And the story was based on the true story of a sixteen-year-old girl who died in Herat in a battle with the Mujahideen. The girl was one of those whom we called revolutionaries, one of those who did not want to live in the darkness of feudalism. Her name was Fazilya. I came to Herat, met with her brother, captain of the infantry division Mukhtar, he told me the details of the life of their poor Pashtun family.
After that, my essay “Fazili’s Last Battle” appeared in Komsomolskaya Pravda. April 1981. And who knew that this publication would become a link in a chain of extraordinary events that continue to this day.
A letter came to the editor from the distant wilderness of Azerbaijan from a couple of teachers, Nadir and Gulnaz Zeynal-zade, who wrote that they had a daughter and, after reading the essay, decided to name her Fazilya. They asked me to find Mukhtar and tell him that his sister was alive, only her address was now a small village in Nagorno-Karabakh. But this is easy to say – to find a captain in a warring country. After much ordeal, I found Mukhtar in the tribal zone, near the city of Gardez, he was already a major, had experienced a lot in the war, and when I showed him the letter from Azerbaijan, Mukhtar could not hold back his tears: it hit him so hard.
Three years later he came to Moscow, to the military academy, for a three-month course. And we went together to the Caucasus. And now I remember: the area was called Kubatly, and the village was called Karadzhalli. Overnight by train from Baku, then several hours by car along mountain serpentines. And there Mukhtar met his sister Fazilya. The whole of Azerbaijan learned about this story: newspapers wrote about it, television showed it. And the Moscow press also did not ignore her.
That long-standing publication became a link in a chain of extraordinary events that continue to this day.
My story about Fazilya, which was published in the Young Guard, then published in several of our republics, was translated in Afghanistan. The dead girl became a national heroine for years for those Afghans who believed us. An avenue in Herat was named after her. Poems and songs were written about her. And the lively little Fazilya, not knowing anything, grew up in the Azerbaijani wilderness.
Then there was a massacre in Karabakh, teachers Nadir and Gulnaz became refugees and eventually settled in Ukraine. Mukhtar rose to the rank of general, and when the Mujahideen captured Kabul (1992), he, unlike most other party and military members, did not leave the country, he stayed. And then in Kabul he said to me, saying goodbye (they thought it would be forever): “I’ll stay in my homeland, come what may.”
When ten years later I was able to come to Afghanistan again, the first thing I did was look for Mukhtar. Miracle: he lived in the same panel house, in the same three-room apartment on the ground floor. We met and hugged. He sat on the floor with his legs tucked under him, all gray-haired, with a black face like a mulatto, and tried to tell me in one evening everything that happened to him during the years when we did not see each other. But is it possible to retell an entire life in one evening?
He served time in prison under the Mujahideen, then again under the Taliban. But he didn’t complain about anything. I have not renounced the past. Just as he believed in his ideals, he still believes. He only regrets one thing: that he didn’t build his own house. Still nine children. They grew up and began to ask: you spent your whole life fighting for the happiness of others, suffering, taking risks, but you yourself remained poor, how can this be? Mukhtar smiles guiltily: “It was my mistake about the house, but I don’t regret anything else. I’m glad that I didn’t leave my homeland and I’m glad that the children stayed here. I’m glad that I lived such a life. I don’t regret for a minute that I didn’t take bribes like others, I didn’t steal anything, I didn’t betray anyone.
“You know, Comrade Snegirev,” he said (I never taught him to call me by name, no matter how hard I tried), “it used to be that he would come home from work at midnight, and there wouldn’t even be bread on the table.” Just an old onion. But I had the rank of general.
Mukhtar told me a story about how once – this was back in the late 80s – the head of the Main Political Directorate of the Afghan Armed Forces called him and began to unfairly scold him for something in the presence of a Soviet adviser. The boss smoked Elem cigarettes. Mukhtar asked him how many cigarettes he smokes per day. One pack, he answered, not yet feeling the catch. One pack costs 500 Afghani, Mukhtar counted out loud. So, you spend 15 thousand a month. And your salary is 18 thousand. Now explain to me how you feed your family with three thousand afghanis? The boss even turned yellow with anger.
The next day, Mukhtar was summoned by a Soviet adviser: “Well, come on! Yes, since the October Revolution there has not been a person who would dare to tell the truth to the eyes of his superiors.”
And you say: Afghans, downtrodden people… No, there were such heroes, such bright personalities!
In this photo, Fazila is 17 years old. Almost the same age as the Afghan girl who died near Herat. Photo: Vladimir Snegirev
I told him about Fazilya, with whom I also kept in touch. We met in Dnepropetrovsk, she came to see me in Moscow. I didn’t even notice how I became like a relative to them all. “Uncle Volodya”
More time has passed. Fazilya grew up, studied, got married and now lives in Ankara. Very competent, very purposeful, very beautiful. She gave birth to a daughter. But the most amazing thing is that to this day she has close ties with Mukhtar’s family: she regularly talks to him on Skype, and Mukhtar’s two sons, who studied in Turkey, became her sworn brothers. Mukhtar himself, after long ordeals, has now settled in America, where his eldest sons live.
In the Soviet years, we talked a lot and loudly about internationalism, and assured that people of different nationalities live in one friendly family. Then all this window dressing, sanctioned from above, ended. But such human internationalism will never end.
Before sending this text to the editor, I called Fazila in Ankara. “Uncle Volodya, everything is fine with me. My daughter is in fifth grade. Dad has returned to Azerbaijan. I haven’t lost contact with Mukhtar and his sons.”
This is not some soap opera. This is life. And no writer can come up with such a thing.
***
Excerpts from a letter that came to the editor from Azerbaijan in the summer of 1981:
“On April 26 of this year, our family read the essay “Fazili’s Last Battle” and was very upset to learn about the death of the young heroine of Afghanistan. Even our 90-year-old grandmother cried bitterly, remembering her youth. After all, they also had dushmans, enemies, and she also, like Fazilya, she fought for a bright life.
On July 1, our daughter was born, whom we named Fazil. Let Mukhtar know that now he has a sister in Azerbaijan and that those who died in the name of bright ideals are more alive than all the living.
We want to invite Mukhtar Abdurakhman to visit so that he can meet little Fazilya.
On our initiative, in the school where we teach, one of the pioneer units is named after the Afghan heroine Fazili.
Sincerely,
Nadir and Gulnaz Zeynal-zade, teachers of Russian language and literature.”
Source: rg.ru
