My father is one of the lost ones, they say. The generation who was born to the evacuees, the generation who learned to hide their Karelian background, their culture, their language.
His generation learned the hard way.
Many were bullied at school, relentlessly, cut with words and fists. Hit on knuckles by teachers who told them; In Finland we speak Finnish, not Russian mongrel language.
Many were taught by their parents: It is better to hide, be Karelian only inside our own house, if at all. Do not speak our language. Speak Finnish.
They learned the silence, and the lies, and the shame.
My father is one of the lost generation, they say.
People who were forced to abandon their language and culture for opportunities and peace, for showing “united front” of so-called “Finnish tribes”. My father doesn’t think Karelian is it’s own language, despite it being his first language. He says he has forgotten it, but he speaks it when he drinks enough, or is tired enough. He understands words that I have only now started to gain. He says Karelians have died out, despite being one. He repeats all the lies he learned in his teens.
I don’t think the lost generation is as lost as they think they are.
I think that many, like my father, are just bullied kids who know where they came from, but who no one told where they are welcome to. They are not lost to us. Not yet, and in their memory, buried deep, there is still knowledge that they could give us, if we just show light to these lost ones, and tell them: It is alright now. You can come home. We are here.
I hope that the more we learn and use Karelian, the more we can support each other. Show that it is fine to be visible and proud, and to claim back our language and our culture, to be shared with others again, but this time with our rules. Not only for the sake of those who will come, but also those who are.
I hope my father will find his way out of the shame and lies he learned the hard way.
I hope the lost ones come home.
