A Dear John letter from Crimea to Ukraine has been making the rounds in Russia. Now, a Ukrainian response is, as well. Both translated below: ************************************* Dear Ukraine, I m leaving ... You thought I was joking, or just offended? No, I probably just realized that you cannot be made dear by force, although I have long tried to be useful to you. I warmed you with my sun, washed you with the warm sea, and always waited for your visit ... You came into the house without wiping your feet, telling me what to do, how to think, how to speak, whose example to follow, but you showed no interest in how I live. Youve just been killing me for 23 years, you killed my gardens, forests and parks, you mutilated my shores, you made me squeeze every last drop out of my tourist because when summer ended, I became useless, especially to you. And yet, I endured, I hoped that someday ... You knew that I was dying, but instead of an oxygen mask, you grabbed me by the throat. But Im not angry, Im just leaving. But I can not go alone, because I will not watch idly as you kill my brothers ... Ill catch my breath a little, just a little a bit, and will take them ALL away. Ukraine, do not think badly of me, I loved you, but you did not want to be my mother, so Im going home, home to Him. No longer Yours. Crimea . March 16 ***************************************** and now the response: ***************************************** Dear Crimea ! Frankly, Im upset with your letter. And today, I clearly understand that you, Crimea - are a stereotypical Narcissus. For some reason you decided that you are more special than Precarpathia or Donbass, Sloboda, Pokuttia or Polissia. You are require some sort of special love like the naughty child, who goes into hysterics and is jealous of her mothers many other children - his brothers and sisters. I gave my love to all equally, I loved and love everyone equally as a mother loves all of her children equally strongly. When they gave you from the orphanage in 1954 - you were a desert, bereft of water and an ugly child, abandoned and useless. First, you were betrayed in 1941 , on the orders of your then stepmother, having withdrawn her troops to Taman, and from your Sevastopol, the Black Sea Fleet fled in a cowardly manner and hid in Batumi until the end of the war. Then they took your people, shooting them and evicting for many decades the proud descendants of the great Ottoman kings. And although I myself was in ruins - I rebuilt you. I gave you my Dnieper (Dnipro) water so that you can grow grapes and have bread, I rebuilt your cities and railways. I returned life to your ports and beaches, passenger jets roared in your sky again and the clattering of wagon wheels returned. And then I returned to you your people ... the people who had lived there from the time of ancient Byzantium. But you could not get enough, you demanded more and more - not due to malnutrition, but capriciously. Forgive me if my bare feet soiled your carpet of your beauty, but they had soil on them. Our soil. Donbass pulled me by the arm and asked me to build her mines, my feet mixed the cement for Dniprohes [a huge hydroelectric station on the Dnipro], I sowed careers in Kirovograd, carried wood from Stanislav, plowed land in Poltava, and you admired the sea and welcomed your brothers and sisters on seashell beds and sheets with traces of the love of other nations. Youre a slacker, my child! Youve never learned to work! And when there was no sausage in your stores - there was none in my other lands ... You demanded exclusivity - and I agreed and you became a republic. How did you deal with that? Did you buy new beds? No. Build new resorts? No. You gave yourself away to whores, allowed your beaches to be taken, dirtied the sea, you never learned how to make wine and your cognac can only be used to poison the Colorado potato beetle. Youre a slacker, Crimea. YOU didnt work in your summer restaurants, but instead my children from other regions and descendants of the Sultan, having regained their homeland. You just traded with the sea. You imagined that your charm puts you above the rest ... So you decided to go back to your orphanage. Well, go ahead. In the end, youre my stepson. But I am pleased that of my 25 children only you do not pass the test of allegiance, even though hungered no less than you. And remember one thing: in your orphanage nobody will ever asks for your opinion any more, it was already full of handsome narcissists without you. And maybe someday, if you suddenly think of it, you may realize the age-old truth that the real mother is not the one who gave birth, but the one who raised you. But I will be very far away. Goodbye. May Jesus and Allah protect you. Your Ukraine
Posted on: Tue, 01 Apr 2014 11:57:11 +0000
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