The Tamizdat Project.
Our take
The Tamizdat Project unearths the incredible underground movement of banned literature in the Soviet Union during the 20th century, revealing a tapestry of resilience and ingenuity. In a captivating piece by Sarah Chatta, archived by The New York Times, readers discover how millions of forbidden books were smuggled into the regime's grasp, cleverly concealed in food tins, tampon boxes, and even tucked into children's diapers.
In a world where the ease of access to information is often taken for granted, the story of the Tamizdat project is a stirring reminder of the lengths to which individuals will go to preserve the written word and, by extension, their freedom. Sarah Chatta's recent piece in the New York Times sheds light on this audacious effort to smuggle millions of banned books into the Soviet Union, revealing a covert operation that was part literature, part resistance, and part espionage. It’s a narrative that resonates deeply, especially when considering the current climate surrounding censorship and the suppression of ideas. The parallels are not lost. Just as those brave souls navigated a landscape riddled with ideological landmines, so too do contemporary thinkers challenge the status quo, whether it’s through Just curious, what tools do you actually use to read/listen to content in your target language before you're fluent? or exploring the untold stories of faith with What Happened to Jesus’ Twelve Disciples After the Bible—It Wasn’t Pretty.
Tamizdat, a portmanteau of "tamiz" (meaning “beyond the borders”) and "izdat" (short for “publishing”), encapsulates the spirit of defiance against oppressive regimes. This covert operation was more than just a logistical feat; it was a cultural lifeline for those yearning for intellectual nourishment in a climate that sought to stifle dissent. The ingenuity involved—hiding books in food tins, tampon boxes, and even a child's diaper—speaks to an almost feral creativity that thrives in the face of adversity. It reminds us that literature is not merely ink on paper but a vessel of ideas, a catalyst for change, and a challenge to authoritarianism. As we reflect on this, we might consider how we engage with literature today: Are we merely consumers, or are we active participants in a larger dialogue?
The act of smuggling books also raises profound questions about the nature of knowledge and its distribution. In a time when the internet offers a deluge of content—much of it unfiltered and unverified—the Tamizdat project serves as a reminder of the value of curated knowledge. It underscores the importance of discernment in our consumption of ideas, a theme echoed in other thought-provoking pieces like Interstitium, Apoplast.. The tamizdat movement was not just about defiance; it was about preserving the integrity of thought. How do we curate our own intellectual environments? Are we aware of the potential blind spots created by algorithms, or do we actively seek out diverse perspectives?
As we look to the future, the legacy of the Tamizdat project prompts us to consider the broader implications of censorship and the flow of ideas in our society. Are we prepared to defend the sanctity of the written word as fiercely as those who risked everything to ensure its survival? The stories of resistance remind us that the fight for free expression is ongoing, and it is up to each of us to keep the dialogue alive. With that in mind, how will you engage with the world of ideas? Will you burrow in sideways and squirt some water at the nearest assumption? The choice is yours, but remember: the razor clam of knowledge is often lurking just beneath the surface, waiting for someone curious enough to uncover it. Stay spooty.
An interesting NY Times piece by Sarah Chatta (archived):
Millions of banned books were smuggled into the Soviet Union in the 20th century — often in small batches, hidden in deliberately mislabeled containers, packed in food tins or tampon boxes and, in at least one case, tucked into a child’s diaper. […] Published in Russian and other languages and known as “tamizdat,” the books were part of an audacious American venture, part literature, part propaganda and part spycraft, to destabilize the authoritarian Soviet regime from within.
Over the past several years, Hunter College in Manhattan has become home to a library of these remarkable books, thousands of which were once banned in the Soviet Union and elsewhere in Eastern Europe, and hundreds more that are censored in Russia today. The library is run by the nonprofit Tamizdat Project, which now possesses one of the largest special collections of contraband Russian literature in the world. The library is open to visitors upon request, and this month White Rabbit Books on the Upper West Side will open a new section of its store devoted to selling old and new contraband Russian literature curated by the project.
The Tamizdat Project is the brainchild of Yakov Klots, a soft-spoken, unassuming literary scholar who teaches at Hunter. He chose the name from a Russian word meaning “published abroad,” which, along with samizdat (“to self-publish”), was one of the two main methods of evading Soviet book censorship. The Iron Curtain, he noted, “wasn’t so iron after all,” and the books seeped through. Mr. Klots has assembled the library bit by bit, recruiting his students to build the metal IKEA bookshelves and soliciting book donations from friends and strangers, including the former U.S. ambassador to Russia, John Beyrle. […]
Mr. Klots grew up with contraband Russian literature in the Soviet city of Perm, near the Ural Mountains. His mother, he said, “would take a train to Moscow just to stop by an apartment of one dissident who would give her Solzhenitsyn.” Then she would stay up late into the night duplicating the borrowed book, page by page. “One of my childhood memories is my mother typing something at night and me falling asleep to the sound of the typewriter,” he said. […]
New York City is a fitting locale for the work of the Tamizdat Project. For most of the 20th century it was home to the publishers, academics, activists and philanthropists who saw the potential of contraband books during and even before the Cold War.
The first novel officially banned in the Soviet Union, “We” — a dystopian vision of totalitarianism by Yevgeny Zamyatin — was published twice in New York before it could be released at home. Mr. Zamyatin managed to send his manuscript abroad, and E.P. Dutton released it, in English, in 1924. More than 60 years later, when Soviet authorities lifted the ban, some of the country’s citizens had already read it. Mr. Zamyatin’s Russian-language original had already been printed in 1952 by Chekhov Publishing House in New York. “It was just a pure detective story, how every single book got published as tamizdat,” Mr. Klots said. […]
As the scope of Russian censorship has widened in recent years, the history of New York’s Soviet-era banned-book publishers has gained new relevance. “Even if these people are no longer around,” Mr. Klots said, they “laid the foundation for a project like the Tamizdat Project to exist and to build on their legacy.”
One of the Tamizdat Project’s most significant donations came from the family of Edward Kline, a philanthropist who led a double life in New York. Most knew him as the millionaire chief executive of the Kline Brothers department store chain, but the Soviet human rights movement knew him as a chief advocate and underwriter of its publishing work. The Tamizdat Project has started to reveal the extent of Mr. Kline’s activities. Among his many endeavors, he acquired and revived Chekhov Publishing House, releasing what became canonical 20th-century Russian literature: original works by Nadezhda Mandelstam, Lydia Chukovskaya and Joseph Brodsky.
I recommend reading the rest of it, with accounts of Kline’s activities and his modern successors; also, there are good photos.
Read on the original site
Open the publisher's page for the full experience