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Russia's Few Blacks Find an Uneasy Home in Their White Motherland

Race: Numbering only 14,000 out of 146 million, Afro-Russians face threats and harassment in a country unfamiliar with 'hyphenated' citizens.


MOSCOW — Welland Rudd isn't a typical American. He's never eaten Thanksgiving turkey or watched fireworks on the Fourth of July. At 52, he has yet to set foot on U.S. soil.

Rudd isn't a typical Russian, either. Although he speaks the language fluently and has lived his whole life in Moscow, he cuts an unusual figure here. What sets him apart is the cafe-au-lait color of his skin.

The fact that the African American Rudd is a Russian citizen--let alone one born to two Americans who met in a theater troupe on the Russian front during World War II--confounds many of his fellow Russians. In a land famous for its contradictions, he causes sheer bewilderment.

Rudd, whose background is African, Jewish and Serbian American, is an exception within an exception. Of the roughly 14,000 Afro-Russians in the country today, says Emilia Mensah, director of a Moscow-based cultural fund for mixed-race children, the majority are the descendants of male African students who studied in the Soviet Union in the 1960s-'80s and white Soviet women.

A Rise in Hate Crimes

Whatever their heritage, Afro-Russians remain a curious phenomenon in a country boasting hundreds of ethnic groups.

Unlike Americans, who are familiar with the concept of the "hyphenated" American, Russians continue to draw a distinct line between ethnicity and nationality. Afro-Russians, who can simultaneously be Russian and foreign, black and white, fly in the face of conventional wisdom on what it means to be Russian.

There aren't many; they make up only one-hundredth of 1% of this country of 146 million. Other Russians frequently mistake them for foreigners. Some don't even know they exist. Afro-Russians themselves have often lived in isolation from one another, a fact that is slowly changing as many of them reach adulthood and begin to seek each other out.

One factor bringing Afro-Russians together is the increasingly threatening forms of discrimination they face. Although racist jokes have always been a fact of life, police harassment and hate crimes appear to be on the rise. Last year witnessed a rash of attacks on people of color in Moscow, including the beating of an African American Marine in May.

Only two Afro-Russians are clearly figures of national renown. The first was a literary genius; the second is a talk-show host.

The Shakespeare of the Russian language, 19th-century writer Alexander Pushkin, was the great-grandson of an Eritrean nobleman who in his youth served as Peter the Great's valet.

While Pushkin's poetry speaks to the Russian soul, Yelena Khanga answers for its body. Khanga, a thirtysomething journalist, hosts one of the country's most controversial talk shows, "About That," which is devoted to the sexual practices and proclivities of audience participants.

Like Rudd, Khanga is also an American. Her mother, Leah Golden, is the daughter of two American Communists, one black and one white, who moved to the Soviet Union in the 1930s in search of a colorblind workers' paradise. Although they failed to find it, they settled down, reared a child and never returned home.

Other interracial families had more difficulty staying intact. Before the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991, many were divided by the heavy hand of bureaucracy. When African students were forced by work obligations to return home after graduation, their Soviet wives often faced years of paperwork before they could join their husbands abroad.

Long separations often led to estrangement or divorce. As usually happens in Russia, the children ended up with their mothers. Ties to their fathers, with their faraway homeland, language and culture, tended to dissolve.

Take Vitaly Kochnyev, a 23-year-old student who also helps run an art gallery. His fine-boned features, tan complexion and jaunty stride wouldn't cause a stir in Paris, London or New York.

But in Moscow, where Kochnyev was reared single-handedly by his Russian mother after his father returned to Rwanda when he was 3, things are different. He is used to the curious looks--and sometimes questions--he elicits, often from total strangers.

"People are usually tactful," he says. "If I were to start a new job, after a while a co-worker might ask very politely, 'Listen, I don't want to offend you, but I was just wondering, what's your background?' That sort of approach doesn't bother me at all."

Marianna Ogot, the 30-year-old daughter of a Kenyan economist and a Russian nurse, is equally accustomed to the stares. The manager of a sushi bar in Moscow's theater district, Ogot is regularly queried by customers who want to know her origins. "People often think I'm Georgian, even Japanese or Korean," she says.

Ogot doesn't like to dwell on racist encounters. One incident, however, sticks in her mind.

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