What do you think?
Rate this book


320 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1879


Evgeniy Utin, "Letters from Bulgaria" (1877)
Years ago, after reading the biography of Tsar Alexander II, I stood before his monument in Sofia, thinking that his title was entirely earned. Few in history enter its pages as "The Liberator." Most are "The Great," "The Terrible," "The Iron," or "The Conqueror." Some even carry epithets like "The Fair" or "The Short." Their deeds are trumpeted far and wide, but history rarely remembers them for acts of benevolence, even if their long-term influence was vast. (And for those wondering: his title "The Liberator" originally had nothing to do with the Bulgarians.)
When the Russo-Turkish War began in 1877, the two sides looked roughly like this:
The Bulgarians: Half-suffocated by the weeds of history and Ottoman rule. Especially after the massacres of 1876, ordinary people were exhausted, paralyzed by the struggle for survival. Five centuries in the belly of the empire, far from the borders where uprisings were more successful, had drained much of the aggression and initiative from the Bulgarian spirit. Such a terrible trauma takes centuries to heal. Yet, the initiative to educate ourselves remained—a school in every village (something that constantly amazed Utin)—alongside a silent, sturdy labor as a guarantee for salvation. Of course, the parasitic class of "Chorbadzhi" remained as well—those who flayed ten skins off their own kinsmen, honorably sharing the loot with their Ottoman masters. These faces are still here today; if there is anything truly to curse about the "Turkish Yoke," it is the cementing of this mentality in a portion of the enslaved Bulgarians. Many still possess it, consider it natural, and would bite any throat to keep their power. And a portion of those beneath them look on with envy, dreaming of being just like them, mistaking sycophancy and silent endurance for virtue.
The Russians: Spinning in the vicious circle of their vast empire, propped up on the clay feet of autocracy, reactionism, Pan-Slavism, ignorant arrogance, and the occasional ray of noble light. They began the war with a mindset like: "Let’s finally seize those Straits; we’ll take a shortcut through Bulgaria, won't stay long—we'll liberate them so they can see the light of day, and in return, we'll secure a loyal and grateful South-Slavic bastion." Said and done, except it didn't happen quite like that. The "short stay" of the Russian army dragged on; the Turkish rifles were better than expected, and the Russian preparation and organization—weaker.
Utin is a rarity for any nation: an objective observer, an honest man filled with understanding and compassion. There is something Chekhovian in his gaze. Utin wields his pen like a surgeon’s scalpel: there are patients who can only be saved by surgery, and the surgeon's hand must be steady, precise, and fast, while his mind remains clear and competent. It sounds simple and self-evident, but it isn't. For such a mindset, people are sent to Siberia (a modern example being Navalny). In Bulgaria, the overgrown historical weeds tried to suffocate his insights in the bud. Utin spares no one, not because he is a misanthrope, but because he desires a better, happier world. An idealist, right?
It is no wonder these reports from 1877 only saw a Bulgarian translation in 2017—a slight 140-year delay. In Russia, they haven't been reprinted since 1889 (hardly surprising; after the assassination of Alexander II, Russia took a definitive turn toward the bottom, on a course for 1917). But perhaps it is time someone presented them to the current clique in Moscow, to a certain "patriotic" party at home, and to the Russian ambassador.
Utin paints a double portrait—of Russian society and a sketch of Bulgarian reality, highlighting the light and dark forces in both. He notes the Bulgarian Turks—both the kind, intelligent, stable people among them, and those who nailed a child to a table with a spike through its belly. He decries the filth and, with endless love, immortalizes the moments of light, such as the unforgettable nurses on the front or the desperate state of enforced idleness of women in Russian society. Or the Russian soldier who saved a Bulgarian child from the road, carrying it in his arms. Utin knows how to think, and he has the courage to do so.
After this book, I intend to visit Shipka Pass outside of the routine, meaningless television broadcasts. Because the mass graves and ossuaries are there. And I am deeply, deeply grateful to them! But just like Utin—gratitude and critical judgment, thankfulness and one's own position are two sides of the same coin. They are not mutually exclusive, despite what the mentality of the imperial whip or well-paid sycophancy might claim.