I look at my paper. I think I remember these western tribes’ names: “Alysh, Mongyt, Nestik, Askergoz, and Markat.”
Abzal nods his head, “Yes, Alisher, you are right! Mongyts are the tribe of warriors and great rulers near the Russian border that control Mongytorda region, rich with natural gas.”
“Yeah, some of my long-lost friends are from the Mongyt tribe.” Zholan belongs to that tribe. During the high school years, he often discussed local politics while having opposition views. “They are known to not like the Babayevs.”
Abzal takes a note, “An enemy of our enemy is our ally, so I’ll take a note of them along with my tribe—the Alysh.”
“I heard that they were the ones who drove the 2004 protests in Munai.”
“Yes, Alisher, you are right; these miners and oilers from the shores of the Caspian Sea would prefer suicide over indecent life.”
“What about other tribes of the Left Wing, General?”
“Well, the Nestik tribe produced some great politicians and leaders.”
“They can be people leading the protesters and lead the groups.”
“Right. Alisher, I will take a note of that as well. I will also add the Askergoz tribe.”
“What are they known for, General? I’m afraid I either do not know or have forgotten because of the long time I was abroad.”
Abzal widens his eyes and cannot hide his shock, “My goodness, Askergoz men are the skilled soldiers, intelligentsia, writers, and composers who usually do skilled labor during peace but are ready to pick up their swords and guns the minute there is a grave threat! These tribes are extremely radical, though, so we shouldn’t excite them too much before they get too violent.”
I take a look at the notes I’m making, and I ask, “Sounds like a good pack for the army! The remaining tribe in our Left Wing tribe list is Markat, right?”
“Yes, Alisher. It is the only Left Wing tribe that is not radical and has liberal views. It is known for skilled orators, honest judges, and members of the intelligentsia.”
I start to finally remember this tribe, “Oh yeah, that region is especially diverse ever since the Russians built a fort for its Cossacks to attack and conquer Kazakhstan and Dalabistan. These social justice warriors will be the ones in charge of nonviolent activism on the streets.”
Abzal nods and gets another sheet of paper. “This sheet of paper is for the tribes of the Central Wing that are the buffer between Russia and Kazakhstan, where the capital is with its frigid winters. How many tribes do you remember?”
“Umm… Salym, Malcha, Burkut, Imanyster, and Kaskyr.”
“Yes, you remembered all of the tribes! Which ones do you think will be useful for our cause?”
“Well, Salym would back us up with their brains, scientists, writers, warriors, and politicians. I’m not so sure about the Malcha tribe—these common peasants and steppe herders still wandering around as our nomadic Dalab ancestors, harvesting crops, grazing the sheep and horses, hunting with their eagles, and wandering around.”
Abzal seems to agree, “They are essentially the Dalabistani Amish, isolated and refusing to adhere to modern technologies. They are still interested in politics, and I heard them demand a ruler who would not steal their livestock like the Babayevs do right now.”
“They would best work out as traditional historical protesters marching along the Kaskyr tribe who are also so nationalist.”
The word “kaskyr” means “wolf” in Dalab, and they, with the wolves’ aggression and valor, fought, rebelled, and overthrew many invaders and unjust rulers.
Abzal continues, “Oh God, they are so warlike that even the most radical tribes of the West might not compare to them.” He mentions, “You know, they actually used to be on the throne of the Dalab Khanate when they overthrew the oppressive Abulkhair Khan of the Abulkhair Khanate in the fifteenth century. But twenty years after their ascent to power, the Kaskyr tribe lost all of its power to Shyngys tribe—the tribe that traces its roots to Genghis Khan. Interestingly enough, Shyngys tribe members are not satisfied with the current state of affairs as well, so they have a very high tendency to rebel.”
I take more notes before I reply, “It makes perfect sense now why Kaskyrs are so nationalist and anti-establishment. As a result of enduring this historical injustice for centuries, they simply don’t want to be oppressed by another leader from any of the Three Elite Tribes!”
Abzal agrees, “Exactly! The union of these two traditionalist tribes would represent the traditional fighters during the battle.” He then suggests, “We also have educated liberals from the Imanyster tribesmen. They also are pro-Western, so many would want to join forces with you and Major Evans.”
“Oh yeah, liberals are automatically the people I need to help overthrow Babayev and his authoritarianism. They are in as well. What about the last remaining tribe, the Burkut?”
Abzal drinks his cup of tea and continues, “Oh, the Burkuts are similar to my fellow Alyshs in their desire for freedom. But they prefer to use nonviolent resistance against oppressors. They used it against the Soviet power, and I hope they are willing to rise up again to help us.”
I continue, “Sounds like a solid plan. But what about the Right Wing tribes? One tribe that would be helpful for me is the gardeners and steelers of the Bashar tribe. Most of them are employed by me, so they would be crucial for me—and they have a vested interest in my plan working out.”
Abzal adds, “Yes, they sound like people very willing to fight for their rights.” He then takes another sip, “Aside from them, Maktyr tribe from that Wing’s southwest is known to be rebellious uranium and coal miners always demanding better work conditions and civil rights.”
“Oh, skilled protesters with the first-hand experience who may already have figured out how such protests work.”
“Exactly. They can lead the civilian lines of protesters. Many of them are the ones who will serve us as undercover armed units dressed as civilians—it was their tactical innovation that often succeeded in meeting their demands. Alisher, what about your tribe? Which tribe are you from?”
“I’m from the Chamyr tribe since I was born in Alakala.”
While Alakala is the home to my native tribe Chamyr that historically controlled this city—still the largest city in all of Dalabistan—this city has so many other tribes present, on top of many other ethnicities like the Russians or Koreans, thanks to its cosmopolitan status. The Chamyr tribe is one of the most populous ones and has intelligentsia members, sportsmen, writers, orators, and politicians. My tribe is also known to be one of the most radical ones out there. However, the Chamyrs in Alakala have pretty moderate views because they tolerate the people from other tribes and countries. After all, Alakala is still the financial and logistical center of Dalabistan at Central Asia’s crossroads. Same thing goes for the capital Volkan—although no tribe has historically occupied that city. Volkan especially is unpredictable in deciding whether it is pro- or anti-Babayev. Tomorrow is the plan to change it for our side.
I tell Abzal, “Well, I hope my tribe will support me because where Chamyrs go one, we go all to help each other.”
Abzal makes some sketches in his notebook, and he responds, “Right. It seems that all of the Commoners Tribes would back us up along with the Shyngys tribe. There is one Right Wing tribe though, that would be the biggest pain in the ass.”
“Oh God, these sycophants from the Karakoldar?”
“Yes, they are the kin of the most loyal slaves and servants of the Babayev family. They are good suppliers of cannon fodder for the police, the state-sponsored racketeer units, the Hovlyk Asker, and the Armed Forces. They, as well as the two ruling Elite Tribes Atasty and Janbek, serve in the paramilitary groups.” At least we are outnumbering our opponents. Then Abzal gets up and takes a breath, “Tomorrow we are going to Karajasyl military base early in the morning.”
“Why are we going there?”
Abzal starts to
prepare his bed as he explains, “We have to use this foreign military base to launch our march with Major Oliver Evans and his men. That’s where our American allied soldiers are stationed.”
“Any other commanders available?”
“Well, Yan Armanov is going to be there to lead his non-violent protesters. Sabit Ahmetov is also joining the fight. He is the head of organizing the logistics of the army with me. I suggest you try and get some sleep. It is very possible we may all die tomorrow. We need to get enough energy for such a busy day, because it may make the difference between life and death. I’m going to sleep—good night, Mr. Karabars.”
As I go to my bedroom, I reply, “Good night, General Kylyshbayev!” I can’t believe that Sabit himself is in my plan as well. After all these years we are going to reunite again! While watching the darkness of the night outside my window, I remember the countless years of oppression: the Munai massacre when the police shot the protesting miners and workers of the West; the countless detainments of white-collar workers from the Fourteen Commoners Tribes for fictitious crimes; the murder of my mother at the hands of Babayev-sponsored racketeers. It must be over tomorrow, and I will put an end to this plague that eats Dalabistan alive.
Chapter 9: The Forced March
May 20, 2014. Early in the morning, I arrive at the Karajasyl military base. That’s where we will station our troops, ready to defend the civilians in case the government retaliates. I walk into a large hangar on the base. Inside, there is already a large crowd of workers, foreign employees, students, and soldiers. I take a moment to gather my thoughts, then steady my breathing as I walk out on a stage platform with Abzal, Sabit, and Oliver. The crowd cheers as we appear, and it raises my spirit to see such hope in their eyes.
“Fellow comrades, thank you very much for coming. This day, while full of dangers, will be a momentous day! This will be the moment to fight for our rights!”
The crowd goes wild at my words. “Wake up, Dalab” and “Babayev, hands-off from Dalabs!” The first slogan refers to a poem “Wake up, Dalab” written by Tengri Party’s founders, who resisted the Russian colonizers and united with Kazakhstan’s Alash Orda to create an autonomous Federation of Alash and Tengri Ordas. Their struggle for Central Asia’s self-determination and control over their own lands is historically vital for both Dalabs and Kazakhs. Too bad the Federation of Alash and Tengri Ordas lost against both the Red Army and the White Army in the Russian Civil War. The Soviets later shot the surviving rulers of the short-lived Federation during Stalin’s 1937 Great Purge. If the Federation’s plan has succeeded, then we would be light years ahead right now. We will accomplish something they couldn’t.
I have never seen a crowd so mobilized before that the sheer numbers will have Babayev shivering from fear. I continue, “Together, we will build a better Dalabistan, a Dalabistan without the royal ticks!”
The masses exploded in endless shouts of “Death to Babayev! Remember the Munai massacre!” I let them have their moment, but the day will be a long one, and we have to get moving. I raise my hand, and the crowd soon quiets down. “People united by our common goal, please calm down. Pay attention to the action plan! Listen to General Abzal Kylyshbayev!”
Abzal steps up to the microphone and adjusts his collar. “We know that things are so dire right now in Dalabistan. What we are about to do is very dangerous, and Babayev may strike with force. That is why I have all these fine soldiers to help protect you. Security forces will escort you to the Dalab Eli square. We have many talented soldiers under my command on our side and several foreign troops available. We need to form the order of the people.”
His words raise questions. I lean over and whisper in his ear. “Which order, General?” He didn’t talk about the order of protester groups yesterday.
“The order in which the people will come to fight for their rights. The first hundred rows, each with a hundred people, must be filled with Alysh, Mongyt, Burkut, Kaskyr, and Maktyr tribes. The next hundred rows will be filled with school and university students. After that, the remaining rows will be split between foreign workers and the remaining tribes. Except for the first row, all of the rows will be escorted and bordered by former policemen who will protect you. The main forces of my and Major Evans’s soldiers would be behind to not tip off Anar about their forces.”
Sabit steps forward and raises his hands. He bellows out to the crowd, “Wake up, Dalabs! It’s time to attack! May the revolution begin. Let’s go, Dalabistan! No more Babayev!”
The crowd replies with a frenzy of shouts and cheers. I have never seen this logical man playing on the crowd’s emotions at all. I didn’t expect to see his emotional side. While I’m filled with a sense of hope and pride, I can’t help but think about the years of bullying and betrayal I experienced in my youth.
I lean over to Yan Armanov, the famous civil rights activist and whisper, “Is this normal? Are they getting out of control?” Having never been involved in something like this, I have no baseline for what a crowd of protestors should look like. They feel like reflections of me, like my alter egos that decided to stay in Dalabistan instead. I do not see violent rioters in front of me. No, I see loving sons and daughters of Dalabistan, fighting for the country to live in after being bullying. I am one of them, seeing the same scars on their stoic faces as I have. They are us.
Yan sighs and calmly whispers back, “I guess they are so desperate for freedom that they would prefer a brutal death over their current political oppression. If they all had weapons, it would be chaotic.”
“Alright, I’m glad that Abzal is in charge of the military. I leave the organization of movement of protesters for you. Did you prepare your posters, slogans, and citizens’ demands for the operation?”
“Oh yeah, ‘Time’s up, Babayevs’ and ‘Stop robbing OUR opportunities, thieves,’ just to name a few.” He points to a few places in the crowd where his people are distributing the signs and posters.
It’s all coming together. I step back up to the microphone and address the crowd again, “Protesters, activists, workers, employees, soldiers and policemen convoy. We will march toward the Dalab Eli square on Volkan Babayev Avenue from this military base. If you are a protester, please listen to instructions from Yan Armanov. If you are a soldier, follow the orders from General Abzal Kylyshbayev. For freedom!”
“For freedom!!!” The crowd shouts back.
The crowd begins to file out of the hangar. As they leave, I turn to Abzal and Sabit, “Good luck, comrades. If any of you will get killed in battle, God forbid, please know that you are my brothers and that I will never forget you as kind individuals. In case you will get persecuted, seriously injured, or martyred, I will help your families financially.”
“I hope it won’t happen. My soldiers are skilled, and the policemen on our side are ready and willing to give it their all. This is dangerous, but we will do our best to secure you, and the rest of the protesters,” asserts Abzal as he pats my shoulder.
“I believe in you, Alisher and Abzal. You are the most effective strategists and rebels in the history of modern Dalabistan. I know that we will succeed,” Sabit says. He shakes my hand with a firm grip. His white shirt is getting sweaty from his hard breathing. We all know that this would be a very bloody, brutal, courageous mission. Sabit and Abzal walk to the black helicopter in the military base and fly out to the Dalab Eli square under the protesters’ applause. Now it’s Yan’s time to play his role. He is the one that people would definitely follow; he is one of their own from their tribes.
“Guys, let’s put an end to oppression. We need to march them out of office, right here and right now. Wake up, Dalab!” Yan shouts as a battle cry.
The non-violent protesters raise their hands up and chant, “Time’s up, Babayevs, go out!” Yan is very charismatic, but I didn’t know the actual power of his charisma until now. I think that charisma is enough to arouse the Alyshs and Maktyrs to rush with their posters, flags, and fists to s
torm the capital. But how long will their charisma last? And will he use this charisma to create useful strategies? I have what he does not—a long-term plan for this country. Yan is a good motivator to remove the government, but not a builder of a new society. He is suitable for overthrowal, while I am aiming for the revolution. Is there anyone else who can carry out the revolution except for me? I want my country to prosper, and I do not want more people suffering under tyrants anymore.
In the back of my mind, I am worried that this charisma will give us not “a powerful move of resistance,” but thousands of bullets and corpses. “Let’s go, Dalabs! Time to get out of this building to march for liberty!” The people start their march. I join them and chant along with them, “Enough with corruption!”
By the time the sun is high in the afternoon sky, we make our way up Babayev Avenue. The sun glows over the capital and shines upon a sea of yellow and cyan flags. As we walk to the square, we are met with both scornful and cheerful looks from others.
“They are paid agents of Aibek Ospanov and the Liberty Party!” complains one old lady holding a portrait of Joseph Stalin while dressed in a white Dalab traditional headscarf.
“Finally, a large-scale rebellion. Down with Babayev now!” shouts a young female college student wearing a red dress while raising her hand. She joins us with two of her darker-skinned friends who have the same enthusiasm as her. Many more fellow classmates join. Yan barks in his megaphone to his supporters,
“We demand no corruption, right here, right now! No more Munai massacres and bloodsheds!” I join Yan in the front rows. As we march on the avenue, we pass the headquarters building of The State Oil Company of the Republic of Dalabistan. At that moment, Yan and others display posters saying, “Adilet Bakytbai, stop stealing our future! Time to pay for your sins!”
In front of us, a line of guards and policemen surround the building.
The Outcast Presidents Page 8
