Ukraine Trolls Russian Troops with Road-Sign Taunts

By Itxu Diaz

Saturday, March 12, 2022

 

Our much-missed P. J. O’Rourke taught us that even in war, one can find humor. I am of the opinion that Vladimir Putin waited until he had died to invade Ukraine, because what he fears most is not bombs or sanctions, but satire. The Russian autocrat can’t stand being laughed at. And the Ukrainians, who possess a keen sense of humor, are specialists in doing precisely that.

 

To help carry on their heroic struggle against Putin’s forces, the Ukrainians are finding a way to get laughs in at their enemies’ expense — notably, by putting up special signs for Russian soldiers all over the country.

 

On February 26, the Ukrainian government launched an appeal through the Facebook account of its state road service: “We are dismantling road signs all over the country,” they announced, “the enemy will be disoriented in our territory and we will help them go straight to hell.” Then hundreds of citizens began to put up satirical alternative signs. It’s not often that the government encourages you to do something wrong, so that might be why Ukrainians joined en masse to vandalize road signs like a kid finally given permission to draw on the walls.

 

Although the campaign has been carried out across Ukraine, no other oblast has matched the ingenuity of Odessa’s inhabitants, who have made driving directions for the visiting Russians as clear as possible. One sign shows three possible directions (in Ukrainian): “Straight ahead: F*** yourself,” “Left: Again, f*** yourself,” and the third option, “Right: To Russia, f*** yourself.” Murals, graffiti, billboards, road signs . . . the region is full of greetings, not always friendly, to Russian soldiers.

 

There is something therapeutic about laughing at horror. Throughout history, we find a great number of examples. One of my favorites is the anecdote of the Spanish comedic playwright Pedro Muñoz Seca who, in the middle of being executed by firing squad, having been condemned to death by the communist militia during the Spanish Civil War, looked defiantly at his executioners and exclaimed: “You can take away my estate, my country, my fortune, and even my life . . . But there is one thing you cannot take from me: the fear I feel right now!” First they fired, and later they got the joke.

 

Back to Ukraine. Another sign marking a junction with three possible directions has been modified, and now all three roads lead to the same destination: “Hague Tribunal.” The electronic roadside warning signs at the entrance to the city of Odessa have also been adapted to the circumstances: “Russian ship — f*** you.” And on one of the roads around Odessa, a huge billboard sends this message to Russian soldiers: “Hot vacation: See Ukraine and die! Cocktails included.”

 

The greetings are in keeping with a long satirical tradition. The province was known as the comedy capital of the former Soviet Union. Many American Jewish humorists emigrated from Ukraine to New York at the end of the last century. For almost 50 years, the city of Odessa has been holding Humorina, an international comedy festival, and, in 2013, it inaugurated its Embassy of Humor, which offers “humorous refuge” to the participants of the festival. It is no coincidence that, at this crucial moment in its history, Ukraine is governed by a Jewish comedian who likes to record videos of himself on the streets of Kyiv every day, just to remind Putin that he is not planning to leave, that he is not afraid of him. Volodymyr Zelensky, between jokes and heroics, is making the West wake up from woke politics; he might even end up forcing us to thoroughly rethink the core of our alliances and foreign policies.

 

Ruslan Kurliavtsev, one of those responsible for the joke-sign initiative, says that his campaign isn’t only intended to help the transit of Russian soldiers. “It is also about boosting the morale of our troops and demonstrating that our sense of humor is still intact,” he explains in the Spanish daily El Mundo. The war has not stopped humorist Boris Barsky, who has also participated in the campaign, from visiting the “embassy,” known as the Clown House, every day. On its premises you can find something that Russian communists might not find so funny: a bust of Lenin dressed as a clown.

 

One of the defining features of people who have lived under the yoke of Soviet communism is their fearlessness. Another is that they have learned to laugh subtly, sharpening their wits to circumvent censorship. Many Ukrainian comedians forged their sense of humor under the boot of communist censors. That forced them to develop more subliminal messages and irony, though the Russian-invasion road signs today are far more direct.

 

In mid-February, amid speculation about the possible dates of the Russian invasion, the Ukrainian comedy channel Toronto Television warned about the performances of certain Russian musicians and pointed out that, as horrible as they might be, they cannot be considered an act of war. It did, however, give a warning to its viewers: “If you see all the Russian artists suddenly disappear from Ukrainian ticketing sites, immediately lie down on the floor and cover your head with your hands.”

 

Zelensky himself starred in 2015 in some comedy sketches that now seem prophetic. In one of them, he plays a history professor who has become the president of Ukraine. He receives a call from Angela Merkel to announce that Ukraine has been admitted to the EU. But after a minute of conversation, the chancellor apologizes, saying that she had the wrong phone number, that she had meant to call the republic of Montenegro. And in another sketch, Zelensky’s character watches a mass brawl break out between members of the Ukrainian parliament. In order to put an end to it, he decides to silence them all by shouting: “Putin has been shot down!”

 

Last week, a citizen of Odessa summed up well his people’s war strategy in declarations to the Portuguese newspaper Observador: “We are going to kill the Russians in any way we can, with bullets or with laughter.” All this helps us see the Ukrainian cause with even greater sympathy overseas and gives us a greater connection with them, against their enemies.

 

Not long ago, an old friend who is a writer told me about a trip he made to Moscow in the 1990s. He went with two other Spanish satirists and, after getting drunk on vodka and singing happy songs next to Lenin’s mausoleum, they were stopped by two sentries who offered to sell them their typical Russian hats for a few dollars. They agreed, interpreting the sentries’ gesture as an apt allegory for the crumbling system. “How did you know we were foreigners and might buy your hats from you?” my friend asked them. “Because you were laughing,” the guard replied laconically. “Russians don’t laugh.”

 

It’s understandable that Ukrainians should bet everything on their own spirit. When Kyiv looks around asking the world for help, its people find Joe Biden showing solidarity with the Iranian regime; Boris Johnson attempting his best Churchill absent everything but the whiskey; and Ursula von der Leyen and John Kerry appearing more concerned about how the explosions in Ukraine affect climate talks than anything else.

 

The Italian case deserves special mention. On February 25, Zelensky revealed that, though he had a call scheduled with Prime Minister Mario Draghi, the latter did not come to the phone because he was too busy. Displaying his own dark humor, Zelensky tweeted, “Next time I will try to reschedule the war to talk to Mario Draghi at a time that suits him.”