“Nonsense, Volkan and I raised you like our children, and you are ungrateful, prole whores for the West!” exclaims Anar.
The Chief Judge stands and grabs his Penal Code. He says with his undisturbed face, “Defendants, stand up.”
Anar Babayev sits and complains, “You could have finished everything without this masquerade! Disgrace! Shame! Burn in hell, you the real corrupt thieves, we don’t deserve this!” The other defendants in the room are sitting calm, in pure disbelief of what is happening. Are they really going to be punished for their corruption?
The Judge continues, despite Anar’s resistance, “Based upon the testimony presented, and the other unanimous evidence present in the case, the court concludes as follows…” We all hold our breath to see whether or not the Supreme Court would sentence Babayev. Will justice prevail after all?
“It is the judgment of this Supreme Court that the defendants Anar Babayev, Adilet Bakytbai, Fatima Bakytbai, Burak Serikbayev, Talgat Abdullin, Mahambet Makhmudov, Grigory Petrov, Mansur Karimbek, and Ali Zhangirbek are all found guilty under Articles 99, 100, 105, 151, 361, 362, 366, 367, 368, 369, 370, 371, 450, 451, 452, and 453 of the Criminal Code of the Republic of Dalabistan on the charges of corruption, genocide of the Dalabistanis, political persecutions, large-scale theft of government resources, countless abuses of power, illegal mass murder for purpose of intimidation and terrorization of the people, illegal and extrajudicial tortures, fostering severe social inequality and sowing discord, and extrajudicial and unsubstantiated deprivation of liberty of the dissidents.”
Applauses fill the room with the vivacious atmosphere in the courtroom. Since this court session is televised and broadcasted live on Dalabistan TV, I guess millions more Dalabistanis are currently rejoicing.
“No period of imprisonment would be sufficient to satisfy the legitimate need to hold you to account for the harm you have done to our country. Accordingly, all these defendants are sentenced to the death penalty by hanging with the confiscation of all of their property.”
Mothers of the victims are hugging each other, with tears of rejoice falling from their wrinkled eyes.
“This verdict is final, without appeal.” Chief Judge Volkov gets his wooden gavel and taps it against his desk. The courtroom explodes again with applause. Then the guards and policemen escort the convicted criminals to the black buses with white letters “Patrol Police.”
Chief Judge Volkov stands up for the last time and tells everyone, “Guests are kindly requested to leave the building.”
The guests in the courtroom are walking out with their hands proudly up, chanting numerous slogans such as “Justice for all, not just the elites” and “Remember the martyrs!” Some are still staying in the room, like Chief Judge Volkov, Prosecutor Tulebayev, and Elena. It took a lot for her to lose me, but when she did, I am gone and hopefully never coming back to her. Nevertheless, I still yearn for the kind of love that she almost gave me. Does she still love me only as a friend, love me as a greatest lover, or hate me as a brutal ruler whose actions caused her sister to die? I still have a deep void inside me that only she is able to fulfill. Elena offered her first hugs to me and any signs of affection and empathy towards me from women. She made me truly, albeit naively, believe in the idea that there are girls out there who do not judge me and will support me through thick and thin.
Then I remember that she will always ignore me, she will always devalue my self-esteem and her value for me, and she will continue to remain the mere shadow of her former self ever since she started to date Erzhan. Everything will remain the same. Nothing is going to change, and hope, even a small ray of it, is an irrational choice that will guarantee even more failure and disappointment. Women I used to believe in never really cared about me at all, which is why cynicism is more practical than hopelessly trusting too many people that will let me down. I cannot afford to make another mistake with her again. I do not think she deserves any of my love anymore based on her actions towards me. She deserves my hate and deserves to suffer. And now, her pain indeed currently restores this balance. Back in high school, I hoped that this is what I will do to Elena because she barely cared and I was her second or even fiftieth choice if I was even a choice! And now I witness her shedding tears of great pain.
Yet despite every reason out there for me to hate her, I still want to comfort her in my arms, caress her back, and soothe her soul with my hugs and kisses. I cannot get her out of my heart. And that is why I feel intimidated by her. I do not want her to come up to me and damn me for her sister’s death. My heart would not be able to handle another such blow.
I come to the seat of the Chief Judge, and he greets me with a firm handshake. He tells me, “Mr. President, I would like to let you know that the prisoners are going to be executed tomorrow at the Dalab Eli square.”
“Why is it going to be so rash?” I wonder. It is such a sudden death. Although I despise Anar Babayev and the entire organized corrupt gang, it feels that the trial was done in a too fast manner.
“We have to do it as soon as possible. The irrefutable proof and hard facts that they have gravely damaged Dalabistan is verified.” He fixes his bowtie and walks away, “Their death is necessary for you to do your job properly and efficiently. I will see you tomorrow at the gallows.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Volkov.” Before I leave the courtroom, I think of Elena with her photo. I cannot stand in front of her and stare into her eyes because of allowing her sister’s death to happen. I see Sabit turn around and come to Elena, who is on the opposite side of the room. Her cheeks are red from all the anxiety while waiting for the court’s decision, anger from watching Anar Babayev deny his crimes, and tears from remembering Zuhra’s death over and over again during the testimony. Elena is standing in her black dress while wearing flats, calmly looking to the side.
Amidst all of the noise, I hear Sabit say, “Hi Elena, I can’t believe this has happened.” Elena turns her head facing Sabit.
She walks to him, and while hugging him tightly, she tells him, “Sabit, thanks to Alisher and your team, these crooks are punished for Zuhra and others. They deserved the maximum punishment there is.” He caresses her arm, and she doesn’t say a single word more. The grief of losing her sister in the gunfire is clearly still piercing her heart, but her calm eyes seem to show that she is resilient. All is getting well now, a month after the Revolution. He leaves the courtroom with her, and I hear her tell Sabit through her tears, “I am so glad to witness Babayev being dropped from the gallows tomorrow!”
I still can’t believe that it would happen. Tomorrow shall be the day of justice, then. She doesn’t seem to hold grudges against me. It fills me with anxious wonder.
Chapter 21: The Final Hour
The moment I collapse on my bed, my eyes slam shut. I don’t even toss and turn as the day has drained me of all energy. My legs and arms are numb. There is nothing but darkness and absolute peace.
Men in black riot armor and holding shields with “HOVLYK ASKER” patches throw grenades and fire bullets down upon us. I, Zholan, and hundreds of thousands of other Dalabs storm the Dalab Eli square.
Zholan shouts, “I’m comi—”
Bullets rip through his throat and pierce his stomach. His last shout turns into a gasp for his final breath. All I can do is watch as his blood rains onto the floor as I am hiding behind the large marble eagle statue with other comrades. As I cover behind the eagle, Erzhan, Kambar, and their goons run around and find me. They are all holding ropes and smoking cigarettes. When they see me, they laugh and point, calling me a cowardly sissy and a lowly Commoner dog.
Erzhan grabs my arm and drags me from my hiding place. I try and fight back, but it’s no use. He is too strong. The others hold me down as Elena walks up to me. She kisses Erzhan on the mouth, takes his cigarette, and then crouches down to me.
“Elena, I’m sorry,” I say.
She takes a drag and looks down at me. She has always looked down at
me. She blows the smoke in my face.
“You killed my sister. It was your fault.”
She puts the cigarette out on my skin, and I scream. That girl never smoked anything before.
I scream, “Fuck Babayev for allowing this to happen! It’s my fault, forgive me!” and I wake up covered in cold sweat. I fight with the group only to find it’s my sheets twisted between my legs and arms. I cannot save Zholan. I no longer see policemen or bullets or protesters stained with blood. I cannot smell smoke nor fire as well. Elena and Erzhan are gone. The only things I can see are my big bed and a wardrobe in my room.
I knew who was behind this. The policemen, the army, and the Hovlyk Asker were just mere pawns to carry it out. The blood of hundreds of martyrs is at the hands of the former Commander-in-Chief Anar Babayev and his advisors Talgat Abdullin and Adilet Bakytbai.
It is normal in Dalabistan to handle issues by force. When poor oilers and miners of Munai went on streets to protest poor social conditions and meager wages in 2003, Volkan Babayev ordered troops to kill them all. When students of Alakala protested Kairat Rakhimov’s firing by Leonid Brezhnev in December of 1980 for his “bourgeois nationalist sentiments,” the Soviet KGB agents captured, stripped off the students’ clothes in minus-twenty degrees coldness, and have beaten the naked young men and women with metal rods until death. Many Dalabs were raised in that atmosphere of knowing that dissent and a word of protest guarantees a certain violent and humiliating death. The worst thing about that death is that this death would be hidden in underground archives, remaining secret from the people or the world, to perish without further memory or dignity for the dead. After Babayev’s regime killed most of the people naturally inclined to rebel against him or the government under horrible conditions, many Dalabs have accepted and tolerated this arbitrary humiliation and exploitation as a norm. I still recall my father’s daily farewell before school, “Keep your political opinion to yourself today. Have a good day, Alisher.” After all, it is better to live a vapid life than to die “an honorable death of a martyr” that would most likely yield nothing.
Out of nowhere, Abzal’s deep bass voice coming from the voicemail catches me off guard. “Good morning, President Karabars. Please come to carry out the sentences of citizens Babayev and eight other convicted criminals at noon to the Dalab Eli square. We are going to the City Jail #1 to pick the criminals up by 10 a.m.”
I text him, “Thanks, Abzal, I’ll be ready in thirty minutes.”
Soon I receive his voice message, “No problem, Mr. President. By the way, I heard you scream earlier in the morning. Are you all right?”
I text him back, “Of course I’m all right. What are you even talking about?”
“PTSD. I have the same condition myself. It’s not easy to live with it, when you think that you’re all right and the past suddenly catches up to you and spoils everything.”
When I hear the name of that tick family from his mouth, my blood boils with hatred and desire for vengeance. My throat contracts with anger, sharp pain stabs my heart, my blood turns cold.
But could it be that I actually have this post-traumatic stress disorder? Am I still mentally weak to allow myself to fall into this cycle? I knew that being a leader of a recovering country is hard. But to have such flashbacks appear out of nowhere when I want to have a peaceful work session or sleep? I was definitely not prepared for that.
And how would my subjects feel when they realize I may visit a therapist for my inner issues? I don’t think they will trust me anymore and support me as vocally as they did during the Revolution. Back in America I was visiting a therapist when I tried to deal with unrequited love and rejections as a freshman before I met Alessia, yet all they could do for me was promise a land of brighter tomorrow that never came. I don’t think therapy would be effective. Maybe take strong medications instead to numb the pain? Should I ask Abzal about these medications during our private meetings? I’m not so sure.
At least today I will finally hang Anar Babayev, Adilet Bakytbai, Fatima Bakytbai, Burak Serikbayev, and five other corrupt members of the Parliament. For Zholan. For Zuhra. For stolen opportunities. For stolen money. For Dalabistan’s hindered growth. For thousands of other victims of the Babayev regime. For thirty-four years of slavery for the Dalabs. The death of the Babayev regime’s oppressors would mark a new chapter in Dalab history and would put an end to their corruption, dictatorship, and oppression.
But what if I will launch a new cycle of oppression? What if I will become an even worse dictator? What if I would lead my land into further shit, not prosperity? What if that trial would start a wave of Stalinist raids against “corrupt” people? What if I would be an even worse cockroach than Babayev himself? These thoughts make my stomach sink as I ride from Presidential Headquarters to the City Jail #1 where all the prisoners are being held, awaiting their final hour.
Chapter 22: The First Blood
The moment I come out of the car at the visiting center of City Jail #1, one of the guards immediately rushes to ask me, “President Karabars, would you like to visit Anar Babayev’s cell before his hanging?”
I pause for a second. I honestly desire to look into his now-hopeless eyes, waiting for certain death, and to humiliate him mentally to avenge the oppression that he committed during his time on the throne. I want to make his blood boil and have him pay for the murders, Zuhra, Zholan, and the many other innocent Dalabs on his hands. I desire to look into his eyes and torture him mentally so that he would beg me for a humane death.
“Yes, please. I would like to talk with him before the final hour,” I say.
“Then let me escort you to jail cell #43, Sir.” The corridor of the jail is dark.
Anar is chained to the wall, sitting with frowning eyes. He doesn’t sit like the powerful dictator he used to be. Instead, he looks like a poor child outside the capital who begs for food. He sits chained to an iron chair in a worn black robe, with his number 4756930 sewn onto the prison uniform. On his back, there is a sign with red stencil letters saying, “SENTENCED TO DEATH.”
When I enter his cage, he shouts, “Shame, shame on you! Let me go. Why did you come here, putschist?!” He jumps on his iron chair to escape his cage, but in vain. Three guards put his chained arms in handcuffs and tie him to the cage bars. Now he is completely immobilized and cannot do anything but watch. He will get what he deserves. He continues to buck pretty hard until I come to him and spit in his face.
He roars, “Let you and your next seven generations burn in hell, son of a garbage man who became the trash of society! Damn you and your seven generations, you all deserve to be buried in a landfill.”
“I guess it will be your turn today and forever, Anar. You are going to pay for everything, corrupt motherfucker!” As I spit these words out, vengeance boils my blood. I really want to throw that chair in his face, but I will soon have my vengeance anyway.
I take off my leather belt, only to hear this maggot squeal words out of fear, “Who the fuck are you to slap in Atasty’s face, vermin?!”
I swing the belt with my right arm and smash his face. I shout from the depth of my lungs, “This is for Zuhra!”
He howls in pain and shouts, “Who the fuck is Zuhra, a whore from your slums or from prison?”
I bark, “A whore from slums still has more dignity than you, a sheep with a wolf’s jacket who stole our country along with your parasites.”
He curses, “I preserved peace, asshole, unlike you who brought death while sucking the West’s dick!”
In his eyes, I see a feeling that is completely foreign to him. Inferiority. Fear. I shout at him again, “What about the Munai massacre, the murders of oppositionists, the slaughter of protesters you ordered right before you left to save your entitled ass?” This piece of vermin does not bother to even respond. The only ones responding are the guards watching this with pure joy in their eyes and laughter. I hit him again and bark, “This is for Zholan, tyrant!”
One tall guard gave me his rubber baton with words, “Prepare him for us. Have fun.”
I say, “You orchestrated the deaths, so get another whip, piece of shit!” as I smash his chest with this baton. It feels like he collapses, just like he collapsed when he was running to the helicopter during the Revolution. He is trapped in the chair in the cell, having nowhere to run from me. The remaining guards leave and tell me, “President Karabars, we are leaving you now for five minutes. You are at your risk. Good luck. We gave you that baton for a good reason.” They lock the door and exit. It’s now Anar Babayev and me in the dim-lit cell. His eyes are red with fury and disbelief. He can’t believe that he is not the one to be in power anymore, but some ordinary prole from Chamyr tribe who has overthrown him! Helpless, the only thing he can do is to doubt my abilities.
“Anar, you have no idea how to run this country! Lazy pig, asshole! What use are you to the people, bastard?”
“Why are you telling this to me? Who the fuck are you to rule?”
“You are useless anyway, and nobody needs a useless government. Our people don’t need cockroaches who just suck their blood and futures from them.”
The Outcast Presidents Page 17
