How a US camp helps Russian-speaking kids in time of war
| Marine on St. Croix, Minn.
To look at them running and playing on the campground in the autumn sunshine, they might be any kids enjoying Minnesota鈥檚 fall vacation from school. But listening to them, and to the adults cheering them on, reveals something unique about the gathering: Everyone is speaking Russian.听
At the year鈥檚 final session of 鈥溞樞逞�邪. Unplugged,鈥� or Russian Camp MN, in southeastern Minnesota, the overall peacefulness feels especially precious. Many staffers and campers, some of whom have recently arrived from Ukraine are concerned about family members there and in Russia. Opposing views of the war between those countries have brought tension among some expatriates.听
Yet the camp community has remained intact, as its members negotiate new understandings of what it means to be Russian-speaking Americans and work together to support Ukrainians. Some in the group also struggle at times with identity and their ties to Russian culture, but seeing young people鈥檚 kindness and openness gives them hope for the longer term.听听听
Why We Wrote This
A story focused onA Russian language camp in Minnesota that welcomes children through the fall wasn鈥檛 sure how it would fare this year because of the war in Ukraine. Organizers found that unity and hope prevailed.
鈥淚t鈥檚 our chance to bring them up as advocates for peace and understanding,鈥� says the camp鈥檚 director and founder, Tamara von Schmidt-Pauli. 鈥淚n the future they can be the people who bring democracy and normalcy back to Russia.鈥�
鈥淚t鈥檚 our common language鈥�
Responding to the war has inspired some adjustments here in the woods along the St. Croix River, where campers ages 6听to 18 from across the United States gather to be immersed in Russian without the distraction of their cell phones and tablets. This year families chose from three overnight sessions, including five days in October, and from day camps held in Eden Prairie, Minnesota.
Many in the camp community now talk in more detail about their families鈥� cultural heritage, discussing the regional or religious traditions that have shaped them. The Russian Empire鈥檚 vast conquests and the former Soviet Union鈥檚 edict that Russian be the official language throughout its republics mean that people from more than a dozen nations speak the language.听
Larissa Rudashevsky, one of the counselors, grew up in Belarus. Her husband is Jewish and from Lithuania. In their family, there鈥檚 鈥渘ot a drop of Russian blood, but it鈥檚 our common language,鈥� she explains.听
Parent Natasha Taylor of Maple Grove, Minnesota,听has sent her youngest son to the camp for the past four years. She is from St. Petersburg but also has Ukrainian heritage; her husband is from Ukraine and has a brother in Kyiv, the country鈥檚 capital. Her son, who is 14, is practicing language skills that help him better communicate with Ms. Taylor鈥檚 mother, who does not speak English. 鈥淲e are all so interconnected and intertwined,鈥� she says of Russian and Ukrainian people living in the U.S. While she has seen 鈥渃racks in relationships鈥� between people who disagree about the war, she has not observed this happening with the camp.听
Besides more discussions around diversity, there have also been other changes, say Ms. Von Schmidt-Pauli and her co-organizers Daria Dzhalalova and Irina Safonov.
鈥淲e no longer play Battleship,鈥� Ms. von Schmidt-Pauli says, referring to the popular submarine-themed game. She adds, 鈥淚njured, drowned, killed 鈥� these words aren鈥檛 abstract to kids now.鈥� And they鈥檝e stopped singing 鈥淜atyusha,鈥� an iconic Russian folk song that is closely associated with Russia鈥檚 military.
The camp鈥檚 lodge is also no longer known as the Kremlin, Russia鈥檚 symbolic seat of government. But the cabins, all part of a Kiwanis Scout Camp, are still named after cities across the former Soviet Union. And the footpaths are named for thoroughfares in the Russian cities of St. Petersburg and Moscow, and Kyiv in Ukraine.听
While the organizers hope the camp offers respite from worrying about the war, meeting peers who have faced it firsthand has given the American campers a more intimate view of its realities. 鈥淚t鈥檚 one thing to hear something on the news,鈥� Ms. von Schmidt-Pauli says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 another thing to sit around the campfire and hear a teammate tell you something.鈥澨�
Welcoming refugees
Masha Kryvoruchko, a seventh grader from Ukraine who came to Minnesota in the spring with her mother to escape the war, is a camper at the fall session. When asked through a translator what her favorite activities have been, she smiles and quietly replies, 鈥淓verything.鈥� She elaborates that she鈥檚 liked playing a live-action version of the popular video game 鈥淎mong Us鈥�; making pirozhki, a type of bun with sweet or savory fillings; and playing the piano in music class.听
Speaking Russian at the camp 鈥撎齛nd at home with her mother and father, the camp鈥檚 music teacher 鈥撎齢as allowed 17-year-old Paulina Frayman,听now a counselor-in-training, to connect with Ukrainian newcomers who did not speak any English when they started this year at her high school听in the Twin Cities area. 鈥淭hey get thrown into the mess of things, and they just have to adapt to everything,鈥� she says. 鈥淚 got to meet them and help show them that there is someone here that can help them get around the school and that if they need help with anything they can ask.鈥�
Since March, approximately 900 Ukrainians have accessed support services in the state, a spokesperson from the Minnesota Department of Human Services says, noting that others may have arrived but not used services. The camp鈥檚 organizers estimate that between 45 and 50 Ukrainian children have attended a day camp or overnight session since June, with some children attending more than once and the camp covering their tuition. About 400 children overall attend the various camp sessions, including the one in the fall.
Though many Ukrainians embraced the Ukrainian language after the USSR dissolved in 1991, in the country still speak and understand at least some Russian, and in some areas Russian remains predominant. This year many Russian-speaking Ukrainians have become passionate about learning Ukrainian, says Walter Anastazievsky, interim community outreach manager at the Ukrainian American Community Center in Minneapolis. He encourages that, but he also welcomes all supporters of the country and its people, regardless of what language they speak. 鈥淚t doesn鈥檛 need to be a point of division,鈥� he says.听
A common mission
Ms. von Schmidt-Pauli grew up in St. Petersburg and immigrated to the U.S. when she was 20. She loved teaching her American friends about her home country and later sharing its language with her students at Macalester College in St. Paul, Minnesota, where she is an instructor in Russian Studies, and with her American-born daughters. She launched the sleep-away camp in 2017. When Russia attacked Ukraine, she felt a crisis of identity. She struggled for a time this year, unable to feel proud of Russian language and culture.听
She and other camp members have found that their shared opposition to the war and advocacy for its victims bind them together as much as their common language. Despite having concerns, she says that not one family withdrew from any of the 2022 sessions. Instead, supporting Ukraine has brought many of them closer, with families working on and gathering clothing and medical supplies to send to Ukrainian soldiers.听
Camp organizers are already brainstorming ideas for next year鈥檚 sessions. 鈥淚 am very grateful to the camp community,鈥� Ms. von Schmidt-Pauli says, 鈥渨ho trust us and keep coming and keep staying together as a community without hate.鈥�
Editor鈥檚 note: This article has been updated to correct the camp鈥檚 location. It is in southeastern Minnesota.
