My Ukrainian Heritage

“My Ukrainian Heritage” is an article by Sonja Pawliw that was originally published in the 1999 Summer Edition of Folklore Magazine. It is presented here again in the form in which it was originally published, along with a new introduction by Stephanie Danyluk.

Stephanie Danyluk: Reflection on “My Ukrainian Heritage - When she Understood, her Heart Rejoiced” by Sonja Pawliw

Pyrohy making skills are learned at a young age. Little Stephanie rolls dough at her Baba and Gido’s farmhouse table, circa 1984. Image courtesy of Carol Danyluk.

As a fourth-generation Ukrainian Canadian, what I know about being Ukrainian comes mostly from food, dance, and parties. The Kolomeyka at our family weddings hits incomparable heights of excitement and danger while every wobbly Ukrainian dance alumni tries to relive their glory days. (Sorry about that table at your wedding, Aunty Viki!)

For as long as I can remember, holidays like Christmas Eve and Easter were accompanied by Ukrainian foods like perogies (varenyky!), holobci, nalysnyky, pyrysky, borscht, scuffles, and poppy rolls, among others. When I was young these were brought by my Baba and aunties. Now, we try our best to replicate the recipes—the most precious are the handwritten copies on worn and dirty paper. More often than not, my dad will declare the result does not quite rival his memory.

In the early nineties, my parents put my siblings and me in a Ukrainian dance club. I say “club” because this was more than a class: it was a young Ukrainian-Canadian alliance where we collectively rallied behind our Ukrainian traditions (two Christmases!). I was among others whose holidays were like ours, and (I assume) whose Baba’s home also smelled like a mysterious and un-recreateable mix of dill, fried onions, and scented cosmetics.

This is the first time I recall attaching my identity to a specific heritage. “Being Ukrainian” now meant something, even if we did not really understand the politics behind what that meant. As this was the 1990s, Ukrainian pride was a growing phenomenon, coinciding with the fall of the Soviet Union. Ukrainian culture, once something to be assimilated both in Canada and the Soviet Union, had become tied to pride for a large unified national identity. Suffice it to say that while I was proud of this part of my heritage, I did not understand the historical contexts that shaped how and why I experienced Ukrainian culture the way I did.

Varenyky, pyrohy, perogy: each name has historiological meaning tied to Ukraine’s shifting political circumstances. I hope Aunty Pauline does not mind me sharing her fool-proof pyrohy dough recipe. There are many iterations of these recipes, some with eggs, others with buttermilk. All delicious. Recipe courtesy of Pauline Dziaduck.

Of course, there were times in my family history when being Ukrainian was not so well received. My Ukrainian side of the family came to Saskatchewan in the early twentieth century, drawn by promises of land and opportunity. This is a common story in a province with a large Ukrainian diaspora. I do not know the particular circumstances that brought them from the village of Troitsia to a quarter section near Devil’s Lake, but my reading of historical sources tells me that oppressive political and economic forces meant that between 1890 and 1914 the emigration of hundreds of thousands of Ukrainians from Western Ukraine to Canada took place. So my ancestors came here for cheap land sold to them as “empty” but which was in fact cleared of Indigenous presence in order to make space for government-sanctioned settlers. Stalwart peasants in sheepskin coats, to quote Clifford Sifton.

Although they made a home in an area now colloquially referred to as the “Garlic Curtain”—one of the bloc settlements located in the prairie parkland—in some ways, my family was influenced by attitudes that characterized all things Ukrainian as “low-brow” and of the peasantry. This came in the form of not passing on their language to my dad and his siblings. My dad could not speak to his grandparents, who spoke only Russian and Ukrainian. At Ukrainian Christmas when we were kids, my dad would label our names spelled backwards on our gifts—a play on the treatment of Ukrainian people as “backward.”

Although I cannot say for certain, it seems that the Ukrainian traditions practiced in my dad’s home were less marked practice and more occurrences of everyday life. Stories about the summer kitchen, mushroom picking, church gatherings, weddings, and the home brew still hidden in a field all contain small threads that are stitched together from a pattern of what anthropologists describe as Ukrainian culture. With each generation, the patterns have changed. Sometimes ask myself, do I have enough of these to tie me to a Ukrainian Canadian heritage?

Sharing the pyrohy making process with my children this Christmas. Image courtesy of the author.

With the start of the war in Ukraine last February, I was often asked: “Do you still have family in Ukraine?” If I do, they are not known to me. This question leaves me confused and wondering why I do not know more about my family ties to Ukraine. It also makes me question why I can still feel ties to a place and people entirely unknown. Family lore tells that my Baba and Gido took an accompanied tour to Ukraine sometime during the Soviet era, but the only anecdote that I know from this is that Baba returned without her nylons in her bag, likely removed by border guards. I assume they had no one left to visit.

Sonja Pawliw’s story “My Ukrainian Heritage: When She Understood, Her Heart Rejoiced” illuminates the historical reasons why families like mine may not have been able to maintain their connections to their family in Ukraine. The crushing waves of war, occupation, and genocide left many without any surviving relatives “back home.” Pawliw also tells of the loneliness and hurt that came from leaving family, culture, language and home behind. I have also heard the stories of trauma and the forms that this grief took—the most glaring in the stories about those buried at the edge of the of the Ukrainian orthodox church cemetery on our old family farm. Similarly, Ukraine exists in my mind as a place where my past exists—a past that I will never be able to return to or know.

Ultimately, Pawliw’s story ends with a homecoming of sorts—not to a long-lost Ukrainian family, but to a Ukraine inhabited by the ghosts of her grandparents’ memories. Her connection to her Ukrainian heritage endured through her grandparents’ stories. Pawliw’s “return” to Ukraine is unavailable to many of us who are descended generations down the line of Ukrainian immigrants. Stories told to me by my family—like those told to Sanja Pawliw by her grandfather—provide us with an understanding of who we are, why we are here, and why we continue to feel an affinity for a place and people entirely unknown. Part of me mourns this connection that Sonja was able to feel. Traditions of food, dances, and festivities remain with us but have changed over the generations as they have been passed down. Those threads, no matter how tenuous, still bind us together.

“My Ukrainian Heritage” by Sonja Pawliw (text version follows)

My Ukrainian Heritage by Sonja Pawliw

“When she understood, her heart rejoiced”

When I was little and growing up at my grandparents I was told many wonderful stories about Ukraine and the village from where they came.

It was in 1905 that my grandfather, Nicholai Fedun, decided to go to Canada, to see for himself what this new faraway land was like before bringing his family here.

He sold the only cow they had to buy his passport and left his aged mother and his younger brothers to look after Grandma and the children. He then set out for Canada. After a long journey on the ship and long train rides he arrived in the Ebenezer area. There he was hired as a farm labourer for a German farmer, Mr. Leonhardt. It was a hard job: grubbing bush, hauling logs, haying, looking after cattle and whatever farming at that time entailed. He was a good worker and the farmer treated him well. Wages were low but he lived skimpily and in two years he managed to save enough money to go back to Beele in his native land and to see his family again.

Then started the difficult process with his family to sell their land and belongings and emigrate to Canada. In the two years he was away his mother had died, thus his two brothers and two sisters decided they also wanted to come. Because they were underage, they could not sell their portions of land but a villager friend paid them rent for 10 years in advance so they left the land unsold. Then they had enough money for their passports to Canada. They made up their minds that they would face the challenge and set out on their journey to the new land of space and opportunity.

It was in the late spring of 1908 when the whole family arrived in the Ebenezer district where Grampa had previously worked. My grandparents were then both 35 years old with two daughters and a son, along with Grampa's two brothers and two sisters. The farmer welcomed them all and gave them his old, abandoned home to live in. They were very grateful to have a place to live. Grampa again worked for the farmer and the brothers found work with other farmers in the district. The sisters also were hired by the farmers' wives to help with chores and children in the homes.

My mother, Katherine, was Grampa and Grandma's oldest child and was at that time 11 years old. It was very difficult for Grandma, Maria, in the new land with small children and being among strangers and not knowing any English. I know that many a time she would have liked to escape back to her native land where she felt she belonged, but she persevered. Later, many times, she'd tell us how she used to cry at night for her relatives and friends and wished she could go back. She knew that for them and for the children's sake she must be strong and hoped things would get better. Times did get better as years passed. Grampa's brothers earned money and bought homesteads of their own and Grampa got his homestead land and worked very hard to feed his family.

Along with the struggles in the new land, there were joyous and exciting times too. There were social events and family gatherings at weddings, and christenings, on Sundays and holy days when friends and neighbours from around came and showed their love and friendship. People in Canada were friendly and kind.

Life was improving slowly, but there were also bad and sad times. When the First World War started, they worried about families left behind. Letters stopped coming, and they learned from others that some of their people had been sent to Siberia. There they perished. Heartaches were intense but their faith carried them through.

"THOSE BAD DAYS"

In 1918 Grampa's sister died of pneumonia and in 1919 a daughter, age seven, died from diphtheria. You can imagine how

near to despair they must have been, but their faith in God was deeply rooted and they survived and carried on.

Grampa wasn't an educated man, but he could speak Ukrainian, Polish and German, and, by this time, he learned to speak and read a little English. He was a great reader and storyteller.

As the family grew up, married and went on to their own farming, things got easier for Grampa and Grandma, but they were beginning to feel lonesome as the nest emptied and they got older. To me, from a child's perspective, they were always old.

I was the middle child of the oldest daughter. I had six brothers and four sisters and I was also the middle one of the girls. Maybe that's why I felt I didn't fit in. That's when Grampa and Grandma wanted me to live with them. It made me feel good to be their only child, for their old age. I was rather active and noisy, but they didn't mind. Whereas at home I always ended up as a troublemaker, my family there didn't miss me because they had 10 others to look after. My grandparents were very good to me. I started school from Grampa's. Sometimes I went to spend a few days with the brood, but not for long, because Grampa was always waiting for me when I'd get home from school.

As years went by, my grandparents' home became my home, and I learned many things from them. I was a free spirited child. I loved nature and as I skipped alongside Grampa as we were going across the meadow for the horses, he told me stories of when he was little back in Ukraine and the mischief he got into with his friends. He would help me climb trees to get the crows' nests down and he taught me not to be afraid of crossing the river to get the cows. He told me that in Ukraine little girls like me used to graze a cow or geese out in the meadows. It made me feel good. My aunt taught me to read and write in Ukrainian, to knit mitts and stockings and to crochet.

I loved the way Grandma did her garden. It was all in little raised plots, neat as could be, just the way she used to do back in the old country. Her garden looked like a beautiful patchwork quilt. Grampa showed me how to make the little haystacks in the meadow like he did in Ukraine. After school I used to follow Grampa around, like a puppy, asking him questions, and he'd just keep telling me stories.

Many times, as he reminisced, he wasn't even aware I was with him, he was just thinking out loud. Sometimes he would start speaking harshly, like he was mad at someone. He'd take his straw hat off and throw it to the ground. Then he'd look at me and smile and say: "Those were some of the bad days." I'd look at him and make him think I understood it all.

It wasn't until some years later that I realized the hurt he felt at leaving his native land and not being able to go back, ever.

It was when World War II broke out that all my grandparents' connections with Ukraine came to a halt. They wrote

many letters but they heard nothing back. They were certain that everyone they knew ended in the Siberian labour camps.

During the war years, Grampa and Grandma felt sad and were hurting inside. They aged quicker, it seemed, and ill health started to plague them. That's when Grampa took to reading very much and to insist that I learn to read and write in Ukrainian and to never forget my native tongue. To preserve our heritage, our culture and traditions and our faith, seemed very important.

LIKE HOME

During the war years, when the winter evenings were very long, Grampa started reading books of stories and history out loud to us. We loved it. Soon some friends and neighbours found out and wanted to come and listen. We would sit around a wood heater and listen to stories of Cossacks and the invaders and about his beloved Ukraine. We'd be spellbound for hours. This continued all winter. Everyone did their chores early and came to listen. Sometimes there was laughter, sometimes tears. Other times there was even anger and he'd stop reading, turn, spit, then carry on reading.

Winters passed quickly and when spring came everyone got busy with farming again and with gardens. Everyone was busy again till next fall when Grampa would make a fresh order of books from the Winnipeg book suppliers. I remember well his big wooden trunk, full of big and small, thick and thin storybooks. I still have some of his books and calendar almanacs. They contain records of when his cows had calves or when the mare was bred.

My grandparents died long ago, Grandma in 1943 at age 70, and Grampa in 1948 at age 75. I miss them dearly but I'm very thankful for the time I spent with them. I gained knowledge of life, love and freedom of thought and learned to enjoy and share it with others.

Thanks to all the stories and experiences, I felt like I knew where they came from and in my heart I felt the longing they felt, of wanting to go there, just as they would have wanted to go back to see the land they left behind.

In 1991, when Ukraine became free, I felt ecstatic. It seemed like a door was opening to a land I had heard so much about and seemed to know even better in my heart.

In 1993 the opportunity came. I was at the time provincial president of the Ukrainian Catholic Women's League of Canada for the Saskatoon Eparchy, and we were organizing a "Gift of Hope" mission to Ukraine. The mission entailed taking hospital, medical and dental supplies, as well as medicines and money, to the ravaged land of oppression, to the Chornobyl stricken people and children.

I felt like my grandparents were tugging at my sleeve saying: "Go, this is your chance." I had saved up $3,000 to redo my kitchen cupboards. Well, they weren't that important. I bought my passport to Ukraine.

When I landed there I felt I was home, like I knew the places, and I knew my grandparents' spirit was with me. As we travelled about distributing the supplies, I felt like I could be mingling with distant relatives. I was so grateful to my grandparents for the heritage they left for me.

Being with the mission group, there wasn't much time for family inquiries. I came across names the same as my ancestors, but couldn't make direct connections. Other than perhaps distant cousins, we assume we no longer have any relatives in the old country.

The people were very poor, and some very sick, but the spirit of freedom shone brightly. They were happy to see us come from such a faraway land and bring them medicines. They couldn't believe the people cared. They thought the whole world had forgotten they even existed. What they really marvelled at, and couldn't believe, is that we spoke Ukrainian to them. That brought tears to our hearts. I then remembered how Grampa told us to hold on to our language, that one day we would under­ stand. Now I understood, and whispered a silent prayer, and felt their spirit, and my heart rejoiced.

As we travelled the beautiful countryside, the roadways lined with red poppies and white daisies, I knew Grampa and Grandma were smiling in heaven to see me admiring their native land-now my land. Having walked on this land, I came back with a great sense of relief and now I can tell my children and grandchildren of their heritage and native land and their beloved Ukraine.■

SONJA PAWLIW is an artist and gardener living in Yorkton, Saskatchewan.

STEPHANIE DANYLUK works in the field of history and heritage, with a focus on museums and community engagement. She has an MA in History from the University of Saskatchewan. She grew up in Saskatchewan, and her white settler roots include Ukrainian and Doukhobour ties to the Garlic Curtain of the Saskatchewan parklands.