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Reflections


RUSSIA'S IVY LEAGUE T


Igor Fedyukin SPECIAL TO RN


he Russian government wants to have its own world-class universities. But first it must intro-


duce the concept of differenti- ation to Russian higher educa- tion, and make clear that not all universities are quite equal. This point might seem self-ev- ident to a U.S. reader, but in Russia—as in many European countries—the egalitarian tra- dition is deeply rooted. So it was a real shocker for many to hear Andrei Fursenko, the minister of education and science, arguing for a “Premier League” among universities as well as soccer clubs. Following the example set, most notably, by China, but also other countries, from Ger- many to Pakistan, the govern- ment is implementing an am- bitious program of upgrading a group of hand-picked uni- versities. More than two dozen winners of recent competitions are receiving funding and rights to design their own curricula. In return, these flagship insti- tutions are expected to improve their governance, attract younger scholars, retrain their faculty and, ultimately, produce better research and become more visible in the global aca- demic industry. Indeed, such differentiation is badly needed. Paradoxically, one of the problems that plagued Russian higher educa- tion in the post-Soviet years was very low competition. To begin with, there is not much academic mobility in Russia: Al- though some of the best stu- dents from every region do apply every year to the top schools in Moscow and Saint Petersburg, local universities continue to enjoy captive mar- kets in their home regions. A huge surge in demand for high- er education surprised post-So- viet Russia, with the student population growing more than twofold. Nearly all of this growth was driven by fee-pay- ing students (as opposed to those applicants—theoretical- ly, the best ones—whose edu- cation is paid for by the state). Many of these applicants were interested in higher education primarily as a means of avoid- ing the army draft. Others were the first in their family to at- tend college and could not as- sess the quality of education


NEW GUIDES TO SUFFERING


Nora


FitzGerald RUSSIA NOW


the film, she apologizes to her family for her transgressions. During her seemingly unscript- ed apology, she blurts out something akin to “Maybe... if I had read more Russian nov- els.” This existential plea is a love-


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ly example of our grasping, spiritual feelings toward Rus- sian writers. At the moment of our deepest pathos, some of us think of them as the guides to transformational suf- fering: If we read more Chek- hov, Tolstoy or Turgeyev, we might be different, even bet- ter people. But what about Russia’s liv-


DRAWING BY DMITRY DIVIN


Few members of the Russian academic community know... what a top-level global university is.


they were buying. This creat- ed obvious incentives for uni- versities to accept as many ap- plicants as their classrooms could seat, compromising the quality of their teaching and abandoning any attempts to do any research. Many of the Russian state universities and private institutions de-facto converted themselves into di- ploma mills. An extreme devaluation of some Russian university degrees was the result. This situation is set to change. Some degree of competition will be introduced, unavoid- ably, by the market itself. Due to the demographic slump, the pool of potential applicants in three years will be, at best, half the size of what it was two years ago. This, one hopes, would


finally force universities to com- pete for undergraduates and improve the quality of their pro- grams. The introduction of the Unified State Examinations, an SAT-like national text, will also boost competition by making the quality of students accept- ed by different universities more easily comparable (See Education Reform, page 3). The flagship universities pro- gram is also designed to foster competition in the industry. The title of “national research” and “federal” universities will, it is hoped, provide a clear marker of quality, forcing other universities to shape up, or lose their best applicants. The flag- ship universities program es- tablished the principle that uni- versities have to compete for additional funding. The pro- gram sends a clear signal that the university will be judged against very clear, measurable international benchmarks— again, something that has been until recently an anathema for the Russian educational com- munity, accustomed to falling back on vague talk about the


“unique national model of ed- ucation” to dismiss any calls for comparisons with universi- ties abroad. Instead, the “national research universities” are now being as- sessed on such criteria as the number of articles published in international peer-review journals and their impact fac- tor; number of international students, attracted by the in- stitution; or the number of young PhDs hired on the glob- al academic job market. Naturally, the challenges are huge. To begin with, few mem- bers of the Russian academic community know firsthand what a top-level global univer- sity is. Our analysis of rectors shows that only one of the lead- ers of these flagship institutions has any experience of study or work at a university abroad. In- deed, 22 out of 24 rectors sur- veyed by us graduated from the same universities they are now leading, and only 10 have any experience at all outside their alma mater. The vast ma- jority came to their current campuses as freshmen—and


never ever left. This leads to patently unrealistic plans, in- cluding promises to catch up with Stanford in 15 years, or to increase the number of ar- ticles published in top-level journals three-fold in three years. The program itself has also attracted criticism, much of it justified, for excessive bu- reaucratic regulation. Still, it is quite likely that the land- scape of Russian higher educa- tion is bound to change. Some universities, hopefully, will turn themselves around and join the global league tables, where Rus- sia is currently represented by two universities. Others will find themselves relegated to the role of baccalaureate-only institutions or even community colleges. Most importantly, one hopes it will be much easier for new gen- erations of Russian high-school graduates to tell which univer- sity degrees are worth investing their money and time in, and which are not.


Igor Fedyukin is director for Poli- cies Studies at the New Econom- ic School (Moscow).


ing literature? In her insight- ful introduction to “Rasskazy (Stories): New Fiction from a New Russia,” Francine Prose tells us that only a few hun- dred books are translated into English each year from every other language. But here we have it: A beautifully translat- ed anthology that offers up some of the best Russian writ- ers today—most of whom have not been published in English before. “Bregovich’s Sixth Journey,”


a short story written by Oleg Zeborn, warms the reader with a lyrical sensibility and a strict- ly Russian kind of light but incessant brooding. The main character studies contempo- rary Russian literature and finds it confounding himself. The character remarks to the read- er …at the end of the twen- tieth century, it’s hard to tell: “Is this a genuinely canonical


EXPAT FILES


OFFICE DEPOT DTS


rehearses in the thick heat. De- troit may be better known for its car industry, Motown and crime, but these students opted for the “Month in Moscow” program this summer, a series of classes, ballet lessons, phys- ical and mental training and the- ater visits. The main teaching venue


holds a powerful place in the- atrical history. Konstantin Stan- islavsky, a life-long Muscovite, founded his famous Art Theatre (MKhAT) in 1898 and moved to Kamergersky Lane, a stones- throw from the Kremlin, at the start of the 20th century. This is the tenth summer


Wayne University has run its Month in Moscow program. The university charges appli- cants nearly $5,000 for a pack- age that includes, flights, tuition, visas, insurance, theater tickets and accommodation in the MKhAT hostel and even makes scholarships available. Tatyana Khaikin, who administers the program in Moscow and acts as an interpreter for the teach- ing staff, said: “American stu- dents get an opportunity to work with Russian professionals and see how theater is respect- ed and loved in this country.” Selection procedures are rig-


orous; those who make it are often mature students, includ- ing a 45-year-old actor. Many of them have a particular inter- est in the Stanislavsky method. Carrollette Phillips, 27, says that


LEARNING THE METHOD I


Phoebe Taplin SPECIAL


TO RUSSIA NOW


n the top floor studio of the historic Art Theater, a group of students from Wayne State University in Michigan


the “the Moscow Art Theater and the work of Konstantin Stanislavsky were critical factors in the shaping of Western the- ater.” She said, “I never ques- tioned if I would take the trip, only when I would take it.” One lesson opens with the


group representing an evangel- ical congregation. A charismat- ic preacher moves among them, prompting them to sing, dance and speak in tongues. The scene is compelling, by turns earnest and ironic. This improvised per-


The way Russians talk about theater is like talking about religion.


formance is one of the daily “surprises” the students must prepare for their professor, vet- eran actor and teacher, Sergei Zemtsov. Zemtsov, dean of the Moscow


Art Theater’s Acting Faculty since 1997, is exacting. The students are required to perform individ- ual “etudes,” short scenes dur- ing which their character under- goes a psychological change. “Not bad,” he commented af- terward, “but you need to be- lieve more in your own circum- stances.” He encourages the students to criticize each other’s work, and the comments, to an observer, seem brutal. The stu- dents agree that this is the most challenging but instrumental part of their course. “Back home we don’t get enough constructive criticism,” RuthAnn Apruzzesa-Welke said. “It’s about being honest with


Video at www.rbth.ru


Jennifer


Eremeeva SPECIAL TO RUSSIA NOW


The room hums with silent con- centration and when they final- ly finish, Zemtsov said: “You have to focus; that took far too long.” Later the mood lightens as the students must copy a pose in turn. At the end, the first student repeats the origi- nal pose for comparison. The discrepancies are hilarious, but Zemtsov’s lesson about close at- tention is underlined equally clearly.


“Coming to MKhAT is … a DRAWING BY DMITRY DIVIN


yourself, fixing what you need to.”


The experience of living in Moscow is both enriching and challenging. As a young black woman, “born and raised in De- troit,” Phillips is struck by the homogeneity of Moscow: “There seem to be very few other races or cultures repre- sented.” PhD student Greg Bai- ley said: “People don’t smile at each other here...working close-


ly with professionals from MKhAT, the students have learned to see past the superfi- cial differences and appreciate [Russians'] underlying warmth.” The session continues with teamwork exercises. The stu- dents spell out a word using the whole group to form each of the letters, without being al- lowed to confer over which word they are actually spelling.


chance to experience the teach- ings of Stanislavsky as they have been passed down in Russia over the past century,” Mike Butterworth said. Greg Bailey, writing a thesis about the ap- plication of Stanislavsky’s meth- od in America, said: “It has been a life goal to come here to Rus- sia and study acting … The way Russians talk about theater is like talking about religion, whereas Americans tend to view it more as an industry.” Phillips made a similar comparison: “I wish the- ater in America could be less profit-oriented and more aligned with the level of creativity I see here.” Erman Jones, himself a pro- fessional repertory actor, was moved by the Satiricon The- ater’s production of Richard III: “I was ... entertained and mes- merized by the degree of ex- actness and professionalism and ingenuity.” Fellow student Bai- ley described it as “some of the most amazing work I have seen.” He too hopes to become a theater professor and “bring some of the spiritual art of Rus- sia to American stages.”


Phoebe Taplin is a Moscow- based writer and columnist for Moscow News.


women spend in Bloomingdales, which I am sure shows both in my impeccable filing system, as well as my less-than-pristine per- sonal appearance. What can I do? My idea of the perfect af- ternoon is to fire up my label gun and reorganize someone’s filing system, rearrange their DVDs by genre and then in al- phabetical order, or clean out desk drawers and color code the post-it supply. To me, one of the great, un-


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solved mysteries is why the of- fice supply craze hasn’t taken off in Russia, a country that, year after year, successfully defends its intergalactic bureaucratic pa- perwork championship title. Russia doesn’t have anything re- motely resembling a Staples or Office Depot. This is, perhaps, at the heart of Russia’s malaise, be- cause I don’t understand how anyone can feel a sense of hope or control without the occasion- al purchase of a new set of 54 Sharpies in “adult” colors such as ochre, coffee and teal. Office and school supplies are


to be found in dingy corners of bookstores, but they are to real office products what Russian- manufactured hooch is to Bom- bay Sapphire gin. Your best bet is a flimsy two-ringed binder, or a porous cardboard folder, which fastens with string ties. String ties! Paper itself is sold by weight and has the absor- bency of tin foil. The mind- blowingly expensive imported German products are better, but they are locked up behind grimy glass shelves. The supplies are lined up inside, and you have to elbow your way through a tough crowd of secretaries and guided missile Babushki to take


am the quintessential office supply/organizational junk- ie. I spend the kind of time in STAPLES that ordinary


a look. If you can’t say, “I’ll take the red and black striped pen- cil, fourth row, eighth from the back” in perfect Russian you can forget about going home with any of them. I have a file cabinet (special


order from Finland) and I use durable plastic hanging and file folders from STAPLES and a label gun from Brother, all of which I carted over in a suitcase from the United States. “Nice for the tax police,”


quips HRH, my handsome Rus- sian husband. “They will thank you for all that fantastic orga- nization.” This was a window for me


into the motivations behind Rus- sian chaos. I supposed that if all the papers were stacked up in the porous, dusty “DELO” cardboard folders with the string ties, finding what you were after would be more like looking for a needle in a haystack. You’d have time to call your lawyer, or sneak out the back door or, better still, fly to Guatemala be- fore anyone found the relevant document. And every Russian, from the unsmiling Minister for Trade and Economic Development, Elvira Nabiullina, down to the Con- cierge of our building, uses a cheesy A5 leatherette diary. “They are impossible to keep


good notes on," I said to HRH. "Surely there isn’t enough space on each day to make a to-do list, or notes from a big meet- ing.”


“No one actually writes any-


thing of substance down. But you have to be seen to be writ- ing. That’s the key.” Where is my label gun? I need


to label something….NOW. That will have to do, until I can get to STAPLES.


Jennifer Eremeeva is a longtime resident of Moscow; she blogs at www.rbth.ru/blogs/ and www. dividingmytime.typepad.com. She is currently working on her first book.


n the film “The Kids Are All Right,” Julianne Moore plays a middle-aged lesbi- an mom in crisis. Deep into


writer or is it a pathetic ass____ who last week took a swing at his young wife and broke her nose?”


Preoccupied by a dog in


chains, he feeds it pelmeni, plays the gypsy brass of Goran Bregovic for him and names the dog Ivan Denisovich, from Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s fa- mous novel. “I feel sorry for him, and for all the prisoners of our homeland, and even feel a little sorry for myself … I get out of the car and let Ivan Denisovich off his chain.” Arkady Babchenko is both confessional in tone and be- reft of self-pity. His unembel- lished style and ironic humor in "The Diesel Stop," about a deathtrap disciplinary battal- ion, as debased and haunting as any gulag, draws the read- er in. It's as if we are specters over his shoulder, thankful he is writing this story and not rotting outside Grozny. Al- ready known for his first book, “One Soldier’s War,” it is not lost on readers that he uses the same adroit translator here, Nick Allen. Babchenko recov- ered from his lifeless humilia- tion and addiction to war through writing about it; the process of writing transformed him into a new person. Most of us cannot become Russian writers in hopes of changing our lives. But could reading more Russian writers help us reach that place called an examined life? As the book's editors point out, Russia’s greatest contribution to the world over time is not oil or arms. Rather, “it’s been the successive generations of Rus- sian writers capable of exam- ining life’s emotional and in- tellectual restlessness, its complexity and intensity.”


BIBLIOPHILE


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