Comrade_Colonel

Part 1: https://lemmy.ml/post/26366649

And in general, we need to define what wealth is. How is this wealth measured? Of course, any of us wants to live well. But what does it mean to live well? For some, it is enough to have a good apartment, a dacha (summer cottage), a car, and healthy children who do not have bad habits and stand firmly on their feet in life. For others, even millions of dollars are not enough—they want billions. So how much money and property does one need to feel satisfied in this life, and for their years to be their wealth? I suppose no one can answer this question. But there is wealth that is not just material. To know oneself, to understand the world around us, to explore the art created by humanity—literature, music, and so on. Isn’t that wealth? I have already mentioned that I come from a very poor family, but I did not pay much attention to my poverty and did not worry about being poor as some young people do.

Since childhood, I loved reading. Not far from our home, there was a decent library. At that time, the library mainly had classical literature. I read foreign, Russian, Georgian, and Armenian classical literature, of course, what was printed in the Georgian language. That is wealth. It is impossible to list all the authors whose works I read—there are too many of them. Since childhood, I had a strong desire to read. We lived on the outskirts of the city, and frankly, apart from reading books, I had no other entertainment. I had no money or decent clothes to go to the city center for movies, and the cinemas were far from our home. We didn’t have a TV or even a radio. A radio was installed in our shack around 1948. So books, and only books, were my source of knowledge about the world. However, I must say that the radio greatly expanded my knowledge, especially in music. The radio broadcast amazing musical programs—opera music by Verdi, Tchaikovsky, Paliashvili, Gounod, Mussorgsky, Puccini, Beethoven, Glinka, Mozart, and many others. At first, I did not appreciate opera or classical music. I thought it was not for us, or at least not for me. But something interesting happened in my life.

I wrote in my memoirs that I was born in the mountains of South Ossetia, in the village of Jvaris-Ubani. The thing is, my mother, who already lived in Tbilisi, was in Jvaris-Ubani for the summer when she went into labor. At the same time, my father was arrested. Well, it was 1930! My mother also had my older brother, who was 2 years old at the time. So my mother left me in the village with a woman from the Plievi family and returned to Tbilisi. Since she was a healthy woman and had breast milk to spare, she was hired to breastfeed the son of another woman. This woman was a veterinarian and worked in market sanitation, checking the quality of meat. Sometimes she even threw us some pieces of meat, though this was after the war. So, around 1947 or 1948, I became curious about who had drunk my milk. My mother gave me their address, and I went to meet my milk brother. He turned out to be a very good boy, and we became friends. His father had been repressed, which was quite common in those years. They lived on Rustaveli Avenue. The apartment wasn’t great, but it was near the opera house. It turned out that the ticket checker at the opera was a good friend of his mother. Naturally, Nodari, my milk brother, started taking me to the opera on weekends, and sometimes on other days, for daytime performances. We went there because this woman let us in without tickets. I had no musical education or understanding of what opera was.

The first opera I listened to was The Tsar’s Bride. Everything was nice and cozy, with soft, comfortable seats. The only bad thing was that the Tsar’s bride had a very loud voice, and I couldn’t fall asleep for a long time. Eventually, I did fall asleep. The next time, we went to listen to Rigoletto. Since I had already figured out how to “listen,” I fell asleep instantly. I woke up specifically for the Duke’s aria, La donna è mobile. But with Carmen, the music captivated me from the overture, and I listened with delight until the very end. Later, I listened to operas by Tchaikovsky, Glinka, Mussorgsky, Gounod, and other composers. Opera music fascinated me so much that when I later attended a drama theater performance, I missed the music and musical accompaniment. I realized how much music enhances the perception of what is happening on stage. Much later, when I was an officer and on leave in Tbilisi, I listened to Paliashvili’s opera Daisi (Evening Glow, in Georgian). I left the opera house feeling enlightened, cleansed of everyday dirt. I wanted to do something good for people. I thought that a person who listened to such music as Daisi, Tchaikovsky’s First Piano Concerto, Rachmaninoff’s Second Concerto, Grieg’s Peer Gynt, or the works of other great composers, could not do anything dirty or vile. In my opinion, classical music, if understood, cleanses the soul like a prayer spoken before God in a state of deep emotional excitement. I am deeply grateful to those who introduced me to such spiritual wealth as opera and classical music, and I sincerely feel sorry for those who reject or refuse to appreciate such treasures, preferring only material goods.

I am generally amazed by the abundance of great figures in music, literature, painting, and art in the 19th century. The 20th century also produced great works of art, but the 19th century is unparalleled in this regard. At least, the pseudo-art that emerged in the 20th century and flourished in the 21st did not exist in the 19th century. My generation had the fortunate opportunity to engage with real art, not pseudo-art as we see today. Of course, this does not mean that everything was good then and everything is bad now. That would be an incorrect conclusion. There was also a lot of negativity and even repulsive things in the life of my generation. We were raised in the spirit of loyalty to the cause of Lenin and Stalin. We didn’t fully understand what Lenin and Stalin were up to, but we shouted that we were faithful to their cause. If we had said otherwise, things would have gone badly for us. Unfortunately, in our time, all aspects of life, including art, literature, and music, were limited by the postulates of Marxism-Leninism. Stalin’s statements on any issue were considered the ultimate truth. If you objected, you would become a gold miner in Kolyma or a lumberjack—neither of which was pleasant, and the living conditions were harsh. So, even if we disagreed with Stalin, we expressed enthusiastic admiration for the fact that such a genius was leading our country. Unfortunately, in our time, the opinion of one person determined what we should read, listen to, or see. Anything that did not align with his views was considered bad and dangerous for the people. That’s how the “father of nations” cared for our moral and ideological education. I well remember a number of decisions by the Central Committee of the Communist Party regarding literature and art, where the works of writers, musicians, and artists were subjected to devastating criticism. By the late 1940s, a campaign against cosmopolitanism and admiration for the West had begun. It’s interesting—if Comrade Stalin could see what is happening in our country today in terms of cosmopolitanism and admiration for the West, he wouldn’t just turn in his grave—he’d spin like a fan.

I have dwelled on Stalinism in such detail because Stalinism also contributed its terrible share to the spiritual education of the younger generation in the 1930s and 1940s of the last century, and the consequences of such education are still felt today.

To be continued...

Beautiful words from a famous song performed by an equally famous singer from Georgia. But perhaps my years are not wealth, but a heavy burden weighing me down with the ailments of old age or heavy thoughts. The question is not simple. On one hand, it seems wonderful that I have lived to be 80 years old. After all, not many reach such an age, and perhaps I should rejoice in having lived to what is called an advanced age. Yes, logically, I should be happy, but unfortunately, there is little joy at this age. It feels as though I am sitting in a death row cell, waiting for either an angel or a devil to come for me, depending on where I will be dragged—to heaven or hell. Well, I have little hope for heaven. I was raised by our socialist system as an atheist and spent my whole life fighting against the "opium of the people," that is, religion. So, there is no hope for heaven. And I don’t want to go to hell. The best scenario would be if there is nothing there. These not-so-joyful thoughts constantly creep into my mind. Hence the gloomy moods, the irritability, and the depression. Unfortunately, the younger generation does not always take into account the emotional state of the older generation and does not understand the seemingly causeless irritability of the elderly. In self-criticism, I must say that we, too, when we were young, did not fully understand the emotional state of the older generation.

But still, not everything is so bad in old age. There are joys unique to the older generation. We rejoice when our children are doing well. We rejoice at the arrival of grandchildren and great-grandchildren. After all, in each of them, there is a piece of grandparents, great-grandparents. Perhaps this is our immortality. We leave, but we remain in our continuation—in our children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. Perhaps this is the main essence of our lives: to continue ourselves in our descendants.

Yes, it is a great joy to live to see great-grandchildren and to feel relatively well at the same time. I say "relatively" because at this age, it is impossible not to have some ailments. But for now, I can walk on my own and take care of myself. This is also very important. Much has changed during my time on this earth. I remember when a car appeared on our street, we children would run after it, shouting, "A car! A car!" For us, a car was a kind of wonder. In 1937, the first elections to the Supreme Soviet of the USSR took place. As part of the propaganda campaign, small planes, so-called "corn planes," flew over the city and dropped leaflets urging people to participate in the elections. After that, whenever a plane flew over us, we children would shout for it to drop papers. How far away all that seems now! Much has remained in my memory, but much has also faded.

I remember June 22, 1941, very well. I was 11 years old. I was at my aunt's place near Tbilisi, in a village. I saw everyone running to the center of the settlement where a loudspeaker was hanging. Back then, homes and apartments were not equipped with radios, so loudspeakers were installed in populated areas. I ran there too. I saw people standing with their heads bowed, listening to the radio in complete silence. The announcer was broadcasting Molotov's speech about the treacherous attack of Nazi Germany on the Soviet Union. This happened around noon. The day was bright and sunny. On the square stood men and women, and there was complete silence. A heavy, anxious silence. What left a deep impression on me was not Molotov's speech but this oppressive, crushing silence in the square where several hundred people stood. This terrible silence told me that something had happened that truly threatened us all with death.

From that heavy day, my life changed radically, and for the worse. The struggle for survival began. Even before the war, we lived quite poorly. My mother was a cleaner at a school, and my father was a chimney sweep who also enjoyed Georgian wine a bit too much. There were four of us children. The room we lived in, if you could call it a room, was 12 square meters. All the conveniences and inconveniences were outside. My brother and I slept on the floor, under the table—there was no other space. And despite this poverty, I remember the pre-war years as somehow bright and warm. Perhaps those were the best years of my life. Before the war, food started appearing in stores. Most importantly, there was enough bread. And for us, bread was the main dish. I didn’t think much about how poor we were because I had never known any other life. Everyone lived at about the same level as we did. Some were a little better off, some a little worse. There were no particularly rich people on our street. There was a German family living in the neighboring yard who had a piano—they were considered rich in our eyes. Or if someone had a gramophone, they were also considered rich. There was no one to envy. Perhaps that’s why relationships between people before the war were friendly. There were no locks on the doors. People shared their last piece of bread with each other. In the evenings, all the residents of our courtyard would gather under the mulberry tree and talk about various topics. Often, they discussed whether there would be a war with Germany. Someone would bring a fresh newspaper, and I was asked to read it aloud. So, this is where my political work began. And all this calm, peaceful life disappeared in an instant. WAR.

In the fall, my father was drafted to the front. There were four of us children: 13, 11, and two 3-year-olds, and we all wanted to eat. How we survived these difficult war years and the post-war years, I write about in more detail in my memoirs. Here, I just want to ask myself: were these years my wealth? No. God forbid anyone such wealth. For Kikabidze, of course, the years of his childhood and adolescence were wealth. He did not have to live through the war years. And it’s somehow offensive that the theme of "children of war," what they had to endure—not just in the Leningrad blockade, which undoubtedly deserves special attention—has not been fully addressed. But this issue needs to be raised in general. What did the children of war in the Soviet Union have to endure? How "wealthy" were their childhood years! Back then, the country did everything it could to support the front. The question of our existence as a people, as a country, was at stake. That’s why we lived by the law: "Everything for the front, everything for victory." We had no childhood, no youth. It’s hard to consider these years our wealth. But that’s not all. When we reached retirement age and thought we were entering a well-deserved rest, with a happy old age ahead, life turned 180 degrees, and those who were nobody became everything. We, who built factories, cities, and defended the country, became nobodies. And they threw us a beggarly pension, like throwing a dog a bare bone. There’s no room for wealth here. So, our years, which were impoverished in childhood, turned out to be even more impoverished in old age. So, unfortunately, it doesn’t work out: my years, my wealth.

To be Continued

I survived The Great Patriotic War of 1941–1945. No, I was not on the front lines. By the beginning of the war, I was not yet 11 years old. Actually, I wanted to go to the front. But to do that, I would have had to board a train heading toward the front. And at that time, it was impossible to get to the train station. The station was guarded like a military facility. We, the children of the war, were full of determination to fight for our great Motherland. What this war meant to us—I will not speak about that. Much has been written about it, both truth and, unfortunately, lies. I can only say that war is very hard, and God forbid anyone should experience such a time of hardship again. I saw the eyes of mothers, wives, sisters, and children whose loved ones—fathers, brothers, husbands, sons—remained forever on the battlefield. I saw their eyes dried from tears. It is better not to see such things again. We won. And we know the price of that victory. We, the children of the war, listened every day with trembling hearts to stories of the mass heroism of our soldiers, sergeants, officers, pilots, and sailors in this terrible struggle against the fascist beast. Later, when I became an officer in the Soviet Army, I often spoke with veterans of the Great Patriotic War, asking them where they found so much courage, bravery, heroism, and self-sacrifice in the fight against the brown plague. We, the children of the war, wanted to be like Gastello, Talalikhin, Zoya Kosmodemyanskaya, Pokryshkin, Kozhedub, and many others who showed miracles of heroism, resilience, and sacrificed their lives for the sake of the Great Victory over fascism. I emphasize the word—fascism. Not over the German people, but over fascism.

It so happened in my life that I myself became a defender of our great and beloved Motherland. I served in the Soviet Army for 31 years, from the rank of private soldier to colonel. And I saw firsthand the selfless service to the Motherland of our Soviet people. I saw how our soldiers and officers served in the scorching steppes of Azerbaijan, in the Caspian sands. I saw how our soldiers and officers were ready to sacrifice their lives to save the freedom-loving people of the Island of Freedom. I saw the incredibly harsh climatic conditions in which they served to protect the northern air borders of our Motherland on the islands of the Novosibirsk Archipelago. I saw how steadfastly the wives of officers and long-service soldiers endured the hardships and deprivations of life in the lifeless steppes of Kazakhstan, in the remote corners of the taiga, in the tundras of the Far North. And always the same question arose: what drove our people to endure such often unbearable conditions of service? The answer is very simple. Love for the Motherland. Pride in our country. My generation was set an example by the lives of people who selflessly served our great country. The book "How the Steel Was Tempered" by Ostrovsky was the bedside book of our generation. We were proud of the Papaninites, Chkalov, Baydukov, Grizodubova, the Chelyuskinites, and many other remarkable Soviet people who set an example of selfless service to the Motherland. I understand that some may tell me that there were also very dark and terrible times in the life of our people. There was the year 1937. And not just 1937. I know this not only from books. I lived through that era as well. But one cannot study the history of the country one-sidedly. One cannot tarnish the great feat of the Soviet people in the 1930s. Our country, our fathers, grandfathers, mothers, and grandmothers, from the late 1920s to the early 1940s, created everything so that the country could meet the terrible enemy, who sought to erase everything Slavic, Russian, and others, from the face of the earth, with weapons in hand. Unfortunately, this feat does not receive the attention it deserves in our history. Instead, "One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich" is being promoted as what "How the Steel Was Tempered" was for us. I think it is unnecessary to comment on the difference between them.

I often hear that modern youth is worse than we were when we were young. They say that they are worse than us. This is fundamentally wrong. If youth were worse than we were when we were young, there would be no progress in the country. The strength of the country lies in the fact that youth is always better than us, the older generation. Yes, we don’t like much about their behavior. We don’t like the moral and ethical level of modern youth. There is a very wise Georgian proverb. I will first quote it in Georgian so that no one has any doubts: "Kokasa shigan ratsa dgas, igive tsarmodindeba." "What is poured into the jug is what will pour out." So let’s see what kind of spiritual food we are pouring into the souls of our youth! The main goal of all our television programs and the work of all media is: more dollars, more, as they say now, at all levels, more "cash." Therefore, it is not the youth who should be blamed, but those who pour so much poison and filth into the souls of our youth. I understand that Soviet power had many negative aspects. All modern media talk about this in detail and persistently. But Soviet media were aimed at instilling high moral and ethical qualities in youth. And most importantly, love for the Motherland. Why do I, an old colonel, feel so anxious in my soul? I am afraid that, God forbid, if something irreparable happens to us, will there be Matrosovs, Zoya Kosmodemyanskayas, Gastellos? And the situation is becoming very, very alarming. The fascism that we crushed in 1945 has raised its head again, and not somewhere far away, but nearby, in Ukraine. The particular danger is that fascism in Ukraine has been elevated to state policy and is directed against Russia. We have already seen something similar in Georgia. There, too, the so-called first president of Georgia, Gamsakhurdia, declared that Georgia was for Georgians and that the number one enemy of Georgia was the Russians, and the Ossetians were just garbage for Georgia that needed to be swept out with a Georgian broom. I will not repeat the slogans against Russia and specifically against the Russians that are proclaimed in Ukraine. They are well known. What amazes me is something else. What amazes me is that Russia, the Russians, saved Georgia from the real danger of losing its faith, its language, its centuries-old culture. Eastern Georgia was practically a province of Iran. Western Georgia was a province of Turkey. The Russian soldier saved Georgia from such a danger, and now it turns out that the Russians are the enemies of Georgia. The same story is with Ukraine. If it were not for Russia, not for the Russian people, Ukraine would have been torn apart by the Crimean Tatars, Poland, the Baltic princes, and Sweden. History must be read. At least read Faddey Venediktovich Bulgarin. Read how he writes about Mazepa. His behavior in 1709. The position of Poland, the Baltic states, Moldova, the Crimean Tatars, and Sweden. The year 2014 is simply a repetition of 1709. Nothing new. He was not a communist, a democrat, or a member of the LDPR or any other party. He was a contemporary of Pushkin. I am a historian. I graduated from Tbilisi University in 1966 with honors. I have the right to say that I know the history of Russia and the Russian people. I can prove, based on historical facts, that Russia, the Russian people, have repeatedly saved many peoples of Asia and Europe from enslavement and destruction. Russia, even today, remains a stronghold of high morality and justice. I have lived with the Russian people for 62 years, and I can confidently say that I, an Ossetian, feel best living with the Russian people. Here there is no slogan "Russia for Russians." Here there is a slogan: Russia for all honest and decent people.

Lately, the word "war" has been heard too often on the air. Quite serious and dangerous military exercises have become frequent. The situation is becoming very similar to October 1962. But then America was ruled by a smart, far-sighted man who understood the danger of the situation—John F. Kennedy. This man deserves the most sincere respect. This man alone saved the world from an impending global catastrophe. Today, America is ruled by a man who is not even remotely similar to this outstanding President of America. European leaders are repeating the mistakes of their predecessors from the early 1940s. Then they directed Germany against the Soviet Union. Today, Germany and its satellites are directing Ukraine against Russia. Isn’t it time to stop? After all, there will be no survivors in Europe either!

I survived the Patriotic War, and I understand what war is. I survived the Cold War, and I understand what that means. We are now at the threshold of a third world, nuclear-missile war. The only country in the world that is standing up to this terrible danger is Russia. That is why a sanctions war has been unleashed against Russia, which really threatens to escalate into a hot war. Politicians, come to your senses! You also have wives, children, and relatives. Think about them.

In conclusion, I want to say that when I speak, it is not about me personally. It is about my generation, and personally, I am just a small part of the multi-million generation of the 1930s and 1940s.

Colonel of the Soviet Army, Shamil Arsenovich Chigoev.

A woman creates the world

A woman of any nationality or ethnicity deserves deep respect, if for no other reason than the fact that she brings about the most important event on our sinful earth—she gives birth to a human being. She creates the future. For this alone, we men must carry women in our arms, appreciate them and protect them. I am not even mentioning all that a woman does. She feeds us from the very moment we come into this world and continues to care for us until the end of her days. She does not sleep at night and guards our sleep, our health, and our peace. She creates warmth and beauty in the home. A woman makes us knights, men. It is for women that we strive to become better, braver and more noble. We could speak at length about what a woman means for humanity, but there is simply not enough time. And this applies to all women of any nationality and any country.

From Baku to Tiksi

But now I want to speak about the Russian woman, and there is no nationalism or chauvinism in this. Because, first of all, I am an Ossetian and do not believe my mother was any worse than women of other nationalities. My wife is Georgian. I can only say that the life of both an Ossetian and a Georgian woman is neither easy nor simple. My wife went through fire, water and the copper pipes with me. I will stop at just one example from her life. In 1966, I was transferred from Baku to **Tiksi **for service. Tiksi is on the southern shore of the Arctic Ocean. We had three children, the youngest just three months old. She gathered them up and, without informing me, flew to Tiksi. Meanwhile, I was setting up my unit on combat duty—not in Thailand, but on Kotelny Island, somewhere near the 75th parallel, in the center of the Arctic Ocean. To be honest, not every Frenchwoman would have made such a decision. But by then, she had already become a Russian woman because she was married to an Ossetian but a Russian officer.

Russian Woman

I want to speak about the Russian woman because the fate of the Russian woman is the fate of the Russian people. The Russian people played a decisive role in the destinies of those nations historically connected with them. Many beautiful things have been written about the Russian woman. Personally, it was through reading Russian literature that I formed my impression of the Russian woman. It was Turgenev, Tolstoy, Goncharov, Leskov, and of course, Gorky, among others, who created the most beautiful image of the Russian woman in my mind.

Service in Kurdamir Azerbaijan

The thing is, I lived in Tbilisi until I was 20, and I rarely came into contact with Russians. But when I was a cadet at the Odessa Anti-Aircraft Artillery School, on leave from Tbilisi, I "stole" my wife (and to be fair, she was eager for me to do so) and brought her to Odessa, with no money, no apartment, nothing. It was then that we felt the real, genuine support from Russian women. My wife was going through a tough time. As a second-year cadet, I earned 7 rubles and 50 kopecks. We had to pay 10 rubles for coal, which we got from a friend. My wife didn't know Russian, had no profession, and we had to survive. Russian women helped her get a job at a sewing factory, became her friends, and supported her. I finished school and was sent to the Baku Anti-Aircraft Defense District—a cursed district, to be honest. We lost our son there. In Kurdamir, the heat in summer reached 50°C in the shade. There were mosquitoes, flies, and snakes in our Finnish houses. I don't know any English or German woman who would have endured such wild conditions, but the Russian woman stood by her husband, helping him endure these inhuman conditions while maintaining the combat readiness of the units. And again, Russian women helped my wife. In many ways, we were able to survive thanks to the officers' wives, and they were mostly Russian. They even organized amateur performances, which somehow made our lives more interesting and helped us survive. So, our life together, my wife and I, was intertwined with Russian women in military towns and garrisons, where we interacted as wives of officers. And being an officer's wife, my friends, is not for the faint of heart. Russian women followed their husbands to the ends of the earth—remember the wives of the Decembrists. When I saw how the wives of officers lived in Tiksi, I thought that, perhaps, the wives of the Decembrists had it a little easier.

Harsh arctic days

I arrived in Tiksi in July 1966. I saw from the airplane window the Laptev Sea, with huge chunks of ice floating. The air temperature was close to zero. I introduced myself to the authorities. They gave me a small room of 8 square meters, for two people. It was a barrack, with a corridor in the middle. The barrack was wooden. On both sides of the corridor, there were small rooms of 8 square meters each. Naturally, there were no facilities, neither in winter (-40°C, wind speeds of 40 meters per second, polar night), nor in summer. I will not even describe the conditions. The general kitchen had 20 stoves, and 20 women stood shoulder to shoulder around them, cooking meals for the brave defenders of the country's air borders. And all this while American bombers with nuclear payloads were flying overhead! The water was brought in, and by "brought in," I mean that a truck brought chunks of ice cut from a freshwater lake. The women put these pieces in barrels and that was our water. Tell me, what kind of woman would agree to live in these hellish conditions? And I haven't even mentioned the polar night from November to April, the blizzards, the fact that summer lasted only two months, with temperatures between -2°C and +2°C—the rest of the time was winter! Tiksi was still a tropical paradise compared to what I saw on the islands of Kegelyakh and Kotelny. These islands are part of the Severnaya Zemlya archipelago. I had to stay on these islands for months at a time. We had radio-technical units there, with about 7 or 8 officers and around 50 soldiers. The island was surrounded by the Arctic Ocean. There were soldiers' barracks, officers' barracks, and combat equipment. In winter, you couldn't go outside and return due to the blizzards and polar night. In summer, the mud stuck to your shoes, and walking was extremely difficult. I won’t even mention the facilities. The officers' wives walked in the dimly lit corridor, both in winter and summer, with children in tow. I had to eat "delicacies" like dried potatoes, dried onions, dried carrots, and the like. No radio, no television, nothing. What would have become of an officer if his loving, tender, and caring wife had not been by his side? One can only imagine. But they were there. They could have chosen not to be there. No one would have blamed them for not going. But they were there. This is the Russian woman.

Taiga

I met Russian women in Krasnoyarsk when I was transferred from the Polar Regions to the position of head of the political department of a regiment. The regiment had 9 battalions, and the battalions were in the deep Taiga. The officers' houses were wooden. The temperature reached -55°C. The water was brought in. The nearest schools and shops were 40–50 km away. There was no work for the officers' wives. I went to the battalion, gathered the women, and asked what their problems were. One officer's wife said she was a doctor, but there was no work for her in the battalion. Another one said she was a teacher, but there was no work for her either. And so it was in every battalion. They could have gone to the city, to their fathers or mothers, and found work, but no—they stayed in the Taiga, next to their husbands, supporting them with their presence so that their husbands could keep the skies clear over our Motherland. How can one not admire the Russian woman?

My daughter is also a Soviet woman

And I don't have to look far. My own daughter spent almost 4 years on the Kuril Islands, on Shikotan and Utorup, islands that the Japanese want to take, living with her husband, an Air Defense officer. The small children were with us and her husband's parents. My daughter followed the example of her Russified mother. Time passed, and I was transferred to Klin, to the Anti-Missile Defense. In 1973, I was moved to Naro-Fominsk as the head of the political department of a separate missile defense center, and the conditions there were very different. The living conditions for an Air Defense officer at the time were simply wonderful—closed city, a cultural center, a school, a kindergarten, stores of all kinds, post office—everything one needs for a normal life. But here, other difficulties arose. The town was 20 km from the district center, and there were about 2,000 women, officers' wives, and warrant officers, but the work in the military town was not sufficient for all the women, which created some tension. Of course, this was felt, and we had to do something about it. In the unit, there were several women's councils. We got together and decided to organize an amateur performance, and since we had a music school with music teachers, we were able to organize a great amateur performance. I will say without boasting that we always took prize places at competitions. And this amateur performance eased the tension to some extent. People were busy with something. Even now, I have in front of my eyes my wonderful, beautiful, graceful, and full of inner nobility and self-respect Russian women.

Soviet women have not disappeared anywhere

In conclusion, I would like to say that it is a mistake for men to claim Victory Day as their own. German General Guderian writes in his memoirs that if the Russians had not had Russian women, they would not have won. Although he was a fascist, I agree with him in this case. Unfortunately, what I noticed is that the Russian woman often does not receive the attention she deserves. A woman can forgive everything, but she will never forgive a lack of attention. Therefore, dear men, we must be attentive to women not only on March 8th but always. They deserve it.

Soviet Colonel. Shamil Chigoev

The Nature of Elections

Elections are known to be a sign of a democratized society. In the Soviet Union, during the era of the dictatorship of the proletariat, there were no elections. In 1936, the Stalin Constitution was adopted, proclaiming the victory of socialism in the Soviet Union. The first elections to the Supreme Soviet of the USSR took place on December 12, 1937. I remember those elections; I was seven years old then. We lived in Tbilisi, and I recall small airplanes flying over the city, dropping leaflets encouraging people to participate in the elections.

Memories of Early Soviet Elections

People went to the polls with dances, songs, and in a festive mood, as if it were a folk celebration. This reminds me of the presidential elections in 2024. Although elections to the Supreme Soviet of the USSR and presidential elections are different, there are some similarities between the Soviet Union and Russia. I was involved in organizing elections to the Supreme Soviet in my position. In practice, there was no choice. The ballot had only one candidate, who would undoubtedly be elected. The candidate was appointed by the district committee, city committee, or the Central Committee of the Union Republic. The candidate gave a campaign speech to workers, employees, and collective farmers. People were allowed to write their wishes to the candidate on the back of the ballot.

Reflections on Modern Elections

I'm not familiar with the complete process of becoming a presidential candidate, but I haven't seen presidential elections since 1996. There have been changes in the positions of president and chairman of the council of ministers, but no presidential elections in Russia. Being an old person, I have seen and heard a lot. I envy Americans for how they elect their president, with fierce competition between candidates and campaign speeches in various states.

**Concerns About the 2024 Presidential Elections ** I don't remember Putin's campaign speeches or his plans for continuing his presidency. Where will he lead the country next? I've looked into the presidential candidates, and I suspect none of them have a real chance of winning. The people don't know them, and they might become known before the elections. They don't have any significant achievements for the people. I don't know what platform they will present, but I guess it will mainly be against war and for improving relations with the West. However, many decrees and laws have been passed that prohibit speaking out against these issues. They lack the main tool for an election campaign—mass media. Meanwhile, Putin can regularly and consistently make appearances across various media platforms.

The Future of Russia's Political Landscape

A well-known political figure is often attributed with saying, "It's not how people vote that matters, but how the votes are counted." We can guess how the results will be counted. The 2024 elections will show the direction in which the country is heading. Two fundamentally different paths are clashing: either the current exploiters will continue their exploitation, or they will be replaced by a new group of exploiters. As the saying goes, "Meet the new boss, same as the old boss."

Unshakable Wealth: The Power of Reading

Introduction

Wealth is often measured in terms of material possessions or financial assets, but there is a type of wealth that cannot be taken away: the wealth of knowledge. This wealth is accumulated through reading books, enriching the mind, and expanding one's horizons. Unlike material wealth, the knowledge gained from books grows over time and shapes one's character and outlook on life.

The Journey to Knowledge

From a young age, I began to understand the immense value of reading. Growing up in a modest environment, without the luxury of a personal library or the ability to purchase books, I still found ways to immerse myself in literature. Our family lived in a small, rented house, a single room shared by six people. Privacy was a luxury we couldn't afford, so I often hid outdoors to read in the fading daylight, escaping into the worlds within the pages. Initially, I read indiscriminately, but as I grew older, I became more selective, delving into works that offered deeper insights and understanding.

Literature as a Mentor

Books became my mentors, offering wisdom and guidance. The works of Russian classical literature, particularly from the 19th century, played a significant role in my development. Ivan Turgenev's "First Love" and Fyodor Dostoevsky's "Crime and Punishment" were not just stories but windows into the human soul, teaching me about the complexities of life, the struggles between good and evil, and the depth of human emotion. These books were not mere entertainment; they were experiences that shaped my thinking and moral compass.

The Importance of Native Literature

While foreign literature is invaluable for broadening one's perspective, it's crucial to have a solid foundation in one's native literature. Russian literature, with its unparalleled depth and richness, stands out globally. Knowing and appreciating the literary heritage of one's own country fosters a deeper connection to one's roots and culture. The tales of Tolstoy and the humor of Chekhov taught me about my own people, our traditions, and our values. They instilled in me a sense of pride and belonging, a feeling of being part of a grand, ongoing narrative.

Reading as a Lifelong Companion

As we age, the spiritual richness that books provide becomes even more important. In solitude, the characters and stories from books become companions, offering endless opportunities for reflection and intellectual engagement. A broad literary horizon ensures that one is never alone in thought, always having something profound to contemplate. In my later years, I find solace in the words of Dickens and Hugo, their stories reminding me of the endless capacity for human resilience and compassion.

The Battle Against Cultural Degradation

In today's world, there's a growing concern about the cultural degradation brought on by mindless entertainment and the overuse of foreign terminologies. Maintaining the purity of one's language is essential as language is a core component of cultural identity. The infiltration of unnecessary foreign words dilutes this purity and, by extension, the culture itself. Our language is a living testament to our history and values. It pains me to see it corrupted by needless jargon when there are perfectly good native terms. Language, much like literature, should be preserved and cherished.

A Personal Note

As a former comrade, born in 1930 and a participant in the Caribbean Crisis, I have witnessed firsthand the power of knowledge and culture in shaping our lives. The experiences from my military service during such a critical period in history underscored the importance of being well-informed and culturally grounded. These experiences, coupled with my love for reading, have fortified my belief that true wealth lies in knowledge and understanding.

Conclusion

In conclusion, the wealth of knowledge gained from reading is unshakable. It shapes individuals, enhances understanding, and enriches life in ways that material wealth cannot. Embracing both native and foreign literature, while preserving the integrity of one's language and culture, ensures a well-rounded and fulfilling intellectual life. Books are more than just pages and ink; they are a gateway to endless possibilities, a bridge to different worlds and eras, and a repository of human wisdom.

Call to Action

To cultivate this unshakable wealth, I encourage everyone to read more and explore the vast landscapes of literature. Start with the classics and expand your reading horizon. Join a book club, share your favorite reads with friends, and support local libraries. Together, let's foster a culture of lifelong learning and intellectual enrichment. In doing so, we not only enrich our own lives but also contribute to a more enlightened and understanding society. Let’s treasure the stories that connect us, the wisdom that guides us, and the knowledge that empowers us.

Question: Please share the last book that impressed you.