Hetalia is censored as a joke, I promise.
I wrote about this on my tumblr, but some time ago, I was involved in a collaborative zine centering around historical H*talia—The issue in question was focusing on Asia, and as a diehard Mongoliaboo (joke) (thanks Dad), I knew I had to be involved.
Below is a link to the zine, as well as the poem I wrote for said zine (alongside the illustration that goes with the poem). The part of the cover I did (it was collaborative) will be uploaded to my main 2D gallery.
WILD
I
She’s had many human names in her life.
Ones that she’s chosen for herself
and others that were picked for her.
Wild Horse
is her new Russian name.
More fitting than the one given to her in Mandarin
or the one given at birth.
Mongolia will always prefer Hoelun, though.
(And will always miss Temur.)
No matter how much Russia tries
to enthusiastically be
her new best friend and ally,
or how many vetoes he threatens for her
in the UN,
he cannot replace the mother of the boy
who made her who she is.
II
While learning to drive, she almost crashes the car.
It’s fun to be an old lady, pretending to hate technology
and not understand it.
And it’s hilarious to see Russia scream.
It’s just like old times,
where she’d pick him up and toss him into the air,
into the muddy Russian spring
(he does not remember these moments so fondly).
It’s strange to see him try so hard to be friendly.
To do good by her and her people.
She’s convinced he wants something from her.
Perhaps to rule her the way China did, de jure.
Or alternatively, de facto.
The Russia of old would have already shown his hand by now.
It’s confusing.
Mongolia grew up in a world where
blood was shown on people’s hands.
This is a world where it only shows up when they smile.
On their teeth.
III
China’s teeth remain sharp as ever.
Not that she ever bears them.
Not that Mongolia ever sees her.
She’s busy with her own revolutions and growth,
the destruction of her history.
(she renames herself too,
but much more permanently.
Spring Swallow isn’t common enough.
Her new name is People’s Struggle.
Mongolia thinks it’s pretentious.)
China dances around their disputes and issues,
the desire for Mongolia to be under her banner,
on days where she deigns to talk to her.
Is it even her desire?
To have the borders redrawn?
Hard to tell, with her bosses
calling the shots.
When it should be the other way around,
Mongolia thinks.
She’s never called anyone,
no human no nothing,
her boss.
Not even Temujin.
The very thought, the very knowledge,
that China is doing this now,
is like a great wolf submitting to the lamb.
A spring swallow speaks its mind.
Singing its song of truth to all.
The struggle of the people is silent.
Under the weight of oppression.
IV
Russia talks down Chinggis Khan,
a boy Mongolia saw grow up into a warmonger
a boy who made Mongolia grow up into an empire,
into something worthwhile
He was a reactionary, an evil man. Russia lectures
like he knows better.
Evil, perhaps, as all warmongers are.
Evil, no, as all men are.
I exist because of him. She reminds Russia,
wondering if maybe
he’s still sore about their past
(unlikely).
Does that make me evil?
Does that make me reactionary?
He says he doesn’t appreciate her nationalism.
Nor the new statue of Chinggis,
which can be seen for a few miles around.
She at least agrees that the statue is gaudy.
Temujin wouldn’t have liked it.
But he also wouldn’t have liked this foreign influence.
Which was starting to feel more like manipulation.
An evil man. Many men are evil. She’s known a few.
Whether or not she justifies the ones who have helped her
is none of her concern.
Though it is Russia’s, apparently.
Stupid brat.
V
The Cyrillic alphabet is uncomfortable.
In the same way that learning Manchurian was
uncomfortable.
She communicates this
and gets hit with the nationalism talk again.
She supposes, in some sick way, this is recompense.
Jurched was uncomfortable in learning Mongolian.
China was the same,
after all.
The ballpoint pen Mongolia uses is smooth
under her strokes.
Агриппина.
She writes the name with some detachment.
If she were really a wild horse,
she would have already kicked several of the people around her
to death.
That sort of behavior isn’t welcomed anymore,
unfortunately.
The age of war remains,
but one must wager it secretly.
Behind a promise of civility.
Rather than by brute honesty.
Mongolia has always been as subtle
as an arrow through an eye.
VI
Siberia still understands her the best
even in times where they are growing most different.
Their cultures seeming to thread apart rather than together
as they used to.
Like two falcons flying in different directions,
to separate hunters.
They split vodka and yogurt together in her yurt,
like they used to as teenagers.
Though now they carry body fat in places previously free of it.
Though now there are aches in their body where there were none.
Though now one can see age in their eyes, once youthful.
You do well not to trust him, he’s a bastard. He tells her.
Yes, but so are you. She snorts,
drinking her vodka,
cooking her meat over her fire.
He asks her what the UN is like,
All talk, no action. Hot air.
Everyone pretending to be civil and peaceful.
He asks her what she’s doing there, then.
Showing who I am.
Or who others want her to be.
Or at least, who I can become.
VII
Russia and China can use her
as an excuse to fight all they like.
As a bargaining chip or a threat.
Mongolia will continue just as she always has.
Living the same way she did years ago.
Centuries ago.
When the snow was fresh and the rivers felt eternal.
When her name was still Not this one and her brother
was still living.
Taking care of her horses, her camels.
Her little falcons.
Alongside the growing modern world.
Her radio playing folk songs and
garage bands,
swooning classical music.
Beside her new motorcycle she’s wanted
since the 50s;
parked right next to her horse,
which she learned to ride before she
properly knew how to walk.
In the days when she didn’t know
if she would have enough to eat.
When she and her brother
would sneak off and follow the stars,
onto the endless steppe,
gazing into the Eternal Mother Sky,
and wonder about their futures.
Will I live to see adulthood?
Will I live to see power?
Will I live to see the world change?
Mongolia turns her boots towards the east.