadēmijas, gan no literatūras, un faktiski bija tāda liela kopa, kas stipri nostiprināja Latvijā gan to literatūru, gan mākslu.
The space that the oral history interview allowed for reflection and critical thought also opened up opportunities for narrators to criticize the social role of samizdat. Uldis, who began working in publishing even before the dissolution of the Soviet Union, reflected critically on samizdat as a tool of reenforcing the status quo of Soviet censorship, and promoted isolation and individualism.
English
It was a seclusion without a doubt, a seclusion that, well, could not be called freedom. It was like cysts of comfort which exist like little islands in the ocean of Soviet ideology and other types of power. Well there it is… All of this was about sitting in small contained areas, like in a submarine, whatever they are called, you sit there and you read your book. You read, you read, and there was a very small dose of–it's hard to call it a space of freedom–but at least you could read what you wanted. Something that others could not read, because they could not access it. There is something endearing and also sad about it, because it is obviously aimed at the existence of a certain type of society, for example, it is clear that if it were in bigger libraries, or if this literature would become more visible, then the State Security becomes aware and can easily control these people through their network, if it is necessary. But what is more necessary is for these people to quietly keep to themselves and read, and for them not to come out. And they really did do that. These people who read fall under a certain illusion that they are better than others, because they have read a little bit more, and, so to speak, have taken a slight risk, or so they would think. So this is, well, in some ways, my critical outlook on it.
Latvian
Tā bija norobežošanās bez šaubām, tā bija norobežošanās tā kā tādās nu, par brīvību to nevar saukt. Tādas nu, komforta cistās, tādās, kas eksistē mazās saliņās, kas eksistē tajās lielās, amorfās, Padomju Savienības ideoloģiskās un kaut kādas citādākas varas visā tajā okeānā. Nu tad lūk, šī... Tas viss, bija sēdēt tādos mazos ierobežotos, nu tā kā zemūdene laiž tos, kā viņus sauc, un tu sēdi un lasi savu grāmatiņu. Palasīji, palasīji, un nu šeit ir ļoti maza deva, par brīvības telpu to ir grūti nosaukt, bet nu vismaz tu vari lasīt to, ko tu gribēji lasīt. Nu ko, citi nevar lasīt, jo viņi nevar dabūt. Kaut kas tāds aizkustinošs tajā un arī bēdīgs, jo tas acīm redzami ir uz, uz noteikta veida sabiedrības pastāvēšanu vērsts, jo, piemēram, skaidrs, ka, ja ir lielākas bibliotēkas vai, ja šī literatūra kļūst redzamāka, tad Drošības dienestiem tas ir labi zināms un viņi diezgan labi var kontrolēt, ja caur šo tīklu tos cilvēkus, ja tas ir nepieciešams. Bet vairāk viņiem ir nepieciešams, lai viņi tur klusiņām lasa pie sevis, un nelien ārā. Un viņi to arī dara. Viņi klusām, un viņiem rodas, šiem cilvēkiem kas lasa, zināma ilūzija, ka viņi ir mazlietiņ labāki par visiem pārējiem, jo viņi ir mazlietiņ vairāk lasījuši, nu mazliet, tā teikt, maķenīt riskējuši ar kaut ko, vismaz pašiem viņiem tā liekas. Tā kā šī ir arī tāda, nu, nu savā ziņā kritiska mana attieksmi pret to.
The oral history approach holds space for both of these seemingly contradictory perspectives. Many of the narrators who I spoke to confessed that they had not thought about samizdat in years, or in some cases, since they were users of samizdat. It is my hope that thinking and talking through their samizdat experiences in a mediated environment gave the narrators an opportunity for critical reflection that they may not have previously found time for.
Ephemerality
Before wrapping up any oral history interview, it is best practice to ask “is there anything I have not asked you about?” or a variation of this question which allows the narrator to clarify, add onto, or bring up anything which may not have come up organically throughout the interview. Giving the narrator the platform to speak without the confines of a specific question may result in some of the most valuable insights of the interview. When I asked Uldis, who throughout the interview expressed criticisms of samizdat cultures, this concluding question, he reflected on the state of his samizdat collection today:
English
I have a strong suspicion that I have thrown away all of my samizdat. I occasionally still find editions in between books, but actually, really, who even knows who translated them. Mostly the quality of everything is very doubtful. So what do I do with them? They just take up space, and copies, book copies were a very, very widespread thing in the Soviet Union. That is, I don't exactly know, to what extent it's worth being recorded in samizdat, because the copies are mostly… No, it isn't that they are only for personal use, you create a copy and pass it onto someone else, that is also true. From this standpoint samizdat, and I have copies, I have a closet full of them, but probably about 95 percent of them are copies of books that have been published. It's just that I'm too lazy to buy them, or I don't want to do it, books which are freely available in the West. Now it is just some copy that I have made, but they tend to be, well, insanely hefty, when we say, Jasper, or let's say, Nietzsche in three volumes, wildly expansive, these piles of papers. I helped my friend Arnis move, and I saw how many copies he has. Just bags and bags and bags and bags. It has probably been a long time since anyone looked in there. Sooner or later it is all going to fly out in the garbage.
Latvian
Man ir smagas aizdomas, ka es esmu visus savus samizdatus izmetis. Lielākoties es vēl pa reizei atrodu kaut kur grāmatās ieraktus izdevums. Nu bet patiešām, nu tie ir zem klāna, piedevām velns viņu zin, kas viņus ir tulkojis. Viņi lielākoties, kvalitāte ir diezgan apšaubāma tam visam. Nu ko es viņus tur? Vienkārši vietu aizņem, un kopijas, tomēr grāmatu kopijas, kas ir viens no, ļoti, arī ļoti, ļoti izplatītām tajā Padomju Savienībā lietām. Tas ir, nu, es īsti nezinu, cik lielā mērā to ir vērts ierakstīt samizdatā, jo tās kopijas lielākoties ir... Nē nu nav tā, ka savai lietošanai, nu nokopē un dod citam, arī taisnība. Nu no tā viedokļa samizdats, un kopijas man ir, man ir diezgan viens skapis, plaukts pilns ar šīm kopijām, bet tās visas ir grāmatas kopijas ir nu 95 droši vien procenti tādas, kas ir iznākušas. Vienkārši man ir slinkums viņas nopirkt, vai man negribas to darīt, kuras ir rietumos brīvi pieejams. Tagad vienkārši stāv kaut kāda kopija, ko es esmu taisījis, bet viņas mēdz būt, nu nenormāli daudz, kad teiksim, Jaspers, vai teiksim, pa Nīči, trīs sējumi, vai mežonīgi lieli, tādas kaudzes ar tiem papīriem. Es tur draugam Arnim palīdzēju pārvākties, es redzēju, cik viņam tur to kopīju. Vienkārši maisi un maisi, maisi un maisi. Sen jau tur vairs neviens neskatās gan jau. Agri vai vēlu, viss tas izlidos ārā, miskastē.
This view of samizdat, in an attempt to resist any nostalgia or romanticization, added an entirely new layer to my outlook on samizdat scholarship and preservation: samizdat as ephemera. In the archives field this typically refers to materials created for a specific, limited purpose, and generally designed to be discarded after use, such as advertisements, tickets, or brochures.
Ephemera are often the stock-in-trade of community archives which preserve the historical materials of groups that have been excluded from official historical narratives. Because many of the views covered by samizdat are no longer forced into the margins of society, there is no explicit need to hold onto samizdat publications.
Many of the narrators and potential narrators I talked to referenced specific texts which they had either stashed away somewhere, or had discarded entirely. I sympathize with this individual choice as an attempt to move on from the decades of repression dissidents experienced. On the other hand, the samizdat editions of texts hold unique historical and contextual metadata that is not archived or preserved elsewhere.
Samizdat is still fresh in the collective memory of Soviet dissidents, and for many of my narrators the topic seemed at first mundane, even unimportant. When I talked to my post-Soviet contemporaries, though, it became clear that few were familiar with this form of dissidence as an active and named effort. This to me shows the importance of preserving samizdat, and documenting the creators’, distributors’, and even readers’ first-hand accounts and personal stories as one way to ensure that these complex and multi-faceted histories do not become lost to time.