Loe raamatut: «The Bloody Veil»

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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

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.