The Jewish Nation of Mongols

by Boris Zubry

  Almost a hundred former officials from the Soviet Union and a few other socialist countries came to Mongolia. They needed a place to hide and not just to hide but also to hide comfortably. Mongolia was readily available but for the price. What the proud members of the Communist Party could offer to the honorable members of the foreign government in exchange for the decent living in that foreign country when they had no power left? They offered anything and even their wives, sisters and daughters came in to play. That was a healthy and very happy arrangement. So, some money, a few connections that still work, knowledge of a few secrets and the friendly attitude could help to survive and often, could go far and even further than that.

  All of the former Soviet-era officials had some money stashed away; a few, still had powerful connections, and everyone was friendly with anyone who could be helpful. And, they tried to be beneficial to each other. They knew each other for ages and accomplished a few mutually beneficial projects. Who would you trust now a newly established wannabe or someone you accepted before and who may need your help soon enough? Thus, everyone felt like home in Mongolia, well taken care of and being in charge. Even if you were not in charge, you felt that way. If they had to live in Mongolia to survive the troubling times, so be it. There could be jail or something more terrifying. Your former friends could be your worst enemies. The horror stories were hard hitting. The new people in power were paying back to the old ones. The new ones wanted everything the old ones had and more. They were out for blood. So, people were tortured, imprisoned, and even killed, and that was only the beginning. No one knew where it would go, but staying put was dangerous. Thus, anyone who could took to the road. It did not really matter where to go but where to go from. There was too much at stake to stick around so, they did not wait for long.

  President Arban Vagabundi came back to the palace around one o’clock in the morning being slightly drunk and feeling a little tired. That was a little too much pleasure even for him. The Ukrainian girlfriend was tireless, and he worked all day long. Yes, he had a great evening, but now, he needed to wind down and rest. Tomorrow would be another busy day. It never stopped in the palace. His heart was singing and calling for another drink. He liked this American Bourbon. Bourbon Whiskey or a Single Malt Scotch Whiskey – what a choice. So, he had another drink and went directly to the bed. It was a slow drink that soothed him down while he was looking out the window at the lights of the capital. Yes, they had lights at night now in Mongolia and the nightlife. It was not there just a few years ago. How much had changed and basically, in no time? Was it his doing? Well, not all but he contributed a lot. He supported and promoted the reforms that allowed the private businesses to mushroom and flourish throughout the country. He was concentrating on the small family type of companies more than his predecessors. He thought that the family business was much closer to the Mongolian heart than a factory. Arban’s predecessor wanted to utilize the leftover Soviet structure, but that did not work very well. Only a few facilities were in good shape and could fit into a more or less free society. But, the rest of it had failed even before the Soviet collapse. The apparel manufacturing factory that used to be managed by the grandfather was sold to a private company funded from Uzbekistan, modified, and put back online. Now, they produced somewhat decent clothes that were becoming popular throughout the region. They even had their own designer or two. The majority of employees were from the former Soviet Union, mostly Russia and Ukraine. The mismanaged factories there closed as well so, good professional people suddenly became available. Mongolia offered them jobs with good pay and the full relocation package. Many and from different industries came. The leather factory and a few smaller shops were doing very well. They were selling internationally, making a good living. The goods were not the best, but the prices could not be beaten. The labor cost and the raw materials were low enough to beat the competition. In short, thanks to reforms, some of the industries survived; some, grew up and expanded, and some, were entirely new and even profitable. A few things looked promising. No, Mongolia was not going down but up, up, up. However, more work had to be done, more money was needed, and brains with workable ideas were hard to find.

  The security detail saluted him sharply and locked the door to the bedroom. They had to die if needed, protecting him, and maybe they would. Arban doubted that, but they were Mongols and could do such a crazy thing. The Great Khan guards died when needed, and that was a fact. Well, he was not the Great Khan, and these guards were not those guards. Arban laughed to his own joke. He undressed slowly, spread the arms like an eagle, and fall down on the bad. Then, there was a squeal and sharp pain in the ass. Something with very sharp teeth bit him in the right chic of the well pampered behind. The pain was unbearable. He saw himself jumping from the bed and screaming from the top of the longs. It was the pain, and he was angry. Damn it. The security detail stormed the door and piled up in the room. Guns were rapidly drawn, and the wide dark slanted eyes of the world conquerors were scanning, searching, dissecting every corner of the luxurious bedroom. Nothing could escape those radars of responsibility, and they were serious to the point of killing defending the President.

  The bedroom of the Presidential palace was decorated in the decadent style of the Golden Horde. In short, it looked like a Mongolian yurt filled with the luxury of the entire world. Interesting enough, but many of these objects would not be found in the bedrooms of the western leaders. Yet, check the Asian and the Middle Eastern palaces and there you are. It could be the genes, or it could be the customs, it looked great but somewhat outdated. Still, they liked it for thousands of years and who are we to judge it. The rare carpets from Persia, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, China, and the other parts of Central Asia covered the room almost entirely. Windows? What windows? There was no room for that. After all, it was like a yurt, and a yurt had no other openings but a door and a hole in the domed roof. That gave the right feel to that. It was almost as good as the real thing. The wall-size window was in the small office adjacent to the bedroom. Yet, there was no open space of the steppes, horses, camels, freedom. Well, you can’t have everything, can you? This was the next best thing to the yurt if not better. There were plenty of windows in the office. That’s where the windows belonged. Arban could stay there separated by the plate bulletproof window glass from the world of his country, his capital. He could see the people and the mountains not too far away. There were the steppes. The birds of prey were flying there in search of the meal, prey or a mate. They could find it all. They were free. He was a bird of prey searching for the prey and the mate, but he was not really free. He had the obligations and had to do the job. Was it Fair? How could he tell? Well, he asked for that? No one forced him to be what he was. He could go to the steppes and live a simple life or go to Tashkent and enjoy the good life to the full extent. No, he was not the master of his life anymore, but it was so good to be the Great Khan. Only if he had the powers of the great khans, but then again, what was there he needed and did not have. His authorities were almost unlimited and as enjoyable. He had the power of life and death? It was not that obvious, but he had it. He could use it legally through the courts or not. The secret service and the guards would follow his desires to the point. They never refused before. And, if they refused, and did not do what was asked from them, their lives were at stake, and the new guards would do the job. So, what was the big difference between the Great Khans and him? No, it was not that big and mostly nothing. It was so good to be a Great Khan.

  The pelts and the heads of lions and tigers created the masculine feel about the place. It left the impression that the host was a great hunter who enjoyed it almost as much as money. And, the place smelled of money and power. He was the Great Khan after all. But, the porcelain vases and the delicate statuettes from the early Ming Dynasty added some softness and the feminine touch to the vast array of the weapons of war old enough to take part in the Mongol arsenal of the 12th and 13th century. There, in the far-right corner by the window, was ev
en a complete armor suit of the Mongolian warrior from the times of Genghis Khan. Unfortunately, they had nothing that really belonged to the Great Khan. There were a few things that came from his household, wives, relatives, and close associates. Many articles belonged to Ogedei Khan, Batu and even Timur, known as Amir Timur and Tamerlane, “Timur the Lame.” The things that belonged to him when he was still alive believed to be powerful talismans, not mentioning being expensive. So, over the years and centuries of the unchecked inheritance, they all disappeared and could not be identified any longer. After the death of the owner, valuable thigs had the tendency to walk away. The site of the Great Khan burial was unknown. Thousands of horses and camels walked over the site to make it unrecognizable, and all people that took part in the original burial were killed or took their own lives. They wanted to preserve the remains of the Great Khan and to protect what was his last resting place. No, nothing that could be truly traced to Genghis Khan was known and on display, not in the museums and not in the palace. Yet, this magnificent collection of swords, shields, battle axes, bows and arrows, pikes, helmets, daggers, knives, and the other articles of the killing art could make one a sexual monster. Or, if it categorically went to your head, it could turn you into a complete impotent in the shortest possible time. It happened both ways too often. That’s how potent and impressive it was. And Mongols were a horny lot, to begin with. That condition was a result of the meat diet, plenty of fresh air and rest, war as an exercise and the fermented horse and camel milk. Also, their brains were not preoccupied with the issues of other societies worrying if the factories worked well and how the children did at school. All that was rubbish, and the religion did not influence them much. They prayed when they wanted and if they wanted to do that and only to the gods of their choosing. Work was a relative term for them as well. What is work anyway, and how much should one work? If you worked just enough to feed your family and the rest of it was done by the people from other societies that work for a living, was it acceptable? Why is it not? If those people did not want to work for you just for peanuts while you took the lion’s share of their work, enslave them. That is why you were good with the sword and on the horse. That’s the work you did and were good at it. Just keep practicing, and do not get rusty. Shoot the arrows straighter and farther than your opponent. Swing the sword and slash with the mighty force. Ignore the pain and worry about that later. Go forward, push, push, push. The horse is your best friend. Cherish and honor it. Don’t ever let it down and it would not betray you. Sharpen your sword and keep it clean. Your life is on that point of the sword. That’s your life and the life of future generations. Future generations begin with you. It was difficult to say exactly what part of all that played the leading role in the physical and moral conditions of the Mongols. But, the fermented horse and camel milk together with the foul-smelling meat dishes were not the last ones in the book. It is historically known that Mongols were a lively bunch of people. The Mongol nation was not shining at the moment but give it time, a chance to recover from the shock of generations and the Soviet dominations. The Soviets had never recovered from the Mongol Hordes. They were still partly Mongols and partly, whatever, but they were the Soviets, the Russians, the Ukrainians. Even they, lately, wanted to go back to the roots but the roots were mostly invented. What were the roots of the people who were the slaves of the Nomads, Vikings, Mongols, Germans, and the Turks for a good part of a thousand years? The Mongols, in turn, were none of that, so they will recover and soon enough. They were strong, and the prophecies predicted all that before. They will pull through if they follow the prophecies and the prophesies were a few and not always clear. Some of them came true before and many times. But some did not. Yet, there was no specific date in a prophecy, and the interpretation fully depended on the interpreter. If the interpreter was a good and fast talker, that was the official interpretation that either came through or not. Thus, who knows when its due and what should happen? So, you sit and wait, considering the circumstances and projecting them on your understanding of the events. The circumstances could change, but you wait for the right ones. It would come. Everything had to align for the prophecy to come true. Don’t you see that? Is it there yet? Are we there yet? Are you sure you are reading it, right? Read it again and think it through. Read another prophecy. Does it work better? It might if you read it right. Are you sure you are not missing anything? Check that prophecy again. Easy does it. It will reveal itself to those who are patient and wise. Are we patient and wise? We should be; we are reading it. We believe in it. Do you doubt it?

  The armaments of various armies and from different periods were on display almost in every room and hallway of the palace. It was everywhere, and there was no room or even a corner of the room that did not have something from the warring reality. There was also a room of the flags and standards. Yes, Mongols were the warriors and not only on display. All these armies that came in bled and left, but mostly, just went through. Even then, a few shots would be fired and a few people killed; the animals would be taken, the women raped and the yurts burnt. And, every time, the Mongols would follow the invaders, wait for the right moment and pay back as much as they could. Blood had to be spilled to protect the honor. Blood was the only acceptable currency. That was the Mongolian pride, the honor of the wild tribe.

  Nothing was forgotten, and nobody was forgiven. Who lost more in the end? What difference does it make? Just never die alone. Share the privilege. Die and let die, but better live and let die. Mongolia was not a very hospitable environment for those who was not really invited. There were a few places like that around the globe. Well, there are only a few places in the world that were not like that. Yet, Mongolia was one of the harshest ones, one of the bloodiest ones. The land was exacting, and the people were even more stringent. So, the remnants of the belligerent powers visiting this corner of the world were quite impressed considering the size of the place. In the end, the visitors were taxed in full. Many were happy to get away alive. Why did they come? Why did not they go around? It was not that difficult. It would not take too much of an effort, just a few hundred miles or so.

  What we know that, in some cases, it was pride and incompetence but not often. Yet, one could’ve taken another route. It was easy and not that demanding. They came so far; what’s another few hundred miles? The Mongolian steppes were only the prairie lands, nothing special. It was flat, cold, hot, dusty with not much water or the wild game. So, what was it? Why did you want to conquer that place, these people? Is it just because Mongolia was situated on the crossroads to everywhere or the Mongols started it first? It could be both, but definitely, one of it.

  For years, ever since the original palace was constructed, two servants were assigned full-time just to dust the armament collection. It took almost a week to dust and clean it all and then, they would start from the beginning again and again and again. That was not the job but the position, for life. Those positions were transferred from father to the oldest son from generation to generation for a few hundred years already. And now, the armament collection was so enormous that the chief of staff was considering adding one more servant to the cleaning crew. That was a new and an unexpected expense, but it was justified in the minds of the rulers. Every Mongolian ruler ever since before the revolution liked to display his heritage in the form of weapons, animal pelts, paintings of battles, the silk robes of the mighty Khans and the gigantic library of war books. There were some other books as well but, on another floor, the basement, of the palace. The servants believed that the inhabitants of the palace had never ever touched any of these books, but it was still very inspiring. They did not need to read about history. They were the creators of it. They were history. They created the tales and became the fairytales. That’s what they believed in, but after the Mongol empire, not too many of them left even a small indentation on the fabric of antiquity. There was not much to remember but the blood, slavery, rape, pillage, death, and the tragedy of that all. Yes, there are sti
ll a few beautiful palaces here and there but what do they tell you.

  Who built it, for whom and at what cost? Who enjoyed it and who cried the fountains of tears in the rooms made of the white marble? Only if the marble walls could speak, they would tell the real story. But then, if any wall could talk, what would we hear? At least with the Tatars and Mongols, we knew what to expect, but what of the other walls? What of the good guys? The walls could tell us how good the good ones were, but there was a gag order in place for the walls big and small just about everywhere. Was anyone really good? Ever? Walls had to behave as they knew nothing, heard nothing, and could say nothing. Walls knew its place. They would not let anyone in and nothing, even a gossip, out. If the walls talked, they would get demolished, and many already did. They were the threating walls. Maybe, just maybe, if you stop and listen, if you were gentle and polite to the wall, it may tell you something. Listen. Maybe there was something good in there after all. Still, even the smallest of the nations had the right to think as a big one, and this one also used to act like one and for hundreds of years. Slow down. Stop. Look and listen. Walls are talking.

  The other types of books, art and the artifacts in the palace were stored in the basement room that was not meant for exhibition. Yet, the most exciting things could be found in there if one cared to look but who had the time. Yet, some servants did. The turmoil created by the present laboriously attempting to catch up with the future while leaving the past behind had no room for the memories in the form of a few old yet, only slightly used books. Often, it was not clear what was in those books. Was it all Kosher and Hallal when one wanted the history to be on your side? Was it the right history or the wrong version of it? How do we know the right and the wrong side of it if even the history did not know that for sure? Questions, problems, misunderstandings… Go figure. How badly do we need it on a good day? How miserable do we need to be on a bad day to keep adding to the misery? Who could afford to step back in time, and read the old books when the future was calling? The time of the old books was gone already, right when they became old. Reading… What, why? When… The new stuff was coming out every day, every minute; no, every second. The old books were good only for the décor now.