Игорь Проскурин
The Power of the Heart

Stories of People Who Never Gave Up!

A portion of the proceeds from the sale of this book will go toward building a community center, supporting people with disabilities, and developing inclusive projects.

Public Association “Society of People with Disabilities” Jomart Jurek – “Generous Heart”

Prologue

“When the body gives up, the soul must fight.”

I always considered myself a strong person. Life taught me resilience from childhood: my father left early, and my mother raised us alone, working on construction sites to keep us fed. From dawn till dusk, she hauled bricks and heavy beams, and in the evenings, barely able to stand, she cooked dinner and smiled as if fatigue didn’t exist. We helped her as best we could, but it was then I first understood: strength isn’t in muscles. Strength is in the spirit. After school, I joined the army and served my country for two years. I returned home feeling that real life was about to begin. But fate had other plans to test me. At first, it was just back pain. Nothing serious, the doctors said. “Just osteochondrosis,” they reassured me, prescribing injections and vitamins. Five years passed like that. But then my legs started to go numb. First the left, then the right, refusing to obey. I endured, hoping it would pass. One day, when our second child was born, we went for a family walk. It seemed like an ordinary day… but half an hour in, I realized I couldn’t walk. The pain was unbearable. At home, I tried to stretch my back, asking my four-year-old daughter to walk on it with her little feet. It didn’t help. Then I hung on a pull-up bar, hoping to stretch my spine. Suddenly, a sharp, burning pain shot through me… my hands let go, and I collapsed. My legs gave out. For a month, I lay unable to get up. Every day brought injections, pills, hope—and disappointment. Only an MRI revealed the truth: severe herniated discs, compressed nerve channels. Surgery was inevitable. After the operation, a new life began—but not the one anyone dreams of. The doctors banned all physical exertion, and I, accustomed to hard work and sports since childhood, started gaining weight rapidly. The scale hit 160 kilograms. And then—new pain, new threats. “You need surgery urgently, or you’ll face paralysis,” the doctor said. But I refused. I decided to fight. Every morning, I got up on aching legs, did exercises, and walked kilometers—10 a day, through pain, sweat, and despair. And I won. The pain receded. I lived like that for five years… until a simple cold triggered it all again. A second surgery. Transpedicular fixation. A cage implant. A month of rehabilitation. It seemed like light was ahead. But then—a new challenge. My body rejected the metal, inflammation set in, and I was bedridden again. For a whole year, I lay helpless, broken… Through it all, she was there—my wife. My angel. She worked, provided for the family, raised our children, and taught me to live again. Step by step, like a child, I learned to walk with crutches, then a cane, feeling the ground beneath my feet once more.

I returned to life. I started working at a society for people with disabilities, dedicating three years to it. But over time, I realized I wanted more. I wanted to help people the way I had been helped. That’s how my own organization was born—“Jomart Jurek,” meaning “Generous Heart.” Today, my family and I support people with disabilities—those on the brink, who’ve lost hope. This book is part of my dream. By buying it, you help us build the House of the Generous Heart—a place where everyone can find help, support, and belief in themselves. I’ve been through pain, helplessness, and despair. I fell and rose again. I learned one thing: when the body gives up, the soul must fight.

Chapter 1. A Step into the Unknown (Marina)

Marina sat by the window of her small apartment in Almaty, where autumn rain tapped against the glass, as if trying to break through. The smell of wet asphalt and the distant hum of trams on Abylai Khan Avenue seeped through the cracks, reminding her of the life flowing outside. Two years ago, her days were filled with the scent of fresh clay in a pottery workshop, where she crafted vases inspired by the petroglyphs of Tamgaly Tas. Evenings were spent in cafés on Arbat, where the laughter of friends mixed with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, and walks with her younger sister Asel in Medeu filled her lungs with mountain air and dreams of the future. But everything changed in an instant. On a slippery road near Charyn Canyon—a screech of brakes, a crash, pain piercing her body like lightning. In the hospital, reeking of disinfectant and iron, she heard the verdict: paralysis of the lower limbs. “Marina, you’ll need to learn to live again,” the doctor said, his voice cold as the stethoscope on her chest. She stared at the white ceiling of the ward, feeling the world shrink to the size of a hospital bed. The first months were a nightmare. Sheets clung to her sweaty body; sleepless nights stretched like winter steppes. Friends called, but she hung up, unable to bear their pity. “Why would they need me? A disabled burden,” she whispered in the dark, her voice trembling like autumn leaves in the wind. Anger surged in waves: at the driver, at fate, at her body that had betrayed her. Her mother brought baursaks and plov from the market, but their once-beloved smell now made her nauseous. Emptiness grew inside her, like a shadow on a moonless night. One evening, everything changed. Her creaky wheelchair became her companion, and sitting in it, Marina stared at a dusty bookshelf. Among the books was Asel’s album—tattered, with yellowed pages. Opening it, she saw drawings: the Tian Shan mountains, horses in the steppe, and a note in childish handwriting: “Sis, I know you’re strong. You still have to paint your new life. Love, Asel.” Tears flowed—not from pain, but from something deep, like the roots of an ancient oak. She remembered gathering apples with Asel in their grandmother’s garden in Talgar, how her sister whispered, “You’re my hero.” A spark ignited—tiny but burning, like a flame in a steppe fire. The next day, trembling with fear, she opened her laptop. Her weak fingers typed: “rehabilitation center Almaty.” She found “Jomart Jurek”—a community where people with similar fates shared stories and support. The trip there was torture: jolting in a taxi, strangers’ stares, but hope burned inside, like a star in the night. Months of training became a battle. First—sitting without support, feeling her muscles burn. Then—balancing on a ball, each sway causing nausea. Standing was like climbing Everest: sweat, tears, falls. Her trainer, a woman with a prosthetic leg, whispered, “Breathe, Marina. One breath, one step.” Marina recalled Kazakh legends where heroes triumphed not by strength, but by spirit. Years later, she returned to her workshop, now adapted for her: low tables, special tools. She now creates pottery for people with disabilities—cups with tactile patterns you can feel with your fingers. At the “Jomart Jurek” center, she greets newcomers, hugs them, and says, “You can do it. Just believe. And if you don’t believe—I’ll believe for you.”

Chapter 2. Letters to Mom

The room smelled of old paper, dust, and a hint of dampness—the rain had been falling for three days straight. Artem sat on the floor by the window, legs tucked under him, holding a blank sheet of paper. Writing was hard: his fingers trembled, and the pencil felt too heavy. He reread the beginning of the letter: “Hi, Mom…” The words looked clumsy, alien. He crossed them out and wrote again. For the hundredth time. Artem was sixteen. Two years ago, his mother passed away—cancer, late-stage, too little time. Since then, letters became his only way to talk to her. In them, he shared everything: school, the neighbor’s dog, the girl from the parallel class he liked, new dreams, and new fears. He kept these letters in a shoebox, hidden under his bed, never showing them to anyone. Not even his father. “Mom, you should’ve seen the sun yesterday. It hit the roof of the house across the street, and the snow sparkled like someone scattered glass shards. Remember how we used to photograph sunsets like that? You always said light heals…”

Artem put down the pen and closed his eyes. Memories flooded in: his mother’s hands—warm, with slender fingers, smelling of vanilla and apple pie. The memories were so vivid, it felt like he could reach out and touch her. But reality was different. Beyond the door—silence. He and his father lived together, but they barely spoke. His father buried himself in work, staying late at the factory, and came home to sit in front of the TV, staring blankly at the screen. One rainy evening, Artem went outside. He held a special letter, written on yellow paper. He wanted to leave it where his mother loved to walk—on a bench by an old chestnut tree. He walked slowly, dragging his right leg, which barely bent after an accident a year ago. That day had split his life into “before” and “after”: a car, a crash, pain, surgery, months of rehabilitation. The doctors said he’d have to learn to walk again. He did. But he couldn’t run like before.

“Mom, I’m at your tree again…” he whispered, placing the letter on the bench. At that moment, a woman with a girl in a wheelchair stopped nearby. The girl smiled at him, and Artem caught her gaze. He wanted to look away, but she suddenly said, “Are you leaving a letter here too?” “…Yeah,” he exhaled, unsure what else to say. “I write letters too,” she said quietly and extended her hand. “Want me to show you where we keep them?” That’s how Artem learned about a small group of kids who met weekly in an old library. They were united by one thing—almost all had lost someone. Parents, siblings… Letters were their bridge to those who were gone. At the first meeting, he sat silently, clutching his paper. Next to him was that girl—Liza. She’d lost her hearing after meningitis and now communicated through writing, but her smile was so open that Artem felt an unfamiliar warmth.

From then on, he went every week. Sometimes he read his letters aloud, sometimes just listened. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel alone. In spring, Artem did something he’d feared—he read one of his letters to his mom aloud to the group. His voice shook, the letters danced in his eyes, but he finished. When he looked up, Liza was holding her letter. She showed him a line written in big letters: “We’re alive—so they are too.” That phrase was a revelation. Artem stopped hiding his letters under the bed. He carried them with him, a reminder that love doesn’t go away, even if the person does.

Chapter 3. Second Wind

Alexander never thought he’d become an athlete. As a child, he was quiet and introverted, preferring to build model airplanes over playing soccer with neighborhood kids. But everything changed in high school when he first tried running on the stadium track—and felt something special in the motion. He dreamed of marathons, staying up nights watching Olympic videos, picturing himself on the podium. But a horrific accident shattered his dreams. In an instant, Alexander lost his leg. When he came to in the hospital, the world seemed to collapse. “What kind of athlete am I now?” he thought, staring at the white ceiling of the ward. For months, he barely spoke to anyone, retreating into himself. But one day, someone changed everything. It was a Paralympic team coach. He approached Alexander in the rehab center corridor and said, “I heard your story. We have a team. Want to try?” Alexander wanted to refuse, but something stirred inside. He agreed. The first workouts were hell. The prosthesis chafed his leg, his breath faltered, his body resisted. But the coach was there. “Don’t give up, Sasha. The pain will pass, but the pride will stay,” he said. Two years later, Alexander competed in his first international competition. He finished third, but that day he felt like a champion. He proved to himself that the impossible was possible. Today, thousands know him. He inspires other athletes, visits schools, and tells kids that the strength of spirit outweighs any obstacle. “One day, you’ll realize your weaknesses are just a reason to become stronger.”

Chapter 4. When the Heart Doesn’t Give Up

Emma was always a whirlwind of energy. She studied to become a doctor, acted in a theater group, and managed to work part-time in a café. It seemed she had it all: youth, health, dreams, and friends. But life tests us unexpectedly. During a morning run, Emma felt sudden weakness and fainted. Weeks of tests ended in a diagnosis: a rare heart condition. The doctors were blunt—her life would be entirely different. At first, she couldn’t accept it. Yesterday she was running along the embankment, laughing, planning her future; today, they told her, “Avoid exertion, don’t stress, live calmly.” But how could she live calmly when her soul yearned to move forward? Initially, Emma shut everyone out. She stopped going to university, ignored friends’ calls, and even avoided opening the door for her mother. But one night, sitting in the kitchen, she overheard her younger brother whispering on the phone, “I don’t know how to save her… She hasn’t smiled in a week.” Those words hit her harder than anything. She realized her pain was hurting her loved ones too. That same night, she wrote in her notebook, “I will fight. For myself. For them.” Emma started small—setting daily goals: wake up at the same time, go outside for 15 minutes, read one chapter of a book. At first, it felt pointless, but gradually, her life regained meaning. Two years later, Emma graduated and became a cardiologist. She chose this profession deliberately—to help people facing diagnoses that could shatter their world. Looking into her patients’ eyes, she always says, “Even if your heart struggles to beat, it must never stop loving and believing.”

Chapter 5. Through the Glass

Vera always loved glass. It was honest—look through it, and the world didn’t hide, but it didn’t overwhelm either. Through the stained-glass windows of the house across the street, morning light turned into colorful patches, and Vera could sit for hours, catching them on the wall with her fingers. Her mother often found her there, smiled, and said softly, so as not to startle her, “Vera, the sun’s beautiful today, isn’t it?” The girl nodded, not taking her eyes off the play of light. Vera was twelve. She rarely spoke, and her mother knew—it was easier that way. The world was too loud: sounds cut her ears, smells tangled, people’s faces felt too close. At six, doctors used a word Vera didn’t understand then, but her mother repeated it often: “She has autism. She sees the world differently.” School wasn’t kind to her. Classmates whispered when she didn’t answer questions, laughed when she repeated the same word over and over. Sometimes someone pulled her braid, and Vera would shrink into herself, hiding in the bathroom, covering her ears with her hands. “Mom,” she asked one evening, staring at her hands, “am I… wrong?” Her mother sat beside her, hugged her, and whispered, “You’re special. You just have a different way of talking to the world.” That evening, her mother brought an old box of paints. “Want to try?” Vera cautiously took a brush, dipped it in blue gouache, and drew a line. Then another. Three hours later, dozens of papers lay on the floor, and Vera was smiling—a rarity her mother cherished above all. In spring, her mother took her to a modern art center. Vera walked slowly, clutching her folder of drawings. The hall smelled of fresh paint and coffee. She stopped at a large abstract painting—three colors, a few lines, and for some reason, it made her want to cry. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” said a man nearby. Vera flinched and stepped back. “I’m an artist,” he added gently. “Danil. Do you draw?” Vera nodded. “Will you show me?” She pulled out one drawing—a small piece where light refracted through glass. Danil looked at it for a long time, then whispered, “You hear the world differently… That’s precious.” He invited Vera to a studio where teens with communication challenges gathered. At first, she sat in the corner, observing. There was a boy who only spoke through his phone, a girl who always drew rain, and a teen with headphones composing wordless music.