As people fled but Kamiila, panic-stricken, searched the crowd for her son. It didn’t take much. Deni found her skirt hem and clung to it tightly. She lifted him in her arms and scolded, “I’m not ever going to die from a bomb; you’re going to make me die of heart failure!”
Deni’s mother and his older brother herded the family back to their apartment, while Bashir, went off to help rescue victims and recover the bodies of those less fortunate.
As a former Soviet soldier with medical training, it was Bashir’s duty to serve not just his country but the people. The irony for Bashir was that he saw much more bloodshed as a civilian than he ever did as a soldier. Previous threats of war in the 1980s were with the United States. Nuclear deterrence did much to keep both posturing nations at bay, but small civil skirmishes were hell. Many around the world did not see the atrocities and nor did they want to.
Back home, Kamiila tried to keep calm as the family took cover in their apartment. She tried to keep her hands from shaking as she made some tea. She gave the kids cookies as a distraction, but it didn’t work. They kept staring out the window, intent on the shelling and mortar fire as the initial blast now turned into a full-scale battle in the streets.
She noticed twelve-year-old Mikail watching out the window and Deni on the tips of his toes trying to see over the window ledge. “Boys, away from the window!” she scolded.
“I should be out helping pop,” Mikail said.
“You’re too young,” replied Kamiila. Mikail resisted her command and remained by the window. “Get away from the window, now!” She walked over and lifted Deni off the floor and carried him away.
Deni sat on the floor and quietly played with a toy truck. He was too young to understand the significance of all the fighting. As long as his parents reassured him that everything was fine, he believed them. It wasn’t the sound of warfare, bombs, gunfire and shelling that upset Deni, it was everyone’s response. He felt the terror and anxiety even if he couldn’t see the damage. His youthful separation from the violence taught him the keen lessons of empathy and compassion without even being touched by it.
Mikail was greatly affected simply because he was old enough to see and understand. He read about the conflict in the papers. He asked his parents and teachers questions. “Why do people kill? What do people hate?” The answers were hard to explain to a twelve year old.
“Because people are not taught how to love,” was always Kamiila’s response.
It seemed easy enough, just love, but how can you love with so much hate? How can you love when people are filled with so much hate and intent on hurting others? Nothing seemed to help Mikail’s angst. He tore himself away from the window and shrugged his shoulders defiantly and slumped on the couch next to his sisters. “I’m old enough. I can help!”
“You can help us,” said Kamiila. “Your family needs you. You are the man now.”
“Will pop be all right?” asked Lulii.
“He’ll be fine,” assured Kamiila feeling doubtful.
Later that night, a loud thud drove Deni out of his bed and into bed with Mikail. He snuggled close to his older brother, pulling the blanket over his head.
Mikail wrapped his arms around Deni’s body. “Are you scared?”
“No,” Deni replied.
“It’s all right to be afraid. It’s fear that keeps a person alive. Once you stop being afraid, that’s when they will get you.” Mikail whispered in Deni’s ear. “Are you afraid?”
“Maybe a little bit,” Deni replied.
“It’s not that bad,” Mikail said in response to the mortar. “It’s far away. The fighting is in the mountains. We’re not in any danger.”
“I know,” said Deni bravely and then inched closer to his older brother.
“You’re safe with me,” Mikail assured and Deni knew it to be true.
Bashir finally returned home after midnight and walked straight to the bathroom. Turning on the overhead light, he noticed the soot and blood on his shirt and the dried blood underneath his fingernails. He removed his shirt and tossed it promptly in the garbage.
They were so much safer under Soviet rule, he thought as he scrubbed his hands. Freedom is for fools who don’t know what to do with it. Bashir once had some dignity being Soviet military and now with the dissolution of the Soviet Union, he was stripped of his uniform and caught between the pro-Moscow forces and the Chechen Rebellion. He saw both sides but being a diplomatic man, he had no purpose in a place of such conflict.
He surveyed the apartment, checking on his two daughters who were wide awake. He then walked into the boys’ room finding Deni in bed with Mikail. Finally he walked into his bedroom to find Kamiila awake. No one could sleep; he was raising a family of insomniacs. He knew he had one choice. It was the only choice he could make as a man.
Nestled next to his brother, Deni heard his mother’s voice. She seemed distressed, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying. Suddenly the door opened and their father appeared. “Mikail, pack a bag we’re leaving tonight.”
“Where are we going?” asked Mikail.
“To your Uncle’s farm in Volgograd, he has a farm house. You will like it there,” replied Bashir.
“What about school? What about my friends?” questioned Mikail.
“There is school in Volgograd.” Bashir quickly packed a bag for Deni and lifted him in his arms. “When you’re done, help your sisters,” he said to Mikail.
An hour later, Bashir’s family waited in the living room with their one allotted bag, tired and forlorn from being dragged out of their beds in the middle of the night. They had known the war; they had all been living with it for years and now suddenly their father was forcing them out.
“Bashir, what’s with you? I don’t want to be driven out of my home,” said Kamiila.
Bashir shook his head. The truth was he had seen too much violence and atrocity and tonight he had reached breaking point. He had carried too many children to the hospital and too many babies to the morgue. He had helped too many raped girls and he had picked up way too many lost limbs. His medical training in the Soviet army could never have prepared him for this.
Tonight, as he gave his service to the people of Grozny, he thought of his own family. He imagined his daughters being raped and carrying his young son to the morgue. It wasn’t going to happen to his family. Bashir hoisted Deni in his arms and said, “Kamiila, do as I say and not another word!”
It was still dark outside as Bashir led his family through the streets toward the Grozny train station. A few Russian tanks and blockades maintained order through the rest of the night. With his Russian connections, Bashir was easily able to get his family past any checkpoints.
The train station was completely empty except for the Russian armed guards. Bashir rushed his family through to the window to buy tickets. With Deni in his arms, he leaned into the clerk, “Two adults, and four children.” When the clerk handed him the tickets he lead them toward the gate.
“Train!” Deni yelled excitedly.
“Yes, we’re going on a big train ride,” said Bashir.
Kamiila scoffed as she followed behind with Mikail and her two girls.
Bashir was able to find a quiet compartment for his family and once everyone was settled, he sighed with relief. He shut the compartment door while they all settled. Everyone was exhausted, but far too worked up to sleep.
Seated on Mikail’s lap, Deni sat on his knees and looked out the window. As the train thrust forward, he watched the armed guards stationed along the platform with machine guns ready. He had seen them everywhere in the streets when his mother took him on shopping trips.
Deni sat back on Mikail’s lap and looked up at him. He put his arm around his shoulder and said, “It’s going to all right Mik.”
Mikail looked away from the window. He hugged Deni tightly and kissed his cheek. “Thanks.”
Deni woke up very late that night in his hospital bed. Everything was dark and there was a dead
silence. He turned his head to the hospital window. It was even pitch black outside. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he noticed a tall, black whispery figure approaching his hospital bed. His eyes widened as the shadow seemingly hung over his bed.
“Mik, is that you?” he asked.
The figure reached a whispery arm out toward his head. Deni felt something play with his hair and then he noticed the form of a hand nearing his chest. He gasped terrified. “Mik.” The shadow didn’t respond and Deni panicked, believing this was the moment of his own death. He was about to be taken away.
He didn’t notice his heart monitor going off the charts due to his panicking. The night nurse rushed in, but as she reached Deni, the shadowy figure calmed his anxiety and the heart monitor returned to normal. The figure suddenly disappeared.
“Everything okay?” the nurse asked knowing he was awake.
“Nightmare,” Deni said.
She said nothing and left the room.
Deni searched the room hard but the figure was gone. Was it Mik, or was it another soul who unfortunately died in this room? Does seeing such a spirit mean I am closer? He couldn’t fall asleep until the sun rose the next morning.
Chapter 3
It was a long, boring day attached to tubes and wires. The hospital staff even denied him television, newspapers, or a book at the strict order of the Federal Authorities. Deni wasn’t allowed to know what was going on outside the hospital walls and he wasn’t allowed any mental stimulation. I guess I’m supposed to lie here and think about what I’ve done.
His attention was drawn out the window where a robin landed on a tree branch. He couldn’t make it out from where his bed was positioned but he believed there was a nest somewhere in the tree.
From the ground, nine-year-old Deni could see the robin fly in and out of the leafy foliage of the chestnut tree in the back of their Reading, Pennsylvania row home. He ran his fingers along the bark of the tree and found it suitable for scaling. Wrapping his body around the trunk, he thrust himself upward and was able to grab onto a branch, and from there it was easy. With the aid of the branches, he lifted himself up and carefully balanced from one branch to another until he came face-to-face with the robin’s nest.
It was so beautiful and fragile—three perfect bluish eggs. Deni swung back when he saw the robin return and perch on the edge of the nest filling it with more layers of fine leaves and twigs.
“What are you doing up there?” called Bashir seeing only Deni’s Ked sneakers standing on a large branch.
“Shush, you’ll scare it away,” Deni responded with a loud whisper.
Bashir stepped back and saw the bird and the nest in the tree. “Be careful, you don’t want to cause the nest to fall. You’ll have a very angry mother bird after you.”
Deni peeked down at Bashir through the branches. “I’m being very careful.” He slowly stepped back onto another branch away from the nest and looking down, he realized in his youthful zeal, he may have climbed to high. “Pop?”
Bashir chuckled as he neared the trunk and lifted his arms to help Deni down. “You better be careful. You fall from the tree, you’re mother’s going to be upset.”
When Deni’s feet touched the ground he glanced up at the nest. “I’m fine and so are the bird’s eggs.”
Life is so precious when you’re a child, what happens to us when we get older? Deni thought watching the robin through his hospital window. Everyone is so protective of its own. Shit, even birds have borders. Birds have the whole sky in which to fly, but they protect one small, tiny nest. The problems arise when the nests are far too vast; it’s much more difficult to protect the young. My parents had it rough; their nest was huge. I have to give them credit for not abandoning us.
A passenger steam train rumbled across the great plain of Russia stopping at the small village stations, larger towns, farmlands, forests and wide-open meadows. It was so much to take in for Deni who had his face pressed against the window. He noticed the tan, wrinkled faces of hardworking villagers, and the wide-eyed, busy expressions of the city folk.
At five years old, he could not contemplate the history of the land, from the Tsar’s territory conquests, to the blood stains of the Bolshevik Revolution, the trenches of WWI and the Nazi invasion of World War II. He could not have realized he was heading to the destination of one of the bloodiest battles in war history—Stalingrad, now called Volgograd.
Ironically, the only time this land had any peace was under the oppressive Soviet rule. There definitely was something to be said for the heavy hand of the hammer and sickle; there were no territory wars, no cultural conflicts, and no religious fundamentalist uprisings. The Kremlin simply denied its citizens any individual territory, culture, and religion. It worked. Soviets didn’t rise up against one another, but lived and worked together, whether or not they secretly despised the oppression.
Deni was a descendant of it, despite being from a small corner of the country. He was a descendant of the Tsar’s conquests, the Bolsheviks, those who died in the trenches of WWI and those who defended the land from the Nazis. It was who he was and the young man he would become. Yet young Deni had more pressing issues that had nothing to do with politics, religion, or culture. He sat back on his heel and turned to his family with a twisted face.
“Do you have to go to the potty?” asked Kamiila.
Deni nodded affirmative.
“I’ll take him,” said Mikail.
Bashir reached in his pocket and handed Mikail money. “Stop and get some sandwiches for everyone on your way back.”
Mikail took Deni’s hand and walked him down the aisle passed the other passengers. Deni watched the other passengers. They would look up and notice Mikail and Deni, but no one really seemed to see them. Everyone was too busy with their own lives and conversations to notice the two brothers. They came to the lavatory and Mikail opened the door and entered with Deni.
“What do you gotta do, poo or pee?” asked Mikail.
Deni pulled down his pants and hopped on the toilet seat. “Poo.” He kicked his feet back and forth and then dropped his chin onto his fist.
Mikail laughed. “What are you thinking about? It should just come naturally.”
“I can’t do this with you staring at me!” yelled Deni.
“All right, I’ll wait outside,” replied Mikail and then stepped outside the bathroom door.
Inside the small lavatory, Deni relished his moment of freedom even if he was on the toilet. He swung his feet back and forth and glanced out the window for a short time while he finished his business. He opened the lavatory door, but Mikail was nowhere to be seen. “Mik!” he yelled. “Mik, where are you?” Deni felt desperate and was near tears. “Mikail!”
Mikail appeared down the aisle laughing. “See, you need me.”
“Shut up! That was not funny!” screamed Deni.
“I’m sorry,” Mikail responded, still chuckling at Deni’s fear of abandonment. He put his arm on Deni’s shoulder and escorted him back down the train aisle and then to the lunch cart.
The cart was filled with plastic wrapped sandwiches and pastries, cartons of milk, fruit, and even a stand for coffee and tea. Deni pressed his face against the glass of the cart as Mikail ordered sandwiches, coffee for his parents and milk, for himself, his sisters and Deni.
Deni reached for a chocolate bar and raised it to Mikail. “I want this.”
“No,” replied Mikail.
“I’ll tell pop what you did,” said Deni.
Mikail looked down at the wide, sharp eyes of his little brother. “Don’t tell ma and pop. Don’t let them see you eat it,” he said and paid for the chocolate bar.
Deni hid the chocolate bar under his shirt and looked up at his brother with a big smile. “Thanks.”
Deni’s hospital door swung open and two federal agents, a doctor, and a nurse walked in. The doctor checked Deni’s chart and all his vital signs, while the nurse raised the front of Deni’s bed to an upright posi
tion.
“Let the interrogations continue,” said Deni.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Daudov. How are we feeling today?” asked Agent Andrews with a chipper tone.
“Ask the doctor; it should say on my chart,” Deni replied.
The doctor nodded to Agent Andrews. “He’s all yours.”
“This is my associate Agent Saunders. I’m not sure if you were introduced yesterday,” said Agent Andrews.
“Not properly, no,” replied Deni.
Agent Andrews pulled up a chair and gestured for Agent Saunders to do the same. “Now, where were we?”
Deni grinned. “You let me know. It’s your dog and pony show.”
“My dog and pony show is nothing without your circus.” Agent Andrews nodded to Agent Saunders. Agent Saunders pulled photographs out of manila envelope and showed them to Deni.
The pictures were gruesome—bloody and scorched body parts lying strewn in the green grass. A young girl mutilated by shrapnel, a mother bloodied and buried by shards of metal covering her young child, and a young couple lying side-by-side.
Deni studied the pictures with careless inspection and handed them back to Agent Saunders. “Am I supposed to be affected by this? Is this when I’m supposed to break down into tears and express my remorse?”
Agent Saunders glanced at Agent Andrews.
“For each of those pictures, I can show you a thousand civilian causalities in Iraq and Afghanistan. Explain to me Agent Saunders, how is it that American life is more valuable than the lives of others around the world? Do you only care when it is white American Christians?” questioned Deni.
“This is on American soil; therefore an American crime,” responded Agent Saunders.
“I don’t care what fucking soil it is. It’s all earth. It’s all just dirt no matter what part of the globe you’re on,” said Deni.
The Insurrectionist Page 3
