My very first encounter with classic Russian literature came in 1995, when I bought a book from the then Kuraz Publishing House for 14 birr. It was an anthology of short stories by the much-beloved Russian writer Anton Chekhov.
The book came wrapped in glossy paper, with a sturdy hardcover and that fresh scent of paper and ink — a smell that, even now, triggers a wave of nostalgia for times long past. The binding was of high quality, presumably shipped directly from the defunct Soviet Union.
In those days, it was common to find works translated into both Amharic and English, thanks to the close relationship Socialist Ethiopia had with the Soviet Union. It was an era of rich cultural, literary, and artistic exchange, one that shaped the worldview of many of us who grew up then — myself included.
I remember my father taking us on Sunday mornings to watch Soviet children’s movies at the National Theatre. The air was filled with the magic of cinema and the hum of anticipation. I can still picture the famous actor Wogayehu Negatu, his silhouette framed against the flickering light of the projector, wearing his signature Afro and large woollen scarves draped around his neck.
I rushed home and opened the pages of Chekhov’s short story anthology with the voracity and hunger of an avid reader yearning for a fascinating tale. And boy, fascinating it was indeed!
The very first story was a novella called The Steppe — the story of a young child being transported across the vast expanse of the Russian steppe toward Kiev. The love-lorn boy was leaving his village and his mother behind for the big city, travelling with his uncle and a few kind men on a horse-drawn cart for a journey of a thousand kilometres.
Chekhov painted a vivid portrait of the troubled, sickly child against the immense tapestry of the steppe, while bringing to life the travellers on the cart, the inhabitants of the towns they passed, and the plants and landscapes along the way. It was unlike anything I had read before. I soon delved into the other short stories in the anthology, without realising that The Steppe was my first step into the wonderful, enchanting, and enlightening world of Russian literature.
The collection also contained The Grasshopper, The Black Frair, An Anonymous Story, The Lady with the Dog, and more — each no less fascinating than the other. By the end of the book, I found myself wondering: Who is Anton Chekhov? Who are these Russians with such an unparalleled knack for storytelling?
Not long after, I encountered more of Chekhov’s works through a friend’s father, who kept a private library filled with his books. The more I learned about Chekhov, the more intrigued I became. I even read two volumes of his biography. A medical doctor by profession and a prolific, celebrated writer and playwright, Chekhov once famously said: “Medicine is my lawful wife, and literature is my mistress. When I get fed up with one, I spend the night with the other.”
The best was yet to come when I discovered Fyodor Dostoevsky’s magnum opus, Crime and Punishment, a psychological exploration of guilt, moral dilemma, twisted justice, and the faint glimmers of love — all through the tormented mind of the assassin Raskolnikov. Dostoevsky’s moralistic rhetoric and his amplification of human suffering, as also seen in his short story Poor Folk, stood in stark contrast to Chekhov’s methodical, impartial narration that allows the reader to draw their own conclusions.
Further reading led me to Maxim Gorky’s Apprenticeship and Mother, Leo Tolstoy’s Resurrection and Father Sergius, and finally Nikolai Gogol’s Dead Souls. This last one was the culmination of my fascination with Russian literature.
Dead Souls tells the melodramatic saga of Pavel Ivanovich Chichikov, a schemer who travels across Russia attempting to buy the names of deceased serfs — the so-called “dead souls” — from landowners. His plan is to use these fictitious assets to secure illicit loans and amass wealth. Chichikov is no hero; he is closer to a villain. Yet the story, filled with rural landowners’ bewilderment and suspicion, reveals the moral decay of society and prompts deep self-reflection.
The tragedy of Dead Souls is that Gogol never finished it. Tormented by personal demons, he burned parts of the manuscript. What remains is an incomplete Book One and a brief Book Two that ends mid-sentence. But did this incompleteness diminish the brilliance of the work? Absolutely not. In fact, it remains, by far, the greatest work of fiction I have ever read. It is a testament to the power of Russian literature that even an unfinished book can become a masterpiece.
While I have extensively read Russian literature and adore it immeasurably, I had never met a Russian person — until a fortnight ago, when I bumped into one at the Africa Jazz Club. His name was Evgeny. He lives in Addis on business and, like me, is a jazz fan.
We struck up a conversation, clinking glasses in a toast as I brought forward my favourite subject: Russian literature. To my delight, Evgeny was familiar with the books I had read and was a literature fan himself. Speaking with him felt like a dream come true.
I asked if he had any Russian books on hand. He didn’t, but he referred me to the Pushkin Cultural Centre. I hadn’t known the centre still existed — especially after the disintegration of the Soviet Union — so I was eager to visit. He put me in touch with the deputy head, Dmitry, who welcomed me with open arms.
At the centre, I was offered a glass of fine wine and a fragrant cup of chamomile tea. The setting was as dreamy and enchanting as the ones I had encountered in countless Russian novels. The furniture, the portraits on the walls, the small knick-knacks on the tables, the gentle hum of Russian being spoken in the corridors, and the unmistakable generosity of spirit — all of it felt like the books I loved coming to life before my eyes. It was like stepping into a fairy tale. For all I knew, I could have been in Chekhov’s dacha by the Black Sea or in an old apartment along Nevsky Prospekt, St. Petersburg’s storied avenue so often described in Russian literature.
I was gifted a Soviet-era short story anthology and a beautifully crafted Russian-style nativity scene with St. Mary and the Christ child. I was also given a tour of the facility. The centre boasts a commanding view of downtown Addis, with a concrete rooftop being repurposed for outdoor events — including jazz, which was music to my ears.
The balcony, rooftop garden, and wooden beach chair evoked the feeling of a Black Sea summer, like the one in Chekhov’s The Lady with the Dog, where Dmitri Gurov first meets Anna Sergeyevna walking her small white Pomeranian along the harbour promenade. The cosy yet refined environment instantly brought to mind the Yalta Conference, where Stalin, Roosevelt, and Churchill once sat together over tea.
I wondered whether my imagination — or perhaps my deep fascination with Russian literature — had gotten the better of me. But if my enthusiasm was running wild, I wasn’t alone. My Russian friends at the centre mirrored it with their generous hospitality and warmth.
I wondered aloud if Kendil Bete Tewnet — the famous, thriving theatre house where countless plays, poems, and musicals had been written, recited, and performed — was still active. For decades, it stood as the pinnacle of the Russo–Ethiopian literary tradition.
At the heart of it all was none other than the legendary literary icon, Ayalneh Mulatu. Poet, playwright, university scholar, and professor, Ayalneh — now 85 — had masterminded and led the project for decades. The maestro nurtured hundreds of literary talents, sharing his mastery of Amharic, Ge’ez, and Russian — the latter of which he spoke as if it were his mother tongue.
That already enchanted afternoon was graced with yet another blessing when Dmitry picked up the phone and called Ayalneh himself. They spoke in Russian, and my lifelong passion for Russian literature came up in their conversation. Shortly after, I was able to speak to Ayalneh directly.
At last, I had the chance to connect with this prolific man of letters — playwright and producer of epic musicals such as Adey Abeba. That work was a sweeping, larger-than-life production, with intricate plots, vibrant characters, and universal themes. It resonated with audiences worldwide when performed by the musical troupe Hizb Le Hizb — “People to People” — on tour.
Adey Abeba was akin to an opera, a kaleidoscope of characters, musical styles, acting, and lyrics that remain fascinating to this day and nearly impossible to replicate. It brought together the crème of Ethiopia’s artistic society: vocalists like Tilahun Gessese, Bizunesh Bekele, and Mahmoud Ahmed; dancers such as Eneye Takele and Kuribachew Woldemariam; as well as large choirs, traditional instrumentalists, and supporting dancers. They graced stages from London’s Royal Albert Hall to New York’s Broadway, and far beyond.
Ayalneh spoke of the immeasurable influence, expertise, and artistic training he had received during his years in the Soviet Union — a cradle of art and literature.
He welcomed my enthusiasm and even invited me to his home to talk about our shared passion in person. I was humbled, overwhelmed, and almost at a loss for words to express my gratitude. I mentioned his beautiful translations of Pushkin’s poetry into Amharic, which I had once seen in a rare, limited-edition book and had only briefly been able to read.
To my delight, he told me I could browse his collection of Russian books and borrow anything he had on hand. It was music to my ears — a long-overdue dream coming true.
Looking back, I realise that two weeks ago I had never met a single Russian in my life. Now I know half a dozen — and meeting Ayalneh has been the icing on the cake. I look forward to visiting him in person, learning what makes him tick, and sharing in his near-century of knowledge, insight, and experience.
I left the Pushkin Centre with my mind brimming with a thousand fanciful thoughts. Behind Dmitry’s desk stood a bronze bust of Pushkin, radiating a presence that seemed to echo the Russo–Ethiopian soul.
Pushkin, believed to have descended from Ethiopian heritage, is considered the greatest poet in Russia — a figure without equal in the country’s literary history. Many Russians, beyond their cultural and religious affinity with Ethiopia through the shared legacy of the ancient Orthodox faith and 19th-century premodern society, hold a special respect for Ethiopia because of Pushkin’s ancestry.
For me, the connection to Pushkin is also deeply personal. The main street near where I grew up — close to the Vatican Embassy, connecting Kerra to Sar Bet — bears his name. The square at Sar Bet is named after him too. I remember, as a ten-year-old during the Derg period, attending the inauguration of Pushkin Road. It coincided with the centenary of Addis Ababa’s founding. That road did more than bridge Sar Bet and Kerra; it symbolically tied Russian and Ethiopian souls together through the thread of Alexander Pushkin.
As I approached Pushkin Square in my thoughts, I could almost hear Chichikov shouting to his coachman, Selifan: “Forward! Forward!” In Dead Souls, Chichikov has just fled a hostile town, where rumours have reached a fever pitch. Residents chase him through the streets as he mounts his coach in desperation. Some suspect he is Napoleon Bonaparte in disguise — still a fresh memory after the Franco–Russian War. Others believe he is the notorious vigilante Captain Kopeikin. The most scandalous rumour is that he intends to elope with the governor’s daughter.
As his coach races toward the outskirts, the horses galloping frantically, my own heart races — fearing for the safety of a scoundrel who, by Gogol’s genius, makes the reader feel pity for him.
Time has flown since those first readings, just as Chichikov’s coach sped away, but the Pushkin Centre is reviving itself — embracing the future while aiming to return to its glorious days. This is Ayalneh’s greatest dream.
Russian classics remain timeless. They dominate bookshelves, libraries, and academic research around the world. Kingsley Amis, the renowned British novelist, CBE, Oxford alumnus, and Princeton fellow, wrote his celebrated novel The Russian Girl with themes inspired by Dostoevsky’s work. Likewise, American author Kathryn Ormsbee’s Tash Hearts Tolstoy centres on a web-series creator whose obscure show, Unhappy Families, suddenly goes viral. The title and premise draw directly from the opening line of Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, regarded as one of the most brilliant in literature:
“All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”
There is no feeling, no context, no aspect of life that Russian literature does not explore. It renders every unhappy family — whether that of a Chichikov or a Raskolnikov — with a depth and truth befitting their story.
Bereket Balcha holds a Bachelor of Arts in Sociology and Social Anthropology from Addis Ababa University (AAU) and a Diploma in Purchasing and Supply Chain Management from Addis Ababa Commercial College/AAU. His extensive professional background encompasses decades of experience in the aviation industry in diverse roles, complemented by a two-year engagement at the Ethiopia Insurance Corporation. He can be reached at [email protected])
Contributed by Bereket Balcha