This is not suicide. This is the brought to suicide

Explain to me, I don’t understand ... This is how it is possible - a person who makes rocket weapons for the country, runs from this very country, and when he is refused asylum, prefers to choose death, if only not to return to his homeland.

How, damn it? What have we turned into?

I don't understand, I just don't understand this. If they have already begun to eat their missile engineers - their brain, their defense and their future ...

In our last meeting - now everything, already the last, not extreme - Sanya was intimidated. Really intimidated. He tried not to show this, he tried to consult with me about the surveillance - what to do, who could it be, why, why - but I did not understand. I thought he was flaunting. Nah, I think, to the FSBSHNIKS to follow some unknown national digitalball from the queen, who needs him?

Yes, I had nothing to say. I am not special in this matter. But then he needed just support, although he did not let him understand openly and did not say much-but I did not understand.

And they really intimidated him. Not just followed - they crushed, intimidated. They spoke with him, approached him themselves, Sanya told about this - and promised Danilov’s fate with Sutyan. And they were not just words. It was serious there. Sanya was really scared.

This is not suicide. This is the bringing to suicide. They brought a person to suicide. Missile engineer. The brain of the nation. What did we turn our country into? What did we give them to turn it?

We built an interesting life. At five in the evening you write: "What makes me stronger would have killed others." At seven in the evening you write: "Mamat ... Sanya Dolmansky committed suicide." And at eight you sit and stupidly look at that garbage, which, fooling around, wrote at five. The country is such that all the moron comes true in it.

Just do not write about what he was scared, or about the fact that it is stupid. None of us tried to return to the country where the term of years has been waiting for twelve years, like Danilov or Sityagin, only because you work at the secret enterprise and you are in the opposition party, and the FSBSHNI, SU*am, we must get out of order. When you wait for the arrest, it presses. I’ve crushed me as a star. To insomnias. To twitching from each sound, to falling at night to the door eye from the work -up elevator. They succeed, you can’t say anything. And then - I was not sure that they would come for me. And the sled - without options. He would be taken right away. So don't. Each has its own limit.

I don’t know how old he was. We are peers. In the region of thirty. The leading designer of the Corporation OJSC Tactical missile weapons, one of the largest enterprises in the Russian military -industrial complex. Brain, mind, honor, knowledge, dignity, conscience, courage, unbending and continuity of a collapsing country.

Sani did not have children.

According to one of the few remaining threads of Russians reproduction, a sickle on! The Russian designer of missile technology chose to hang himself in the deportation prison of Rotterdam, just not to return to his homeland.

Another hole in our gene pool.

The trenches in this country will still be propagated.

Dolmatov - no longer.

And so you sit and think - for whom will your daughter marry? To whom to transmit your genes? For a hundred years, they were rejected by the entire gene pool. They locked the entire gene pool, erase from the country, killed, brought to suicide in deportation prisons, scored bats in the forest near Moscow. They burned in tanks for this lumpy tuval.

Do not ask, for whom the bell calls.

He calls you.

Well, nothing, Su*and ... nothing. You will answer me for everyone. For all. For each.

For Dolmatov, for Poliktovskaya, for Estemirov, for Dima Lakhin, for Igor, for the fly, for all who burned in the tanks in Chechnya, for everyone who was in the Chechnya under the bombs on the basements Maxim Pasko, who burned out in Georgia, behind the rotten households under the new Jerusalem, for paralyzed veteran. Boris Aparintsev, who, two kilometers from the Kremlin of the Rat, swallowed his face, for Denis Zharikov, who was drunkenly shot by the FSB column, for the “mother’s right”, who was left again without money, for a blind in the prison of Akimenkov, for Tolokonnikov, with whom we met in Kutuzka, for all planted in the camps, for all excessed from the country, for all excessed from the country. All dumped on the marches of disagreements and in the cops, for children, for the disabled, for veterans, for orphans - for all.

Nothing. I'll wait. I'm waiting. I am waiting.

And I will wait.

And when I wait, I will ask in full.

And my memory is good.

Original