Our Sakharov

We’ll forget everything. Not because the memory is bad, but because it is smart

We compare someone with someone. A terrible with a disgusting, active robber with a cynical, scoundrel with a scoundrel, a raider with a political thumbark and find a relative difference between them and the advantages of some over others. And we feed hope ourselves, because it was exhausted and can no longer nourish us.

In the test chamber in St. Petersburg, a meter standard is stored. This meter is no better and no worse than other measures and scales, but it is on it that we measure what is subject to measurement.

It is possible to say: each has its own measure - foot, elbow, arshin. Nevertheless, we can understand the real value by comparing all this with the meter.

Sakharov was not a hero, sufferer or Messiah, there was no what was now called charisma, there was no heraldic significance and skill of the political illusionist.

He interfered with many of his soft accuracy. And next to him, someone else was embarrassed to lie and steal. Now it’s not very clever to remember this. Everything else is quite. For himself, he did not imply moral tolerances, but he was tolerant and understood to others. Sakharov did not realize himself as the standard, and we did not realize for a long time, and we are not happy to realize with pleasure.

He was a good, gentle and intransigent person. I loved him. We did not talk about politics (apparently, I did not fit a variety of conversations for this), but if I got in with the word, he was waiting for another and third, because he believed-a person is endowed with a voice to say something.

Andrei Dmitrievich Sakharov was born a hundred years ago and lived only sixty -eight years. All the years without it, we cope with life, with a power, devoid of honor, criteria and moral examples. And we ourselves do not love him anymore, because he began to interfere with us, if not killed by his own conscience. It is better to forget him, do not remember and not remember.

As it would be glorious, he would not appear to us with his quiet, stabbing voice, embarrassed smile and incomparable logic of a worthy person.

He did not grow students, did not create faith. He did not claim to be a teacher or guide. He did not even urge to follow himself. He just lived. Stage. Not suspecting, however, about that.

For these three decades, he has not become better or worse, and will no longer become different. And we became. We choose the measure by our dignity or dignity as we are released by us, and more often we check our criteria with him. Unprofitable. Yes, and there is no longer a true measure. And it was.

Among many dozens of images of Andrei Dmitrievich Sakharov, I chose this portrait, not only because he was very similar to himself, he liked the card himself. This photo, maybe stolen in the newspaper, was printed in a postcard format with a million circulation and filled Moscow on the day of his death. He was placed in houses on book shelves. And on the day of the funeral in the giant queue, stretching from the Metro Park to the House of Youth, they were endowed with enthusiasts who stood (farewell to unhurried thing) in the cold of Muscovites and those who, with their duty to come to the capital, give the last bow to the person who settled hope in their hearts.

So we will not say goodbye to anyone.

And, I believe, the top of the authorities will never bow (albeit out of formal decency) of the head before its main opponent, who, however, made more for the country than all its compositions.

Look at these photos of Andrei Dmitrievich Sakharov on the day of his century, and remember: the main thing for us is not that he is not there, but that he was!