Pah

Like a deafening silence, the Lithuanian Karaite are conspicuous by their absence in Trakai. It was only when I saw two young Karaite women in a car as I was walking back to the bus station today after failing to take one single photograph worth posting (maybe a fresh look tomorrow will change the situation) that I realised I hadn’t seen any at all in the three hours I was there. Lithuanian Karaite Visibility comes courtesy of many things in Trakai, not least the two restaurants (three actually, at least when the other one at the Karaite Community centre is open, which it never is) selling the classic Lithuanian Karaite dish kibinai. Will kibinai be the only thing left to remember them by in 20 years I wonder? Even the spelling’s been Lithuanianised, the Karaite word for it being kybyn. I’m suddenly reminded of the Lithuanian dish kugelis, which is transformed when spelt differently into the old Jewish favourite, kugel. I even know Lithuanians who’ve been to university who are convinced is a Lithuanian invention. Trakai (total population less than 5,000) is a hugely popular tourist destination for Lithuanians and foreigners alike, a town that draws on its Karaite heritage to the point of dependence. I went there today, a horribly sunny affair that promised little in the way of emotive photography, with nothing in the way of an agenda and to be honest not a little pissed off with the cold reception I’ve so far received from the Lithuanian Karaite movement themselves, who remain stubborn to say the least with regards to me invading their lives. In the back of my mind I was interested in exploring the idea of photographing the very lack of the Karaite in the town as mentioned in the first paragraph, which could possibly yield an interesting photographic essay of a culture that refuses to play ball. Like some demented African explorer I wandered about the town, photographing empty playgrounds, benches with nobody sitting on them, broken pleasure boats on the shore of the lake with the Karaite cemetery in the background across the water, waiting for the vanished tribe to materialise. I was kind of interested by my earlier photographs of the Polish gentleman, Henryk, who lives next to the Karaite cemetery and who expressed indifference to the culture he shares the town with. In fact, just about the only word I wrote down when I was there was indifference. Whilst taking a photograph of a parking meter I was accosted by an elderly chap who told me his name was Vytautas, the very name of the Lithuanian Grand Duke responsible for bringing the Karaite to Lithuania in the first place. My Vytautas, a native of Trakai, had nothing to say about the Karaite. Indifference. I farted around on the island named after the Karaite, took pictures of the bridge named in their honour (the last thing they cross before being lowered into the Trakai soil for all eternity at the ends of their lives) and even knocked on the doors of the houses on either side of the Kenesa to see if I could start some kind of dialogue with somebody. Everybody was out, and I felt like a total idiot. Now I just feel angry, not least because I’m flying to the UK in a couple of days and feel like I’ve achieved nothing. On a rosier note, I called my blind ceramics man earlier and he’s agreed to let me take photographs of him walking to work. At least something’s moving in the right direction, although it does feel a bit like a case of the blind leading the blind. Next up, find a subject to work on in the UK.