What It Was Like Growing Up in the Soviet Union
A Trip Down Memory Lane
The Soviet Union is not a straightforward subject. Or perhaps the problem is that we try to oversimplify complex things. The Evil Empire — as Ronald Reagan called it in 1983 in one of his speeches — was vast, incredibly diverse, and very complicated. Reagan’s interesting choice of words was I am guessing, due to the occasion — he was speaking at the meeting of the National Association of Evangelicals. But labeling all of the Soviet Union, and in the 80s at that, as the Evil Empire — come on, Mr. President. Most of the Soviet citizens were unaware that this was how their country was being perceived in the West. When a conversation touches upon the Soviet Union, it can get political very quickly. But many forget that behind ideologies, political systems, governments, and official media, millions of people simply went about their lives as best as they could.
I was five years old in 1983. Twelve, when the Soviet Union was no more. I am going to try to describe to you what it was like growing up in the Soviet Union. Granted, my perspective represents only a particular angle — I grew up in Baku, the capital of Soviet Azerbaijan. And there are many different contexts in which people lived and on many issues, perspectives can be wildly different. But there are also a lot of similarities, so my account will probably give a pretty good idea about what life in the Soviet Union was like back then, particularly in a big city.
As I conjure the images and memories of my childhood, I have to say, it all feels so different from our lives today, it may just have been part of someone else’s life. So much has changed. And so quickly…
My first memories are of a run-down two-room house that we rented, part of a network of four or five houses connected by a common entrance from the street. Housing was always a huge problem in the Soviet Union. Most people simply could not afford to buy or even rent a comfortable place. So families clumped together in small communal apartments or networks of houses like ours.
The small yard had plenty of opportunities for a child’s imaginative play — stairs here, a table there, and a lot to jump off of or climb onto. Inside our house was decent, though not particularly comfortable or luxurious. Moist. Uneven floor. The ceiling leaked every once in a while. My grandmother’s voice, complaining that my brother and I made too much noise.
Quite a bit to complain about, but to counterbalance it all there were my parents with their unwavering optimism and resolve to build a good life for themselves and their children. My father, a university professor, kept bringing more and more books to our small house. A bright and ambitious man, my father had a larger-than-life personality. An extreme extrovert and an excellent speaker, he would fill the room with his presence. His booming voice, his laughter, and his apparent ability to persuade anyone of anything were impressive to observe. It was almost like he enchanted the people he spoke to. I can’t help but think about how his skills were wasted in his job and country. His abilities to work hard, learn things quickly, hyperfocus on something, and think on his feet were what I wanted to emulate as I grew up. My mother, the complete opposite, very quiet, kind, but equally hardworking and bright, was a promising mathematician. She quit her job when I was born and remained a housewife until my brother and I entered university, tutoring us throughout our childhood. My mother is the single most important influence on my and my brother’s education and growth. Looking back, my parents were simultaneously our superheroes and our superpower.
This was not uncommon. My parents were born in the 50s as the Soviet Union was recovering after World War II. They grew up during Khrushchev’s time as the leader of the country. As Soviet life somewhat normalized after Stalin’s rule of terror, disastrous economic policies, and war, the generations that grew up in the 50s and 60s gradually became more cynical about the ultimate goal of communism, instead focusing on getting the best education they could, then building their personal life and fortune. People, particularly the middle class, were no longer “believers” in communism as the previous generations were, and turned into pragmatic hard workers — we are where we are, let’s try to make the most out of it. As the Soviet universities churned out quite high-level professionals in different fields, the economy struggled to absorb them and keep them motivated enough to contribute.
Most middle-class families around us seemed to have two children. I had a younger brother and it was nice to have a playmate and sparring partner in any and all activities from football to table tennis, as well as our regular “wrestling” sessions (in quotation marks because that was nothing more than in-house scuffles). He grew into an imposing man, strong, with an impressive physical frame, which motivated me to exercise to try and keep up with his size, only to discover there was simply no catching up with him.
I was nine when we moved to a cooperative apartment building in the Ahmadli district of Baku. This was a mechanism through which people who could not afford to buy housing could contribute their money on a regular basis to a cooperative construction project. You would register and wait, sometimes for years, but even this was not affordable for many. There was a fixed number of square meters per person that each family could get. Still, the flat we got was much larger than what we had gotten used to, though the downside was that we were now very far from the city center. Essentially, it was more like living in a large village. :)
Studying was the one thing on which there were not going to be any compromises with our parents. Lenin’s famous: “Study, study and study once again” (which, by the way, is something Chekhov may have said much earlier) — was the official motivational slogan in all public schools, but in our home relentless study was a reality. My brother and I had a high-quality tutor in our mother and a massive fear factor in random checks that my father would conduct on our homework. Our mother made a particular emphasis on cultivating our curiosity, while my father made sure that we had a huge library at home to support our studies. In fact, the first time I ever visited a public library was when I was 19, just to see what it looked like. Until then, for anything I ever needed information on, I would typically find a book at home.
There were, of course, no mobile phones, no computers, no internet. One of my favorite things was the world map that my mother hung on the wall next to the bottom bunk bed. Countries, cities, rivers, mountains, seas and so much more — I learned their names, and descriptions and read about them. I remember once in grade five or six, we were asked to write a short essay about where we would like to travel. My choice was the Kathmandu Valley of Nepal, and I still remember the puzzled expressions on the faces of my classmates. Or just last week I was talking to a friend who started working in Mozambique and my memory immediately produced the information about Maputo being the capital of the country. I started laughing, remembering that this too was something I learned from the same map on our bedroom wall.
And books. So many books. From Homer to the entire Russian classical literature and beyond. A lot of serious books, but of course, I leaned towards the genres that were a little more fun than, say, Dostoyevsky. Sure, I read what the school curriculum mandated us to do. But also much more. Jules Verne, Walter Scott, Alexander Dumas, Herbert Wells, Isaac Asimov, Ray Bradbury, Strugatsky brothers, Lev Tolstoy and Nikolay Gogol. As soon as my father saw that I was reading a lot and reading fast, he came up with an exercise that was one of my most dreaded experiences. He would pick a book, a good book, but not a light reading. He would then give me an hour to read it. After that, we were going to talk about it — what I liked, what I disliked, who my favorite character was, did I like the ending, what would I have done in so-and-so’s place, and so on. The very first book he did that with was Bulgakov’s Master and Margarita. I was fourteen. I could barely understand the references, and most of the subtle criticisms of the Soviet rule flew over my head. But I have to say, the experience was priceless.
My brother and I grew up bilingual. A lot of children in our extended family studied in Russian language schools. My father, however, insisted that my brother and I study in the Azerbaijani language — something that turned out to be an amazing investment after the collapse of the Soviet Union as even the most educated youth of the country, having studied exclusively in Russian, shockingly struggled to communicate in their native language. Still, most of what I read at home, I read in Russian — both my parents spoke Russian like native speakers and so, without realizing it, I had added fluency in one UN language to my record already by middle school.
My parents also made sure we kept up with the other two typical activities for children of the 80s. My father taught us chess and as everyone in the family played fairly well, it ensured regular practice. My brother and I were also enrolled in a music school — I started piano studies, while my brother played guitar. I have tried to keep these skills fairly active throughout my life and while these abilities can be impressive to people today, this was nothing out of the ordinary in Baku at the time.
As to formal education, I started in school #190. One interesting fact about this school and another accidental score for me was that as of grade 2, we were taught Farsi (go figure). I don’t know what was the reason for this odd choice — English for example was taught starting from grade 4. But the two years that we studied very basic Farsi helped me at least familiarize myself with the Arabic script which years later turned out to be the key in jumpstarting my study of Arabic, which eventually led to getting a job in the UN, travel, work, and life throughout the Middle East. It is amazing how such random events add up to the unique life path for every one of us.
The school was an interesting place. Of course, we all wore uniforms at school. It was meant to create a sense of community, that everyone was equal and no one stood out. The school was, of course, one of the primary propaganda tools of the Soviet Union. We were constantly being fed information about how we lived in the best country in the world, how we were going to build communism, and how our grandfather Lenin’s teachings were guiding us and helping us have happy childhoods. I did not realize it at the time of course, but everything was scripted in a manner that aimed to cultivate loyalty to the state and to the party. You would do the first 3 years of school as a member of the Oktyabryat — a reference to the October Revolution of 1917. Something similar to American Scouts, but with a distinct political flair. You got a little red star badge with a picture of Lenin as a child, pinned to the left side of your chest, close to the heart. It must have been an important moment for children in the previous decades, but in my time, it seemed like just a thing everyone did. By 1984, when I started primary school, a lot of symbols of the Soviet Union were starting to lose their previous significance. So I did not give much thought to it.
When we changed houses in 1987, I started studying in school #29. In grade 4, we became pioneers in a solemn ceremony and started wearing red ties. Our slogan was: “Be Ready! Always Ready!” Being a pioneer was essentially a preparation phase for becoming a member of the communist party. We were now supposed to represent the best of our community, of our country. First of all, we were constantly told about our duty to study well so we can help our country become better and bring about communism. In addition, there was a range of things we were expected to do. For example, we were expected to treat the elderly with respect, always giving up our seats in public transportation — a sign of a good pioneer. We helped the elderly and persons with disabilities cross the street or help carry their groceries home. We joined all kinds of communal activities mostly organized by the school— planting trees, cleaning up the neighborhood from garbage, and so on.
We took our pioneer ties off in January 1990, after the events of 19–20 January, when the Soviet army violently cracked down on the anti-Soviet protests in Baku. For context, the conflict with Armenia was picking up intensity and the nationalist movements were becoming wildly popular among the people. As the demonstrations calling for the independence of Azerbaijan grew stronger and the local authorities were unable to keep the situation under control the Soviet troops were ordered to Baku, similarly to how it was done in April 1989 in Georgia, but with a higher death toll.
After a few days of chaos, when we finally returned to school, our teachers were desperately trying to convince the children in my class to put the ties back on. But the nationalist sentiment was already too strong even among the children — everyone refused. I chuckle when I remember how our teachers even tried the last ditch effort — that we should put on the red ties and those would soon be replaced by ties with the Azerbaijani tricolor. To which the twelve and thirteen-year-old kids firmly said — no, we will wait for the tricolor ties, thank you very much. Needless to say, tricolor ties never arrived. Soon enough, Azerbaijan declared its independence and on December 25, 1991, the Soviet Union ceased to exist.
Still, I remember my primary and middle-school years fondly. A lot of people who grew up at that time do. I think this nostalgia is more for the stability everyone enjoyed than anything else. The 90s turned out to be a tumultuous period — necessary, to be able to move forward as a country, but painful nonetheless.
Today, as I look back, I can clearly see how thanks to my parents my brother and I grew up in an environment that facilitated our growth and education, how we had pretty much all the resources we needed. Yes, the 80s were the period during which the foundation was being laid for the tectonic changes that would rock the entire Soviet Union in the next decade. But as kids, all the way until the events of 1990, we were oblivious.
We studied, played, watched cartoons (Soviet-time cartoons are in a class of their own), and ran around our neighborhood with friends. No mobile phones, no supervision. Looking at how controlled childhood is today, I am amazed at how our parents simply let us be outside — going to dodgy construction sites, getting into neighborhood versus neighborhood football matches and fights, drinking water from a hose here, and climbing trees there. We would try to hide our bruises and injuries and come home after a mandatory waiting period of cooling down at the entrance of the building.
Then we would finally come home to the image of my parents watching the latest news — war in Afghanistan, the end of the Iran-Iraq conflict, news of Garry Kasparov (who represented Azerbaijan at the time) becoming World Champion, quietly talking about the Chernobyl disaster, and then loudly discussing someone called Gorbachev, and strange concepts of Glasnost, and Perestroika, my father listening to Voice of America broadcasts over the radio, the failed coup d’etat in Moscow in August 1991, fall of Berlin wall. But all of these monumental events occupied a very small place in a child’s memory.
Instead, it is my parents and my brother. Fading memories of my grandparents. Fun and the arguments with the extended family. My school and my friends. Playing football and planting trees.
I don’t think I have anything to complain about. I lived in a country that at that time had a lot going on, but my childhood was like being on an island of peace and quiet. Most of it anyway. Once the 90s arrived, all the peace and quiet were gone. But that is a topic for another article perhaps.
