Among the earliest memories I hold dear there is one of my elementary school teacher and her yearly class on the chronology of events that occurred in Lithuania. From the very first occurrence of Lituae in written in the year 1009 to 1990-91 when Lithuania led the Soviet Empire to its demise, she would pick a day of national importance to tell the story of a country that resisted. Such emphasis on collective reminiscence must have been as much of a moral duty as the freeing to speak openly after decades behind the iron curtain. After all, oppressor was a con liberator, silence was salvation and ignorance was the utmost virtue.
It irritates me a great deal when one claims to be proud to be a national (Lithuanian, French, Russian - you name it). Nationality is arbitrary. And one cannot be proud of what is given, merely of what has been achieved by one’s individual efforts, by its very own definition (thank you, Ayn Rand). Yet, the newly independent state I happen to be born and grew up in equals context that shaped not only my inner nature and relationship with both (my)self and the rest, but also the perception on endless odds and hazards. Hence, I yearn likewise to tell a story of a nearly unknown yet anticonformiste country that resisted.
To my humble understanding, Lithuania and most notably Lithuanians can be comprehended through two major pillars: (1) a long history of statehood or the « myth » of the ancient Baltic tribe, arguably speaking the oldest surviving indo-European language - the very last pagans of Europe - who once ruled the largest medieval European state stretching all the way from the Baltic to the Black Sea and (2) collective trauma unleashed by 50 years of Soviet occupation, worse still, exacerbated by international ignorance and attempts to shake off the shackles of the homo sovieticus.



