Rise after a Fall

By Геннадий (Gennadij) Афанасьев (Afanasev)

What can make a person leave his comfortable life and, despite the threat to life, following the voice of his heart, fight for what he loves, when peaceful days suddenly turn into war? What happens to a person steamrolled with repressive system, seeking to destroy, demolish and turn to ashes everything he cherishes?

This book is the rough truth of the morals in today’s Russian Federation, the country turned into a GULAG, of being a prisoner of war, when the past is ruined, and the future is nowhere. How, facing up to your ruthless enemy, endure and keep fighting? You can rise after a fall only by unchaining your mind. But is it enough for a person who has been deprived of hope?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Folio
• Release date: May 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9789660384095

Book preview

Fall

Rise after a Fall

I am deeply grateful to the Ukrainian people, President of Ukraine Petro Poroshenko, people’s deputy Iryna Herashchenko, press secretary of the President of Ukraine Svyatoslav Tsegolko, Minister of Foreign Affairs of Ukraine Pavlo Klimkin. You gave me an opportunity to live and create on my Motherland.

My sincere appreciation to the international human rights group Agora, human rights center Memorial, international nongovernmental organization Amnesty International, international public organization People in Need, public organizations Center of Civic Freedoms and KrymSOS.

I bow low to my lawyer Aleksandr Popkov, attorney and representative Ernest Mezak and Nikolay Didyuk. This book would have never been published if it hadn’t been for you, and I would have never been freed.

My acknowledgements to the team of Radio Liberty Krym. Realii, who encouraged me to write this book.

I should say the words of appreciation to those who supported my family during the period of challenges and stood by us, when we needed it most. I sincerely thank my dear friend Alim Yakubov, courageous Galina Balaban, caring Vladimir Komarov, restless Eveline Ganskaya and just wonderful Anna Cherednichenko, who helped me to get over and cure my tormented soul.

Finally, I cannot find the right words to thank my marvelous Mum and Granny, who went through the mill and stood their ground, dedicating each day of their lives to the fight for my freedom. I love you and will always love you, my dear.

Author

Identity

I was born in one of the most beautiful places on Earth — in the Crimea, the peninsula, famous for its wild and riotous nature. It happened at the time when Ukraine duly gained its long-awaited independence from Moscow centennial occupation. The independence obtained through challenges, tears, seas of blood and millions of lost lives. That was the advent of an absolutely new period for the whole Ukrainian nation. The time of the generation, free from Soviet propaganda, having no memories of the party, pioneers, queues and the leader. I was lucky. On the streets of my town it was easy to pick an apple or a peach from the tree. Plums, cherries, walnuts and grapes grew everywhere. In the summer the sea wind brought freshness, saving us from the hot southern heat, and in the winter the sun drove cold away so that there was no problem to go for a barbecue at Christmas. My windows faced high hills, and there, on forest tops there was plenty of wildlife like hares, foxes, wild bores and red deer.

In the sky one could often see a soaring falcon or a hovering eagle. The wonderful Black Sea brought joy to millions of tourists from all parts of my rebellious motherland.

When I still was a little child, our family moved to Odessa, a miraculous city of a Jewish-Ukrainian mixed culture. I was lucky to grow up in the very heart of it, on the legendary area called Moldavanka. But every holiday we would all go back to the Crimea. That was like a magnet, the irresistible attraction you get once you breathe in the Crimean air, and which you feel all your life.

Because of the Soviet occupation Odessa was mainly a Russianspeaking city, at least, I remember it to be so. However, teaching was only in the native Ukrainian language. Under the conditions of this cultural fight, the effects, naturally, reflected primarily on children. My family was Russian speaking, and at home I always heard Russian, while in the kindergarten, school and various educational clubs I was taught and spoke in Ukrainian only. Therefore, kids developed their unique and funny pidgin, or surzhik, which was due to the interference of the two languages and the Jewish accent. I was a bright representative of the youth, because outside our nice coastal city few people could understand my speech very well. The only pleasant thing was that in the Crimea people would be friendly and responsive to this accent.

I went to a special boarding school nicknamed Odessa Oxford by the local students. Since the school was united with residences and children would live there for months, it was necessary to keep them busy. Every week students made performances based on the stories by Ukrainian writers, and after rehearsals they acted on the stage in front of their parents and other students in the audience. We would put on authentic Ukrainian clothes and sing folk songs. The overwhelming majority of these performances were devoted to the mothers and our native land. Thus, from the very childhood I have loved Ukrainian culture and traditions. I will always remember our teachers’ crying when holding a Ukrainian embroidered towel with a loaf of bread in their hands and singing a song about the Holodomor, the genocide, organized by Bolsheviks in Ukraine in 1932.

These performances revealed another passion of mine — a puppet show. Aged seven, I became an actor, showing fairy animals, from a brother bear to a grey hare. Our young company managed to get several awards and victories. Once we even got a prize in Odessa regional talent competition. As a result all these events found their place in my heart.

Life changed, my parents divorced. I stayed with Mum. It was hard for her alone to cope with all the troubles and routines. She had a few jobs: a deputy headmistress at school, a teacher in the kindergarten and also music tutor giving individual lessons. Clearly, it could not last long this way, and we decided to return to the Crimea, to the place, where I was born and where my granny was looking forward to seeing me.

It was hard to find a school for me on the peninsula. In Odessa all education was in Ukrainian, while in the Crimea it was somehow an optional subject. Being twelve, I did not understand and know the terms in Russian, and I actually did not need to. We were lucky. My new school was one of the biggest in Simferopol, for about four thousand pupils. And only one class was Ukrainian, it was designed for sixteen students, whereas Russian speaking classes were overcrowded — by some forty persons per class. At that time I did not think about the topic. And, in fact, what could I know? I was a child. So I went to the class marked «U», located aside, like an outlaw. But nobody felt like that, even vice versa, we were proud of our identity.

Seeds of Doubt

My deceased granddad was a military judge. During the Soviet times he belonged to those people who did not take bribes and took to heart everything. This helped him to pass fair judgments. Granddad would always imagine himself being in victims’ and criminals’ shoes. People from all corners of the vast Bolshevik country called and asked his advice. Probably, all these experiences and loyalty eventually worsened his cancer, which killed him. In any case, being inspired by this role model, I decided to follow in grandfather’ footsteps and entered the Law faculty. Unfortunately, very soon I got disappointed in the whole law-enforcement and judicial systems. To become a man who restores justice, prevents crimes and brings punishment seemed decent future to me. However, at a certain moment understanding of the surrounding processes brought me to the conclusion that in the times of the criminal regime of the pro-Russian president, to act by rights was impossible in the law-enforcement or judicial system. Clear hierarchy and slavish top-down power vertical. What is said by a superior by rank or title must be performed by an inferior unconditionally, regardless of whether it is correct or not. The kingdom of corruption and bribery. Fish begins to stink from the head. Thus, still being a student, I realized that I was not to be a prosecutor, an investigator or a judge

I decided to change everything and, having received an invitation to work in the USA, I bought a plane ticket and flew away for six months into the unknown where I was heading for everyday laboring. With no holiday, no rest or sleep, everything was done to achieve one goal only — become independent from the current circumstances, not to get drowned in the swamp I happened to see once.

By that time I had already been long keen on photography. Then I made a plan to combine what I was fond of and what would support me financially. But it was necessary to earn the startup capital to make my aspirations come true. The American dream is real only after titanic efforts and pains. So I actually did my best. Eventually I achieved my goals. I liked it the United States of America, but I did not want to stay there. I was willing to go back home. Although it was not so good in my native country in many respects, I was like a bird that strives to get back to it is nest, in my case, to Ukraine.

Alternating with photo sessions, master classes and competitions I graduated from an institute and, having been granted master’s degree in law, I started working as a photographer for an American stock photo company. Life pace was like advertising and full of fashionable glamour. I always called it a Bohemian atmosphere.

I would hardly ever turn on TV, and if I did, then I preferred Russian channels. Smartly dressed newsreaders would continuously convince that it was necessary to watch only their news, since only they would show more information, more accurately and objectively about the country where I live. But I didn’t care, it didn’t matter to me. I wasn’t interested in politics, it seemed dirty to me and inaccessible. My generation was still taught under the Soviet system that a common citizen in the country is nobody, therefore, there is no use in trying to change anything in life. Like the majority, I completely ignored the manipulations, which, like a giant whirlpool in the middle of the ocean, were absorbing the Crimea. The Russian Federation did not start the hybrid war in 2014, it had never been over, and at that time a new stage of activation commenced. The reason was the Ukrainian Revolution of Dignity.

Everything happening in the heart of the country then did not bother me much, nor my friends and acquaintances. In the Crimea everything was wrapped in the web of the Russian World. Adverts, street signs at the stops, conversations at the markets and minibuses. Everything had decayed due to Russia. In the Crimea everyone would whisper that integration with the European Union was going to cause the worst possible effects, mainly in the economy. I could hear the same story from many friends, and in different sources it sounded like according to a very good acquaintance of mine, My Mum said that her friend’s friend had been to the Maidan and there she had tea from the tents, and when she came back to the Crimea, she got unwell and then from bad to worse. So she was examined in the policlinics and the tests showed that she had used drugs. Do you see? There, on the Maidan, everybody was addicted to drugs!!! It does not take a rocket scientist to question these stories, especially when one and the same plot is interpreted in various ways, you just start doubting.

In February everything changed dramatically. I got interested in seeing what was there on the Maidan, the epicenter of the ongoing Ukrainian revolution. I wanted to learn what it actually looked like from inside, whether it was as horrifying as it was shown on Russian TV?

Just Cannot Stay Away

That day was quite warm, but large frozen blocks of snow were still on the streets. Right after the rain, early in the morning, I found myself in the very epicenter of the whirling revolution of Honor and Dignity. Though it was only seven a.m., Khreshchatyk was not empty. Some people were chopping up the firewood, some were making breakfast while others were strengthening barricades and distributing provisions to the tents around from the city hall where the headquarters were organized.

Young girls made tea, cheering up sleepy watchmen. Here you could see people from all walks of life of any age, from mothers with prams and the elderly, playing chess, to the youngsters playing football. When the city was still half-asleep, the revolution was fully awake. But the most critical and shocking things were yet to come.

Bankovaya Street, leading to the President’s Office and the Verkhovna Rada of Ukraine, was decorated as an endless photo gallery. This very street just a few days earlier was easily recognizable in those images as they reflected cruel events of the past days. Berkut, a special task police squad, had shot the defenseless crowd from slide-action shotguns. People were lying on the snow-covered asphalt, being ruthlessly beaten with rubber truncheons. Some siloviki, rather than officers, were pictured with burning Molotov cocktails in their hands. It was easy to guess who the victims of their hatred were. Next to the photo gallery you could find the effects of the cruel massacre by the law-enforcement bodies — places, covered with flowers and candles, where completely innocent people had been killed just for going out to protest and express their indignity, without any weapons in their hands.

Seeing all this, I felt the inner cold unknown to me, similar to the sensations, which you have when one of the nearest and dearest dies and you do not know what to say to the mourning relatives. At that time something died in myself, too, but I also realized that the previous life had been like a caricature, full of lies and deceit, as if they were a web and mold. Blood, pain and deaths revealed the true infamy of the Russian propaganda that knows no limits.

Volunteers were walking in the streets distributing leaflets, informing that in two days there would be a peaceful demonstration. People wanted to manifest their indignity, blatant discontent with the criminal regime of the president-killer. People demanded changes and new life, free from corruption and humiliation from the Russian Federation. The forthcoming demonstration would become fatal, but heroic protesters knew nothing about it.

Away from the barricades, nothing would tell about the Maidan bustling and boiling in the capital city center. It was unnecessary there. The idea of the Revolution of Honor and Dignity was growing in people’s minds, and they ohm, in turn, built barricades against established criminal rules and lifestyle. All these happened to me, too.

The next day I came back to my native Crimea, Simferopol. All mass media broadcasted President Yanukovitch’s bloody massacre with the protesters. The Maidan was on fire. People were beaten, kidnapped and killed. The toll of dozens and hundreds of injured. A lad, shot by Berkut in his back. A girl volunteer in the blood smeared T-shirt, red cross and a shot neck. That was a massacre of the regime against its people. It was at that moment that I asked myself the key question: Who am I? A man, brought up by heroic deeds of the literary characters, or a coward sitting aside, in a warm safe place during the historic time, when my country really needed me. It was necessary to make the decisive choice in life determining the life position, and cross the line. At these moments all the mundane things like money, comfort and the fear of losing everything are an anchor holding a person. To leave a job, career, leave for the unknown, hoping only for the destiny and fortune...

It is hard. Too many NO were there in my choice but I did it.

The nearest large scale event against Yanukovitch’s regime was planned in a few days’ time, and there was no question of whether to go or not, to participate in the fight for freedom or stay away as a passive observer. In my Bohemian artistic crowd few people were interested in the future of the country, and so it was necessary to start everything from scratch. Days passed in the preparations and the search of the fellow-thinkers, who turned out to be numerous. It was shocking to find a fifteen-thousand crowd of active citizens on the politically passive, Russian propaganda brain-washed community on the peninsula. The protesters were mainly Crimean Tatars, so I easily dissolved in the crowd together with my fellow-thinkers.

Though we were free to do whatever we could, the event was absolutely peaceful. No provocations, no opposition and full public support. The Crimean ruling regime was set an ultimatum to dismantle Soviet heritage monuments and hold extraordinary elections. I thought that the Crimea could bloodlessly and flawlessly change the criminal power. But, naturally, everything went wrong.

Just three days later frightened traitors controlled by the agents of the neighboring country planned to hold a meeting of the Verkhovna Rada of the Crimea[1], where they were going to pass separatist laws and alterations to legalize the upcoming Russian invasion into Ukraine.

It was just impossible to stay away.

We Were Waited For

Enraged and furious people from the whole Crimean peninsula started gathering. Twenty thousand men and women set off to protect their home, crying out jodie calls and holding posters with slogans that would then become their life credo: Crimea is Ukraine But near the Verkhovna Rada of the Crimea we were already waited for by foes. At least ten thousand Kuban Cossacks relocated from the Russian Federation as they said, as tourists. They were to provide armed support to the relocated civilians. These people were rapidly distributed in all towns and settlements, but many stayed in the capital to conquer it.

They were reinforced by local special police squad Berkut, those who rampaged, beat and killed protesters in the Kyiv Maidan. The Crimean teams were considered the most cruel, since they had long sympathized with Moscow. The majority of separatists were paid string puppets, the so called titushki, who functioned as expendables during all the hot stages of the conflict. In total there were at least five thousand Russians around the Verkhovna Rada of the Autonomous Republic of the Crimea. They did not conceal their presence and purpose, which were transparent, clear and evident — to occupy and annex the territory of the appealing peninsula.

These masses were standing in a semicircle near the entrance door to the building. Their task was to prevent the interruption of the ongoing parliament session at any cost. On the other hand, the invaders were preparing a bloody provocation, which was to justify further ground invasion of troops. The roof of the building was full of journalists, who were certainly attracted by the event. Dozens of cameras of various RF media were preparing the evening portion of propaganda for their public.

They included those who came to stand for the integrity and independence of Ukraine, mainly Crimean Tatars. There were many ethnic Ukrainians, but still the main attacks were against the indigenous people of the Crime. The Russians insulted them and racially abused them by shouting such typical of our neighbors words as Wogs! Gooks! Skibbies! The Russians did their best to provoke Crimean Tatars to attack. All this was further heated up by increasingly numerous Russian flags.

When glass jars, bricks and sticks were thrown at us, and the opponents started using pepper spray balls and truncheons, it was impossible to keep standing any longer. The wave attacked. It caused a jam. The crowd tried its best to push away the occupants from the invaded territory. Everything happened relatively bloodlessly, the front cordon tried to prevent any possible clashes and fights, and for those who were injured a live corridor was organized to reach safety freely. These activities lasted for at least three hours, after which the Russians had to retire. We were full of euphoria. At that time it seemed we had won. The session was terminated and the local authorities were reminded that their time was limited and nearly running out. The representative body of the Crimean Tatars Mejlis ordered to stand down, and everybody rushed to their homes. Near the building there still was a group of expelled separatists; in fact, they had not gone away. It was also obvious that all of them would come back to their positions right after our departure...

On coming back home, I switched on Russian television to listen the way the events of the day would be presented. I revealed absolutely coarse, non-refined and unbelievable lies. Clear manifestation of absurdity. It was at that moment that I realized what the word propaganda meant.

Reports of all central media were identical. From all sides you could hear symmetrically the same message. The highlights from different places, different time with streets aflame, Molotov cocktails, blood and murders. All this was accompanied with the same fraudulent wording: Ukrainian nationalists are gathering from all Ukraine to start genocide of the Crimean people and destroy all Russian speaking population. Our brothers are under threat! That was the introductory accord of the war.

That night special forces of the Russian Federation were relocated to the Autonomous Republic of the Crimea and seized all administrative buildings, where on roofs they hang Russian flags. The invaders seized military bases, took over airports, banned all roads leading to the peninsula. The streets were patrolled by masked people in camouflage uniforms. Nobody was wearing any identifiers on their clothing, but each inhabitant of the Crimea understood perfectly well who they were and where they were from.

From that day on it became dangerous to be Ukrainian. We turned into enemies. Hunting for us started. Streets were full of young strong well-built men. Under the security of the masked terrorists they were deploying Russian flags in streets, removed and destroyed national symbols of Ukraine, trying to show who the master was now. Showing off their weapons, this mob did not frighten us. Vice versa, it united us even more, encouoraging to act.

Volunteers

I always imagined Ukraine as numerous settlements, independent from each other, but in case of danger they united to fight against the aggressor. This is what happened on the Maidan and after it. The war was coming from the east. Its rotten odor was in the air intoxicating people of towns and villages. The question was whether a non-trained person who had not served in the army could offer anything against skilled and trained Russian military people? My assumption was negative. But that did not mean that I had to sit still and do nothing. I recollected a girl from the Maidan, a medical volunteer, who rushed to save the injured guys during the shooting. That is why she was shot, but if it had not been for her then who? That brought me to the decision to set up an organization that would train volunteers to provide first medical aid. At the same time it was agreed that assistance would be given to any injured person. A person had to stay a person.

Using my contacts, received during the protests, and social media, I posted my suggestions and offer to everybody who shared my views. At least thirty-five people positively responded within the first hours of my call. These people included a theatrical art studio company. The actors offered to use their rehearsal ground for our training sessions. Their only condition was that what we were to do on their ground had to be limited to the medical area only.

Public adverts in all available social media, personal invitations and common word of mouth worked well. Hundreds of people started responding to our call for becoming a volunteer in the fight for our land. To equip volunteer medical persons with required kits we opened a bank card account where people from the whole country sent their donations. We used them to buy helmets marked with red crosses, medical kits with medications, knee pads, elbow pads, respirators and, if possible, bullet-proof jackets with the minimum protection. Hundreds of deaths on the Maidan in Kyiv taught us a lot. The volunteers quickly formed a group and the course was a success. The first sessions were on the highest level. Teachers were professionals, who used visual aids to demonstrate how it worked. With no medical training we, in fact, could do little, but still it was better than nothing. For the fast transportation of the injured we informed our volunteers who were at the wheel and also found a shelter for two hundred people, where, providing the seizure of hospitals and policlinics it was possible to deploy an infirmary.

Naturally, we were to remember about those who were still surrounded by Russian troops. Who, if not the citizens of Ukraine, would take care of our military? People from the whole country sent us jars of honey, preserves, tins, sweets, socks and cigarettes. Sometimes we managed to transport illegally dozens of meters of barbed wire, obtain torches and other tools that could be of help in the defense. At night we would bring all these collected items to military bases and hand them over to soldiers by throwing them over the fence.

Our activity during that hard time could not stay unnoticed. More and more various people began contacting us offering cooperation.

Every day many journalists needed our help. They needed protection, transportation and information of what was happening in the hottest spots. Foreigners needed interpreters, whom we had enough to meet the full range of requests.

The organization of these processes took all my time, but I also enjoyed the feeling of being involved into something indeed great and historically significant. I stepped out of my comfort zone and set off on the way that had to make me a man.

Everything that was done seemed to us insufficient, and therefore, we needed to move on to public protest events, which had to show that we were against annexation, against occupation of the Crimea, which was, is and will be Ukraine.

The first event to counteract Russian aggression was held in Simferopol next to the Ukrainian military base, located near the railway station. Hundreds of men and women were standing with posters: Stop War, Crimea is Ukraine, Peace. There were not so many of us, just about a thousand people. We were surrounded by Kuban Cossacks, local collaborators and armed regular Russian military men. However, nobody was afraid. People gathered to support our soldiers. To say that the people of Ukraine were together with the army. The Ukrainian flags, the national anthem, tears of anxiety, joy, despair and pride.

We were changing, we were rapidly maturing. From coach potatoes we were turning into the resistance, which would later on stop the attack of the Russian troops. To create something new, something old had to die. The Revolution of Honor and Dignity awoke Ukrainians’ historical memory, showing who they really are.

At nights our guys would stand near the military bases, expecting the seizure at any second. It seemed to us that if Russians started killing civilians the global community would finally come to rescue. Every day I made buckwheat and packed it in five-liter containers, after which I took them to the security guards, and also to the soldier of the base to cheer them up somehow and add up provisions to the heroes. That was not substantial help, but at that time everybody helped as much as they could.

Nights were the busy time for the teams working on propaganda as well: they painted street walls with Ukrainian symbols and called for living in peace. They tried to tell the public what could follow.

There were calls for resistance and take to the streets. We showed that Russia was not a friend but a typical invader, interested in land and potential military bases on it. Creating graffiti was extremely dangerous. Night streets were patrolled by numerous separatist cars, which used searchlights and watched for suspiciously loitering persons. To get into their hands meant to get lost forever. Those days many people of our movement were kidnapped, sometimes dozens per day, at times they could be found dead... But we did not give up. Instead we kept on fighting as much as we could.

Spring 2014 Turned All Values Upside Down

I was a photographer. Looked for the beauty. My credo was a simple phrase: What you see with love, is beautiful... I looked at any created item as the result of creation, realizing that it was beautiful by nature. I tried to tell people that they did not need modifications to be better...

I loved people, loved peace. It can be said that I was a cosmopolite who would find a common language with anybody and wherever on this planet. However, I have always wanted to live in one place. In Ukraine. The fact is we are all cosmopolites as long as troubles don’t trouble us. Then everything changes. Then the reality of events opens your eyes to the world. And the colors around lose their brightness. They appear not to be so peaceful and joyful. There is too much of red...

Then, on March 9, 2014, I was another person already. Not the one I used to be. The world I loved had changed. Cosy calm life had turned into a fight, a challenge, a competition, a battle for survival and revival of the identity, for the land and the right to be called Ukrainian...

It is true that my life changed. I felt hatred and just grinned thinking about the people whom I used to bring smiles. It was like being a wolf among silly sheep that were driven by deceitful shepherds to the slaughter, while the former were eager to follow those shepherds. The masses were hooked by cheap promises and populist slogans. These people had their hands chained, and their minds trapped. They publicly burnt Ukrainian flags in the streets.

They burnt out Ukrainian emblems, embedded in granite. They demolished Ukrainian symbols with hammers and sledges. They ruined everything symbolizing, standing for and referring to Ukraine with the hatred of the berserker, the fury, rage and blank eyes. Their souls and minds were as if feeling the inevitable future and fought in the invisible agony. They initiated witch hunting. Kidnapped, tortured, tormented everybody who differed from them.

The arrival of the Russian spring turned bloody, with the corpses of Ukrainians and Crimean Tatars found here and there. The occupation started with the seizure of military bases and murders of Ukrainian military people...

Blood, violence and death constitute the face of modern Russia. At that time I wanted to cry from powerlessness and anger. But in fact we were not so helpless...

At first Mum talked me out of participating in protests, meetings, from night watches and patrols. She was afraid, since she anticipated the following detention, arrest and imprisonment. My granny cried. Instead, I was the one I had to be. The citizen of my country, a Ukrainian. And my family stood by me. You must never stop, let alone surrender. There is nobody else but us.

As a result the apartment was all covered in Georgian ribbons as useless conspiracy. Five-liter containers with buckwheat for the Ukrainian military men. Socks, honey and cigarettes. Procured medications in case of the start of the active war and stocked respirators in case of any chemical or gas attack. Perhaps, it looked ridiculous, but who could know what was to come. We were not ready to see our elder brother unleashing a war against us and coming to kill us.

It was a holiday. However, not too preoccupied with the holiday itself, I was thinking more about the meeting that had to follow the ceremony of paying the tribute to the memory of the warriors who died in the Second World War. Yes, it was May 9, 2014, the celebration of the Great Victory. The day on which we had long been taught to pay the tribute, along with other slaves of the ideology, to the heroes who had died for false ideals. Flowers. Salutes. The frontlike shots of vodka for people of all ages...

Teaching the new generation wrong thinking of how good it was once, memories of the good old days of fame. Life in the past. Zombifying by brainwashing is an element of the Russian Federation strategy.

Victory Day! My great grandfather was also at the front. He, like many others, was a prisoner of war. He fully felt the award for his deeds... At that time the final tribute expressed as a shot in the back by the NKVD secret police was normal. Both then and now, to be captured meant to become a public enemy, become labelled. Then you could be among the expendables only. Every year I would be at the parade with the portrait of my great grandfather, paying the tribute and commemorating his name, the name of the person, who had not been honored and respected for being a hero. That year I was carrying it among hundreds of other faces of compatriots so that he could see those people with a slanted view. I was sure that he would have been proud of me and, like half a