Skip to: Content
Skip to: Site Navigation
Skip to: Search


A lesson in Russian gratitude

By Sarah A. Powley / December 10, 1998



My colleagues and I burned up the Internet exchanging ideas for gifts to take to the former Soviet Union when we would visit in October. Twenty-eight of us, from many regions of the United States, would travel to schools in cities and towns all across Russia, Ukraine, Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, and Kyrgyzstan as participants in an educational exchange. We expected to collaborate with our colleagues from afar, but we had no idea how warmly we would be received by them and by everyone else we would meet.

Skip to next paragraph

We knew to take school supplies: maps, paperback books, bulletin-board cutouts, chalk and erasers, even masks for Halloween. We knew to take personal items for our host families: sweatshirts with university insignias, blue jeans, cassette tapes, calendars, picture books of the US. But what would we bring for the children, the hundreds of children we would meet, teach, and grow to love during our two weeks in the public schools?

"You have to have a gift for everyone," my well-traveled friends told me. So I asked everyone I knew for help and ideas. My state representative gave me a flag of Indiana and 50 state pins to present. The chamber of commerce donated T-shirts and pens. My state teacher's organization supplied me with pencils, and my local book dealer helped me find magazines on topics I knew were of interest to my hosts. I tried to imagine whom I might meet and what would be appropriate.

FOR children, I went to my friend the librarian. She gave me stacks of bookmarks, a roll of stickers, and, at the last minute, threw in a sheet of "tattoos," those water-permeable temporary designs that children use to decorate themselves. The tattoos, a bright yellow spiral design, were an advertisement for an Internet research site. Would the children of Russia know what tattoos were?

"Well, put them in your bag anyway," my friend said. "They won't take up any room." That was fortunate. My bags were already filled to capacity, and fully half of what I was taking I planned to give away.

"When do we give our families the gifts we've brought for them?" we asked our Moscow group leader a few days later, hours before we 28 high school teachers separated to travel to our individual destinations.

"In the beginning," she answered. "It's customary."

The first night, then, I gave my family my gifts. I was pleased with what I had selected: Magnetic Poetry and a pair of blue jeans for my colleague; a sweatshirt for her husband; a rare fossil for the son whom I already knew was an avid rock collector. "Spasebo," they said (spah-SEE-buh). "Thank you." And promptly gifted me back.

"Good thing I held back some gifts," I wrote in my journal that night. A few nights later, I gave them some American magazines and a few other items. They gave me more gifts in exchange. "Spasebo," they said. Thank you.

I soon saw that we were engaged in a ceremony of friendship deeply embedded in the culture. Wherever I went, I carried a canvas bag loaded with the presents I had chosen in Indiana. Whenever I offered my gifts, tangible overtures of friendship and tokens of my appreciation for the hospitality of the people, I was presented with gifts myself.

Sometimes I was given postcard views of the place I was visiting: the beautiful Kola Peninsula, 1,000 miles from Moscow, above the Arctic Circle. Sometimes the gift was food - cranberry pies and yellow raspberries from the North. Once the gift was a set of postage stamps; another time a sample of apatite, the ore that is mined in Kirovsk, the town where I was staying.