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.