By Kamile Vaupsaite
Three days ago members of the newly founded Oxford University Lithuanian Society gathered in a small underground room at St Hilda’s College to celebrate the Lithuanian Independence Day. It was warm outside and it felt even warmer down in the basement, for although heat has a tendency to go up, the Lithuanians are anything but cold people. Especially when it comes to the celebration of one's roots.
After a brief introductory speech by Emilija Beinortaite, all Lithuanians joined in to sing the Lithuanian National Anthem.
(...)
Let your sons draw their strength
From our past experience,
our lips went, and as all wishes come true on this magical day, we did sound, with our trembling and jarring voices, like the legendary wolf of Gediminas' dream.
After a brief introductory speech by Emilija Beinortaite, all Lithuanians joined in to sing the Lithuanian National Anthem.
(...)
Let your sons draw their strength
From our past experience,
our lips went, and as all wishes come true on this magical day, we did sound, with our trembling and jarring voices, like the legendary wolf of Gediminas' dream.
Gediminas was one of our dukes. In 1323, after an exhausting day of hunting, he fell asleep in a valley, dreamt about a howling iron wolf and was told to build the city of Vilnius. The howls, according to the soothsayer Lizdeika, were indicative of the great future of the city, of its fame resounding far and wide. And thus we, the Oxford Lithuanians, shook the windowless room at St Hilda's and made those above us aware that a) the ancient wolf of Gediminas' dream has come into being, and b) it has also multiplied itself. So the fame spreads – for the good or bad of Lithuania.
When our wolf-like voices dissolved in the air, the front stage was taken up by Donatas Kupciunas, a history student at Jesus college. He gave an insightful lecture on the causes, conditions and consequences of the events in 1918, the year in which Lithuania has gained independence for the first time. Sitting at the table in a pensive manner, Donatas reminded one of Algimantas Cekuolis, a Lithuanian writer and journalist, famous for his eponymous Sunday afternoon talks on TV. Like him, Donatas did not intrude his views upon the listener, but focused on facts. And the facts brought him to a factual conclusion that the Lithuanian independence was a 'miracle'. The Lithuanian flag behind his back, with its yellow-for-light, green-for-nature and red-for-blood stripes, was a clear indication that miracles do happen.
The evening continued with the performances by other sons and daughters of Lithuania: first me on the electric keyboard, then the brothers Juozas and Andrius Vaicenaviciai. As they were joined by Marius Vaicekauskas, their almost relative-by-surname, the family duo became a trio. Or rather a quartet, for the performers used more instruments than their number reasonably allowed. The sound of voices mingled with the voices of the guitar, violin and keyboard. But nobody howled.
The evening continued with the performances by other sons and daughters of Lithuania: first me on the electric keyboard, then the brothers Juozas and Andrius Vaicenaviciai. As they were joined by Marius Vaicekauskas, their almost relative-by-surname, the family duo became a trio. Or rather a quartet, for the performers used more instruments than their number reasonably allowed. The sound of voices mingled with the voices of the guitar, violin and keyboard. But nobody howled.
The evening concluded with a warm thank you from the audience, and everyone promised to meet again in March, on Pancake Day. The half-formal commemoration at St. Hilda’s was followed by a less formal gathering at Karolis Bauza's house. And, contrary to all expectations, the wolf pups of Oxford did not start howling as the moon rose. We turned into robins and continued chirping well into the night.