In 1991, when they killed the Soviet Union, they put a knife under his rib in the gateway and murderers robbed the deceased, rummaged through pockets, shook out a purse, ruined plants, crushed the army and culture, squandered the territory, invited thousands of clever and cautious foreigners into the country, and those they seized music, literature, a sense of beauty and justice from the people. It was all scary and got me down.
But the most terrible thing was that, having challenged the victorious Yeltsinism, I found myself completely alone: without friends, without associates, helplessly stabbed with my small, fragile spear, an ominous monster. Everything that only recently was the light and power of the Soviet state, decreased, shrank, evaporated.
It seemed to me that there was no one outside the line in 1991 who could fight the dragon. The famous marshals, who led the powerful army of the Soviet Union, cowardly hid in their “paradise” groups, burrowed into warm rot and rang out all appeals to defend the army that was being killed and hid themselves miserably. The state security, which was catching the dissidents, finding them by a barely perceptible anti-Soviet temptation, this state security in the person of its top officials rushed to the banks, to the capitalist corporations. The Chekists became advisors to bankers, led by their think tanks and security services, became the main pillar of the new, cannibalistic regime. The Communist Party ... How many were these party schools, the departments of agitation and propaganda, these preachers of Leninism, who protected the sterility of social thought! Where did they go? They disappeared - like flies during the first breath of cold.
The most important of them left the posts of secretaries of the Central Committee and became governors, mayors of cities, ran into a new party of power. Komsomol members who fought in the civil war, endured the torture of the fascists, built the great BAM, plowed virgin soil - this young tribe, the hope of the Soviet state, evaporated like smoke. And the most hard-headed, noisy, active took possession of the subsoil, plants, occupied honorary posts in the administration, and now, when Komsomol anniversaries are celebrated in new Russia, they converge - the magnificent and magnificent grandees, the owners of companies and corporations, studded with diamonds, in precious Swiss watches - and drink champagne for the Komsomol, for their combat youth.
The red directors who ruled the great Soviet factories, the mighty unshakable pillars of Soviet industrial power — some of them instantly became owners of privatized enterprises, sold precious stocks of metal and machine tools, turning the former production into a miserable junk, others went to serve the new government, giving up their places to the young and unscrupulous managers. The press - television, radio, red-banner, socialist, Soviet, vilified America - launched their kinescopes and microphones, started shooting all over the Soviet, overtaking the Soviet in the most distant corners, ruthlessly cracking down on it. Diplomats began to serve the national interests of America. Internationalists became vicious nationalists. Singers, on the stage glorifying revolution and victory, began to play thieves' chansons in night cabarets for the delight of drunken bourgeois. It was a time of monstrous total betrayal.
The entire Soviet elite has committed an irresistible sin — the betrayal of its benefactor: the Soviet Union and the party. This stigma of betrayal has not disappeared on their foreheads over the years, but has only been covered with a patina of hypocrisy, fear of imminent retribution.
It was my horror of 1991 - the horror of mass betrayal. This then appeared several honest, brave generals - such as Albert Makashov. Several national leaders, as the unforgettable Anpilov. Several brilliant young politicians like Baburin and Alksnis. In 1993, at the barricades at the House of Soviets, under the shots of tanks, they redeemed the collective sin of betrayal.
Today, having done a tremendous way of life, observing the birth of a new Russian state, facilitating its ascent with all my weak forces, I fearfully wait for the ooze of treachery to emerge from the depths and today's elite will betray Russia as it once betrayed the Soviet Union.
Worst of all traitors have dealt with the Afghan warriors. The army began a campaign in one state, which sent soldiers to battle for their homeland, awarded heroes with orders and stars, and completed the campaign in another state, which was led by traitors. And the fortieth army was defiled. I left Afghanistan with a tank regiment, which went to the Union through Herat, Taragundi and further - to Kushka. Tanks, rumbling on the concrete, turned the guns in different directions and planted on the tops of the mountains. We were approaching the border, and it seemed to me that now the President would embrace the soldiers and commanders weary of deprivation and injuries, and kiss the smoky banner of the regiment. But there was no president. The army was accepted, as they accept surrendered: they took away her weapon, deprived of fame. Today, the state, waking up, returns to the Afghans their former glory and honor: to those who are still alive and to those who have lost time.
We will meet with those we remember in Kandahar or Jalalabad, Gardezu and Khost, Kunduz and Faizabad. We will drink for health and for the rest, raise the third toast. And, perhaps, having become drunk, in hoarse voices we sing a few Afghan songs. But this is not enough. Let the parade of Afghans pass on Red Square. Let the president take this parade and give honor and glory to the soldiers of the Afghan campaign.
I believe that when the time comes,
When left homeland adversity
Coming on Red Square parade
Grizzled soldiers of the Afghan campaign.
Let before the system, saluting,
Drag the rusty case of the batteer,
His fire is a rugged tin,
Blasted on the stones of Panjshir.
Let the guard solemnly freeze,
Let them lower the battle banners,
When a helicopter is brought to the square,
With a leaky tank, without screws and traction.
Let the Kremlin mist the beautiful face,
When the tractor is difficult to import into the square
Burned on the rim of the "nibbles".
Let the flag scarlet silk rinse over it.
And let them slow down the clanging tanks,
Let the troops die in motionless formation.
Wheelchairs,
And in them - armless, legless heroes.
Then the shelves will be held holy march.
They will be honored from high granite
My country, the victorious marshal.
The cross is golden. Star of lapis lazuli.
Alexander Prokhanov
The point of view of the author may not coincide with the position of the editors.