Comrade_Colonel

Yes, I, Shamil Arsenovich Chigoev, am turning 95. Even I can hardly believe it. I was born on September 15, 1930. The fact that I’ve reached this age is nothing extraordinary in itself. What truly matters are the historical events my life has spanned across the Russian Empire and beyond.

I’ve already written in detail about the circumstances of my life and won’t repeat myself here. Instead, I wish to reflect on the problems arising from relations between people of different ethnicities – and whether it’s ever reasonable to create such divisions that breed hatred.

My life journey has been complex, partly because I belong to a small nation (Ossetian) yet have always lived among larger ethnic groups. Personally, I never experienced oppression or humiliation for my ethnicity. That’s simply how my life unfolded.

I was born in an Ossetian village where my mother left me until age three. Thereafter, I grew up in Tbilisi as an ordinary local boy, never feeling any distinction in how I was treated as an Ossetian compared to Georgian boys. My native language became Georgian. I graduated high school with honors and earned a red diploma from the History Department – all in Georgian. I was raised on Georgian culture: its literature, poetry, and folk music. The Georgian people shaped me. My closest friends were Georgian schoolmates, and my one great love – whom I met in 1947 and married in 1952 – was Georgian: Macharashvili. She stood by me through my military service from private to colonel, bore me four daughters, and tragically passed in 2020. Her devotion was unwavering, even during my most challenging postings – though she wasn’t permitted to join my life-threatening assignment in Cuba due to our children.

Ours was a mixed Ossetian-Georgian marriage, common in those days across Georgia and Ossetia.

I lived 61 years under Soviet rule, serving 30 years in the army across seven republics: Georgia, Ukraine, Azerbaijan, Kapustin Yar, Cuba, the Far North, Ulan-Ude, Krasnoyarsk, and near Moscow. Never did I witness ethnic hostility – save for subdued anti-Armenian sentiment in Azerbaijan (where Armenians russified their surnames). The Soviet system suppressed nationalism rigorously.

No one could have imagined such a vast, powerful nation collapsing so swiftly. But the true tragedy wasn’t the dissolution itself – it was the transformation of a “brotherly union” into boundless mutual hatred among Soviet peoples. This phenomenon remains beyond my comprehension.

To be Continued...

My Reflections on Putin’s Previous Press Conferences Ahead of the New "Direct Line"

I anticipated the content of the “press conference” and warned it would be nothing but fiction - a political vaudeville act unworthy of the name. Over my 90+ years, I’ve witnessed and participated in countless political events. What the president orchestrates today is a mockery of our trusting people.

Millions agonized over how to phrase questions that might reach him without causing offense, desperate to expose the injustices plaguing their lives. For two decades, citizens have pleaded, “Mr. President, save us!” Yet this charade persists, a cruel joke on the nation. Mr. Peskov, the Kremlin’s master director, ensured every detail was scripted. A performance for sheep.

The president recycled tired tropes: “We’re better than the West.” Better at what? Dying? With 13% of Russians - 22 million people - living below the poverty line, why did he ignore the stark contrast between their suffering and the obscene wealth of his cronies and family? He casually claims poverty will drop to 6% by 2030 (still 9 million souls). How? No answers.

I know poverty. My parents were working-class: a chimney sweep and a school cleaner. I rose to become a retired colonel. The 1930s brought industrialization, collectivization, and famine. The war demanded sacrifice: “Everything for the front!” Post-1946 famine, rebuilding was grueling. Yet by 1948, food prices fell yearly until Stalin’s death.

You boast of reducing poverty by 2000—to 22 million. Who created that crisis? Your idol, the man who appointed you, whose family lives richer than the Romanovs. He should stand trial for crimes against the state. Instead, he gets monuments.

Today, Russian athletes are banned from representing their country. The president himself is barred from the Olympics. Who answers for this shame? Not Putin - his cronies like Mutko (Putin’s ally, still living large) orchestrated this disgrace. Putin will fade, but Russia’s humiliation remains.

Our global standing has collapsed. Where was our “authority” during the Karabakh bloodshed? We’ve turned allies into enemies under St. Petersburg’s “wise” leadership, then blame “Russophobia.” But who sowed its roots?

I served 30 years in air defense, including during the Cuban Missile Crisis. Back then, we never brandished missiles or threatened annihilation. Our nuclear forces were shields, not swords.

When Leaders Lie

Journalists lie for profit - that I understand. But when a 68-year-old president of a nation as vast as Russia lies, it chills me. How can a man who swore to defend this country, who received free education here, spew such brazen falsehoods?

He claims Soviet retirees who worked received no pensions. Nonsense. I retired at 50 in 1980, drew a pension, and worked at a research institute. My wife did the same. Every pensioner I knew worked and collected pensions. Why lie? To paint the past as bleak and your rule as salvation?

Your “salvation” means 22 million in poverty, meager pensions, and elders burning alive in privatized nursing homes. Eleven died days ago - just another “ordinary” tragedy. Who licenses these death traps? Does the state check safety, staffing, or fire protocols? No. Privatizing elder care cuts costs and enriches owners. Profitable, indeed.

The Rot Runs Deep

These annual press spectacles solve nothing. When fixing a broken pipe requires presidential intervention, the system is rotten. Centralizing power won’t heal corruption—it fuels it.

Russia needs systemic change, not scripted theatrics.

Afterword

Yet I still hope.

I hope President Putin will continue removing oligarchs from power and appointing young leaders who understand ordinary people’s lives - not out-of-touch fat cats who think they rule the world.

I likely won’t live to see that day. But what matters is that my grandchildren grow up with integrity and help build a fairer society.

Colonel Chigoev

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

Part 2: https://lemmy.ml/post/26569540

I have somewhat digressed from the topic of spiritual wealth, but a person’s spiritual richness or poverty still depends, to some extent, on the spiritual state of the society in which that individual lives. I spent the majority of my life under Soviet rule. Undoubtedly, the ideology of Marxism-Leninism significantly influenced my worldview. Our generation did not have the opportunity to critically evaluate the dominant ideology. I fervently believed in socialism and communism, especially until the mid-1970s, and I perceived spiritual nourishment through the lens of Marxism-Leninism. Everything that fit into the Procrustean bed of Marxism was considered correct, and everything else was discarded. Considering that I was the number one communist in my household, you can understand that I had to adhere to Marxism as devoutly as a priest adheres to the Bible. It’s especially hard to realize that during the best years of my life, I was like a blind kitten. I’ve somewhat strayed from the theme of “my years, my wealth,” but indirectly, I’m still answering what kind of wealth our generation’s years held. Perhaps these words imply that my wealth is measured by the number of years I’ve lived? I disagree with that. The richest person is a newborn. The greatest wealth is the time allotted to you for life, and the more years I live, the poorer I become. I’ll soon be 80, so I’m on the brink of poverty. Soon, not only my wealth but I myself will be gone. What can you do? That’s how nature works. The old fades away, and the new is born and thrives.

And that’s how it should be. Otherwise, there would be complete chaos on Earth. Death, as paradoxical as it may sound, is a necessary phenomenon for the normal existence of humanity. Therefore, we should approach it more calmly and philosophically. If a person reaches an advanced age—80, 90, or 100—and passes away, there’s no need to make it a tragedy. Of course, it’s always sad when someone leaves, but it’s natural. However, when young people die—whether violently, from illness, accidents, or other causes—it’s truly a tragedy. There’s no justification for that. A person should live at least until 100. That’s normal, and I strive for that. I have a wife who has been with me for over 60 years and guards my health like the apple of her eye. She truly does everything to ensure I exist on this sinful Earth for as long as possible. We have a direct need for this. The thing is, sooner or later, we might have a great-grandchild from Katya. The question is: Who will take them for walks in the stroller? Of course, it will be my wife and me. Katya will need to work, and the great-grandchild’s grandmother will also be working, so it’s up to us—the great-grandfather and great-grandmother. So, nothing works without us. It’s good to have many children. Someone will always need you. And when you’re needed, that feeling contributes to prolonging life. I don’t believe it when some people roll their eyes and say, “Oh, I don’t want to live anymore; I’m tired of life.” That’s not true! Everyone wants to live, and as long as possible. And there’s no need to fear death. I often ponder questions of life and death. Of course, our older generation will pass, but we also remain. My wife and I have four daughters, three grandsons, five granddaughters, two great-grandsons, and three great-granddaughters. In each of them, there’s a piece of our flesh and blood. That’s where we live on. That’s immortality.

As for material wealth, I’d like to quote a poem by the grandson of Nicholas I, Grand Duke Konstantin Konstantinovich:

I am fortune’s darling, from my birth,

Wealth and honors, rank and worth,

Called me to heights, to lofty aims,

Destined for greatness, by noble claims.

But what are riches, gold, or might?

The grave consumes all, day or night.

The glittering show, the fleeting gleam,

Will vanish like a wave’s brief dream.

I don’t think one could say more accurately or profoundly about the role and significance of earthly blessings. The poem is taken from the book Heartfelt Secrets of the House of Romanov, page 6.

I wanted to end this theme of “My Years, My Wealth” here, but on September 19, an event related to my years occurred, and I cannot help but mention it. The fact is that on September 15, 2010, I turned 80. Since the date, from a certain perspective, isn’t very cheerful, I didn’t want to celebrate it in a grand way. I didn’t want any formality. But my youngest daughter, born in the village of Tiksi, convinced her sisters, and on September 19, they gathered everyone at the Georgian restaurant “Amirani”. The restaurant is small, very cozy, and beautiful. I expected the usual clichéd toasts, various praises, and comments about how wonderful I am, and so on. But what my daughter Fatima and her husband Artem organized exceeded all expectations. It wasn’t about the table set or the drinks, though all that was there. The main thing was the expression of respect and love for us, the great-grandmother and great-grandfather, from our children, sons-in-law, grandsons, granddaughters, great-grandsons, and great-granddaughters. But what delighted my wife and me wasn’t just how wonderfully my anniversary was organized. We were thrilled by the warmth and love everyone showed each other at this event. Relationships between children are not a simple matter. I’m proud of my children, grandsons, granddaughters, great-grandsons, and great-granddaughters. All four of my daughters have higher education, as do all my sons-in-law. My grandson Alexey graduated from a military university. My granddaughters Tatyana, Oksana, Alena, and Natasha also have higher education. My grandson Zhenya is a second-year student at Moscow State University. My granddaughter Ekaterina is a second-year student at the Higher School of Economics University. And the most important thing is that every single one of them entered university without any connections or favors. How can one not be proud of such descendants?

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 Calm Before the Storm

At first, we didn’t fully grasp what was happening. An American plane silently approached our ship, suddenly activating its engines and spotlight. In the middle of a tense tropical night, with the world on edge due to a military-political standoff, an enemy aircraft hovered above us. Fear was understandable. After an hour and a half, the plane left, and we tried to rest.

A Troubling Morning

The next day, September 20, began with unexpected developments. Looking out of the porthole, I saw land and felt relief, believing we had reached our destination. However, I soon noticed a small vessel nearby with its guns aimed at our ship. Alarmed, I joined the officers on the captain’s bridge, where everyone was on edge. Surrounding our Physicist Vavilov were 13 American warships.

The Americans demanded our “port of registry” and “destination port.” Our captain provided the information, but their “suggestion” to change course—claiming they were conducting firing exercises—was denied by Moscow. Despite their efforts to reroute us to Guantanamo Bay, we pressed forward, holding our course at 18 knots. At one point, a smaller U.S. vessel directly obstructed our path. But with our ship’s 30,000-ton displacement, any collision would have crushed them. Eventually, the Americans backed off, escorting us briefly before retreating with a “safe journey” wish.

Entering Santiago Bay

By midday, we approached the port of Santiago and anchored, awaiting permission to dock. The bay was surrounded by mountainous ranges, and the entrance was narrow and scenic. On one side stood the imposing Morro Fortress, a centuries-old stone structure rising 150 meters above the water.

As we entered the bay, I was captivated by the lush greenery, vibrant flowers, and charming homes along the coast—a true tropical paradise. Our ship docked, and unloading began using onboard cranes, as the port lacked its own equipment.

Hard Work and Setting Up Camp

Our regiment’s headquarters were located northwest of Santiago. The site, previously a cattle yard, had been meticulously cleaned. Makeshift shelters with palm-leaf roofs were set up for soldiers, while the officers utilized a villa on a nearby hill for command operations.

Despite the harsh tropical conditions, our personnel worked tirelessly, unloading equipment and establishing combat readiness within record time. Their dedication was unwavering, exemplifying the discipline and resolve of our forces.

My Role as a Political Officer

Upon arriving at the headquarters, I met Major Gevorkyan, the head of the political department, along with other colleagues. As the political officer, my duties centered on Marxist-Leninist training and political education for all personnel. Classes for officers were aligned with university-level curricula, while soldiers and sergeants received instruction twice a week.

Organizing these sessions in Cuba posed unique challenges. Supplies like books, notebooks, and proper facilities were scarce. Yet, with ingenuity and determination, I established a framework for ideological education.

A Moment of Validation

About a month into my role, two senior officers from the political administration visited unexpectedly. During their inspection, I mentioned a seminar I had planned. Colonel Plaksin, one of the visiting officers, insisted on attending.

With little time to prepare, I worked until 3 a.m. on my presentation, titled The CPSU: The Leading and Guiding Force of Society. The next morning, the seminar began with full attendance. Speaking for over an hour, I delivered a detailed and passionate lecture. To my relief, Plaksin praised my work, suggesting even more time be allocated for similar sessions. This recognition, so early in my tenure, was a significant milestone.

Rising Tensions

By October, the military-political situation around Cuba had escalated dramatically. Our regiment’s divisions were strategically positioned across the eastern province, with some near the American naval base at Guantanamo. The region was swarming with U.S. military ships, and surveillance flights over Cuba were constant.

On October 19, I was stationed in Bayamo when news broke of counter-revolutionaries landing nearby. We swiftly organized defenses and brought our equipment to combat readiness. That night, the tension was palpable as we patrolled the area, navigating the dangers of darkness and unfamiliar terrain.

The Cuban Missile Crisis

Shortly after, the situation reached its peak. Photographs of Soviet missiles in Cuba were presented to U.S. President Kennedy, confirming American suspicions. A naval blockade was announced, with all ships heading to Cuba subject to inspection.

The world teetered on the brink of nuclear war. Our regiment, with limited resources and personnel, stood against an overwhelming American force. Despite the odds, we maintained our resolve, understanding the gravity of our mission and the potential consequences of failure.

A Reflection

Even in these dire circumstances, morale was kept high through resilience and unity. We shared news from Moscow, recorded on tape for clarity, and conveyed the latest updates to the troops. This routine brought a sense of normalcy and purpose amidst the chaos.

Looking back, I remain proud of the dedication and resourcefulness shown by everyone during this critical period. It was a testament to the strength and determination of our forces, facing immense challenges with unwavering resolve.

In 2007, I was invited to meet participants of the Cuban Missile Crisis. I had always hoped to reconnect with someone from the days when, back in 1962, I was part of the mission defending the Cuban Revolution. After 45 years, I met my former commander, Colonel Roman Grigorievich Danilevich, who urged me to write down my memories of our expedition to Cuba.

1962: A New Mission Begins

In 1962, I was serving as the deputy commander for political affairs in an anti-aircraft missile battalion stationed at the Kapustin Yar military training range near Volgograd. Our battalion was a small unit of around 80 soldiers, sergeants, and 17 officers. That summer, upon returning from a business trip, I sensed something unusual—a buzz of activity, secretive discussions, and a palpable tension I couldn't decipher.

Soon, changes started unfolding. A competent officer, Rosenstein, was removed from his position as our battalion commander, and I was unexpectedly appointed as a propagandist in the unit's political department—a role typically reserved for officers with a full university degree, while I only had two years of university education. This abrupt change underscored the extraordinary nature of the situation. By the end of summer, the bulk of our regiment had already left on a mysterious mission, and preparations began for the departure of the remaining personnel.

Departure Amid Uncertainty

On the eve of departure, I spent my final hours at home. My children were asleep, my wife was running a high fever, and I sat watching the television. Zara Dolukhanova was performing Ave Maria. Spellbound, I stayed until the end, despite needing to leave. The performance felt like a kind spirit guiding me into the unknown.

We departed late at night from the Kapustin Yar railway station. Our equipment was loaded, and the soldiers were packed into "teplushkas"—freight cars converted into makeshift barracks. These cars offered no comforts, with wooden bunks serving as beds and little else. For seven days, we traveled to Feodosia, enduring the discomfort and bonding as we went. I used the journey to build rapport with the officers and troops, ensuring I understood their morale and state of mind.

Feodosia: Orders and Controversy

Upon arriving in Feodosia, we settled in a tank regiment’s base, preparing for our next leg of the journey: boarding a ship for an international mission. However, before we even began, I was summoned by Colonel Slukhai from the Main Political Directorate. His sharp rebuke accused me of poor political work, claiming that one of our officers, Lieutenant Colonel Prokhorov, had expressed dissatisfaction with the mission. Prokhorov’s "crime" was a frustrated comment made after months of non-stop drills and a lack of clear information about the mission's purpose and duration.

Slukhai ordered a party investigation with the intent to expel Prokhorov from the Communist Party, which would ruin his career and life. Torn between duty and conscience, I delayed the proceedings, hoping for time to resolve the issue.

Boarding the Ship: A Turning Point

Fortunately, before any action could be finalized, we began loading onto the Physicist Vavilov ship. The task was enormous—securing equipment, organizing accommodations for 400 personnel, and ensuring no one deserted during the process. I was relieved to escape Slukhai’s reach, though he tried to pressure me even during the boarding.

Officers were assigned cabins, while soldiers and sergeants were packed into the ship’s hold. Despite the challenging conditions, camaraderie prevailed. The new battalion commander quickly gained my respect, and his leadership proved invaluable throughout our mission, particularly near Guantanamo.

Crossing the Atlantic: Danger and Determination

The ship sailed under radio silence, and we were instructed to avoid contact with other vessels. The mission was fraught with risk. If attacked, we were ordered to prevent the cargo from falling into enemy hands—"cargo" meaning the 400 of us aboard. This grim directive haunted us as we sailed through the vast, beautiful Atlantic.

As tensions in global politics escalated, our resolve grew. Regular updates on the situation kept morale steady. Even in these precarious circumstances, the ship’s crew treated us with warmth and respect. They organized a birthday celebration for me on September 15, complete with a makeshift pool for the soldiers, which lifted everyone’s spirits.

Approaching Cuba: A Night to Remember

By September 19, we were nearing Cuba. One quiet evening, as officers gathered on the dimly lit deck, an unexpected flash of light and a deafening roar shattered the silence, leaving us to confront the unknown once again.

To be continued...

On Freedom of Speech

Yes, the right to freedom of speech is a great achievement of the bourgeois-democratic revolution. This right significantly contributes to a country's political and economic development. I understand this well, given my age, my service in the Soviet Army, and my background as a historian. I have lived through the era of the dictatorship of the proletariat to the time of "decaying capitalism," and I fully grasp the importance of free speech.

As an officer in the Soviet Army, I was responsible for explaining the government's domestic and foreign policies to personnel. Political education sessions were held twice a week for all ranks, lasting two hours each. For officers, there was also Marxist-Leninist training according to a specific program. This meant that the leadership of the army had a solid understanding of the party’s policies and government direction.

The Role of Propaganda and Misinformation

An information war against socialist Russia and the USSR began from their very inception. In my opinion, we were losing this battle from the start. We lacked an accurate picture of how the people in other countries truly felt about us—the world's first workers' and peasants' state.

In 1941, I was 11 years old and believed that German soldiers—workers dressed in military uniforms—would not fight against us, based on the slogan “Workers of the world, unite!” But I was wrong. They fought, and not only German workers but workers from across Western and Eastern Europe. They fought fiercely. Meanwhile, we, relying on reports from our press, considered the proletariat of these countries our brothers.

Post-War Challenges

After the war, the information war against the USSR intensified. What we see today—neo-fascism spreading across Europe, the desecration of monuments to Red Army soldiers, and the encouragement of such acts by European leaders—should not surprise us. Its roots lie in the post-war years.

We believed we were liberating Europe from fascist oppression. They, however, lamented that fascism had failed to defeat the Soviet Union. For them, fascism was more familiar and acceptable than socialism. It wasn’t about socialism itself; European countries have always harbored animosity towards Russia.

Historical Context and Missed Opportunities

Looking at history, Europe has consistently treated Russia with disdain, hostility, and hatred. Take 1812, for example—no Bolsheviks, no socialism. Russia saved Europe from Napoleon, sacrificing countless lives and enduring the destruction of cities and villages. What was the reward? The fruits of victory were claimed by European countries, leaving Russia with nothing.

Russia bears some blame for Europe’s dismissive attitude. After the war, did we demand reparations from European countries that participated in the Nazi coalition? No. We limited ourselves to Germany. Worse, we even provided aid to some of these countries. This leniency allowed them to disrespect us.

The Soviet Union and Freedom of Speech

During the existence of the socialist bloc, serious crises frequently arose in almost every member state of the Warsaw Pact. Yet, due to the lack of free speech in our country, we learned about these crises only through “enemy broadcasts.” We consistently lost on the information front because we lacked freedom of speech and democracy.

While it’s understandable why the Soviet government restricted free speech—such freedom might have accelerated the collapse of the Soviet system—this suppression created distrust toward the media and the government itself. By the 1960s, this lack of freedom had cultivated a layer of intellectuals who later undermined the foundations of Soviet power, contributing to the USSR’s downfall.

Modern Reflections on Leadership and Society

Freedom of speech and democracy can either save or destroy a state, depending on the intentions of their proponents. Even democracy can produce dictators. Boris Yeltsin, Vladimir Putin, and Dmitry Medvedev were all elected democratically. But what have they achieved for the people?

While Putin initially made efforts to stabilize the country and prevent its collapse, I don’t see this as an extraordinary accomplishment—it’s a president's duty. However, why has poverty increased over the past seven years? Why are there 22 million poor people in a country with vast natural resources? And why does the number of billionaires keep growing?

A Message to the President

President Putin, you’ve recently mocked the Soviet period, yet it provided you with a free education that prepared you for your presidency. Back then, we didn’t have 22 million impoverished citizens. I suggest you study the Soviet government’s experience more closely. Why didn’t it allow such massive exploitation of the Russian people? Why weren’t foreign citizens in positions of power?

Criticizing the cult of personality while creating one for yourself is hypocritical. Television programs like Moscow. Kremlin. Putin are nauseating. Every show starts and ends with you to emphasize how “healthy” you are. But the ordinary people are tired of this. It’s time to leave the stage before you’re forced out.

Reflections on Life and Changing Worldviews

Having lived for so many years, I can't help but compare different periods of my life. My generation, in particular, had to endure many tumultuous political and economic events. Each era provided its own spiritual nourishment, which shaped our worldview. I believe that a person's worldview is largely shaped by the dominant ideology of society during the period of their most active engagement with the world. From personal experience, I think a person's views on life, their relationship to the world around them, and key character traits are mostly formed before the age of twenty. Of course, later on, perspectives can change, but these changes often happen under immense pressure from circumstances.

In my reflections, I base my thoughts on my own experiences, so I do not claim to have the final word on these matters.

Early Life and Struggles

I was born into a very poor family. My mother worked as a maid in a wealthy household, and my father was a chimney sweep. When I was born, he was sent into exile for seven years, so I didn’t see him until I was seven years old. It would have been better if I hadn’t seen him at all, as he made my childhood the most difficult period of my life, which also influenced the formation of my character.

I remember my childhood from the age of four. We lived in a semi-basement room. It was my mother, my older brother (two years older than me), and myself. The two-story house was somewhat isolated from other homes, with no neighbors, except for a small house next to it where a guard lived. He had a daughter my age, with whom I would play "house." I started playing this game quite early, which was unusual. My brother never played with me. There were no other boys my age. So, I spent a lot of time alone in that half-basement, looking at the dirty yard. This lack of communal interaction meant that the sense of collectivism never really developed in me.

Early Reading and Influences

Apparently, the guard, Uncle Viktor, taught me to read at an early age. By the age of four, I could read, and this started to shape my worldview. I would go up to the second floor, where I saw empty rooms and scattered pages from books, some of them torn. I remember a hardcover book with missing pages and a very small font, possibly in Russian, that I couldn’t read. But there were portraits in the book, all of which had been covered in ink. I wondered why the book had ink spilled on it. I also remember a soft-cover book with large text, "How Our Grandfathers Lived and Fought," featuring an image of seven people with spoons, one with an ox yoke. The image showed a peasant plowing, followed by seven people with spoons. This left a lasting impression on me. From this period onward, I think my worldview began to take shape in support of the Soviet regime.

The Ideology of the Time

In the 1930s, people like us had no access to the press, and radios were rare. But still, we knew what was happening in the country. I’m talking about polar explorers, polar aviators, border guards like Karatsupa and his dog Zhukbars, the Chelyuskin expedition, Papanin, and many others. We were proud of them, and there was no talk of the purges. Of course, there was great love for Stalin, Beria, Voroshilov, and others. To me, Stalin appeared as a wise and kind old grandfather, and Voroshilov was a strong, athletic young man, the best shooter. Our country was the best in the world. We had no "Mister Twisters." We loved Black people, and they didn’t love us. We defended the children of Spain, while others killed them. Our army was the strongest, and our Red Army soldiers were the kindest and bravest. We also had the kindest man in the world, Grandpa Lenin. Our country was the largest and most beautiful. We were all in love with Chapayev, hoping he would make it to the shore.

This was the spiritual food that shaped our worldview. And of course, we loved Soviet power and the Soviet motherland. Such upbringing led to the mass heroism of Soviet people and the unforgettable feats of Soviet citizens both on the frontlines and in the rear during the Great Patriotic War.

Doubts and Realizations

However, such spiritual nourishment did not affect everyone in the same way. The country was home to tens of millions of people who experienced what it meant to build socialism with only internal resources, primarily relying on agriculture. The war clearly demonstrated this.

As for me, I belong to the larger part of the population that sincerely believed everything we read in the press, heard on the radio, and were told by elders. We lived in poverty, but we were promised a bright future, and we believed in it. I believed in Stalin. To me, he was the wisest and kindest person. The only time I questioned his military genius was when the Germans approached Stalingrad. Before that, I justified our retreat as a strategy to lure the enemy in. But Stalingrad felt different, and victory wiped away all my doubts. Stalin was once again a genius leader in my eyes.

The End of the War and the Changing Outlook

On Victory Day, I was in the center of Tbilisi, walking down Rustaveli Avenue with my classmate, discussing various issues in our lives. I was almost 15, but what’s interesting is that I said, "The war is over, and now we will begin a freer and happier life." In hindsight, I can’t understand why I was so certain of a future of freedom. Somehow, I subconsciously felt that our life wasn’t really free.

In the summer of 1945, we were asked to leave the school where we had been living for about two years. We moved to Vladikavkaz, where there was a possibility of getting enough food. Life wasn’t easy, but it was better than before. At the time, the country was full of praise for Stalin, especially in Georgia. When the Germans approached the Caucasus mountains, the Georgians spoke of Stalin as "the bastard Ossetian," but when victory was secured, he was once again celebrated as a great son of Georgia.

The Twentieth Congress and the Fallout

The 20th Congress of the Communist Party was a turning point for many. Before that, Stalin had been seen as the only true interpreter of Marxism-Leninism. But then, he was exposed as a criminal and a murderer. Stalin was no longer just a personality; he had become a symbol of socialism’s construction not only in our country but in the international communist movement.

By criticizing Stalin’s repressive policies, Khrushchev created a deep divide in the understanding of Marxism-Leninism and what socialism truly meant. This inevitably had an impact on our spiritual nourishment, leading to more liberal interpretations of Marxism and a growing criticism of everything that had been happening in our country. By the late 1950s and early 1960s, the revisionist interpretation of Marxism had taken hold, and the criticism of the personality cult practically turned into criticism of socialism itself and everything related to it.

Growing Disillusionment with the Party

I continued to believe in socialism and remained loyal to the Party’s policies. I joined the Party in 1957. However, by the late 1970s, my confidence in the Party began to waver. By the 1950s, I had lost any reverence for Stalin, especially after reading his writings on linguistics and economic problems within socialism. We were forced to admire and take notes on these works, but I could not understand what was so brilliant about them. I began to realize that long-term leadership often stifled a country's development. This was a realization that was confirmed by history.

The Collapse of the Soviet Union

I now believe that the 20th Congress was the start of the collapse of the Soviet Union. While living under socialism for 61 years, I don’t think socialism was an entirely bad system. At least under socialism, the people weren’t exploited as they are now. However, those in charge lacked a proper understanding of economics and international economic relations. We closed ourselves off from the world and made ideology the priority. We didn’t learn from capitalists about managing an economy.

Khrushchev had promised that by 1970 we would surpass the United States in key areas of heavy industry. I believed we could achieve this. But by 1970, it became clear we hadn’t achieved anything close to that. The country was led by Brezhnev, who became infamous for his "kisses" and for awarding himself the Order of Victory, despite his relatively minor role in the victory over fascism.

By the 1970s, the country was facing serious economic decline. There was a shortage of meat, dairy, and products in the stores, especially in Russia. The situation in the republics was better, but it became harder to believe in the idea of communism when everyday life was far from the ideals we were taught.

The Bitter Truth of the 1991 Collapse

When I left the army and got closer to real life, I realized how far we had strayed from the ideals we had been taught. This gap between theory and reality helped create the conditions for the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991.

"How easy life is for those who give grand names to their trivial pursuits and passions, presenting them to humanity as monumental deeds for its benefit and prosperity." - Goethe, The Sorrows of Young Werther

Doctor of Philosophy Igor Chubais has proposed a fascinating idea: to establish a new academic subject called "Russian Studies" in the Russian education system. This subject, according to an article in Mir Novostei, would cover Russia's history, culture, geography, and more. The concept seems excellent—people need to know their country's history. But the question is, can we create a truthful and unbiased textbook for Russian Studies?

It seems unlikely that in the next 30-40 years, an impartial history textbook could exist, free from ideological influence. Some historians still cling to Marxism-Leninism, while others view the Soviet era in only the darkest terms. For example, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, introduced into the curriculum at the request of Solzhenitsyn's widow, was impactful when first read in the 1960s. Yet other works, like Bas-Relief on the Cliff, which described the tragedy of a sculptor forced to carve Stalin’s image, also capture the harsh realities of that era. Knowing the darker sides of history is essential, but should they alone define a generation’s perspective?

**A Balanced Perspective on Soviet History ** It’s essential to remember the positive achievements of the Soviet era, alongside its dark aspects. Figures like locomotive driver Krivonosov, pilot Chkalov, and others made valuable contributions. Despite severe hardships, the Soviet people built a strong industrial base, enabling the country to withstand the struggles of World War II. Such resilience deserves to be part of the historical narrative. To suggest that the Soviet period should be erased, as Chubais proposes, is simply unrealistic. History should be complete, encompassing all shades of the past.

National Pride and Patriotism in Historical Education

It’s misleading to imply that pre-revolutionary Russia was a paradise. Authors like Gogol, Chekhov, and Leskov reveal the struggles of ordinary people in the 19th century, which were far from idyllic. A hungry, oppressed population doesn’t rebel without cause. The Soviet government eventually collapsed in 1991, unable to meet people’s needs. Therefore, instead of erasing the Soviet period, we should study it deeply, acknowledging both the achievements and mistakes, to give young people a well-rounded view.

Patriotism Beyond Political Systems

Chubais argues that one can’t be a patriot of both North and South Korea, using this to claim that patriotism for both Russia and the USSR is contradictory. But a nation is loved not for its political system, but for its people and land. True patriotism should inspire pride in our heritage and appreciation for the sacrifices of past generations. To instill pride in young people, we must teach them about their forefathers’ achievements without reducing our history to mere political disputes.

In short, a national idea based on a well-rounded, honest portrayal of history—both the hardships and the triumphs—is key to fostering genuine patriotism.