A Short History of the Banya - and how it arrived in London

Madeleine Cuckson explores the steamy history of the Russian bathhouse

Olga of Kiev ordering revenge for her husband's death, by burning the Drevlians alive. Image from Ethan Pollock’s Without the Banya We Would Perish.

In 1113, a monk named Andrew wrote in The Primary Chronicle of his travels around the areas that would become Russia. Andrew observed that banya goers “make of the act not a mere washing but a veritable torment”. It is clear from early on that international interpretations of the banya have often been misinformed. From marital rituals, to the legacies of peasants and Tsarinas alike who have given birth there, the banya is an enduring, uniting pillar of Russian identity. Evolving medical opinion around bathing has allowed the institution to be viewed as a healthy, progressive practice — partly thanks to Empress Catherine the Great of Russia, who ruled from 1762-1796.

Catherine defended the banya against international claims of its ‘backwardness’ and instead used it as a vehicle to expand Russia’s economy and power, through the health of the whole population. It was not until the eighteenth century that hygiene became the focus of the Imperial Russian state and herein, banyas became a cornerstone of urban social life. Perhaps key to the banya’s legacy is its resistance to modernisation — a centuries-long craft that is testament to Russia’s unwavering cultural integrity and individuality. 

The precise date of the banya’s creation is not known, but what is known is that its inception predates Russia. Around 440 BCE, Herodotus wrote in Histories about the people living to the north of the Black Sea (which would later be part of the Russian Empire), that “The Scythians… produce smoke and give off a vapor such as no steam bath in Greece could surpass”. One of the earliest historical events involving a banya is accredited to Saint Olga of Kiev, a regent of Kievan Rus’ who ruled on behalf of her son from 945 to 960, after the murder of her husband, Igor of Kiev, by the Drevlian tribe. Olga avenged her husband’s death — after the Drevlians murdered Igor they asked Olga to marry the prince of their tribe. She welcomed their visit, but before their meeting she invited them to bathe in a banya, in keeping with marriage traditions of the time. Upon their entering of the banya, Olga commanded it be set alight.

Catherine the Great, one of the greatest proponents of the virtues of the banya.

During Catherine the Great’s reign, to be a medical professional who recommended regular bathing was a cutting edge point of view. In 1766, Catherine received a letter from a renowned Portuguese doctor, Sanches, who claimed that “It is extremely necessary to bring banyas to greater use, as the safest protection against many illnesses and as a means for the strengthening of the human body”. With this in mind, new laws were passed on the use of banyas: they were now to be viewed as a source of health, not revenue for the state. Sanches claimed that ancient civilisations had years since recognised bathing as essential to health, and that it was the barbarians of Europe who had lost this art and common sense in Western Europe’s Middle Ages. Sanches published rules and guidance on using the banya in a way which was safe, he also wrote on how to build canals to supply clean water, with a focus on maximising health benefits instead of revenue for the state. Used correctly by mothers with their newborn children, Sanches purported that the banya could address the issue of infant mortality in the Russian Empire. Sanches won over the opinions of some medical professionals, but changing the opinions of the population at large was more complicated, the banya had become known as a place of licentiousness, with prostitution commonplace. 

“The end of the nineteenth century was something of a golden age for the banya...”

In nineteenth-century Russia, the challenge faced in getting people to bathe was not the same as the European’s, whose challenge was that the lower-class did not bathe. In Russia it was quite the opposite: encouraging medical professionals and bureaucrats to use the banya was most difficult. One non-Russian wrote in the 1830s that only “lowly Russians” practiced “boil[ing] their skins in steam and perspiration” because they did not “enjoy the blessing of clean linen”. Under a new decree for Moscow of 1846, women and men were no longer allowed to bathe at the same time in the banya. Stricter rules were informed by accounts of impropriety, and in 1841 when a group of soldiers fell ill after bathing, thirty-five commercial banyas were inspected for cleanliness. This investigation found banyas severely overcrowded with people trying to wash their clothes (which also brought disease) and sections for the ‘simple people’ had no soap - bathers often rinsed off in an outdoor space. In addition to this, water was often brought in from nearby rivers with waste water sent back to the same river. These factors all contributed to continued contempt towards the banya from the elite.

Despite the grievances of the higher classes, by the mid-nineteenth century there was a ‘banya boom’. In 1833, St. Petersburg had twenty-nine commercial banyas for approximately 450,000 people, and in Moscow the number of banyas increased at a quicker pace than the population. This sudden boom was in part due to Napoleon’s invasion in 1812, which brought with it an upsurge of nationalism. After a period of Westernisation under Peter the Great, Russians yearned to return to Slavic traditions — harking back to Russian folklore, the banya became a point of national pride. 

The end of the nineteenth century was something of a golden age for the banya, as medical opinion began to recognise that the health benefits could be an advantage for the whole Empire. As well as the use of traditional banyas by the peasantry, luxurious banyas began to be built more frequently, catering to the elite. The Great Reforms of the 1860s (most commonly recognised for Tsar Alexander II’s emancipation of the serfs) indirectly changed Russian medical ideas about the banya. There were new opportunities for physicians who were no longer tied to the military or bureaucracy, allowing them to become more acquainted with the lives of peasants and their use of the banya. Indeed, the title of Ethan Pollock’s book, ‘Without the banya we would perish’, comes from folk idioms recounted by doctors.

“Supplying people with efficient banyas to maintain cleanliness was the socialist state’s responsibility...”

With Western Europe previously discouraging bathing, at the end of the nineteenth century they were back in fashion, lauding Russia’s heritage and their progressiveness in the face of Western Europeans who had rejected it’s goodness. A range of texts were now been published on the banya, including in the journal Physician (Vrach) and The Bulletin of Public Hygiene and Practical Medicine, where it was claimed that anything from influenza, typhus and typhoid, to rheumatism, emphysema and obesity could be cured by the banya. Banyas now, on the whole, seemed to be modernised to meet the standards of medical professionals and by 1895 in Moscow, there was a banya for every 16,250 citizens — this same year saw 2.34 million bathing sessions. 

Despite new regulations, there were still calls from medical professionals in the late nineteenth century to improve bathing conditions — new ventilation systems needed fitting, furniture should be cleaned more regularly and fire hazards needed addressing by ensuring all banyas were made from brick. The main concern for quality inspectors was prostitution, which (on the whole) banya owners refused to admit knowledge of, as well as practices like blood letting, which barbers were conducting without trained physicians in the banya. It was suggested by Doctor V.V. Rudin, at the time, that mobile banyas could be used as a more efficient and safer way of bathing — these proved useful, especially to soldiers on the Western Front during WW2. 

In late Imperial Russia, the banya was entwined in Russian identity and the rapid rate of changes in society threatened this identity - the banya seemed to be a vessel in which a fragmented empire could be united. During late imperialism, the banya was a cornerstone of Russianness in an increasingly urbanized country — used not only for its health benefits, but for socialising whilst simultaneously retaining anonymity. 

Alexander Nikolsky’s Leningrad Banya. Image credit: USSR in Construction, 11 (November), 1931.

With the second Russian Revolution in October 1917, personal hygiene came under state control and with this, banya culture was circumscribed to adapt. The banya was no longer a multifaceted place: it served only the purpose of hygiene, and supplying people with efficient banyas to maintain cleanliness was the state’s responsibility. In 1918, banyas shifted from being privately owned to being run by town executive committees dealing with communal affairs. Muscovites rarely bathed, on average, at most once every three months — but socialism required a cultured populus, which in turn included cleanliness and therefore the banya. Moscow was viewed as the model socialist city regarding banyas, though in 1938, there were still only 42 banyas for over 4 million people. One of the most respected banyas in Moscow at the time was on Usachev Street — its superiority masked just how hard it really was to build a banya in the USSR. Under socialism, city banyas remained overcrowded, practical places, but rural banyas retained their affiliation with spirituality, birth and rebirth - the rural banya was the embodiment of the ‘second mother’ of Russia. 

Soviet architecture birthed the circular banya, proposed by Alexander Nikolsky, which became a symbol of the world as a machine, built for efficiency, with formulaic bathing choreography. This banya would have enormous dimensions and the capacity to allow 500 people to use its facilities every hour, like the production line in a modern factory. The building would be capped with a huge glass dome, like that of a cathedral - this dome covered the pool in the winter and could be opened in the summer months. Though Nikolsky’s 1927 banya prototype was never realised, it stood as a collectivised utopian piece of modern architecture — it symbolised how easily hygiene could be upheld with the correct buildings and technology in which to facilitate this. Between 1927 and 1930, a simplified version of Nikolsky’s banya was built, with the capacity to welcome 2,400 visits a day - a fraction of the original intention.

Nikolsky’s plan for an unrealised circular banya, 1927; original drawing. Image credit: the Central St Petersburg State Historical Archive

A plan for a round banya, by the architect Apresyan. Image from Ethan Pollock’s Without the Banya We Would Perish.

In the late 1960s, the possibility of ‘home bathing’ arose, which would put far less stress on urban banyas. If banyas were to be freed from the impetus to clean the population then they could become social places of relaxation. However, this alternative was not openly welcomed by the public, who were extremely accustomed to using the banya by this point. In the early 1970s a medical article appeared, written by a doctor in the journal Tourist. The headline read: ‘The Banya… Is it Still Necessary?’ This doctor concluded that bathers still favoured the banya over home showers because of its health benefits which “invigorate and rejuvenate”. 

On August 17th, 1991, Vladimir Kriuchkov, head of the Committee for State Security, invited his Red Army conspirators to the banya, a place for confidential, frank discussions. Here, a plan was made, and the following day a delegation was sent to Gorbachev, asking him to allow the Committee of the State of Emergency to assume control of the country. Gorbachev declined, and the conspirators proceeded anyway, resulting in the failed August Coup.

The collapse of the USSR meant that no centralised state took responsibility for banyas anymore, allowing them to be privatised. In the post-communist regime, the banya was an unproblematic cornerstone of Russianness, and its survival through the Imperial and communist periods made it neither too modern nor too archaic. Now that good hygiene was not a circumscribed part of being a good citizen, bathing could be done at home and the banya could be appreciated for its spiritual nourishing rather than ability to clean.

A sign advertising Schewzik’s Russian Vapour Baths, set up in London’s East End Jewish neighbourhood in the late 19th century. Image credit: The Jewish Museum London.

The History of the Banya in the UK

England had a notable fascination with the banya in the nineteenth century. In 1800, when the banya was yet to be accepted as a healthy practice by the Russian elite, Reverend William Tooke, a fellow of the Royal Society, pushed for the building of Russian baths by the government. Tooke was familiar with Sanches’ publications on the banya and believed in its health benefits. In one of Tooke’s best selling books he purports that the peasantry of Russia have to thank “their longevity, their robust state of health, their little disposition to certain mortal diseases, and their happy cheerful temper, mostly to these baths”. He went as far as to recommend that these baths should be built “at all the public hospitals in Great Britain, for the prevention, alleviation and cure of numerous disorders of the human frame”.

Archival research uncovered out by London’s Banya No. 1 director Andrei Fomin found that in 1888, five Russian bathhouses were operating in East London. The origins of this began in Odessa during the 1820s when violent anti-Jewish pogroms took place after rumours that Jewish people were implicated in the murder of Orthodox patriarch Gregory V in Constantinople. In the following years, pogroms became relentless due to tensions between Orthodox and Jewish communities - with the frequent burning of homes and businesses. Forced to flee the Russian Empire, by 1880, an estimated 46,000 Russian Jews had come to London and in the 1900s this tripled, creating a large community in East London. Soon, kosher supermarkets began to open, synagogues and Russian bathhouses — the streets of East London were bustling, filled with traders.

An early 20th century advertisement in Yiddish for Schewzik’s baths: '… freedom from all your troubles, pain; become fresh and healthy with the best masseurs in London…' Image from East London album (Peter Marcam, 1992)

Though London’s banyas held an important social role, they were mostly used for religious reasons — men used the banya after work on Fridays, before going to the synagogue and observing the Sabbath. One of London’s most well known banyas was at number 86 on Brick Lane: ‘Schewzik’s Russian Vapour Baths’, named after their owner Benjamin Schewzik, and situated directly opposite the synagogue. The banya’s sign, which is now preserved at the Jewish Museum in London, reads: ‘Keep Fit & Well by Regular Visits to the Real Russian Vapour Baths. Best Massage in London’. The sign was retrieved from the site of the baths when they were being demolished by the son of a former caretaker, Sidney Gould and donated to the Jewish Museum in 2002. Unfortunately, all of London’s original nineteenth century banyas were destroyed during the war.

London’s banya scene now has multiple options, from luxurious bathing to wholly traditional and western takes on the banya. London’s New Docklands Russian Banya & Steam Baths is a slightly different UK variation of the banya, with origins in practicality and hygiene. Opened in 1977 as the ‘Docklands Steam Club’ to facilitate the bathing of dock workers in East London’s Canning Town after a long day's work, bathers would shave, wash and launder their clothes - the veteran bathers of the Docklands still regularly attend on Tuesdays. Docklands has a tight connection with the boxing community of East London and welcomes the full breadth of London’s multicultural communities. It was not until 2009, however, that they reopened as ‘New Docklands Russian Banya & Steam Baths’, with the banya as its focus. Docklands has a purely DIY approach to ‘banya’, truly encouraging ancient traditions of communal bathing - co-workers, old friends and new friends take it in turns to give one another soap massages and scrubs; every banya experience can be curated yourself. The popularity of this simple yet charming banya in Canning Town is testament to the banya’s international appeal. 

Through its tumultuous history with an ever evolving reputation, the banya is as much a practice which has facilitated the analysis of changing ideology as it has been to observe an ancient and enduring traditional practice, averse to modernisation. What is evident is that even though there are now simpler alternatives to the banya, people still want the banya and most likely always will. The banya is undoubtedly unique, yet serves as part of a much larger whole in the history of international steaming, from the Finnish Sauna to the Turkish Baths - communal bathing is part of humankind’s history. 

Sources:

Ethan Pollock, Without the Banya we would Perish, Oxford University Press (2019)

Sidney Eric Dement, ‘Architectural details from Moscow’s Sandunov banyas in M.A. Bulgakov’s “Master and Margarita”’, The Slavic and East European Journal, vol. 60, no. 1 (Spring 2016).

Tijana Vujosevic, ‘The Soviet Banya and the Mass Production of Hygiene’, Architectural Histories, 1(1): 26 (2013 ), pp. 1-15

Andrei Fomin (Director of Banya No.1) 

The Jewish Museum London

Trustees at London’s New Docklands Russian Banya & Steam Baths 

Madeleine Cuckson is an English Literature and Drama graduate from The University of Manchester. Since finishing her studies, Madeleine has worked in both the post-production film and experiential design industry - private and charity sector. Madeleine has a specific interest in Russia’s arts and cultural history with a current focus on performance and the Ballets Russes.

Related event: WITHOUT THE BANYA WE WOULD PERISH

Wednesday, 3 February 2021, 6:00 pm GMT on Zoom

Ethan Pollock, professor of History and Slavic studies at Brown University and author of the first English-language history of the Russian bathhouse, tells the history of this ubiquitous and enduring institution. He explores the bathhouse's role in Russian identity, following public figures (from Catherine the Great to Rasputin to Putin), writers (such as Chekhov and Dostoevsky), foreigners (including Mark Twain and Casanova), and countless other men and women into the banya to discover the meanings they have found there.