In Part 3 of the course titled “Texts and Contexts,” I have focused on the learning outcome, which is to “understand the attitudes and values expressed by literary texts and their impacts on readers.”  My written task is based on the novel One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by the author, Aleksander Solzhenitsyn and explores the theme of personal freedom, with regards to the oppression faced by a former Russian soldier in a Gulag. I’ve chosen to convey my theme in the form of a diary entry, written secretly by Shukhov over several nights in his barrack. I decided to choose this text type since my theme is quite personal, and requires some self-reflection to explore, therefore, Shukhov, the writer should be his own intended audience. The purpose of my written task is to tackle the idea of whether one’s personal freedom can ever be taken away, even if they have little “physical” freedom left.

I think that the concept of Shukhov keeping a journal portrays his rebellion against the Gulag system, and comes across as a way of holding on to his personal freedom. The moon is a key symbol in the book representing the inevitable triumph of nature, and within my written task, the idea that man cannot control the essence of human nature, which is our personal freedom.  Since it’s a diary entry, I used the first person narrative to give a personal voice to the piece. The juxtaposition of varying sentence lengths aimed to show Shukhov’s flow of thought when writing, further emphasising that his personal freedom cannot be suppressed.

In conclusion, my written task is intended to be a self-reflective piece from Shukhov’s perspective highlighting the notion of freedom and the limited power possessed by authoritative forces, in this case, the Stalin regime.    

Word Count (300)

December 21^st 1951

I’ve been thinking about the consequences that come with what I am doing. A week without a meal? A lifetime in the cells? Death even? It is a large risk I am taking by doing this – one I may regret someday.

For now though, I think it’s important that I write. Although no one will ever read this, and if they do, hopefully not while I’m alive, I feel as though I’m leaving something behind. Sure - it won’t be exactly the legacy I hoped for when I joined the army 20 years ago but it’s something and in a place of nothing, something screams out loud.

Living in a Gulag for 8 years can make you moderately deranged and in some cases, extremely psychotic. For me however, it’s made me incredibly grateful. An extra bowl of kasha at supper, a full glass of t’bacca before bed and being spared of a day at the cells. These are the moments a zek lives for and it’s always the little things that make the difference. I might be coming across as naïve, dear journal, but I definitely understand the seriousness of the context in which I am writing this. Sometimes though, just sometimes, it isn’t enough. Sometimes I want to rebel. To get out of here. To run away. A few days ago, I heard Tiurin say to one guard, “That zek in 104, what’s his name? Shukhov! He’s a good’un!” As much as I appreciate the compliment, dear journal, what if don’t want to be. Is a life lived safe really a life worth living?

December 22^nd 1951

Here I am again, sitting gingerly on my “saw dust mattress” after lights out (6). I can’t seem to fall asleep again and it’s been like this for weeks. How many weeks you ask? I seem to have lost count. It comes in waves, swashing in and back-washing out, draining me of a good night’s sleep – a luxury I was once accustomed to. It’s a nuisance, more than anything, disrupting the next day’s work and getting me into trouble with the guards. I do think, however, that I am still one of the luckier ones. My bunk sits beside one of the four small windows in the barrack, and its imposing size means I can see the full moon from my bed. I’ve come to notice over the last few years that the nights are darker in the winter and the “wolf’s sun”, brighter (130). “(My) own personal oil lamp”, as my top bunk neighbour, Alyosha the Baptist calls it (9). On days when he can’t sleep, he lays “the opposite way, to catch the light” and studies the letters from Saint Paul to the Corinthians, which usually ends up doing the trick (134).

The light near him, however, doesn’t compare to the illuminating stream that floods my bunk when the moon is “at its zenith” (130). To me, this cascading deluge is more than just a necessary ingredient for a daily practice; it’s another one of life’s pleasures, of which there are few and far between. I suspect that will change soon though, especially now that I’m doing this again. It’s a different sensation you experience writing your thoughts on paper, one I haven’t felt in years. One that extends beyond just simplistic contentment. One I can’t seem to put my finger on…

December 23^rd 1951

Writing keeps the mind fresh, moving and dynamic. The rules here, as I found out today, dictate that letters are allowed and journals aren’t – the only differentiating factor being the audience. Perhaps an attempt to imprison us further? – If that were even possible. Here, I can pour my heart and soul out onto paper, give you a mundane account of my lack-lustre life and even though you will never write back, I will be okay with that. Relieved even. There’s a sort of comfort associated with not being judged, and at this point in my life, I’ll take all the comfort I can get.

 Besides hastily signing my name on the roster once a week and occasionally at the medics, I haven’t held a pen in years and that’s something that I now realise, I sorely miss. The diluted blackish ink sinking into the paper fibres. The left-handed smudges. The crisp sound of a turning page. The distinguishing features of what I like to refer to as my past life, which unlike now, was immersed in freedom. That word - freedom. “(It) only (means) one thing to (me) now – Home” (136).

 At home, writing used to be a nightly ritual – one that stayed with me though both wars, my marriage and the birth of my daughter, Ana. She’s 12 now and will be 13 in a few weeks. When I think of home, I envision a young girl of average height and stature - yellow-haired like her mother and a delicate, childlike face dotted with my deeply sunken brown eyes. I imagine her climbing the tallest trees, reading the longest books, baking the sweetest pastries, smiling, all the while. Or at least that’s what I like to believe. I try to avoid remembering home as much as possible; the guilt consumes me and the loneliness suffocates me, making my lengthy bouts of insomnia that much more unbearable…

 That’s why I stole a notebook and pen from the bookkeeper’s office. I don’t know how long this will last and how it will end but for now, I know I do not care. Sitting here, while penning my thoughts in this “dimly lit hut”, I am reminded of how much inner peace this brings me (10). A simple act. Words on paper. There’s something soothing about that – knowing that you’re putting years of education and experience to good use, both of which they’ll never be able to take from me. Well, I hope not anyway.

Till tomorrow…

Word Count (983)

Works Cited

Solzhenitsyn, Aleksandr. One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. Trans. Ralph Parker. New York: Signet Classics, 2008.  Print.