Abdurashid Nurmuradov
The Bloody Veil

The bloody veil

The novel-requiem "The Bloody veil" by well-known Uzbek writer Abdurashid Nurmuradov represents a truthful and bitter study of one of the most dramatic pages in our history – the Afghan war. The reader’s attention is drawn to the frank, reckless, but stirring the conscience of every honest man, stories about the day-to-day of this terrible war, about the afflicted Afghan warriors.

The writer is first and foremost interested in the moral side of the problem: war as a consequence of the unclean political game, war and youth, the war and the failed hopes, war and the hardening of the soul....

The book, intended for a wide range of readers, will not leave among them indifferent.

Translation from Russian by Mirigul Palwaniyazova

©Abdurashid Nurmuradov

© PPCH, 2023

Dear Reader!

The book you hold in your hands was written twenty-seven years ago and translated into many languages

A man is great in his memory. And human memory to some extent shapes public opinion, which makes conclusions from the mistakes made by this society, prepares the basis for the tomorrow to be more desirable.

The author called his work a novel-requiem. Indeed, the work from the beginning to the end is filled with great sorrow. It is felt not only with respect to those who died in the Afghan war, but also with regard to the surviving soldiers, who all their subsequent lives are forced to carry the cross of martyrs for their bloodshed.

War and war participants in different times were written differently. The written narrative of the events of the Afghan war cannot be compared to the works written about the Second World War. Soldiers of the Second World War died without thinking, defending and defending their home, their family. For them, war has become the meaning of life. There was no time for reflection here, for them, death in the name of the Motherland was the only right decision. The soldiers who fought in Afghanistan have a completely different perception of the war.

If in the past man was required to serve the faith and truth of the leading social ideology, today this ideology must serve man. Participants in modern bloody wars with a difficult character, it is impossible to write simply and formally.

The expression, "there are neither great nor small wars, all wars require very great sacrifices, they take human lives", which, along the lines of the entire work of the Bloody Flies, is suffered by the author and, one can say, is pacifist. At the heart of this statement lies the idea that nothing can justify the meaningless death of a person in a war.

In "The bloody veil" thoughts and experiences, repentance and protest, images of the most severe scenes of torture, which were the result of a destructive and unjust war, are raised to the rank of a pathos. Social, racial, biological, mental, psychological and psychological characteristics inherent in a person and considered a special product of social relations are correctly represented on the background of military events. There is no main character in the work, as is seen in traditional wars novels. It contains memories of more than 100 Afghan soldiers in the form of artistic narratives. In each of these memories are reflected the indelible terrible traces of this damned war.

The heroes of the novel are young people who, not by their will and desire, found themselves on the path of war. When they remember the deaths, the murders of innocent people, they lose self-control, and this ignorance alienates them from normal social foundations.

There have already been works in literature that told us about the "lost generation". This topic was also addressed by E. Hemingway and E. М. Remark. Abdurashid Nurmuradov in his work gives the image of representatives of the generation of the 80s of the 20th century, who under the influence of guilt before the dead alienate themselves and from society. Relying on the specific fates of people, the author in an emotional form showed how tragic the fate of the representatives of the military generation is.

In Uzbek literature until today did not reflect the fate of the participants of the Afghan war. Readers who lived near people with an unusual military fate were not familiar with the works of art about them. They were in ignorance of what was happening in fates, for them known and unknown people. The work "The bloody veil" is only so attractive that it fills this empty niche formed in artistic literature. Objectively and emotionally, every element, every feat, every tragic death in this war is reflected. In particular, this is the image of the mother's sorrow for the dead son, the death of the father due to the betrayal of relatives, the unrestricted aspiration to life of Kolya, who has no living place on the body, the suicide of Leonid, left without his legs, the fate of Sergey, Kadir, Ahmad, who die from the bomb explosion. This is a personal unique and psychological state and therefore has the all-absorbing power of empathy.

The image of death scenes in a detailed form serves to show the horror of the war: "Two human heads lay in the dust. Yes, they were lying next door. Per they were sleeping with each other. Their faces were turned up. Her hair burned and shed blood. Around the dust lay a hand cut off from the shoulder, in a word, large pieces of human mash. Everything is covered. The falling intestines resembled snakes. The exploding grenade split the human body into pieces".

In the scenes, which are depicted in the work "The bloody veil", the experiences of people whose souls have completely changed the war are revealed. All the tragedy of the war is in such scenes that they get their high purpose to be alarm-bell, warning what war is. Only a mentally unnatural person can rejoice that he has killed a person. Only war can turn a man into a murderer of unknown people. Only war can make a man who has not been able to give his life to someone else think that he has the right to take another’s life. This is the highest point of the spiritual crisis.

The novel retrospectively depicts the life of former warriors who cannot live a peaceful life, they do not have immunity to injustice, sometimes manifested in interpersonal relationships. Why so? Because the fate has taken away these guys today and tomorrow, leaving them only the memory of yesterday. This generation demonstrates the ability to live not according to the rules of peaceful life, but by the laws of war, not by the logic of everyday life, and by the requirements of special feelings flowing across their borders. This is the state of the soul of most heroes of the work.

The confession of one of the characters in Gafurjan Yuldashev is remarkable: "Later I came to the categorical conclusion that man comes to this world in order to fight and mercilessly kill his like." The point of view that war, as a phenomenon, can lead to spiritual collapse by changing moral orientations is of immense importance. In another place, combatant Bakhtiyar Asimov clearly expresses the dynamics of his spiritual collapse with the words: "I, before that timid enough, turned into a ruthless warrior, ready to crush and kill. My heart turned into a stone. This stone no longer felt pain or pity. The kindness, like a light smoke, disappeared from him. It is said that man is not born into this white light of evil. I understood it myself. Life has made me evil. In the face of death, I was constantly cheering and angry". This side of the war, despite its small appeal, is of great importance from the point of view of social morality.

In the novel prevails not the image of battle scenes, combat clashes, but the drama of human souls, caused by war, since the picture of fates of the heroes of the novel is in the form of a memory. The writer in relation to Afghan warriors uses the concepts "basmach", "bandit" from the lexicon of the Soviet soldier. All this adds to the novel of naturality.

The work is also significant by the fact that it convincingly affirms the idea that all cruelty always causes cruelty. If the Afghan soldiers treated the captured Soviet soldiers very harshly, then the Soviet troops treated their enemies no less cruelty. In the words of the soldier Habibula Assatullayev, the horrifying scenes of the war are depicted: "At night, the soldiers of our squadron caught two bandits. When the young soldiers led them to the commander of the battalion, the "old" turned them back, bound the prisoners and burned them. They burned for about an hour, but did not burn completely. We covered the remains with branches. Yes, the former man in me was not capable of that". The tongue does not turn to comment on such a picture. The novel-requiem of Abdurashid Nurmuradov on the example of the fate of the characters uncover the corrupt sides of the Soviet system.

In realistic tones is drawn the short-sightedness of the country’s leadership, their disinterest in the fate of people, lack of discipline in the army, moral decline among the management, sales among officers. The sale of weapons by officers for personal gain, the rewarding not of soldiers who did not regret their forces or lives, but of those who bought these awards, the bullying of the new recruits. The heartless attitude of the Soviet bureaucratic machine, the disinterest in human fates with some irony is transmitted in the words of Bakhtiyar Kuchkarov: "…The body of Sasha for fifteen days was kept in the refrigerator for some reason. And there was a turn that was an integral part of our lives". The decisions that were to affect the outcome of many battles were not taken by the field commanders themselves, but by officers who sat somewhere there, in various offices, reducing all the efforts of the fighters to failure and the death of the soldiers.

Now a few words about Abdurashid Nurmuradov. He was born in a large family. There were eleven children in the family. His father, a participant in the Second World War, because of his truthfulness did not get along with the big bosses and lived in narrow conditions.

Since childhood, being a smart and stubborn boy, Abdurashid worked a lot. He was a watcher on a cotton field, an ordinary collective farmer, he drove a tractor. In the army he served in airborne troops. The young man continued to play sport. He was a champion of the military district in sports gymnastics, had the title of master of sports. In addition, Abdurashid became the best sniper of the district.

After serving in the army he went to study at the institute. After graduation, he worked in publishers, magazines and television. At the same time, the creative work did not stop.

The novels "Nobel mukofotiga nоmzod" ("Candydat for the Nobel Prize"), "Kuk тerаklar" ("Green poplars"), "Oq qizlar" ("White Girls") belong to his feather. He is also the author of a TV series of 50 episodes, which tells about the difficult relations between Russia and Turkestan.

Abdurashid Nurmuradov writes a lot about war. His works "Urush bevalari" ("Widows of War"), "Tutash Kalblar" ("Hearts touched") can be called the anthem of fidelity. Because these works reflect the difficult fate of more than a hundred women of many nationalities, who all their lives wait for unreturned husbands from the battlefields. The colorless lives of these women, which are a symbol of devotion, serve as a silent reproach to that cursed war. In the work "Bolalikda otilgan o'q" ("Shot in the child") reflects the fate of the innocent children sentenced by the war to miserable existence and hunger. The missing childhood of these boys serves as an eternal curse to those who lit the fire of war.

In 1993, on the basis of the lives of Afghan warriors, he wrote the novel "Qon Hidi" ("The Smell of Blood"). In it he on a high artistic level, on the example of the life of Wahid, the main character, describes all the complexity of the soul of the person who visited the war in Afghanistan.

Abdurashid, beginning in the second half of the 1980s, began seriously dealing with the problem of the Afghan war. In search of Afghan soldiers, he visited all the republics of the former alliance, began to study the spiritual world in detail, the lives of his heroes. Finally, in 1991, the first edition of the book "The Bloody veil" appeared.

The life of the Afghan war participants for Abdurashid is not only an artistic object, it has become an integral part of his life.

In 1990 he took part in the solemn meeting of the leadership of the former Union, dedicated to the 45th anniversary of the victory over fascist Germany. The President of that country awarded him a nominal watch for creative and practical work related to the fate of Afghan soldiers.

At the same time he meets Hero of the Soviet Union I.Kojedub three times, he helped solve many problems associated with the post-war life arrangement of Afghan soldiers.

Abdurashid meets with the heads of various organizations and employs more than a hundred Afghan soldiers in accordance with their vocation, helps in the registration of benefits when receiving medicines to more than one hundred Afghanistan soldiers. More than twenty Afghan soldiers, with his direct assistance, entered higher education institutions. Another 20 people also received benefits when entering the universities. Some of them helped buy housing.

If we summarize what has been said, we can say that Abdurashid Nurmuradov for a long time dedicated most of his creative and practical activities to Afghan soldiers.

A real reflection of the bitter truth of war will help to form the consciousness of the growing generation.

Kazakhbay Yuldash, professor

Afghanistan…

For decades, it has been at the center of the attention of the global public. For a decade, people around the world have been waiting for information about the bloody events taking place in this much-suffering Afghan land, hoping to find out the truth. However, it was not easy to catch her in the overwhelmed formulations of official messages. But those who tried to hide the truth did not take into account that it will always break its way, overcome all obstacles.

It is no secret that my people suffered enormous losses from this unwanted war, became the victim of a foolish and unfair political game. The Afghan truth was not told from the high tribunes, it is recognized by the burning tears of mothers whose sons became victims of that crazy war, by their bitter murmuring, their mental suffering in the endless black sleepless nights. And most importantly, it will be learned from the narrow stories of those who, by the evil will of politicians, were thrown into the cradle of death and, in spite of everything, avoided it.

In the preface to the novel “Goodbye, weapons” E. Hemingway said, “Those who, incite and wage war, pigs who only think of economic competition and what they can earn from it.” Today we know who is to blame for the Afghan massacre. But we are all guilty, because we were silent, and therefore we were ugly.

The pain for the dead fellow citizens, the feeling of guilt and compassion, the compassion for the loved ones of the deceased guys, all this prompted me to take the pen. And here it is before you the truth of what happened, the truth bitter, heavy, uncovered and undecorated in the reckless stories of ordinary guys who have undergone inhumane trials. Reading them is hard, painful, scary. In order for this to never happen again and ever, we need to fight for an active public position.

Closing your eyes to problems doesn’t mean getting rid of them. “ostrich politics” has not yet benefited anyone. So, my reader, shake your heart in your fist and read, read and think.

The Author

1991 year

THE PAIN LEFT IN THE HEARTS

For a few days, my mother barely moved her legs "No urine, my children. My head turns", she said. First of all, she tried to help us at home. Then she completely followed.

When I came to her after work, she repeated:

– The forces are leaving me, son. I cannot get up. The plane is damned. I always had a headache after he was pollinating the cotton fields we were working on.

I tried to comfort her:

– The chemicals have nothing to do with it. You are probably tired.

Sadly shaking her head, she replied:

– You do not know, son. This is a bad airplane.

Why do I remember my mom’s last days so often? Probably because since the day she came down, our family has left peace. In the hard days of my life, my mother’s broken voice always sounds in my ears: "This is a bad airplane".

From day to day, my mother’s face became more and more pale. In a brigade truck she was taken to the hospital. When we were about to go back, my mom repeated again and again:

– Visit your father more often. Whatever happens, the pressure is high. In those days, my father was in the hospital. My mother told me the disease of father was out of war.

Never in the post-war years the pressure of my father had fallen below two hundred. As soon as the bad days began, he had to go to the hospital to at least somehow ease his suffering. My soul was worried. After working for two days on a warp cleaner, I went to the brigadier and gathered with my mother.

I was walking, swallowing dust, in a cart attached to the tractor. I remember the days when we moved from a flowery, roasted chestnut to a whole. I was angry at my father – and what he could not share with the district management then.

"Why have we suffered so much pain, – I think. There was nothing on this whole. They lost their health".

Because of the dust raised by the wheels of the tractor, nothing is visible. When I closed my eyes, I was immersed in memories. Transparent water, the thick greens of the trees, the clean sky of the native shrimp, like on the screen, pass before my mindful eye. A bitter insult covers the heart. I am crying. Tears shake the eyes and frozen a dirty strip on the dusty face. The tears do not want to descend on the burned ground.

So we arrived at the bus stop. The tractor stopped. The driver pushed his head out of the cabin.

– We arrived. – I jumped to the ground, raising a cloud of dust. As I walk away, I cut off some clothes. Several students at the stop, stirring their nose, look at me. I rush to get my shirts, wipe out dust and dirty traces of tears from my face.

"A very decent guy, he could go to some city to study than to stick to the tractor", – I read in their eyes. A full children’s bus stopped near us. Afraid of pitting girls, I let them go ahead. With every push of the bus from my curly, like the wool of a bark, the hair will be dusted. And the girls unnoticedly try to move away from such a fool. The road is distant. And at every stop, those who get out of the bus and get into it at least once let them look straight at me. People like me went on the bus. One came out, probably right under the tractor, even his nose was in the oil. When the passengers saw him, they forgot about me.

Having recovered from the embarrassment, I surrendered to my thoughts again.

Finally, I got to the hospital. Fear crossed the threshold.

– Oh yeah! Oh stand up! Where are you? – I was blocked by a nurse in a snow-white coat.

– To my mom, – I broke.

– In this form? – She asked ridiculously.

I was frozen, not knowing what to answer. I looked, surely, very unfortunate, and she, smiling, noticed: – Your look is just inhuman. Where are you from?

…When I recorded these pages of the past, I found it unnecessary to tell about the events and experiences as novel’s heroes with book, high-parent words. I would fool myself and the past. I decided to speak, like a witness speaking at the court: "I swear to speak the truth, only the truth and nothing but the truth."

I stood down, lowering my head.

– Gulistan is a big city, – the nurse said. Bathroom is available. You would be bathed, and mother would be glad to look at you. I would get up on my feet faster.

Hearing the word "bath", I trembled, because over the years I have forgotten what it is. We swim in the muddy water of concrete arches. The dirty flow of water by autumn became transparent. But to get into the cold water at this time is no longer possible.

Apparently, noticing under my dust-gray eyelids confusion in my eyes, the nurse finally regretted:

– Okay, what, we have to tell your mother, but on the condition that you get to the bathroom on the first bus and wash there. – Then, noticing in my hands a knot with two leeches and a parvarda, added: – How is your mother's name? I’ll give your knot and tell her that you came.

I gave the knot to the woman and turned back. Life on dust whole has turned me into a savage. Therefore, when he sat in the bus again, all people rubbed with interest and astonishment on me dusty. I felt it sharply now. I walk, pulling my head into my shoulders. The amazed eyes of strangers completely confused me. I want to hide, hide. When I got out of the bus, I finally felt freer.

In the bath from the hot water intercepted the breath, the heart compressed. My body, for years forgotten about this feeling, first felt discomfort. But no, I gradually got used to it, and the warm water calmed me.

I did not want to wear my dusty clothes. But what will I do, no one has made clean clothes for me. I was sick, somewhat pulled onto myself. As I walked out, I felt an unusual lightness.

When I got back to the hospital, the nurse immediately said:

– Look! What a good guy. Why did you start yourself so? Go, your mom in the seventh chamber, waiting not to wait. Always come clean and neat.

I didn’t have time to look at the slightly opened door as my mother called me to her and, looking closely, cried out:

– My dear, my son. How I missed you. God, save him from the evil eye.

She looked at me and couldn’t look at me. All her joy was passed on to me, these were happy moments for me. In my soul, I thanked the nurse who sent me to the bathroom.

My mother’s white clothes highlighted her unnatural paleness. She asked about the family, about my father.

– I was told about my illness today. Anemia, they say. After lunch, the blood will be transfused. Yes, by the way, the doctor asked to come to him if someone came from the house. Go, son, while he’s here, maybe he’ll say something new.

This doctor’s request did not cause me any concern. I looked at the door with the sign “Department”. There was a great man sitting at the table. Without lifting his eyes from the papers lying in front of him, he said:

– Come in here.

I sat on a chair at the entrance. He raised his head and looked at me questioningly. I repeated my mother’s words.

– Yes, yes, – he said, – your mother has anemia. It needs to be taken to the center. In the Tashkent. It is very difficult to donate blood. There is a special hospital that deals with this disease. She will be thoroughly examined and will make an accurate diagnosis. The sooner you take her away, the better, but don’t tell her anything. The sick cannot be disturbed.

I entered to my mother. She was alone in the room, looking straight into the ceiling. I never saw her like that. Heart is shaken. I cannot take a step.

The eyes are fixed at her. Mom was lying down without noticing anything. As I control myself, I shouted with a trembling voice:

– Mom.

Only now she raised her head and turned to my side:

– Have you come, son? I thought of you, – she said, looking at me as if she had seen me for the first time. Then, leaning on her hands, she sat on the bed:

– I thought it was my Vahidjan. I forgot, I probably dreamed. God give him health. Day and night I pray that he will return from the army healthy and unharmed. Go, my son, what the doctor said?

– He said that he needs blood for a transfusion, so he wanted to know our blood group, – I replied outright.

– Will they take a blood from you? – She was worried.

– No, they have blood. But in any case, they should know our group too. The blood of relatives, they say, works faster, – I lied. She believed and then we talked a long time. Through the word she was repeated the name of brother Vahid, who was left to serve for four months. We were looking forward to his return. Recently, there were no letters from Vahid, and my mother was very worried:

– Maybe something happened. I see the disturbing dream lately. He could say two words: "I’m healthy?" – She was worried. When she said about it, my mom even cried. When she said goodbye to me, she asked again:

– Visit your father. No matter what happens to him. I lay down here.

I replied to the doctor that I would consult with my father and let him know when we could take her.

As I left the room, I reluctantly turned back. Mom was lying down, staring at the ceiling. She seemed to have forgotten about me. The heart broke. I had bad thoughts in my head. My mom changed a lot, and it seemed like she was replaced. In vain I tried to find the reasons for this.

I recovered from a sharp car signal. In front of me stood a man of the sight and shouted, waving with his hands:

– Brainless donkey! Just nothingness, but catch you, everything would cost me dearly! What would be, if I hit you?

In response, I only complained, with fear in my eyes, I looked at him. He shrugged his hand and sat in the car.

She touched the whistle and like a bullet went forward. I stood there for a moment, looking after him. I wondered why the driver stopped. I felt rather than realized that I was standing in the middle of the road and cars were flying past me. I quickly crossed the road and ran to the stop. In front of my eyes still stood my mother, staring to the ceiling.

I came home without being able to see my father. I missed the kids. I barely crossed the threshold, they ran to me like chickens. Wearing shirts, bare legs scratched, hands also in the web of cracks, dirty. It was the first time I saw my unhealthy brothers. I unwittingly remembered the words of a nurse from the hospital about my dirty dusty shape.

In general, our family was considered "below the average" Father is incapable of work, mother, working in the farm, received 70 rubles. Among the children the eldest in the family was I. In the summer I worked as a sprinkler, in the autumn I loaded cotton. The brothers are still very small. Vahid did not have time to become an assistant when he was taken to the army. He was one of the first in our state farm. Many of his peers left the house, but they were the children of the director of the state farm, the head of the branch and other important officials. In those years, in the military commissariats, fathers could repay their children. I have witnessed such cases myself.

When Vahid went to work, my mother was crying. She did not believe that my brother, a shy, unknowing young man, could become a soldier. "It will be hard, hard. At least squeeze a little first. What do they take in the army of the boys? Save him, Allah", – she repeated every time by dastarkhan.

These were the days when the Afghan war was still clothed with a state secret, and the soldiers who had passed through it had not yet returned to our state farm.

I asked the military, who accompanied the recruits, where they would be sent. Hearing the answer: "To the Baltic", – I returned home with a calm soul. But… But for a long time I could not forget my brother’s little figure, his sad eyes, his trembling gaze. A letter soon arrived. On the back address were indicated only field mail and part number. By the tone of the letter, by the way the brother says goodbye, there were doubts about what he serves in the Baltics. The grief of the motherland was felt at every word. After each of his letters, an unclear alarm settled in my soul, and sleepless nights began.

And now my mother’s unfamiliar look, her worrying thoughts about brother, made me upset. I watched the little kids holding up my hands. They interrupted each other and asked about their mother. And the little Gulnoz, with a dust-grey piece of sugar in one hand, with peanut peel in the other hand, pressing her cheek to my hand, cried, "Where is Mom, where is Mom?"

The watermelon peel, rolling on the scarf, was covered by flies. The sister was very small, she was not three years old yet, climbed to me on my knees and kissed my cheek with glued lips. There is no father or mother at home, only a bunch of babies, and I am now the only adult for them all. Anger to hopelessness and resentment swallowed my heart. I was crying. They remained silent for a moment, looking at me with amazement, surrounded me, hugged me, who was behind the hand, who is behind the neck, who are behind the shoulders, and, as if feeling something bad, they also cried. I could not take everyone into my hands.

Suddenly, my father appeared on the threshold. He was pale. Afraid of hearing the bad news, he slowly approached me and in a weak voice asked:

– What happened son?

– My mother was in the hospital, – I said, swallowing.

– Yes, I know, – he said after breathing, then, smiling as if nothing had happened, he turned to the younger ones:

– Well kids, get up. Who will say hello to me?

The kids came out of my arms and ran to my father. The black thoughts that took over me immediately withdrew. Later I realized that my father was seriously concerned about something, although he tried not to do so. I thought it was because of my mom. After drinking sweet tea with bread, the children stood up from behind the table and took up their games. We remained both. Quietly drinking tea, the father asked:

– What is the disease, what do doctors say?

After hearing my story, my father said:

– Don’t go to work tomorrow, take care of kids. I go to mother myself.

"How can I not go to work?" – He read in my eyes.

– … this virgin land, – silently said father, breathing deeply.

– When the mother recovers, we will return to our hometown. It’s been 10 years since I came here. Nothing achieved. On the contrary, we’ve all broken up here. And life is already over. I want to die in my homeland. I don’t believe we will anything here. I would put you on your feet and nothing else we need with your mother. We will not get into people here. The cradle is our land. We will start building life again.

We didn’t really get anything at all. And not only us, but also our Fergan relatives who came with us. In the middle of the bare steppe with spots of salt are white concrete houses. In the summer they heat, in the winter they do not hold the heat. Around us a thick stone. In the exhausting heat you will not find a fifth shadow to hide. The sun will not have time to bow to sunset, as the bushes of the clouds raise sharp mosquitoes, which do not spare anyone – whether it is the wrinkles of the old man's forehead or the bloodless face of a child – they relentlessly swallow their sharp grief. There will be no living space in the morning. It is impossible to look at the faces of children: everyone is in wounds, mothers pour their bites with ash.

From my father’s words, I stumbled. It feels like we are leaving tomorrow, went out. The little girl grabbed in the ground, laughing loudly. The joyful feeling in my soul seemed to have been passed on to them in some way.

* * *

The father came back late, in a depressed mood. I couldn’t overdo myself and asked what was going on. He drew to himself a balysh¹, lying on him with a dirty cloth, sweating his forehead. He drank a cold tea until the last bite and only then turned to me:

– My son, it seems to have to go to Tashkent faster. She has given up very recently. The doctor advised to hurry. On the way, I went to the post office and took my pension. I leave money, buy something to eat and take care of the children. As long as I put my mom in the hospital, you’ll have to deal with it yourself. God knows when I’m running. Having said this, he gave me a dozen out of a bundled cloth pack.

Son’s heart told me that my father was tormenting something else. He closed his eyes and walked away from talking, which was not typical for him.

I could not sleep all night. In the depths of the room lies the father, my brothers sleep between us. From time to time, I hear the voice of the sister Gulnoz, calling her mother in a dream. Her voice wrecked my soul even more. It was tight in the room. It feels like walls on four sides are trying to squeeze me. I suffocate in the dark. I feel like my father is not asleep either. It seems, an invisible thread is stretched between us.

– Rashidjan, do not you get sleepy?

–Yes, – I am answering.

– You are not small anymore, you know a lot. For me and my mother, you are the only support in the world. You probably condemn me for having to leave our hometown and wander in the naked steppe. Having lived my life, having became old, I realized that there is no happiness for an honest man in that blind light. You do not know everything.

All the relatives from our village were fed and raised by my mother, Uzuk. And I myself, how many people helped come out, accepted, listened. At work, what happened, my chest stood up to protect them. I thought, "Bloody, who can help if not them?" It will not be said in disgrace, they gathered with us every morning and ate our bread. One after the other, they grew up. My efforts went to institutions, began to earn. Eventually, they bit the hand that fed them. Because of them, my son, we came here. Like unfamiliar dogs, relatives clinged to me, and joined in the harassment arranged by my enemies.

– That is so, my son. No book can contain this history. If you are healthy now, I have nothing more to ask of God.

– Well, what happened, it passed, – he breathed hard. After a long pause he said:

– A month ago I received a letter from Vahidjan. He exploded on a mine and now he is in hospital. I couldn’t tell to mom, and you didn’t dare to tell. I read the word “exploded” and it was like a cliff in my heart. The head went round, the pressure rose. After that, I do not feel the letter of life in me. What it is to explode, I have experienced on myself, son. It is impossible to come to him. How, I do not know. – My father’s voice changed. He was crying. I felt like the earth was falling from under my feet. The head swings. "Exploded, exploded" thousands of times the voice of the father sounds in my ears.

Something burning rose from the inside and approached the throat. Tears flowed on my cheeks, not obeying my will. My sister turned to me:

– Mommy, Mommy, – she whispered, stroked my face. Then she hugged me tightly behind my neck and, as if on my mother’s chest, fell asleep with a strong, peaceful sleep. I could only hear her quiet breath.

And before my eyes was a brother standing in the train, with sad, anxious eyes. And I could not at that moment find the strength to ask my father in more detail how it all happened. As if he wanted to keep his brother in memory as he had.

Man has such a condition. You don’t want to live, but you live. You don’t want to breathe, but you breathe. You don’t want to see anyone, but you see. You get used to everything. Must be!

I tightly pressed my sweet sister to my heart, as if I was seeking refuge in her fragile, pure soul. And she, as if wishing to calm me, rubbed her cheek on my cheek, quietly standing. But the words of the father "exploded, exploded" still sounded in my ears, rushing into me from all sides, burned my heart."My brother, my dear, dear brother; what have they done to you, how are you now?”

The soul is devastated. As if something was broken inside. I can’t even imagine how my father lived this month. How was he…

I had a dream at night. My mother was in white clothes, holding bread in her hand:

– You and your father are deceiving me. Where did you hide Vahidjan? I’ll give him at least the bread he left behind, – she said, stretching a slice to me. I was awake. The sister was sitting on the bed and staring at me.

– Sleep, sleep, my sweetheart, – I said quietly, hugging her by the shoulders. Turning her head, she laid her head on my chest and fell asleep. It was down. A pale light broke through the dusty windows. The light filled the room.

Carefully, not to wake up my sister, I released my shoulder, laid the girl on the pillow and went out. A cold morning wind was blowing. Never flying beyond the threshold of my house, my thoughts are now far away. Everything was not nice, everything around me lost its meaning in my eyes. Even the magnificent mansion of the director of the state farm, which proudly stood before me, now seemed to me to have collapsed, lost its majesty. With a mixed sense of embarrassment and amazement, I looked at the marble facade of this house, the brilliant new "Volga" in front of it. Having a house and car was the limit of my dreams. Not only mine, but everyone around me. Now, in the face of the impending trouble, these values somehow immediately dimmed, lost their significance. I don’t know how long I stood on the threshold. I woke up when I felt my father’s touch. In his hand he held a knot. My distracted face worried him:

– Son, take yourself in your hands. I am already old.

You will remain the head of your brothers and sisters. Here is a letter from Vahidjan. Write him a more pleasant answer to raise his spirit. I couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried, – he said and handed me a letter. – I will go to your mom. You will be alone, – he added and went out on the road. He walked heavily, slowly, tired, heading his head, as if he was searching for his once lost happiness on this dusty canyon road.

I was left with the letter in my hand, exhausted from reading, not finding the strength to uncover it, to find out where my brother was wounded. I stood unconsciously at the threshold. Someone pulled me by the sleeve. There was a sister next door. In her eyes was a childish anxious. I bowed and took her on my hands. The girl hugged me tightly and grabbed my cheek. She lacked the warmth and care of her mother.

We entered the house. I put her carefully, and she fell asleep again. My relatives were sleeping. And I was sitting next to them with a dying heart, looking at the letter. My patience has finally ended. Every word of grief entered my heart. I will never forget these simple and terrible lines.

"Hi, Dad! Your letter was read to me by my friend Samad. You wrote to the commander that I forgot you and didn’t write for four months. You asked him to punish me.

Father, forgive me for not being able to send you a message for so long. I was in the hospital without consciousness. Now I feel better, but I had to ask Samad to write a letter. Doctors say one eye can see. My hands were also shaken by the explosion of the mine.

Father forgive me. I feel how much damage I have done to you by writing the whole truth. How to? You are my father. You survived the war and shed blood, returned from the front crippled. Our fate is same, so I decided to tell you about my condition. Do not speak home. My mother did not survive.

How does she feel? I see her in my dreams every day. All in white clothes she approaches and sits next to me and, without saying a word, looks in my eyes for a long time. Tell me about her health. Mom, mom, from how many bad thoughts she saved me here.

Dad, do not burn up. Fate seems to be like that. You will not leave it. People like me are a lot here. The boys died no less. I’m not going to get out of the hospital soon. If I had been blind from birth, I have been so offended. It is hard to lose the white light in the night alone and plunge into the darkness. It is very difficult…

Goodbye, Dad. Say hello to my mother and brothers. Let Rashid-aka write me a letter in his free time.

Abduvahid.

September 13, 1982

My heart cried. And the younger brothers, not knowing anything, slept peacefully.

I sat for a long time like this. Thousands of thoughts revolved in my head. I cursed those who taught my brother. I powerlessly squeezed my fists, ready to break them into pieces. When my gaze fell on my sister, her hands were stretching up on their own, and I smoothed her confused hair. It seemed that her little face, her hair, her bracelets rejuvenated in my dark heart tenderness, love for family, for people. I felt like I was born again. Small care and worries gradually left me, giving way to those that were now the main ones.

Three days later my father came back. In his hands was knot with belongings of mother. Taking breath, he looked at us sadly, breathed hard. Gulnoz quietly clung to him. We were all looking forward to my father’s words.

– The mother greeted you all. She will recover soon and come. She asked to transmit that they would not joke and live together before her return, – finally, he said, glossing the hair of Gulnoz. As if only waiting for these few words, the younger brothers calmed down and stood up. Children cannot live in anxiety for a long time. There were my father, I and my sister. Gulnoz, rubbing her father’s beard, asked:

– Mommy has gone far?

The wrinkles on my father’s face became even deeper. The cheeks struck, and he, trying to cope with the trembling voice, said:

– Yes, she went far away. She will come, my daughter, your mother will come. I was upset by my father’s mood:

– Diagnosis is determined?

– Yes, my son. It seems to be a long time. Did you write a letter to your brother?

– I wrote.

Here is the whole conversation.

But I felt that my father was not agreeing. By nature, he is a determined man, not a talkative. I never put my concerns on other people’s shoulders. I had to wait for him to say something.

My father suffered from insomnia. At night he wandered around the house, and during the day he went to the camouflage and only rotated in the dark. This lasted a week. Then he crowd together and in the morning twilight he set feet on the path.

– I will go to your mom, – he said.

This time he was in Tashkent for a long time. I was walking alone, not knowing what to think. My heart is drawn there, but I won’t leave the kids alone. I had to wait. The father came home late at night, tired, with a grown jaw:

– I am tired, my children, I will sleep a little, – he said, asking for a bed for him. He came and immediately fell asleep. I didn’t close my eyes all night, I couldn’t find a place.

In the morning after tea, my father said to me:

– Son, next week you will sit next to Mom’s bed. She is now being watched by Shafoat.

Only now I realized that the situation is very difficult.

I write about those days and my heart breaks out of my chest. Life has severely punished us. I don’t know what sins. Next to me are my brothers, a sister, one smaller than the other, in the army, crippled Abduvahid, my mother is in the hospital. Black days fell on my father’s old age. There seemed to be no sorrow in the world that did not fall on our family.

In the morning I went on the way. The first person I saw in the hospital was sister Shafoat. During that time, she became old, sad. I called her. Looking around confusedly, she finally found me, looked at me and did not recognize. A moment of her sad look slipped on my face:

– Rashid, my dear, is it you? She finally cried out and ran to me. She cried for a long time, hiding her face on my chest. Then she took herself into her hands:

– My mom is bad, so bad. I just don’t know what to do, – she said, the tears flowed on her cheeks.

We entered the chamber together. My sister wiped her tears quickly. My heart was beating, it seemed, now, something terrible, irreparable was about to happen. My mother’s eyes were tied to the door. I quickly approached her. Her pale face turned to my side. For a moment she looked at me:

– Oh my dear, you have come! How could I not recognize you, – she said, trying to get up from bed. I fell on my knees in front of her. She grabbed my head, began greedy kissing my face, my eyes.

– I was like that, son. How are you there without me? The kids, probably, were completely tormented? – she asked with a chilling voice. I calmed her. Shafoat was sitting on the side with her head down, her shoulders trembled…

My mother cuddled another. In those few days she has completely changed. Her face was slightly different from the color of her clothes. The voice seemed to come from somewhere deep. She asked about Vahid. Then she closed her eyes and whispered rather than spoke:

– He dreams of me every day. He calls me for help. I hear his voice, but I cannot find him. If only my son was healthy. Was there no letter from him? – she opened her eyes and looked closely at me.

– The letter has arrived. It was brought yesterday. He sends greetings to everyone. Soon, he said, he will come, – I hurried out.

– How soon he will come, – she was surprised, because three months and thirteen days before his arrival!

– For holiday, for good service, – the commander permitted.

When she heard it, my mother thought for a long time. Without closing her eyes, she looked into the ceiling. She seemed to have forgotten about me, and her heart felt deceived. When her gaze again fell on me, she opened her eyes widely, surprisedly said:

– How are you still here? Go, my son, go on. I am better now. Go home to Shafoat.

Shafoat stood up and approached us. She has calmed down a little.

– Mom, then we will go. I’ll be back tomorrow morning, she said.

– Go on, my children. Crossing the road carefully, kiss your daughters, Shafoat, – said the mother and closed her eyes, again immersed in her thoughts.

We went out on the street. My sister cried again. I asked her with a painful heart what happened to our mother.

– The tongue does not turn to say. You and I are the eldest in the family. Our mother has blood cancer, – she said.

I didn’t understand her words, not knowing what disease was blood cancer.

– It’s white blood, – Shafoat explained, no one has cured this disease yet. White blood cells eat red. Then the liver fails. Then…

Shafoat was a doctor. From her words I got stuck in place. My sister cried and took my hand. There was sweat on my forehead. The whole body was covered with cold steam. In just a few days, two such terrible events. One there, far away, outside of the country, the other here, in the native land.

I don’t know why, but I didn’t cry. When my mother died, I couldn’t cry too long. There was someone inside who was holding me back. It still seems like this someone is shaking my heart hard. But without tears on the day my mother died, then I cried every day, every hour. It was a cry without tears, silently crying soul. As a stranger, I watched her silently.

My sister and I went to my mother every day. Every day she was looking forward to us. She showed her hands and said with a sad smile:

– And the hands are all pale and pale. Blood is becoming less.

– Everything will be fine, soon. We will make a big celebration when Vahidjan returns. Repair as if nothing had happened, – the sister tried to reassure her.

– How do you know, daughter? They transfuse blood every day. No any changes. When I get up, my head turns. If only my Vahidjan would come alive and healthy. Only about it I think. He does not leave my dreams at all. Rashidjan, you should have visited all of them at home. Your father probably has his head around. And the kids missed you, – she said.

I could not even think about it. How could I leave my mom knowing what she was in?

Thus passed two weeks. In the morning, the sister took the children to the kindergarten. Her husband studied at the time in Moscow, in graduate school. So my sister and three children lived in town alone. The house, the children are all on it.

At ten o’clock we were finally in the hospital. When we entered the room, my mother was transfused blood. When she saw us, she shrugged her head and smiled. We passed carefully and sat down on our chairs. I quietly watched the glass hanging on the tripod from which the blood dropped. The drops slowly hanged, broke, hanged again, involuntarily I started counting them. I counted several hundred. Excited, I did not notice how the door to the chamber opened, how my mother's muddy pupils expanded.

– Son! – She cried, rushing up from the bed. I was encountered. There was a man in a soldier uniform on the doorstep. The soldier quickly approached and hugged her. Mother tightly grabbed the soldier’s neck, cried, her chilling voice filled the chamber:

– My dear son, have you come back? Thank God that I saw you. Now let him cleanse my soul. My son! Every day you dreamed of me. Thank God you are healthy. I have nothing to ask for now, neither from man nor from the God.

– Mom, go to bed! Go to bed! From the cry of my sister, I came in and looked at my mother. Blood flowed through her hands, sliding down, scattered over her clothes and painted it in red. I ran to her and took her shoulders, trying to lay down. But it was impossible to separate her from her son. A nurse came to help. Together we put my mom in some way. Taking the air in his hands, she was repeating: "Son! My dear! My son!" – she lost consciousness. I remember that day and I still hear my mother’s voice in my ears… What unfortunate days… What terrible days… I do not wish to survive them and my enemy.

In a moment, doctors entered the room. My mother was lying on white blankets. White sheets, white face, only on the chest was a bloody spot.

Strongly grabbing my brother’s hand, my native brother, in whose appearance I could not believe, I left the hospital. My sister followed us. Three of us, hugged, we cried long in the hospital garden. My brother’s face became unrecognizable. There is no eye. One hand is broken and we still don’t know what happened to it.

A cruel fate has thrown our family, so ignorant of fun or satiety, into the abyss called disaster. We walked along the wide city street, full of life, joy, cheerful faces and felt more unhappy. Everyone was busy with their thoughts. The blow of fate that has struck a man, sink in everyday worries, sharply changes him. The consequences of such a blow I passed through myself, from my own experience.

Both my sister and I thank God that my brother, though grieved, came back alive. Now he was another man. This is no longer the young man who looked at me frightenedly from the train. He was a warrior who exploded on a mine. He did not need instruction or consolation. In one word, he looked up, comforted me, his older, but now weaker brother. He was not my younger brother, but my older brother. Yes the elderly! And how could he, who had been between life and death for months, be the younger brother of a man who has been messing with dirt all his life and has seen nothing but his swamp.

My primitive, small words began to disperse like fog. What will grow in the deserted place is still unknown, but one thing is clear: there has appeared a powerful germ of life. He was raised by my younger brother.

* * *

Mother is dead. Completely freed from all earthly concerns, she lay in our house, in our hometown, where we returned. And the steppe, and dusty roads, and nasty mosquitoes, everything is already there, behind. Together with the shadow of the mother’s soul, we returned to our hometown. There were red maces, streams, green grass. My mom wanted to see them again.

My mother’s body lay on a new blanket. We, her children, were gathered around, all crying. Only Gulnoza smiled and repeated:

– Mom came, Mom came!

* * *

… We went to my mother’s grave. When he bowed over her, the father whispered:

– Your son is going to the city. Wish him a good way, let his spirit be hard and his head clear. May the spirit of your mother support you, son. Abduvahid hugged me by his shoulder with his scattered hands:

– Now you run out into people for our happiness. You wanted to be a writer. Write about our mother, about the people with my fate. – We said goodbye. They stayed at my mother’s grave. I walked along the road that led to the city with my old suitcase in hand. After walking a little, I turned back. Father and son. Two fates, repeating each other, relying on each other.

I don’t want to talk about my customs in the city. They survived every village boy who came to study in a big city. But wherever I worked, I remembered, kept in my heart, like a precious diamond, the words of my brother, which sounded at the tomb, as a will. At the time when I came to the city, it was difficult to write about the guys with my brother’s fate. But from those terrible places, one after the other, zinc boxes arrived with the inscription, weighing two hundred kilograms. In one house, in another, there was crying and worship of mothers. The people, with their shoulders down, listened silently to their heartbreaking cries.

Every time I came into the village, I looked at my brother, his frozen face, his eye, the place where his hand was, and found no place for myself, feeling my helplessness. His surviving, but submerged blurred eye looked at me, as if reassuring, sympathetic, as though wishing to say, "Don’t be sad. There will be days when you will be able to write about everything".

Every time I returned to the city, my father and brother accompanied me to my mother’s grave. This has broken up many times. Many times I returned to the city with a bitter feeling of dissatisfaction with life.

But you can’t be silent forever, everything ends someday and I exploded. I began to collect materials about the lives of Afghan soldiers. My hopes, the people with whom I was born remained in different parts of the country. For years while collecting material for the book, I listened to them and still listen now. I believed that their voice would be heard by my people.

* * *

The guys who were affected by my brother’s fate spoke reluctantly about themselves. I had to meet with them many times to recreate the picture of what they experienced.

– Give it up, they repeated. Why torment yourself and ourselves? Write better about our hard-working dekhkans. What have we seen? The blood? The broken bodies of friends? With these hands we gathered their bones and pieces of meat from the dust and placed them in the graves. At first, we cried. Then we stopped. Our hearts turned into stone. Day after day we lost human appearance, became angry. We were crushed, killed. The outcast friends gathered our bloody bodies. We returned home without feet, without hands, without eyes. And for all this, the medal "For Courage" and "The Order of the Red Star" were hanged on our chest. We killed completely strangers who were never our enemies, and they killed us. I thought we were doing this for the sake of our country. How about otherwise? After all, we were boys whose mother’s milk still did not dry out on our lips, and we believed what we were beaten in our heads.

What else to say? Please do not remember those days. These memories are too heavy. Again before my eyes is blood, death, horror. Why are you bleeding the hearts of people who have already suffered from this life? My lips trembled when I spoke these words.

The mother of a soldier wounded in the Afghan war with tears in her eyes could not withstand:

– Burn in hell who brought my child to this state! We did not have time to rejoice that our son grew up and became a support for us as this trouble happened. Who to curse, I don’t know, – she recounted, wiping the tears off the edge. Her son hurried to reassure her:

– Do not cry, Mom. I am alive. Think of the mothers whose children have not returned, and then you will understand that you need to thank fate, not curse it, – he said, trying to wipe her tears with his unburned hands. In those moments, I remembered my brother, my mother, my poor, beloved mother.

Over the years, I have visited thousands of people who have returned from Afghanistan. Many times I listened to their short, unimaginable stories. Hundreds of times I looked into the wrinkles on the faces of sedentary mothers who greedily listened to their children. They all seemed to me like my brothers and my mothers. In houses with lining, in poor housekeeping, in the restrained voices of the boys, in the restless gaze of the mothers, in everything I saw similarity to my family. It seemed that the bitter fate hit only children from poor families, destroyed, and returned them to their homeland. Every acquaintance with a new family left a scar in my heart. Then it seemed to me that I experienced something like this myself; I saw it all, experienced it, and became disabled. I have started having nightmares. My legs, my arms, and my broken eyes demanded that I bring them back to my bodies. I fell into this state only from the stories I heard, being a healthy person. And what might then happen to them as eyewitnesses and participants in this nightmare? It was difficult even to watch the boys when they painfully gave details of what happened to them. At such moments I silently lowered my head. These were hard, sad days in my life. It seemed as if I had become a part of their suffering heart.

It was as if my body was infiltrated by electricity when I saw guns in the hands of boys, machine guns and tanks in the toys department of "Children's World". In front of my eyes, the toys turned into real machines, guns, huge tanks. There was a continuous shooting in my ears. I was scratching. It happened, I did not endure and offended in anything innocent girls-sellers. In those days, I came home, trembling with my whole body, inflicting my anger on my relatives.

– Something is happening to your father. Probably found a girlfriend. He was never in such a state, as if he had been replaced, – my wife cried, pressing her children.

But it was more and more difficult for me to get rid of this compulsion, of my obsessive thoughts.

As an obsessed man, in search of Afghan soldiers, I wandered through the distant corners of the country and disappeared for months. I came home shocked from meetings, stories, pressed, like a madman, the button of our apartment.

"Go there where you have been overnight", – I heard the angry voice of my wife, and the door before me closed with a whisper. Not to forget the days when sad and tired, I turned back from the door of my home.

Muhammadrahmat from Khodjent told me that he involuntarily pulled his head into his shoulders and covered his face with his hands when the shells exploded in the cinema. At first I was surprised, but later I realized that there is nothing worse than war and there can be neither winners nor losers. Because both of them and others carry blood, tears, death. I began to understand why so many writers turned to the subject of war. L.Tolstoy, A.Barbus, E.Hemingway and Y.Bondarev… War brings unbelievable trials, countless miseries and suffering to man, and there can be no justification for it.

Now, when I think about war, I see my real heroes with wounded bodies and souls passing by. And once again I assure you: the warriors are those who sacrificed their lives to an unknown monster – to war, are my brothers, my relatives, my friends.

Sabir came to me, my cousin. I was very pleased. I know him from childhood. He was a simple, straightforward guy. With his father Muhammad once in childhood I pasture sheep. Then Muhammad-aka became ill and went to the hospital. He seemed healed, but soon the illness returned. He was treated again, but the disease never receded. He is still in the hospital. The mother was left with ten children in her arms. She raised them for her salary of sixty rubles herself. I brought Sabir to the army from Tashkent. He arrived in Afghanistan. It was not long before I received a letter from him. In the letter a few words: "Rashid-aka, I am in Leningrad. And I am injured. Be healthy". He spent a year in Leningrad. He returned crippled.

When he crossed the threshold of the house, my face was distorted by pain. Those long-standing memories came back to me again, my mother’s bloody shirt, my father’s silent cry in the middle of the night when he was known about his son’s injury, my brother’s whisper at my mom’s grave.

…A year passed.

Sabir said that he entered to the preparatory department of the law faculty of the university. His joy also calmed my heart. I hugged him, greeted him and filled my soul with tenderness.

At the table I asked him:

– Well, Sabir, tell me about it. Was it hard to take the entrance exams?

He strangely smiled:

– You know, Rashid aka, it turns out to be doing that to put your chest under the bullets. I passed literature and history, and at the exam in social sciences the teacher took and asked, "Say the truth, how did you pass the other exams? Who helped you, who asked for you?"

Who can ask for me? I had a stick in my hands, and I pointed to her, "With it, – I say, – I came." Then he "drawed" a deuce on the examination sheet, without changing his face. I look at the exam sheet and hear a teacher at the next table taking the exam from a girl:

– Your knowledge is even worse than your brother warned me, well, I will put you three, – he said in the tone of the debtor.

– Yes, Rashid aka, he had to. At that point, I felt that money was involved. Well, and my couple through the rector turned into a three. Yes, through the rector. Those teachers have neither shame nor conscience.

When in Termez, before sending to Afghanistan, a soldier offered to leave me for a thousand rubles and then I scolded him. And that teacher, who put the pair, stood up on me and said:

–You will come in spring.

Then I calmly, without raising my voice, said:

– Give me your health, I’ll feed the sheep at the village. – He was afraid.

Classes start tomorrow. I will come to you, Rashid aka. When I see you as if I was born again, I remember the house, my father, the desire to live.

I went to the village and my heart was shaken. And now, I never go through the streets again.

I have time. Be healthy, – he said, raising his hands for prayer. I wish him health. He asked to visit me more often. He has gone. It was like bringing joy with you. The four walls of the room, among which I was left alone, pressed on me. In front of my eyes passed the faces of people with similar fate, whom I met over the years. Sabir was one of those people I was looking for to meet, whose sad confessions I listened to with pain in my heart.

I remember Ravshan from Bekabad, I remember how he told, holding his head with both hands:

– It has already been twenty months I went from one hospital to another. Unfamiliar people think I’m perfectly healthy. But day by day I get worse and worse. Recently I met an experienced doctor. "The shell that protects your brain from external influences is dried out. Therefore, a little noise gets on your nerves" – he said.

I asked him what I should do, and he replied, "Try to forget those days".

But how can we forget? As I start to become a little anxious, in my dream, people start to suffocate me in bushes. In horror, I jump out of bed and can't recover for weeks.

Where is the declared publicity, democracy? There is still a strong mechanism, the parts of which are connected with one blood, soul and money. It will take a long time to divide this bureaucratic mechanism into pieces, to throw it into a burning oven. My brothers, Abdurashid, Sabir, Ravshan and other men who were born with me, were the victims of this machine.

Unfortunately, we all often have to deal with people who do not step without benefit. Sitting in luxurious chairs, they gather from their subordinates. They filled their stomachs at the expense of sacrifices, and still shouted at every step:

– We are rebuilding! We are rebuilding!

In fact, these “reconstructors” actively “rebuilt” everything for themselves. The military from Termez, who demanded a thousand rubles, is probably also in some part engaged in rebuilding.

To prevent new misfortunes, new wars, new evils, we must separate ourselves from such Chameleons. As the saying goes, "what comes in with breast milk, comes out with the soul". Those who luxuriated in featherbed in those years, and now drink our blood. Let us be careful. Let us save our younger brothers who have not had time to walk, but who have already sat down.

* * *

It shines. The soul is filled with a feeling of satisfaction. In my ears there is an echo of my mother's echoed voice, a father's plea at the tomb asking for blessings for the children, the whisper of my brother: "I am with you with my soul, the spirit will support you."

My brother Vahid, I have fulfilled my duty to you and your comrades. Sorry not as fast as you would like, but it’s time.

Dear contemporary! I put the last point. And you turn the page and hear the voices of people with wounded hearts, worthy of the deepest respect and sincere sympathy.

WOUNDS OF THE EARTH

"SPARKS IN THE NIGHT"

Muhammad Sadikov, born in 1969. From Andijan region, Uzbekistan. Wounded during a battle in the village of Chelkar.

– I arrived in Afghanistan in the autumn of 1987. After two months of preparation, we were thrown into the defense of the village of Chelkar. The food supply was poor. We have to sit hungry for days.

On the very first day, they put me on post. I was very afraid then. There were few soldiers, and I was not relieved for fifteen days. As night falls, it seems that an enemy is waiting around every corner. Then I start shooting with a machine gun at this terrible darkness. My head is buzzing, and my ears are popping. Then I stopped hearing. I walked like a mad sheep. My friend, on the same call with me, asked the commander:

– Muhammad needs to be replaced. He's deaf; I'll take over the post in his place.

After that, I was removed from my post. After a month, I recovered a little. The service went on as usual. Different things have happened; we've seen enough of everything.

Once I stood on duty. There are four days left until the end of the service. I'm thinking about meeting in Termez with my own. I imagine how schoolgirls run out to meet us with flowers, and my heart almost bursts out of my chest. I began to count minutes, than hours. Well, what are four days? And then they seemed so long.

I had a girlfriend I loved. During these years, I wrote to her in letters while I was serving in Poland. Only my brother Nizamiddin, who studied at the institute, knew where I am actually. And even then, he found out at the military commissariat. In every letter, he asked me to take care of myself.

Three days before that night, for some reason, my eyelid began to twitch. For no reason at all, my heart suddenly squeezed, and I could not find a place for myself. It's the darkest night I've ever seen, even with my eyes closed.

That night, for some reason, I remembered everyone in turn. I talked to my mother in my mind and stroked the heads of my younger brothers and sisters. They all came out to meet me in Termez. I was looking for my favorite girl. She is not among the greeters. Then I heard her voice behind me: "Muhammad aka!" Everything happens as if in reality. Before I could turn around, I saw a burst of fiery sparks in the night. Pain burned my leg. It seemed that the voice of my beloved froze in the air. Then everything went quiet. I fell. I felt the wound with my hands; I felt a warm, viscous liquid. "Why, why shoot at me? After all, I want to go home! What am I going to do now?" I shouted without ceasing. Then someone took my hand and dragged me.

As it turned out, three bullets hit me in the thigh. An operation was performed at the hospital. Then they were brought to Tashkent by plane. The thought that the leg would be cut off was spinning in my brain. Only Nizamiddin from relatives found out about my injury. I wouldn't have told him either, but he saw it himself when they bandaged the wound.

– Don't say anything to my parents, – I asked him. When the parents first came to the hospital, they said that in those days they sensed trouble in their hearts. Yes, probably. Parents, wherever their children are, always feel the grief that has fallen on their heads.

– You asked me what I would do if I met that enemy now. Nothing. But if I had run into him at that time, I would have torn him apart. After all, life was at stake. If he hadn't shot at me, I would have put a bullet in him. This is the absurdity of war: that one person is ready to kill another, not knowing who he is or who is to blame for him. Actually, I don't understand these cases. Why did we go there? Why I came back wounded. And it is always more difficult for the locals. There are corpses of children, women, and old people everywhere. Whose bullet killed them, no one can know…

"MY FAMILY BEGGED ME…"

Timur Saidov, born in 1969. From Karshi, Uzbekistan.

He was blown up by a mine in the village of Piramakon.

– There was a tank in front of me. My friends Victor and Mamur climbed it. It was the road we traveled every day. When the tank was two hundred meters away from us, suddenly there was an explosion. I saw my friends being thrown up, and they fell to the ground. The tank was engulfed by fire. This happened there often, and every day we lost one of our comrades. But I haven't seen it up close until now. They were thrown a dozen meters above the tank. For a few moments, they hung in the air and then fell down. It was terrible. I lost consciousness for a moment. I was sure they were dead, and coffins appeared before my eyes. We held a lot of coffins.

       We all ran to the burning tank. The guys were lying in the dust, one to the left and the other to the right of the tank, twenty meters away from him. I jumped over a mine crater, and I didn't have time to take two steps, heading towards Mamur, as a terrible explosion stunned me.  I was floating in the void for a long, very long time.. Then I fell on the soft ground, like a feather bed. I didn't lose consciousness. I tried to get up, but… I didn't feel any pain at that moment. I lean on my hands and don't understand why I can't get up. My gaze fell on an object a few meters away from me, which looked like a piece of wood. Somehow reaching out, I pulled him towards me. Surprised that the piece of wood was soft and warm, I peered into it and saw that it was someone's foot. I felt it move in my hands, thought it was Mamur's leg and was scared. Frantically looking around, I searched for him and did not find. Another leg was sticking out of the pit opposite. Blood, mixing with something whitish, dripped from her, and I still did not understand what had happened. I felt that something terrible was happening to me, too. Gathering all my strength, I tried to get up again. But…

Now I could never get up. The leg that I held in one hand and that died in my palms was mine.

And the one sticking out of the pit was also my leg. They were torn off above the knees.

No, I can't tell you everything that I saw then. There are no words in the world that could convey all this.

I felt dizzy. I lowered it to the ground. The huge blue firmament disappeared, but a dot remained—a small black dot. "Now, now I'm going to get stuck" I thought. It was probably a miracle. Yes, yes, a miracle. When I opened my eyes, my father, mother, and all my relatives gathered together and told me:

– Son, don't do this; we beg you, don't kill yourself.

Until now, this day, like a living picture, has risen before my eyes. I dream of them at night; they are begging, begging…

"DON'T CRY, GUYS, I'll BE BACK…"

Pyotr Krysyuk, born in 1962. From Ukraine

– The three of us were driving in the car. We left the groceries at two gates and headed for the third. That's why the driver Babayev asked us not to go then. "Don't be afraid, – I told him, everything will be fine".

After the explosion, the driver lied motionless in front of me. Foreman Dolinskiy was writhing on the ground. The car was smoking. "Are they alive?" flashed through my mind. Sand grated on my teeth. I open my mouth, but I can't make a sound. As if something was stuck in his throat, a wheeze escaped. "Are you alive?" –  I either shouted or croaked. I didn't know if I had injured myself because I didn't feel any pain. But, chained to the ground, I could not get up. When I somehow turned to the foreman, my gaze fell on a dark puddle under my feet. I was scared. I looked at my feet…

Have you seen meat chopped with an axe? In the same way, my legs were chopped into small pieces. The severed feet were sticking out of a bloody puddle, and it seemed to me that fingers had grown out of the ground. Chunks of meat hung on rags of skin that had not been torn from the legs yet. I looked at the driver and the foreman. The foreman lay motionless, and the driver got to his feet. "Shoot the machine gun" – I told him. "They will hear us on the IFV and take away". He took a step and felt like he had a hamstring. I heard the hum of engines. Then I lost consciousness. I woke up when they put me in the car. I felt cold. I was trembling all over. One of the soldiers who came for us took off his greatcoat and covered me with it. Then the second one did the same. When I opened my eyes, both of them were sitting next to me, undressed. Then they said that when they heard the explosion, they quickly threw their pea jackets over their shoulders and hurried to help. I saw how cold they were and told them to take their overcoats, but they refused. When I was brought to the medical battalion, all the soldiers, for some reason, averted their eyes, some tried to hide their tears. I encouraged them: "Don't cry, guys, I'll come back again to you". I was really sure I'd be back.

When they brought me into the ward, my consciousness was already clouded. My strength was draining away, and my eyes were getting dark. Finally, everything was plunged into darkness, and my eyelids closed.

When I woke up, the bright light hurt my eyes, It had been five days. The soft touch of someone's fingers on my forehead opened my eyes. This was a nurse.

– They fought for your life, but there was no way to save your legs, – she said in a trembling voice. I had no legs.

Recently, I saw my guys on a TV show, and it burned like fire. I found out that the foreman was also left without both legs. The decision to enter this country was a cruel mistake. But what to do? Fate so ordered that we guys of the sixties had to pay for this mistake.

"WE WERE NAMESAKES"

Abduvahid Ergashev, born in 1963. From Tashkent, Uzbekistan.

We cleared the roads of mines. One company was allocated from each battalion of our regiment for this purpose, and a new battalion was formed. We also had to clear the territories of the exploded warehouses of mines, shells, and other ammunition.

When we came to the village where the warehouses exploded, there were no people there. Only cows and chickens, left without owners, wandered through the deserted streets. Houses are destroyed, and trees are charred. Even the ground was scorched underfoot, like ashes.

We set up tents. The next day, we went to our destination. We got off the cars. There was nowhere for the feet to step – shells, grenades, damaged mines, and other dangerous weapons were scattered everywhere.

We were taught how to collect all this. We split into groups and started working thirty meters apart from each other.

At the sight of this terrible place, none of us hoped to survive. When I was collecting shells, I saw my relatives one by one in my mind's eye. Two days later, the first mine exploded, and the guy from the next company was left without legs. Like that, it went on. Explosions were heard here and there, soldiers were injured, died. On my return from this exhausting, hellish work, my nerves were already at their limit. I had nightmares, the guys were delirious, screaming, moaning.

         In the morning, we went to work again, and the more dangerous it was, the more thoughts rushed to my relatives. At the very sight of this infernal black wasteland, the heart shrinks, skips a beat. You remember that you haven't seen anything in this world yet, you haven't even kissed a girl yet, and you feel so sorry for yourself. But you can't relax.

On October 18, I had a dream. I can't really tell now, but I remember that it was very scary. I woke up to the voice of a daycare worker shouting, "Rise!" After breakfast we went to work. As if I felt something was wrong, I didn't want to go. But, as you know, no one considered your wishes there. We were going. My comrade – Muhammad from Krasnogorsk, was walking next to me. The ground was covered with a thin layer of snow overnight, and the fatal wasteland turned white. Again, at a distance of thirty meters from each other, we began to collect ammunition. I picked up two pistols, and when I picked up the detonator of the mine, there was an explosion. Everything went dark. I looked at my hands. They were covered in blood. Staggering, I took a few steps and dropped. There was a new explosion. My family flashed before my eyes, everyone was looking at me with tears. Then everything was plunged into darkness.

Someone picked me up, put me in the car. I was getting worse and worse. We drove for a long time. On the way, the car stopped. Someone sitting next to me started swearing: "Do the Soviets have normal cars at all? Wheels fly off anywhere! Go fix it, rascal!" They stood for a long time. I'm freezing. The pain intensified. I started swearing, cursing everyone and everything, not sparing words, and cursing those who dragged me here. I saw wounded soldiers in the movies. It's all a lie. There are no such wounded people. The wounded man curses everything in the world.

In one movie, I remember that the Germans forced the prisoners to drag a jagged iron block through a minefield. We were treated the same way. After all, who can distinguish a damaged mine, grenade, or detonator from an undamaged one? The bosses initially knew that someone had to die…

Then we were transferred to another car. Now the wind was hitting us in the face. While we were getting to the hospital, I was remembering my school years: "Now I can't see their faces, I'm only eighteen, and what have I managed in life? What's the point of living now?" I asked myself. And so I would like to enjoy life, see relatives, friends, classmates, talk to them…

An operation was performed – fingers were cut off. I was conscious. They probably operated without anesthesia, I felt my fingers being cut with a crunch. I was losing a lot of blood, and the doctors were afraid that I would not survive anesthesia.

The analgesic injection didn't really work, and when they pressed something hard on my bone, I couldn't stand it and started swearing at the top of my voice in Uzbek. "My son, my son, calm down", – someone said. It just spurred me on. Why calm down now. Silence and complacency have already done their job, brought them to the last line!

Probably, blindness from birth is not as terrible for a person as for a sighted person who went blind in an instant. I want to tear to pieces all those who invented, created these mines, grenades, shells, everything—everything that cripples, kills. May they be cursed forever…

I do not remember much of it. I remember drinking compote through a hose, my mouth probably wouldn't open. My heart ached when I thought about my parents. Mom would have the hardest time of all… After getting a little stronger, I got out of bed and groped in the direction from which the cold air was blowing. I was told that our ward is on the third floor.

"Don't mention it with a vengeance", – I whispered to my family. I mentally hugged and kissed my mother. I groped for the window and put my foot on something. I found out that it was a bedside table. It fell. Someone grabbed my hands tightly:

– What are you doing, everything is still  ahead, – he said, trying to calm me down.

– What is ahead? –  I shouted desperately. Almost crying, he said, pleading in his voice: "Please, let me put you in your place".

       From the tension, blood rushed to my head, and everything around me began to spin. I have lost consciousness. For the next two weeks, I was only put to sleep with injections.

Once, I asked the nurse who gave me an injection:

– Do I have eyes?

– Yes, yes, there is one, but we don't know about the second one yet, – she replied.

It says that it's not customary for doctors to say that. But she, at least to calm me down, did not even say that everything would be fine. I felt very hurt. Out of frustration, I started kicking.  Together, they gave me an injection. I fell asleep…

I was having a dream. And every time I try to squeeze something tightly with my wounded hand. Then I wake up and remember that I have no fingers. I want to take a look and try to open my eyelids. I don't know if my eyes are open or not. I cry out. People come running to the cry. But no one can help me.

Two months have passed. It seemed as if it was morning, the doctor dropped medicine in my eyes. Suddenly, the total darkness turned into a white fog. Then the outlines of someone's face appeared. Afraid to frighten this vision, I was silent. Then, trying to figure out whether it was in a dream or in reality, I stretched out my surviving hand, touched it. A hand slid over the warm cheek.

After a while, my attending physician flew into the room, hugged me:

"Things will come right now, things will come right" – he kept repeating.

It was my second birthday. I wanted to live again.

My company commander came and said that he had received a letter from my father. "Why don't you make sure that your soldiers send letters home, – my father wrote. – If our son forgot about the house, remind him properly, punish him". I asked him not to write letters to my father.

Gradually, I began to see better, but with one eye. The face, because of gunpowder and shrapnel, has changed beyond recognition.

I will tell you that in these two months, it seemed I had lived for twenty years. I felt much older than my age.

Shortly, after I was admitted to the hospital, my friend Muhammad was also brought there. Neither of us knew that we were lying next to each other. But we were blown up at the same time. We were namesakes. Doctors cut off one of his hands, and he could not see well because of a fragment that got into his eye. Then Muhammad became my closest friend…

At the end of February, I was discharged from the hospital and bought a train ticket. A patrol detained me at the train station. They checked the documents, fooling their heads. It made me laugh. After all, what a state I was in, and they gave me the "charter".

On a crowded train, I got into conversation with a man returning from prison. When he found out what had happened to me, he chose a good place for me in the common car and took care of me all the way to Tashkent. He was a thousand times better than those patrolling the military from the train station… And now I remember him with warmth.

"CHEWED HIS EARS AND SPAT OUT…"

Usli Sagindinov, born in 1969. From Gulistan, Uzbekistan.

He served near Kandahar.

– For two months, we studied at Termez. We were trained to handle military equipment and weapons. Every day the commanders uttered high words about the honor of bearing the name "defender of the motherland." We became sappers. Our first assignment in Kandahar was mining the road the Afghans used to walk on. I could not understand why they are called dushmans, basmachs. After all, they are fighting on their own land. And we are… You won't understand anything. However, why should I bother with politics, there are big people for this.

The senior lieutenant, in addition to four of his experienced guys, took us, two young men who had just started service. It was after midnight when we reached the place. We dug holes, and "the old men" mined.

When we finished, the commander ordered my friend and me to carry the equipment to the car. We walked about 30–40 meters and heard an explosion behind us, rushed to help. But when they ran up, they saw that there was no one to help, only scattered arms, heads, and legs remained. We collected everything, as it was necessary to send them to their homeland.

After this "baptism of fire" we walked around as if distraught, and could not come to ourselves.

Bloody hair, heads, legs with hanging threads of meat, and fingers gathered into a fist for a long time still dreamed and did not give me peace. The commander's head was split in two, and the eye on one side was clear. He haunted me at night. Seemed alive…

Their summers are hot. Therefore, we began the pursuit of the Afghan detachment at dawn. They retreated to the mountains. The first group turned to the village at the foot of the mountain. In pursuit of the detachment, we climbed quite high into the mountains. Finally, the commander gave the order to turn back. But it was too late, it was impossible to do, because we were surrounded. I had to climb higher into the mountains. For five days we held the defense. The helicopter that was sent to our rescue was shot down. There was very little food and ammunition, four out of twenty fighters were killed, and five were seriously wounded. All attempts to save them were in vain. On the sixth day, the Afghans captured five of us. They blindfolded us and drove us somewhere.

We were lying in a corner of a large courtyard. About twenty Afghans, high on hash, got high. Occasionally, we heard the words "bacho, bacho". The healthiest one stood out from their circle, came up to us, and, playing with a knife in his hand, smiling, bent down to a soldier a little away from me. "Bacho, kofur, bacho, kofur," he repeated, and our eyes were riveted on the knife in his hand. The lower he bent, the wider the soldier's blue eyes opened. His head seemed to be pressed into the ground. Suddenly, the big man grabbed his ear with one hand, and, like a petal, cut it off with a knife. A faint groan escaped the soldier's lips, but he did not utter another sound. The big man tossed the ear into the air, caught it and put it in his mouth. I closed my eyes, but somehow I heard this guy chewing with a crunch. When I opened my eyes, I couldn't take my eyes off this terrible sight. There's bloody foam on his lips. It looks like a wolf with a bloody mouth. Red saliva flowed down his chin, and he wrinkled up, as if he had eaten a sour apple and spat it out. Pieces of chewed ear were scattered on the ground. He squeezed his eyes shut and, as if enjoying human blood, stretched sweetly. Then he turned back to the soldier and, like a butcher throwing a bone to a dog, cut off both hands and threw them aside. The severed arms twitched on the ground like fish washed ashore. A stream of scarlet blood sprayed the face of the soldier lying next to him. He squeezed his eyes shut, causing the folds of his eyelids to fill with blood. Blood was still gushing from the executioner's first victim, and he approached the second. For some reason, the soldier lay still. He didn't even move. And the severed ear twitched again in the hands of this vampire. Then he started kicking the soldier. Not a sound in response. Realizing that the soldier was dead, he threw his ear in my direction. Tumbling in the air, the ear hit my lips. It was cold, but I was afraid to even take a deep breath. My eyes followed his every move intently, like a cat watching a mouse.

He slowly came up and stood over me, legs wide apart. He looked like a mythological, predatory diva. It is impossible to imagine a human being so angry. But the facial features are correct, the eyes are not red. But they shone coldly. You feel powerless in front of such a creature.

He said something in Afghan. It seems that my nationality is being questioned. But then a miracle happened… Our people broke in, untied me and two other prisoners. The dushmans were captured. We picked up the remains of two comrades and returned to the unit.

I don't want to stir up a lot of things. From these memories, blood rushes to the brain. You're numb. The feeling of fear, anxiety does not leave my heart. There, on that land, what happiness it was to meet, and talk with your fellow countrymen. Now, noticing that this feeling of love and tenderness is cooling, I am surprised, and fear creeps into my soul. I think we're starting to get bored with each other. But don't write down these words of mine. It's just my feelings.

I meet a lot of people who are rude in their treatment. And every time, it's like a new wound.

One day, we went on a mission to Pansher.  We are exhausted on the road. The hot wind, dust, and tension exhausted us. Here we came to a mountain stream with clear water. There are eight of us. It was hard to resist the temptation to swim in the cool water. We looked around carefully. Having made sure of their safety, my comrades bathed. But I was uneasy in my soul. Without undressing, I began to wipe my machine gun. It seemed to me that someone was watching us, and I constantly looked around. And for good reason. A shot rang out. I fired a burst from the machine in that direction. In response, they fired again. Two of my friends were killed, the rest managed to grab their weapons and take cover. We saw that several Afghans were approaching us and began to retreat along the river to the ruins of the old village. In order not to get too far from the road, we decided to take up defense in an abandoned yard near the shore. The walls here were high. Through a hole made in the wall for water, we penetrated inside. But then something unexpected happened. The foreman, a big man, is stuck. Only I was left outside. And the enemies were approaching. Not knowing what to do, I froze for a moment. Then I realized it and mercilessly kicked the foreman from behind. It helped. Startled by the pain, he slipped through the hole. Only the stone fell off the wall behind him. I quickly followed him, and we filled the hole with stones.

I apologized to the commander, and in return I received a promise that I would be presented with a reward. Yes, such stories happened during the war.

"THAT IS HOW MY FINGERS LOOK…"

Muhammad Ergashev, born in 1963. From Tashkent region, Uzbekistan.

On October 18, we, the several soldiers, were given the task of defusing the shells. We were sent to one of the warehouses that exploded from a lightning strike. The nearby villages are completely destroyed. A huge area around it was all covered in potholes. The trees had burned down, and only a few blackened trunks stuck out of the ground. Fortunately, not all the bullets exploded. Otherwise, the nearby town would also be severely damaged.

A month before this task, I began to saw dreams in which I saw myself exploding on a mine. I jumped out of bed in horror. The visions were repeated again and again. The heart is restless, and in the morning, breakfast does not lie in the throat. Every day I feel the approaching fateful event more and more clearly.

On that day, October 18, I saw that dream again. I was awake. The bed is wet from sweat, and the heart is ready to jump out of the chest. The newspaper announced a rise. Everyone was dressed, and I felt like I was being squeezed. After breakfast, I asked the officer:

– Allow me to stay today. Something is wrong with the heart.

But he did not let me stay:

It was the eleventh hour. Trains were supposed to go to the warehouses, so I cleaned up the entrance routes from the shells. My gaze fell on a red, cigarette-sized detonator from an anti-tank grenade. He had to be removed. I bowed and took him in my hands. Someone was screaming, "Drop it!" But I didn’t have time. There was an explosion…

Every time we enter this territory, we pray to God to save our lives. When we left her, we whispered, "Thank God, it’s over." This time, it did not work. It hurts in the eyes. The ears bet. I wandered and crossed the rail. I barely opened my eyes and looked at my hands. I saw naked white bones and hanging pieces of meat. The blood had not yet come out, and there was no pain I felt. My eyes stopped seeing. "It’s over", I thought. I began to grope my way to the ditch that ran along the road. Feeling that I was on the edge of the abyss, I jumped. I didn’t feel any pain, as if I had fallen into a soft posture. Comrades came to me. They crossed my hands. "Give me a grenade", – I begged them, "I’ll blow myself up".

We had one major, very evil, very rude. I hated him and wanted to call my dog by his name when I came home. There I heard his voice. I realized he was crying.

– You’ll still live, you’ll live well, son, – he said. I immediately forgot all his cruelty and forgave him.

I was picked up and taken out of the warehouse. They were placed on the armor of the "ambulances". Someone said, "Both exploded on the detonator". I did not lose consciousness for a moment.

On the way, the car failed, we were transferred to the boat. It was cold. I seemed to have lost a lot of blood because my whole body was chilling. It was driving a long time. The pain became unbearable, and it seemed as if the whole world was running out of pain. In such cases, it is probably better to lose consciousness or even die. Together you get rid of everything.

Life, youth, dreams – all this is important for a healthy person and for people like me, they lose their meaning. God let no one be in such a situation.

X-rays were taken at the hospital. I slept naked for two hours in a cold room. Let those days be cursed! I ask the nurse to give me an analgesic injection, and she answers, "You’re not the only one dying". It is hard when you are powerless and helpless. The only tool is language. "You are a man or an animal?" – Only you scream. – Rascals, you left me alone and went out".

With every movement of the scissors on the operating table, I feel unbearable pain. "Be careful" – I begged.

They did not answer. But that torture is over. When I was preparing for the operation, a woman’s voice said:

– The left eye should be removed.

The man’s voice replied:

– No, we will operate, maybe he will see.

My eyes were kept by colonel Grishin. I will be grateful to this person all my life. After the operation, I was taken to the room and given sleeping pills. When I woke up, I heard the nurse’s voice:

– Look at them, all the bandages in the blood, they will not cut off the human appearance. Then the man who kept my eyes read them:

– Your mother, can you say that? Out from here!

A week later I removed the bandage from my eyes and washed the cold blood off the face. One of the nurses said, "A whole centimeter of blood has frozen".

The same doctor operated my second eye in late November. During the operation, he talked to me without stopping, asking about it, told anecdotes. He was an extraordinary doctor.

But my troubles did not end there either. Three days later, a fragment was found in my throat, blood went, a pillow was poured out. My head started turning, I was sick. It seemed like I was falling from the bed. I called the nurse. She does not go. I shouted and woke up others. But they just bothered me for preventing them from sleeping. I remained silent for a few hours. I thought I was dying. I cried again. Then the nurse came, attached a towel to the wound and left again. I began to lose consciousness. It seemed like my head was immersed in a pond filled with blood, blood flowed into my ears, my eyes. From severe pain I got back to consciousness. Someone had a wound on my throat. I felt like I was very hungry. "Give me some bread", I asked. The doctor who sewed my throat said, "Put him a dropper". When I was put on the dropper, I fell asleep. I did not see the face of Dr. Grishin. In my imagination, he was like my father.

Soon my father came. "Is Ergashev here?" I heard his voice. I had no strength to get up. The sound of my steps drew me like a magnet. With the arrival of my father, the thirst for life was awakened in me, the belief that I could still get better. In the darkness, I saw tears flowing on my father’s cheeks. Here they flow through the eyebrows. Here they go to the lips…

My father touched my hands, my legs.

– Everything is in my place, – I cheated him. He believed…

"MY CONTEMPORARIES SEEM TO ME LIKE CHILDREN…"

Kaeders Normunus, born in 1968. From Latvia. Injured in Bagdad.

As a child, I dreamed of becoming a driver. After graduating from school, before being called to the army, I learned to be a driver and managed to work a year. I don’t speak Russian very well. But you seem to understand me. In the army I got a machine KamAZ-53212. I loved her very much. We transported gasoline to Kabul. The road was asphalted. We were very afraid of the place where there were three hills along it, because there were many accidents. Two days before my injury, three Afghan cars burned there. When I saw them, I stunned. Two days later, the same story happened to me.

We returned from Kabul. There were 20 cars in the column. Kilometers three drove toward Djabal, as I was thrown, as if from a blow of electricity. My feet refused.

There nobody knew that I was married, because there was no corresponding mark on the military ticket. My thoughts turned to my wife Antra, to my mother, "My dear ones, I will not see you now", I repeated over and over again. My legs were frozen on the gas pedals. I can’t remember when I was taken to Kabul and taken on a plane. I forgot in the plane, I woke up in Dushanbe. I learned that Yuriy Kovarchik and Shikhobuddinov were wounded from our column. The man who accompanied us asked why I would repeat, "My dear ones, I can’t see you anymore". In this state, a person probably repeats the most important thing for himself. Two days have passed and I still haven’t felt both my legs. It is hard for a living person to be in such a situation overnight.

You may not believe it, but I saw death in my dreams. It was interesting. My father and I were riding the village on a motorbike. We were shot. I was wounded and fell. Suddenly I see a guy walking in the field, right in the spot, who looks like me. I am surprised and asked him:

– How did you become me? Who are you?

And he answers:

– I am death. I came to take your soul. Then I will turn into your ghost and wander through the village.

I was scared. From wherever I went, my father came in on a motorbike, and my ghost was melting on the edge of the field. There was a black spot in his place.

I was awake. There was a nurse in front of me.

– What are you worth? – I asked her. She broke up. Then I realized that this dream I saw during the operation.

– Now you will live, long live, she said.

It turned out that the bullet hit my lungs and damaged my spine. I was told that because of a wound in the spine, my legs were rejected.

In the army before Afghanistan I had a lot of illness. I have had jaundice twice. I received letters from Antra every day. Having suffered from jaundice and returning from the hospital to the barracks, I found thirty accumulated letters. Comrades are surprised that I am writing so much. Only after the injury they knew that I was married.

I’m 20 now, but I feel old. So I want to have fun, laugh with peers. But soon I get bored in their circle. They all seem like children to me.

"THE SONG WAS ABOUT THE HOMELAND…"

Sergey Bogutskoy, born in 1969. From Ukraine. Injured in Shindon.

We had to pick up the soldiers who had finished service. At five IFV took the boys from six points. Our car was driven by Fahri Yusupov. We went after the tank.

I was jealous of the soldiers coming home from this hell. They sang. The song was about the homeland, about the relatives they missed, about torments and suffering left behind.

The first was a fun Uzbek boy. The others caught. Major Vladimir Sergeevich Karakishyan joined the singers. I looked at them and remembered my native Ukraine… Stones on the streets, flowering gardens. My lyrical memories were broken by an explosion. I flew high and fell on a bunch of sludge. The IFV turned and burned. Someone jumped out of the fire:

– Serega, how are you? Were you injured? – he asked.

I did not feel pain.

– No, no, – he answered

– Where is commander?

– I don’t know, – I said and began to slip away from the burning car. My legs refused, and I slipped on my arms.

The voice said, "Comrade Major! Comrade Major!" I remembered the soldiers who were driving with me. I returned back. Next to the car in the flames someone curled on the ground. As I added, he calmed down. A thick smoke hit my nose. Heart is frozen. Human meat was burning. In search of the living, I began to look around. Someone’s head smoked away from the car. Everywhere was the smell of burning meat and hair. I began to lose consciousness. When I came back, I heard someone screaming around me.

How it happened, I learned later. The one who called me was my friend Fahri from Gulistan. He is now serving in the Kushka. His mother came recently and I received letters from him.

When the car turned over, my companion got out of it. The one who remained among the flames was the Uzbek guy who first sang the song. He was burned. Commander died in the fall. The one who screamed next to me turned out to be my countryman. Then I learned that he was also dead. I had both legs broken and my bones broken.

I can’t watch movies about war. The nightmares tormented me all night. It seems to me again to smell the smell of burning human flesh, burnt hair, before my eyes again curves in the fire of the Uzbek guy.

Then, through the flame, I saw his eyes. It seems like they are still looking at me. I remembered those moments to the smallest detail. I have experienced a lot, but I cannot find words to describe it all, and I am sure that there are no such words.

"THE BITE OF THE COCKROACHES EXHAUSTED US…"

Alisher Ismailov, born in 1969. Khorezm region of Uzbekistan.

He was injured in Djabal.

Djabal to Gulbakhora is half an hour away. Our battalion had three infantry companies and one mortar battery. Every week, fifteen soldiers are taken out of the company. We must attribute to the comrades who stand in the pickets, food, water, fuel. We approached the narrow path in Gulbakhor. We often had to change our friends. On one of those days, performing such an operation, we had to walk in a chain five meters from each other. There was a very high mountain. On us was a bulletproof jacket, on the shoulders – products, in the package – water protection. In the hooks to them, an automatic machine, four stores of 45 ammunition. I needed to go up, but it was very high. Therefore, not all soldiers reach the target at the same time. Ten to fifteen people usually lag behind. Many guys from fatigue, tension and poor nutrition started stomach disorder. Halfway into the mountains, your feet will cease to obey you; if you bend, you will not be straight. The pain absorbs all other feelings. Within two and a half hours we reached the final objects. Many of them did not look like soldiers. They overgrown, become a dervish². We change them at the post, they go down, in the shelf location, wash, come back.

The soldiers stumbled. Products ceased to come from the Union. We only eat suckers. The water situation is difficult. I haven’t washed for twenty days, it turns out, and that’s enough to lose the human appearance. I started scratching. I don’t know what it was, whether it was lice, or bugs, or maybe fleas. All the clothes struck them. By the morning, the body became red from their bites. In front of them all were equal – soldiers and officers. These creatures are terrible. They push people to the limit.

On December 31, when it was twenty minutes until twelve Moscow time, we came out of the landscape, shooting in the air from machine guns, missiles.

Sergeant major and I looked at the traces of bullets in the night sky. Suddenly my legs were rejected. At first I didn’t even realize that one of them got into me. I have fallen. I cannot get up. Comrades raised me up and took me to the medical unit. I lost a lot of blood on the road. They burned me and sent me to Bagram. I thought I couldn’t get up anymore. I never had to meet the New Year with my comrades.

Ask about locals? Afghans especially dislike non-Muslim soldiers. I had a companion Muhammad from Samarkand, a Tajik nation. He was captured. A year later he was released. It was an interesting story. Many prisoners were slaughtered, their ears and noses cut off. Muhammad knew their language. He was asked the name. When they knew that his name was Muhammad, they looked over and asked again with amazement. When they were convinced that they had not heard, they took him to the chief. The chief with a long beard examiningly looked at him with his bloody eyes:

– Muhammad? – he said, and brought him to the prisoners, a senior and a soldier named Vasiliy.

– It was about noon, he said. They followed me. I did not understand what was happening. I was placed in a row with comrades. They cut clothes with a knife. Divide the second. Not wanting to see them mocking my comrades, I closed my eyes. Then someone, tightly pressing my hands, said:

– Open your eyes, Muhammad, or do you want to suffer like them?

– But I could not look anyway. I could never have imagined that there was such cruelty, such methods of bullying. My hands were bound, and my feet were dressed with candles. I look awkwardly. Suffering and smarting were on the faces of my comrades. The Afghans tortured them in turn. The place of one bandit was occupied by the other. And so on, more and more. The soldiers could not stand anymore. They lost consciousness. Then I closed my eyes and went. I saw them again when they exchanged us. It was terrible to look at both. I was finally told:

– You will regret not being with us. Go and say thank you to the one who called you Muhammad.

They have a very religious feeling. If a person of another faith is captured, they are very cruel.

In Thermez, I was wrongly operated, failed in the hospital for several months. My feet are still insensitive.

"THEY WERE ROBBED…"

Hasilhan Mamarasayev, born in 1968. From Syrdarya region, Uzbekistan.

– There were four days until I returned home. We stood in a wreck along the road as our troop left Kabul. We were five in one car. Not a hundred miles away – dugout, at night we rested in turn in it. I was the commander of the mine division. But our driver, a Russian guy, had something in his head. Once he broke into the commander of the regiment with a grenade in his hands, threatening to blow him up. He was then sent home and I was ordered to drive the car.

On the second day of our watch, an antitank mine exploded in front of us. Smoke and dust rose by 200 meters. Fortunately, we were in the car cabin. The glass broke, but it didn’t hit us.

The soldiers searched the nearby village. There was no soul in the houses. Everyone left home and fled. In fact, we were dealing with the robbers.

On February 10, one soldier was killed and another wounded. The next day at ten or eleven we went on our way. From Aybat came to Tashkurgan. There was an order to leave no one.

In the morning we went on the road again. 200 meters passed. How I was hurt, I didn’t even notice. I felt like my legs were rejected. The officer stopped the column. Something slipped into my boots. "There’s hot water" – I wondered. My legs crossed with rubber.

In medical unit I took the injection and was brought to Termez. They operated, but one bullet was left behind. Doctors are cruel. For a long time they stumbled in my wounds, pulling out the bullets, and yet shouting at me. It was especially painful when, finally, a bullet was touched, which struck into the bone, like a knife. My brother took it to himself as a bitter memory of the experience.

I saw an Afghan officer in the hospital. He was injured and laid three chambers away from me. At first I wanted to suffocate him. But gradually the anger passed, and I began to realize that he was also a victim. He was hit by a bullet, like me. I was from a stranger, but he was shot by his own. It is not easy for him. Obsessed by the idea of revolution, he wandered through foreign countries.

My father visited me. I cannot say a word of excitement, as if the tongue had gone away. My father also shakes his head. I was angry. This was our first meeting.

"FUZZI"

Safarmakhmud Babayev, born in 1963. From Tajikistan.

– From the regiment where I served as a driver, we headed to the thirty-eighth barrel. They left their food and went on. A tank was ahead. To catch him, I increased the speed. There were thirty meters between the tank and us. Something broke our car. When I woke up, I was lying far from it. I looked around. There were no front wheels in the car. The door collapsed and gasoline was poured out of the tank. I started looking for the senior lieutenant and senior officer who were with me in the car. The oldest officer was lying at ten meters and looked at me. His leg was broken, and his bone was torn out of his broken shoe. When I noticed that I was looking at his feet, he turned his eyes away. Then I lost consciousness. Then I heard the senior lieutenant’s voice: "Are you alive?" I lay down, turned to the side and looked where the voice came from.

The Lieutenant’s legs turned into a bloody messy. I tried to get up to help the wounded. But I didn’t have time to step, as the pain spread through the whole body. I lost consciousness and fell. I don’t know how long I was lying there, but when I woke up, I heard a lieutenant’s cry:

– Shoot, shoot, the IFV will lead! I did not find a machine next to me. I heard the sound of the engines. Both cars approached. I remember only the sleeve wet from the wound, blood. Then I lost consciousness again. I woke up when the nurses washed the wound. We all three stayed there for two days. On the third day I learned that the lieutenant's legs had been cut off and I cried. But what about me, where I was wounded, I still did not realize.

On January 17, we were brought to Tashkent. Two weeks later, my leg was operated. I woke up after the operation on the third day. In my eyes, everything was like a fog.

…I realized we got into the mine. I broke up not the first time. The first explosion occurred at the beginning of my Afghan service. The day before, I had a dream. I saw my father. He begged me with tears: "Son, don’t go with the officers, you are my beloved son". I was upset and promised not to go. I woke up. Everyone was dressed in a hurry. I also dressed. We went on the way. Almost immediately, we encountered a tank that exploded on a mine. He stood right by the road, the engine was dropped fifty meters away, and the tower lay far from the body. Then I thought, "If the mine has eroded the tank in this way, then the car, probably like a flashbox, will fade into small pieces". Not far we left this place, as happened what I thought. By chance I remained uninjured.

Before I ran into the mine for the second time, my father also dreamed, he strictly said, "Today do not drive, if you go – you are not my son". I begged the mayor not to go today, but he refused. Then I drove fast. I had a friend Fakhri from Samarkand. I asked him, "If I come back alive, we will continue to serve. If it is not judged, do not send my things, but take them for yourself". He abused me. But I felt that something would happen. My father don't begged me for nothing.

When my father came to the hospital, I looked at him and seemed to be in remembrance. He ran to me, hugged me and only then I came back to myself. We were silent for a long time. Then we talked a lot, cried.

On the photo that I sent to my father and my mother, one of my hands was hardly visible. Then my father told me that my mother was crying, looking at it. "Where are his hands? You are deceiving me!" – She said and sent my brother to photograph me again. I have picture taken with my arms raised, now my mom probably calmed down.

It was terrible in the war. I cannot forget one case. As we walked with the commander on the cheek, a curly boy with a white bandaged hand was running out to meet us. When I saw him, the commander rushed to the machine. I took him by the hand, but he pushed me away and shot the boy. He did not fall, but exploded. So there is a picture before my eyes how the curly boy's head broke off and froze for a moment in the air. What was this boy to blame for? The commander explained:

– He had a mine in his hands. He wanted to explode all of us.

– I’m tired, don’t ask me anymore.

"NO ONE WAS CLOSER…"

Muhammad Tashbayev, born in 1968. From Kazakhstan.

He was injured in the town of Puli Humri.

– With Yakub Jalilov, my friend from Fergana, we were called into the army at the same time. And in the barracks our beds were nearby. We were both tank commanders. We went on tasks together. On the outside, we were like brothers. Before the army, there was no close friend, and with Yakub we became here as relatives. When I went to work, he didn’t sleep, waiting for me to come back. I was also worried about him.

On that day there was free time, we sat down, talked, and remembered our homeland. We read letters from our girlfriends. Some tremendous force of attraction connected us with strong bonds and therefore we had no secrets from each other. Even my relatives did not know about my girlfriend, but I read her letters to Yakub. And he did too.

He had to go on a task. As always, we hugged up to say goodbye. Yakub, the captain, the shooter and the driver left the location of the regiment. I went over to my seat, sat on the board and suddenly, as if from a current blow, involuntarily jumped out of place. There was a shadow in front of my eyes. I felt like I heard someone’s complaining voice. From anxiety the heart so hopes out of the chest. I can’t sit still and know what to do. It was the first time I was in this condition. I went out. It was hot. The hot wind is blowing in the face. Then I came back. The heart fell again, not giving me peace. Probably, once hundred I went out and entered the barracks again.

I don’t know how much time has passed. I woke up from the loud scream of the "Alarm!" And as if only waiting for that word, I immediately ran to the tank. Along the way, someone said that the tank sent to the task was shot by dushmans. My section took its place. Without waiting for the team, I moved forward. The others followed me. By the commander’s order, we determined the direction. Here he informed that the tank, which went to the task two hours ago, fell from the bridge. That sort of cases has happened on this bridge many times.

The cold sweat covered my body. I heard Yakub’s voice in my ears. "So far" – he said, glimpsing at me to say goodbye. Probably I said something out loud, the senior lieutenant pushed my shoulder and asked with a gesture what was going on.

In about an hour we reached the bridge. It was built in the event of spring rains and seawater streams. Now the bottom of the waterless river was covered with small stones. The tank was not seen. We stopped a little further from the bridge and jumped off the tires. As I approached, I noticed a tank. It was like a twisted beetle, lying with his goats up. People were not seen.

It was a Yakub's tank. The tremors encompassed me. In a 40-tonne tank that fell from such a height, no one could survive. I went down. My feet did not listen, my knees bowed. I thought of my friend lying breathlessly inside the tank. Tears clogged the eyes. I couldn’t hold back and started to pin the tank, but someone pulled me back. The senior lieutenant submitted a command from under the bridge:

– To me!

Two broken legs were pulled from the tank. We put them aside. They had officer boots. Others followed us. In the depth where the tower was to be located, there was a frozen body of an officer. His cut off head remained next to the deepening. The soldiers pulled out those who remained inside the tank. We all put them next to us. Yakub seemed to be whole and unharmed. I touched his face. It was cold. I noticed a small wound. I whispered something to him, hugging his cold body. I still can’t remember what I was saying then. I was like crazy. I saw it all, but it was like through the fog. The shock did not think.

The mechanic driver survived. The scratched skin of the forehead with a red speck hanged over the nose. The last time I said goodbye to a friend whom I found in the hardest days of my life. It made it easier for me to endure this nightmare. The days spent with him came to an end. I became inhumane. I couldn’t understand why I was born, why I had to live. At night, I suddenly jumped out of place. I seemed to hear his voice. I could not believe that he was dead and that we would never talk to him again until morning. Only my fingers, which captured the coldness of the dead face, reminded me that all this, unfortunately, it was not a terrible dream, but a cruel reality.

…I fell, when there were three steps to the tank. I felt my feet. Something hot, sticky was under my fingers. I couldn’t get up. The shooting continued. I was put on a tank and taken to a garrison hospital. Sometimes I lost consciousness.

How long I’ve been there, I don’t know. I woke up in a helicopter. There was a grave nearby. Who it was I don’t know, in the nonsense I seemed, I touched the cold face of Yakub, I raised: these were the legs of an officer.

I was in Termez for four days under anesthesia. When I woke up, a soldier was laid on the next bed. His chest was crushed, his straightening bandages impregnated with blood. He is chilled. Calmed down. Dead. You cannot get used to it.

He seemed to have spent eternity among the dead and blood. The head hurts. Can I go to bed?…

"THROUGH THE CANAL FLOWED RED BLOOD"

ZairKhalmukhamedov, 1965 year of birth. From Tashkent, Uzbekistan.

We were led to the shooting field, where we fired targets from machine guns. So, we prepared.

It was August. It was 8 pm. It gets dark there quickly. We should have stood in the assembly on Mount Kuruk. From the outskirts of Kabul to this mountain is four kilometers.

If you are not threatened by danger, there is nothing to climb such mountains even with a bull's body on your shoulders. After all, you are calm and majestic mountains, like a magnet, pull to yourself. Why do you think the faces of people who hunt in the mountains are covered with wrinkles early? Because, pursuing or waiting in the siege of the beast, the nerves are strained to the limit, thousands of words overcome it. But no matter how dangerous the predator is, it is still an animal, a man is smart and in this case the master of the situation.

And imagine two clever people who intend to kill each other. Time shrinks, minutes of anxiety replace dozens of years lived

Especially it is difficult in the mountains. The echo of the shot will spread from all sides and you do not know where the bullet is flying from, behind which stone the enemy hides and targets you. As they say, it is a matter of habit, and you begin to get used to evil and cruelty. I don’t know how it was for others, but it happened to me in a moment. I shot the first man. He jumped high and fell.

Intelligence has its own rules. A patrol of three of the strongest men is put forward. Behind them followed the main group with the commander. A 40-kilogram load was on his shoulders.

I was in the front door. With me the "old" who remained until the "demobee" for a few days. In intelligence you need to be extremely careful, walk silently. To do this, you put your foot on your foot and only then move your body forward. There are three liters of water in the mosque, but when you climb the mountain, you can’t drink. Just wash your mouth. Otherwise, you will only be an unnecessary burden for your comrades, because you will relax from the water, there will be no strength to go.

Those who have swallowed water cannot be left on the road. Therefore, the commander repeatedly warns that no one should drink on the road. No matter how much you explain, they are weak.

… We arrived at the cottage of corn. We had to set up an assembly. I look forward to seeing the sun finally sinking beyond the horizon. It seems to have frozen in place. It was dark, and we built up. We checked the equipment and started climbing the mountain. The mountain on which we wanted to settle was three hundred and fifty meters high. But the way to the top was far, the mountain path is not easy and insidious. We went on the road at 8 o'clock. Even before they reached the mountains, a few of the boys could no longer withstand, drank water and got out of power. We went ahead. After certain periods of time, I inform the commander on the safety of the road. In the first half we reached the top. The fortification was constructed with great caution. We did this until five in the morning. Then they lay down. One of us listened to the sounds, the other one in the binoculars watched the district. The guards are free to rest. The commander forbade the fortification. 24 hours passed. At two o’clock in the night, some unclear sounds were heard. But not knowing their source, we took care to light the district with a rocket.

The day broke. The peasants of the village of Kuruk with the spade through their shoulders went to the field. It is very hot in the mountains in summer. Below, shining in the rays of the sun, water flows. You greedily swallow viscous saliva. We have been drinking our three liters of water long before. The lips broke. But we continue to observe. I think it makes no sense what we are doing here. We observe the paths leading to the pebble, and our gaze leads to a shadowy tree near the canal. I would lie down under it!

Suddenly two figures stumbled away. We got along. The distance between us decreased. Approximately two hundred meters later, two more appeared. They approached the cylinder. Passing along the canal, the persons stopped right in front of us, removed their knots from their shoulders, and sat down to eat in the shade of the same tree, which has become an unattainable dream for us. Those who walked from behind stopped and examined the area. At the command of the commander, three groups of three men began to descend to surround them. When they were a hundred meters away, they noticed us. The shooting began. I was right. In a hurry, I took a careless step and slipped away. I ran over a gallon of thirty meters and struck a stone, injured my right hand. I looked carefully over the stone, the bullets flew in my direction. Only now I realized that those two days of waiting were not meaningless. And the bullets hit the stone for which I hid and jumped away. And you don’t know where they were shooting from, the echo of shots was spreading everywhere. I have no strength to raise my head. There is a voice of the commander, constantly calling for contact.

Thirty second I was lying in such a state. In front of my eyes, like a film, memories of past days – family, friends pass through the wreath. I am a participant in this film. It is like watching TV. Whom I helped and did well, whom I hurt. Then, as if awakened from my sleep, I shudder. The paintings of memories disappeared and their place was taken by bullets, whispering around. I wanted to get right. My hands did not obey me. Then I took the machine with my left hand and crossed to the left edge of the stone. I saw an enemy constantly shooting at me. He was hiding behind a bag. "You don’t know how to shoot", a cruel thought came into my mind. I took a bag and shot. He was one of those two who ate in the shadow of a tree. The partner was dead. My shot calmed me. I told the commander that two were killed and two were resisting. One of the remaining hid in the displacement between the stones and, not ceasing, fired. We were at thirty meters from him. The commander ordered to cover him with a grenade. Seven grenades, thrown in his direction, did not reach, exploded in the air. Volodya Kudryavtsev managed to cope with the last enemy. With victory we went down.

In the dust of battle you do not realize the death of a man. The essence of events comes to you later. When we walked to the canal, we saw that the water in it had turned red. The smell of blood hit my nose. I was ripped. The one I shot was very young, almost a boy.

His black eyes were uncovered. The bullet hit his head, and he lay, hanging it in a canal. Blood from the wound colored the water. I looked at his eyes:

– Why are you here? Why did I have to shoot you? I remembered my younger brothers, my peers. Mother stood opposite: "What did you do?" She asked, and tears flowed on her face. I was crying. I don’t know what force made me lean toward him. I kissed him in the forehead. He has not yet cooled. Someone, holding my hand tightly, raised me. He put a pin in my hand and said, "Cut off his ears". With a mixed sense of confusion and fear, I looked at him…

Dagger was blunt. After several attempts, I, finally, not that broke them, or cut them off.

The soldier, who had only a few days to serve, with some pleasure carefully wrapped them in paper and put them in his pocket.

How I raised my hands on this, I don’t understand. After all, before that I couldn’t even squeeze the bucket, and then I almost cut off the boy’s ears with a dumb knife. Yes, the war disgraces some, and harms others.

Among our soldiers established the custom of cruel, bloody. To the "old" soldier a young one must necessarily bring some cut organ of the killed enemy. When I first heard about this "habit", I was shocked. This is probably the highest manifestation of cruelty. There are a lot of things that I cannot and do not want to talk about. And our bodies were fragmented, and we manufactured the same. The thirst for blood swept both sides.

Our assembly was discovered, and we headed back to the company. Someone cried out: "Lie down!" From surprise, everyone got caught up. The commander said:

– Well, guys, we’ll try our happiness again. – And shot two silhouettes on the top of the mountain. Two eagles went up in the air.

The next day, we were shot from the shells. It became clear that the killed were from there. We usually placed mines under bodies, so we knew that the relatives of the killed who tried to take the body also died.

September 21st. We went on the IFV took to the road leading to Surubi. From the two sides the mountains rise. The boys, who set up on the armor of the IFV, are observing. Upon arrival at our destination, we took positions on the road. There were exploded IFV on the way. Distance between posts is 2 km. We got to the third post. During the day we rested, and in the evening, at nine o’clock, we went to the mountains to arrange a siege. After we built the fortification on the spot, the shooting began. A rocket flew into the air. The Afghan's donkeys were lying dead, but they were not seen. When they came down, they were already far from us. The newcomers were too hasty to start shooting, and all our efforts turned out to be in vain.

There was a waterfall next to our post. On other posts with water it was tight and when we came to one of them to change comrades, the guys ran out to meet us.

– Misha Klykov was killed, – they said. This was the first death of my friend. His body was wrapped in a blanket. There was no left hand, the meat from the back was rubbed and the bones too. The intestines are folded next to them, and the removed fingers are folding to the head. He exploded on a mine buried at the edge. He was twenty years old that day. Tonight we were going to celebrate his birthday. Misha went out on the road with a barrel to get water from us…

In memory of the deceased, we had three days of mourning. All these three days there was bread and a glass of water at the soldier’s bed.

Misha lived in the 19th quarter of Chilanzar. He was the only son in the family. After the end of the service, I visited his parents, both of whom were terribly old. They didn’t want to let me go, they bothered me all around. His portrait hung on the wall. I couldn’t sit with them for long. In front of me was a terrible picture of that day.

"MURDERER AT NINETEEN YEARS OLD"

Fazlitdin Rasulov, 1965 year of birth. From Tashkent, Uzbekistan

– I was a sapphire. We guarded the bridge across the river Hilmenda. We were brought the ammunition and food across this bridge. We had to protect the cars. Three tanks went out every day. The enemy placed an assembly in the nearby destroyed villages. The elimination of every settlement, the demining of roads was achieved at the cost of fierce battles.

There was a lot left in the memory that I wanted to remove from it. One story that happened stuck and often reminds of itself. Scouts reports that the meeting of Afghan commanders was scheduled in the village located twenty kilometers away.

We went into that village. A regiment followed us. Kilometers to six before the village we noticed several houses. Next to them we saw a kariz in the growth of a man. Usually such cherries were located near the dushman's houses. We were surprised and alerted by this.

The tunnels are dug in an open way for ten meters, and then in a closed way. On the surface a hole is carved like a well. In the closed part of the kariz, four more recesses are dug in four directions. Therefore, it is very difficult to hit the enemy hidden in these buildings. One of the holes was covered with a bag of some shiny material. I saw him first, I was alarmed and pointed to my friend Mumin from Andijan. As soon as he looked out of the AFV manhole, the bag moved to the side, from there a man with a black beard in a black turban and in a black chekmen looked and, shooting from the anti-tank weapon, fled quickly. The car started burning. Mumin and I were stuck in the lounge as I sat, hanging my legs from car.

The worst thing during an AFV fire is an explosion, because the car is filled with shells and grenades. In order to survive, it is necessary to get away at a distance. After a moment, I fell to the ground. Striking my head at something hard, I lost consciousness for a while. When I recovered, I heard that deaf grenades and shells were spreading from our AFV. In an instant, it burned like a box of fireworks. There were guys lying next to me. Their faces were bleeding. It smelled like blood, it seemed as if the blood was flowing in mixture with the sage. The soldier, lying closer to me, had ears as if specially stained with thick blood. The captain was lying next to me in a convulsion. He raised his hands and said: "Why have I come, let this land be cursed?" And quiet…

After a while we approached the remains of the AFV. I had a serious headache. Two of our soldiers came down to the quarry. One, apparently feeling something, immediately jumped up. The second failed. Shot down. There was no brave man who wanted to go down after the dead soldier. Six bulletproof vests covered the side where the Afghans settled, but their bullets broke through the cover. Then the sappers tried to pull out the body with their hooks. However, they also failed to cope with this. It took a long time before we finally managed to retrieve the dead soldier’s body. After that, the IFV began to shoot kariz from the cannon. The regiment was standing at the bottom and no one understood what was going on there, where the cannon was firing. Smoke bomb was thrown into the hole, only after the dushmans began to get out of their shelter one by one. The man with a black beard came out last. He was in a subconscious state. One leg below the knee was completely removed. The blood flowing from the foot was mixed with dust. One of the Afghans held his leg.

Prisoners were interrogated on the spot. They pointed to another clearance, where five women were hidden, intended as gifts to the leaders. The blinds of the three testified to their youth, and the black color of the blinds indicated that they were thirty-year-old women.

On that day, the dushmans were to arrive in the village Sangin for an important meeting.

We subjected the village to heavy shelling. After such a hurricane fire, the devil would have left this light himself, but we were met with a strong retaliatory fire.

We were ordered to take enemies alive. As one of the surviving sappers, I was included among the spies. We walked unnoticed to the chest. From the window of a small valley there was a continuous fire. Then the soldiers, coming from the side, knocked the door with their feet and rushed inside. I stayed at the door. In order to get to the inner yard, it was necessary to take about twenty steps. As soon as the soldiers reached the courtyard, a man with a machine jumped out. I pulled it out of my machine. He fell to the ground and began to run. Our eyes met. He was like a wolf, scratching his teeth, but soon his enlarged pupils froze in place. He was dead. At nineteen I became a murderer. Not by my own will, but this does not save you from hard thoughts. I still can’t forget that scene. His white teeth, frozen eyes are chasing me now.

"…NO FANTASY IS ENOUGH…"

Baymurat Mamanov, born in 1967. Kashkadarya Region, Uzbekistan.

Injured in Kindahar.

– The sergeant from Khorezm was named Ozod. One day his AFV exploded on a mine. Dushmans tried to take him alive, wounded. He escaped from the beaten AFV and, seeing the enemies approaching, hid himself in a nearby pipe. They, making sure that no one was left alive in the car, gave several rows on the pipe. We hurried for help and were not far away. The Afghans, feeling bad, fled to the nearby ruins. When we approached, Ozod came out of the pipe. One hand was shot and hanged helplessly down. We took him carefully into the car. No one dared to approach the burning AFV – there were deaf explosions. We returned back. Two days later we went to the AFV to pick up spare parts. Looking into the car, I saw two broken legs. The soldier burned alive in the car. No one thought about his burial and especially about sending him home. Perhaps, instead of the dead soldier's body in the zinc tomb sent salt. Yes, there was something like that.

During the demining, the machine "Ural" exploded. The senior lieutenant, sitting in the cabin, broke off both legs. He slipped to my side. His legs, stuck in his pants, walked behind him. Instead of tears, blood flowed from the eyes. I looked at him with horror. A noble, beautiful commander in a few moments turned into a terrible rubbish. Carefully lifted, I took it to the AFV. At this time, the lower part of the pants barely held, broke off with the legs and fell to the ground. No one was able to raise them. I look at the feet and I think they are going to get up and go. Some unknown force bring me to lift them up, they were still warm. I gave them to the guys sitting on the AFV. Some of my fellow servants put them down as if it was ordinary wooden beads.

The soldier, lying in the wreck, was also stripped one leg. He repeated: "Mommy, mommy, give me water!" He was also put on the AFV. The broken leg was not found. The driver, from the strong impact flew out of the viewing window, lay with his head shaken. Something intestinal, stretching from his neck, wrapped his chest.

No fantasy can paint such scenes. In war, you always think of the imminent death, you constantly feel its breath, ignorance and decision from everything. But, die so ugly, like a dog… If you meet some bright clearing, it attracts you like a magnet, you want to die in such a good place under a blue cloudless sky. Having a home, parents, family, people who love you seems like a happy but distant dream. Now they are gone. You will not see, you will not hear. All around is anxiety, horror, death.

The sappers have a very difficult job. Death always walks next to them. Not in vain it says: "Sapper only once makes a mistake".

We started cleaning off the road that the column was supposed to go through. Here one of the Afghans ran and that about five hundred dushmans were hiding in the ruins. When I told to the officer, he did not believe it.

– Continue to demine, – he ordered.

The shooting soon began. We didn’t even know where to hide. We remembered the wasp buzzing of bullets, the demolished upper part of the skull of the Samarkand guy and his white brain. I looked at him in exaggeration. Then the white brain gradually began to become red and blood flowed. The boy's hands were held by the tank with an iron grip, it seemed as if a villain-sculptor had created a terrible statue. The tank turned and went back. The boy’s brains crashed into the iron car.

From somewhere aircraft appeared and began to bomb the enemy. They shot from a rifle. This time we were protected and able to get back in part. On that day, the road remained undemined.

I can’t forget another story. The soldiers along with the captain went to the desert for demining. My legs fell into the sand. The sun burned unhappy. It was not possible to recognize each other in the face. The throat was dry, it seemed like instead of air we swallowed hot sand. At that time, the signal was given by the mine-detector. He began to scratch the land carefully, arrived at the mine, it was Italian-made. I asked the commander to blow it up on the spot.

– No, you will take the explosive device here.

In fact, we, the sappers, when a mine is detected, must destroy it on the spot. The commander's orders cannot be fulfilled. Others moved to a safe distance. I began to remove the explosive carefully, a cold sweat in an instant covered my body. It seemed like an explosion was about to happen. As soon as I removed the explosive, I instantly debilitated. On the cotton legs took the mine to the AFV. We went further. Luckily, I saw a mine on the road. I met the commander in the eyes.

– Take this one off, too, – he said mockingly.

– I will not, – I answered stubbornly.

– You will go to court! – He cried out.

The soldiers stood down. In such cases, you curse the military service a thousand times. Oh, be free now and spit in the face of this ugly guy!

The distance between me and the "baby"¹ is about ten meters. My feet fall into the sand. The mine lies on the sand, like on a perineum. "The Baby of Death". My legs are being heavy, I can’t walk. The cold sweat swelled the body again. The eyes began to close themselves. I can’t keep the eyelids. I prayed to the household, father and mother, whom I had not seen for a thousand years: "My relatives, protect me, please, banish death! May my remains not remain unburied in this strange hot country. May I die in your arms. Is there really no place for me in my native village? Pray to God, ask him to be merciful!" – I whispered.

We met one by one. It was as if it was saying, "Now I will scatter your hated body". Then I saw death in sight. The mine opened its black jaws, as if laughing. I cringed. I looked around. The soldiers hid behind the AFV. The yellow-faced man who had sent me to my death was watching me intently from behind the shelter.

This picture, and maybe my prayers all worked together, I came to myself: I felt a tide of strength, courage. In front of me was an ordinary "landmine". Without thinking, I removed the explosive, raised the mine. The soldiers, seeing this, fled again to a considerable distance. I brought a mine and got into the car with it. Everyone was watching, holding their breath. We returned to the regiment in silence.

– You are called by the chief of staff, – said the captain when he returned.

Now I did not care. I could even go to hell with this mine, because hell was on my chest. When a man is brought to extremes, he is capable of anything.

When they saw me with a mine on my chest, they all threw up. When I entered the chief of staff, his eyes almost came out of the orbit. He began to retreat.

– Put it there, put it there—only the chief of staff could speak, pointing to a corner away from him.

I remember another case. After serving four months in the desert, I returned to the regiment. I have been in the army for a year and a half. We were raised at four in the morning. They brought shoes from somewhere. I climbed, but on the way it started rubbing the leg, then I removed. It seemed like I couldn’t reach the goal today. I felt like I was on a mine and I exploded. Two soldiers were sent to demine the roof of the house. We were waiting for them. A lot of time has passed and concerns have grown. At this time there was an explosion, dust rose and soon settled.

– What happened there, go find out, – the commander told me.

It is not difficult to understand the feelings with which I went to execute this order. As soon as I entered the house, I saw an open crack in the ceiling that formed after the explosion. One soldier failed in it. His face could not be recognized. There was blood, but it was hard to know where it came from. I tried to help him, but he refused:

– Find my machine, I’ll go out myself, – he said. His machine was attached to the wall of the house. It's hard to say now whether I understood then what he was up to, but the machine gave. This happened often. At that moment there was a scream from the house: "Help!". I turned and took a step back. On the staircase leading to the roof of the house, a soldier stood and held a wounded comrade in his arms. I took a wounded man from him, but as soon as I tried to come down with him, there was a terrible explosion. The wounded man fell out of my arms, and I flew out of the house.

I woke up in the stretcher. I wanted to get up, but it didn’t work. Looking at my legs, I found that I had not one of my legs, and the other turned into something like a meat puddle. The trousers on the legs were broken. Someone ran somewhere, quarreled, screams were heard. They gave me some medicine to smell in the car. It seemed like I drank a lot of vodka. Then they turned from one side to the other. I don't remember anything further.

Four days I failed in the Kandahar hospital, from there I was transferred to Kabul. On the naked legs was put a bandage. Bandage was tightly attached to the bone, it was very painful. Three hours from the healthy part of the leg cut off the skin and attached to the bare bone of the feet. But everything is unsuccessful.

I was taken to Tashkent. Severe pain was caused by bandages attached to the bone. I could not sleep all night. It seems that the whole body has turned into a continuous rupture, ready to break. In Tashkent, the doctor, removing the bandages, tightly compressed my legs. The pain was terrible.

– The foot is clean, there are no cracks, – he said.

I was operated on that day. When I woke up at night, I didn’t feel any pain in my leg. I thought a lot about meeting home. I thought I would enter my hometown. Everybody knows that the news of such trouble spreads very quickly in the cheeks. My heart broke when I thought about it. Many times I thought: "Would I go back like this?". In front of my eyes passed dead comrades and blamed me for such thoughts.

The older brother arrived. When he saw me, he cried. Apparently, something was wrong with the remaining leg, and I was sent to Moscow. There I met a friend from Namangan. He lost two eyes. We walked together. Bitter tears flowed from his eyes.

Doctors promised him to do surgery, but only a year later and did not guarantee that at least one eye would see.

– If I don’t get my eyesight back, I won’t go back to my hometown. I will live here until I die, – he said.

He was very sociable, I couldn’t withstand his complaints and tried to avoid them, because I could not comfort him or myself.

I was treated in Moscow.

My older brother knew what had happened to me, but when I got back in the shell and went home on a prosthesis with a trunk in my hands, my mom was fossilized near the gate. Then she ran to meet me, pressed me to my chest…

"STARS IN DIFFERENT WORLDS"

Bahriddin Haydarov, born in 1967. From Bukhara region of Uzbekistan.

– The year 1986. Beginning of October. We returned from Hanabad to Kunduz. It was announced that Ahmad Shah had returned. His men settled in the highest, well-fortified place. Our battalion was strengthened by a regiment of motor gunmen. The Afghan sarandoi were also with us. At ten o’clock we were located four hundred meters from enemy positions. Seeing our preparations, the dushmans began to shoot first.

Two AFV were sent from us for investigate. However, they quickly returned, the soldiers reported something, and the commander decided that there was no point in attacking.

Planes were called. They, along with artillery, began to intensively shot at enemy fortifications. Unable to withstand the arranged hell, the Afghans withdrew to the village of Hanabad. In the battle a boy from Leninabad was wounded. We took three prisoners. When we, the sappers, purified this elevation, we were ordered to stay here and to settle.

We cut down trees around the fortification. The next day after returning to the location of the regiment, came the news that enemy units had appeared in Herat. We flew there by plane. From there we were transported to the mountains by helicopter. Three days later, we met in the mountains. The enemy stood on the opposite mountain. The distance between us was about a kilometer. Every movement could be seen in the binoculars. Among them we noticed people in foreign shape with light hair, as well as Arabs. They disassembled machine guns and mines.

There was another squadron next to us. In the first battle, my commander was injured. Tashbay Kurbanbayev and I each have 15 soldiers left.

At night fighting had stopped. I cannot describe it in detail, because battle in the mountains is different than in the plains. It seems like bullets are flying into you from all sides, you do not notice who is dead and who is still alive. Sometimes you can’t figure out what the enemy is hiding behind.

I remembered the whistling of bullets, the fires of shells, mortars, their echo in the mountains.

At three o’clock at night, when everything was quiet, I and the Khorezm boy had to change the guard in office. Soldiers are sleeping well. We were located in opposite points, a hundred meters away from the sleeping soldiers. In order not to lose vigilance, agreed to throw small stones. In the mountains, especially at the base, was some unusual darkness. It seemed like all the darkness was gathered around between the two peaks. You look down and it becomes awful. In the sky, the stars are shining – they are also unusually bright: the Big Bear, here is the Milky Way. It is good for study astronomy here. Nevertheless, these beautiful stars lead to unfortunate thoughts. They see everything. But if in my homeland there is a quiet, peaceful life under them, then here they look at the blood, the broken human bodies, the armored soldiers’ legs, the explosions of bombs, and the venerations of mothers. Per that’s why the stars look like they’re shrinking from fear. Peaceful life is hard to imagine.

My thoughts were interrupted by a suspicious noise. Someone approached me. It was about half five in the morning. I threw a stone to the side of the partner, he in the same way made it clear what he heard. The rustle was getting closer. At this time, somewhere it was fired from a rocket, everything around it lighted up in light. At three hundred meters from me I saw behind the nearby valley turban. I shoot from a rocket. My partner in long rows began to shoot from the machine gun in the direction of the valley. I heard the stone, and it all melted.

The next morning we learned about the death of one and the injury of another enemy spy. Soon the fight started again. I probably knew where I was standing, because the bullets whispered and hit the stones with a scratch. I could not shuffle. I stayed in this position for about ten minutes. Then they stopped shooting, apparently thinking it was over. I ran to another place and started shooting again. I lost half a gun shop and went down to the barracks. The commander ordered the defense. However, it was impossible to raise the head.

I don’t even remember when I ate. There was no food or water. From the stones came the heat, accumulated during the day. The throat is dry, it seems like it is filled with something hot. This is when you really feel the value of a spoonful of water.

The place we occupied was not very comfortable. Per that is why our commander decided to defend. They started moving under the rainy bullet towards the mountain. I, as a sapphire, had to go ahead and clean the road. The old, abandoned rocks were not replaced. All the soldiers who slipped after me had dirty and torn clothes, and the faces of them were dust and blood. I thought what a miserable spectacle we were. But it was for an external observer, and there were no such people here.

I accidentally noticed a narrow path, and we followed it. At a short distance, a guy from Khorezm followed me. Suddenly there was a deaf explosion. The explosive wave threw me a few meters away. I couldn’t see anything around, because everything was covered in dust. When the dust settled, I went looking for a path. I felt something sticky on my face, I felt it was blood. Someone from behind shouted: "You’re burning!" Only then I noticed my burning pants. A soldier named Samin helped me deal with the fire. This explosion shattered me deeply. The fragment broke out my left arm, one eye was filled with sand, and my left leg was heavily burned. Strangely, but at first I felt nothing and discovered the wounds gradually, as if exploring myself from the side. The boys put me on the blanket and took me. The bullets continued to accompany us, but fortunately no one was hit.

We went down two and a half kilometers. I asked my friend Sabir to give me water. The Russian guys asked what I asked him about and, learning what it was, said that drinking now is in no way possible, it can destroy the wounded. I felt bad, my condition worsened, tears turned. Deciding that it was time to say goodbye to life, I asked Sabir: "I will still die. You have my parent's address, don’t forget me! Tell all my family about me. Be with them more often. They will accept you as their son". I gave a friend a piece of paper.

Under the wind of helicopter blades, I came to myself. At first, the lieutenant was taken, he had no one leg. The blood slipped on the ground. Then they carried two red-haired soldiers and one black-haired soldier. All three were dead. Death gave their faces a common expression. Then they raised me.

When I was already in the air shouting "Water, water!" a pilot came out of the helicopter’s cockpit. Walking through the dead, he struck his foot in a puddle of blood. The scratches grabbed my face. I felt her taste and started licking.

– What is your name? You will live a long time. You will embrace the girls and kiss them in the lips to the blood. – You can’t drink water now, tolerate, soldiers, there is a little left, soon everything will be fine, – he said and, wiping out the blood from my face, disappeared in the cabin.

We arrived at a hospital in Shindon. The doctors were Kyrgyz.

– The operation will be heavy, a lot of blood has been lost, – said the colonel of the medical service.

I was lying in the cold room and hearing all that conversation. The nurse, cutting my clothes with blades, carefully removed it. Many of the Kyrgyz nurses had wet eyes. The war did not deprive these girls of compassion.

After the injection, the pain disappeared. At the first operation, my fingers were cut off. We prepared for the second, which lasted six hours. I don’t know how long I’ve been unconscious in the room. When I recovered, I was terribly surprised: I was all in the green. There were two slides above. One of them was tied to the hand, the other passed under the bed. When I lifted up the blanket, I saw that this end was tied to the other leg, to that, what was left of it…

Immediately in front of the eyes appeared the colloquial old men with bones. I lost consciousness…

At dawn, someone cried out, "Bahriddin, Bahriddin!" When I turned to the voice, I saw Sergeant Satin lying next to me. He also had a stump instead of one leg. Six hours after the operation, he started "walking" with the help of the boys.

– There was only a month before demobee, – he cried.

I also only had a month. Previously, I wrote home that the service was going "beautifully", and then I didn’t know what to write about. And in the last letter I said: "We are being taken out of Afghanistan".

When we landed at the airport of Tashkent, I remembered how I ran here once for tickets, loudly rattled! I studied in this city for only a year, from here I was called into the army. From the hospital, I wrote home that in five days we will fly from Tashkent to Kiev. In order for the households not to worry, I did not even name the department of the hospital in which I lie. They found me yet. My poor beloved parents came to Tashkent with my things in the hope of walking with me through this great beautiful city. When the nurse reported my parents’ arrival, I lay down without hiding. After hearing this message, I immediately covered my feet with a blanket, as if through it my parents would not notice anything. Two minutes later, my older brother entered the room. He was a doctor. I told him I broke my leg. He raised his head, bleached. When he hugged my head, he cried. I could no longer cry. There was one thought in my head: I became a burden on my family. I saw my mom and dad in a dream. My heart was shaken by joy and sorrow at the same time. My parents cried and hugged me. I lay like a stone statue. My whole life passed before my eyes: a happy childhood, careless youth, and a hard present. Now only the warm breath of mom and dad was the source of life.

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Примечания

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Small pillow

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Dervish – rambler.

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