...“Dear comrades, dear comrades…dear comrades,” a voice shouted, imposing an eerie silence on the tavern.
All eyes turned to the caller to find Yuri
Kudrin, the manager of the joint, standing erect on the counter with a dreadful
look on his face.
“Give us a reason for distracting us from our
informative discourse before I put my hand in your mouth,” Mikhail Pugo shouted
at his friend, shaking his fist in a
threatening, though comical manner.
“The news, the news, the news! Let’s listen
to the news,” Yuri Kudrin stuttered, “Terrorists from Chechnya have struck Russia again.”
Nobody heeded his words after that, as the
men and women rushed towards the television screen perched on a stand at the
far end of the tavern, close to the lavatory. A nineteen-year-old student was
the first to get there, and he turned up the volume before anyone even asked him
to.
It was one thing to talk idly about the
problems of the former Soviet Union and another thing altogether to see the
ravaged lives of the people they held closely in their hearts passing in front
of their eyes on the screen. Sounds of weeping could be heard from about half a
dozen women there who could not mute their emotions. Even an anguished howl
escaped the throat of a six-foot-two-inches-tall lumberjack called Dyadya Ivan. But for the clear majority
of the Union-Muzhiks there, the images and reporting sent them into a state of
stunned silence and despondent brooding. Curses could be heard every now and
then, brief exchanges permeated the air, but it was the timid sobbing from some
of the women that left the atmosphere subdued for a while. People started
leaving for their homes shortly afterwards, with many of them failing even to
say goodnight or goodbye to their friends.
Boris could not tell how long he was in
front of the television following the developments on the screen, before he
sighed, walked away and settled again in his seat by the terrace. He was joined
moments after by a good number of those who partook in the discourse moments
ago.
“Terror, terror, terror,” he grappled aloud
with his thoughts, “It is very powerful.”
“What are you talking about, Comrade
Boris?” asked Ramil Bagirov, a smooth-talking ethnic Azeri known for his talent
as a sculptor.
Boris turned around and regarded the
crestfallen Ramil Bagirov. “Comrade Ramil, what do those images of the
mutilated bodies of women, children and the elderly tell us?”
“They tell us a lot about the pains that
man is capable of inflicting on his fellow man,” Ramil Bagirov said.
“They tell us a lot more than that, my dear
comrade! Terror is a powerful political weapon, a painful social infection and
the most potent dehumanizer man ever came up with. I grieve for the Chechen
people whose ranks the terrorists come from as much as I grieve for the victims
of their act of terrorism. Every Chechen act of terrorism dehumanizes the
Chechens themselves, far more than the people those Chechen terrorists are out
to hurt, people who might even be tempted to seek revenge,” Boris said with a
sigh.
“Now, I understand why the Chechens were
stereotyped as the most wicked nationality back in the day of the Soviet Union.
None of the other nationalities are capable of perpetuating such carnage,”
Yeremenko said, visibly shaken by the footages, “I never expected to see such
images coming from any other country besides Israel.”
“It is a Muslim thing,” said Ivan Stoikhov,
an ethnic Bulgarian born in the breakaway Moldovan region of Transnistria.
“I disagree with you on that. Muzhiks of
the Iranic linguistic group abhor the use of terror, even though they too are
Muslims. I’m a Kurd, and believe me, I
talked about the nature of terrorism the other day with my Ossetian friend of
the Digor group. We think terrorism is a plague that the Arabic-speaking and
Turkic-speaking peoples are spreading all over the world under the cloak of
Islam. Take for example the genocide Saddam Hussein perpetuated against the
Kurds in Iraq. Think about the state terrorism that Turkey has unleashed
against its Kurdish population,” Islam Kordestanov, an Armenian Kurd said with
a note of exasperation in his voice.
“I know little about the Arabs, but I can
write a thesis about Turks. When I say Turks, I mean any of the Turkic-speaking
peoples—be they Uzbeks, Osmanli Turks, Azeri Turks, or any of the other Turkic
peoples of the world. I know them from the damage they wrought on the Armenian
people, especially at the turn of this century,” Ashile Mikoyan said and shook
his head in a funny manner as if he were harboring a thought that he did not
want to share with the other Union-Muzhiks.
“Comrade Ashile, permit me to counter your
assertion. “History has proven that terrorism isn’t a product of the Caucasus.
The nationalities of the Caucasus have a long history of living together based
on tolerance and solidarity. There was nothing genocidal in the conduct of the
war between our peoples over Nagorno-Karabakh. The conflict wasn’t tainted by
terror. In fact, we didn’t target each other’s women and children,” Ramil
Bagirov objected, shaking his head forcefully.
“I think there is a misunderstanding here
between our Armenian and Azeri comrades,” Yeremenko said in an effort to
diffuse the rising acrimony in the exchange between Ashile and Ramil,
“Actually, some Arabic-speaking Palestinians I talked to in Israel and the
Occupied Territories think the first real terrorist was a Jew. They contend
that Samson in the bible committed an act of terror when he pulled down the
Temple of Dagon and killed himself and the Philistines inside. They contend
that women and children too were there—right inside the temple.”
“How was he supposed to know, even if that
were the case? He was blind at the time. Didn’t his enemies pull his eyes out
after they captured him?” Ashille said, sounding incredulous.
“Ha-ha...ha-ha,” Boris laughed, “But he wasn’t
deaf!”
“I disagree with you, my dear comrades. I
disagree with what you are saying,” Ramil interposed and sighed, “No mention
was ever made of women and children in Samson’s story. But one thing I know for
sure is that the true origin of terrorism was in the times of the Assassins, a
period that spanned four centuries in the Middle East. I won’t even consider
the Zealots as terrorists because they
did not target the women and children of their enemies.”
“Why
are you stressing on the Turkic and Arabic speaking peoples of the world only?
Aren’t the Tamil Tigers engaged in terrorism in their war against the Sri
Lankan government? Aren’t the Irish Republican Army, Euskadi Ta Askatasuna
otherwise known as ETA, and the Colombian FARC, involved in terror too?” Boris
asked.
“I understand the point you are trying to
make, Comrade Boris. The European movements targeted the establishments in
their acts of terrorism. They do not make women and children their targets.
That is where my concerns lie,” Ivan Stoikhov said emphatically.
“I respect Comrade Ramil’s mind. I respect
his views,” Ashille Mikoyan muttered, and then nodded as if grappling with the
right words to say. “I respect yours too, even though I cannot help but accept
the fact that you are a thinking mind that sometimes allows his emotions to get
the better hold of him. I admit there is a gross misunderstanding between the
Armenian and Azeri peoples, my dear comrades. I think the misunderstanding
stems from deep-rooted suspicions that resurfaced due to the internal
weaknesses of the central government that became exposed during the last years
of the Soviet Union. Even Azeris of the former Soviet Union face the
possibility of extinction in the hands of Armenians in the republics,” Ramil
Bagirov articulated.
A
worried expression crossed Ashile Mikoyan’s face and stayed there for a while
as he scratched his head and bit his lips. “Comrade Bagirov is right. I agree
with you on that point. Nobody can deny the mutual misunderstanding that exists
between the Armenian and the Azeri peoples. Even so, we can always find
solutions to our problems?”
“Of course, solutions can be found to every
problem. All we need is the will,” Boris offered.
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