Russia: the country of nelzya! My sister commented that she has never had a week in her life where more people told her that something was not allowed. The Russian word нельзя (nelzya—accent on the “ya”) means forbidden or impossible. So you can have a regular sentence like “здесь нельзя курить” (smoking isn’t allowed here) or “нельзя говорить во время спектакля” (talking during the show is not allowed), but then Russians use нельзя in lots of contexts where an English speaker wouldn’t use “forbidden.” There are lots of examples that sound ridiculous when translated into English: “Нельзя выходить на улицу без шапки!” (it’s forbidden to go outside without a hat”—standard babushka advice), “Мужчинам нельзя носить грязную обувь!” (“men aren’t allowed to wear dirty footwear”—I heard this one from my host mom when I attempted to put on some muddy boots) or “нельзя добавлять чили в борщ” (“it’s forbidden to add chili powder to borsch”—okay I’ve never heard a Russian say this, but I’m sure they would agree).
My family got the full нельзя treatment when they were here in Russia. Every day, people would tell us that it was forbidden to stand there, forbidden to take pictures, forbidden to go that way, forbidden to buy this, forbidden to sit there, forbidden to eat that, forbidden to get close to a painting, forbidden to wear that here. One time several years ago I was with a school group in a prison in St. Petersburg, and one of my classmates started absentmindedly whistling. A strict-looking old Russian woman hustled up and told him “нельзя свистеть!” (“whistling is forbidden!” ). That’s how I learned that there is a superstition in Russia that if you whistle indoors, you’ll lose all your money and so will everyone around you. People never whistle inside, which I use to full advantage as a class-control technique: I start whistling, and everyone falls into a nervous silence. It’s not like I have any money to lose anyway.
My sister commented that Russia seems like a very rules-oriented place, with practically everything being нельзя. She hit the nail on the head: There is one right way to do everything (правильно—correct) and hundreds of wrong ways (неправильно—incorrect—or, of course, нельзя). If there is one word that I despise in Russian, it is неправильно, because that word suggests that there is only one possible correct way to do things. Imagine I’m lighting the stove with a match, and a Russian tells me that I’m striking the match неправильно. Or that I’m cutting an onion that way I was taught to cut onions by my dear mother who I’m sure has cut an unfathomable number of onions in her day and seems to be doing fine, and a Russian tells me that I’m cutting неправильно. Or I’m eating my meat before I’ve touched my soup, and a Russian tells me that what I’m doing is нельзя. Do you feel my blood pressure rising?
One of the best Russian teachers I’ve ever had, a guy from Moscow named Sasha, taught me more about Russian culture than about dry grammar. He pointed out this same rule-bound nature, and he attributed it to Russia’s Soviet heritage. There was one correct way to do things because, if you didn’t do everything exactly right (or, sometimes, even if you did), you would be punished. The rules were survival mechanisms: If you did everything adhering perfectly to the rules, following every instruction to the letter, you wouldn’t open yourself up to punishment. And, because Russia has a very strong we’re-all-in-this-mess-together attitude, people assume the right to make sure everybody else is following the rules, too. That’s why old women feel within their rights to scold people and tell them that what they’re doing in нельзя. That’s why Russian kids learn from a young age that this is how you do __________ правильно and get scolded if they deviate from those rules. Life becomes a set of rules that, if followed, ensure a smooth enough journey. But heaven forbid someone thinks outside the box and adds chili powder to borsch—that’s against the rules. Or they might just drop out of college in the 1970s and start tinkering around with computer parts….
My family got the full нельзя treatment when they were here in Russia. Every day, people would tell us that it was forbidden to stand there, forbidden to take pictures, forbidden to go that way, forbidden to buy this, forbidden to sit there, forbidden to eat that, forbidden to get close to a painting, forbidden to wear that here. One time several years ago I was with a school group in a prison in St. Petersburg, and one of my classmates started absentmindedly whistling. A strict-looking old Russian woman hustled up and told him “нельзя свистеть!” (“whistling is forbidden!” ). That’s how I learned that there is a superstition in Russia that if you whistle indoors, you’ll lose all your money and so will everyone around you. People never whistle inside, which I use to full advantage as a class-control technique: I start whistling, and everyone falls into a nervous silence. It’s not like I have any money to lose anyway.
My sister commented that Russia seems like a very rules-oriented place, with practically everything being нельзя. She hit the nail on the head: There is one right way to do everything (правильно—correct) and hundreds of wrong ways (неправильно—incorrect—or, of course, нельзя). If there is one word that I despise in Russian, it is неправильно, because that word suggests that there is only one possible correct way to do things. Imagine I’m lighting the stove with a match, and a Russian tells me that I’m striking the match неправильно. Or that I’m cutting an onion that way I was taught to cut onions by my dear mother who I’m sure has cut an unfathomable number of onions in her day and seems to be doing fine, and a Russian tells me that I’m cutting неправильно. Or I’m eating my meat before I’ve touched my soup, and a Russian tells me that what I’m doing is нельзя. Do you feel my blood pressure rising?
One of the best Russian teachers I’ve ever had, a guy from Moscow named Sasha, taught me more about Russian culture than about dry grammar. He pointed out this same rule-bound nature, and he attributed it to Russia’s Soviet heritage. There was one correct way to do things because, if you didn’t do everything exactly right (or, sometimes, even if you did), you would be punished. The rules were survival mechanisms: If you did everything adhering perfectly to the rules, following every instruction to the letter, you wouldn’t open yourself up to punishment. And, because Russia has a very strong we’re-all-in-this-mess-together attitude, people assume the right to make sure everybody else is following the rules, too. That’s why old women feel within their rights to scold people and tell them that what they’re doing in нельзя. That’s why Russian kids learn from a young age that this is how you do __________ правильно and get scolded if they deviate from those rules. Life becomes a set of rules that, if followed, ensure a smooth enough journey. But heaven forbid someone thinks outside the box and adds chili powder to borsch—that’s against the rules. Or they might just drop out of college in the 1970s and start tinkering around with computer parts….
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