Day of death

Writer Dmitry Glukhovsky - about why the authorities lifts the fallen from mass graves

Victory Day is sacred, how the victory itself is sacred. Nowadays, when every death at the front occurs online, when she has its own page in social networks and when it comes directly to you in a mobile one, even a hundred who died in the war seem like a disaster.

Twenty -seven million! How to imagine this at all? This is in every family, which means there are dead. Grandfathers and great -grandfathers killed on the fronts who died from bombing and hunger women and children. The Great Patriotic War demanded from each family to sacrifice someone to her. People took weapons in their hands to protect their house. Your family, your family: beloved, children, children. There was no choice. The enemy attacked treacherously, without declaring war, starting with the night bombing of peacefully sleeping Kyiv. We must pick up a weapon and go to fight. And if you have to die, then die so that your wife and your children can be saved and live on.

And they died. It was a real sacrifice: a short -lived life flowed from men who grew into the ground with millions - their children. Only black and white cards remained in the red corner, on the home altar of the spirits of the ancestors, who gave us all their strength, all their blood, all their time on Earth.

Victory Day was the day of memory of the ancestors and the day of life. Yes, warriors marched along Red Square, but these warriors were the successors of the defender. Those who could be born thanks to the self -sacrifice of their fathers and grandfathers. And the matter that they continued was a matter of protecting their native land, their families.

The Victory Day is essentially the day of the ancestors, a pagan ancient celebration, in which sorrow through the departed interferes with the joy of the fact that we ourselves are alive - thanks to them. These feelings and meanings are understandable and accessible to anyone, they are so primitive, so powerful that the sacredness of this celebration is felt by everyone - to goosebumps; Like a stream of power, hot blood comes from the distant past - jamming through each of us. And all that this stream washed becomes sacred too.

The places where blood was spilled turn into shrines. The words that say about the victims of the ancestors are consecrated - and empty slogans become effective spells. State, military and cultural symbols are consecrated that politicians dipped in this stream - and our hearts begin to fight more often with one look at them. And the politicians themselves, communing him, become as if his priests.

So anyone who encroaches on a sprinkled holy blood insults the memory of the ancestors. After all, everything that is sacred is infallible. There is no doubt about it. Believers are ready to tear to pieces of those who encroach on their shrines, their rage will be so sincere.

Therefore, the sinful and soulless the politician, the more sweet he splashes in the blood of our ancestors: after all, she will cover him with the Teflon peel, because he can reflect any criticism.

Therefore, the authorities raises the fallen from the mass graves, and therefore makes them march on the avenues of Russian cities in hand with the living. The rudeness of the dead and the obedience of the living, following the shadows of their ancestors, tempts the mummers of the priests: is it really possible to lure the living anywhere, make them do anything? After all, the dead are mute, they walk to where their mumbled military orchestras and speech from plastic stands of blue screens calls.

It seems that you can. And the living are sent to die at the fronts of a causeless, unrighteous, aggressive war, inspiring them that their grandfathers are called there.

But the ancestors spilled not to repeat, and when the priests require repetition, the very essence of the cult of victory is perverted. The mission of the dead at the front was to allow us to live, otherwise their victim was meaningless. And if they do not protect us from death, but they themselves try to pull us into a new war, then they turn from our defenders and patrons - into restless dead, who crave the blood of the living, who want to drag their children to themselves to the other world.

The main emotion, the main underlying meaning, which filled the cult of victory by force, is destroyed. The triumph of life, darkened by the tribute of memory, turns into a sacrifice ceremony, into feeding the dead alive. And the priests who spoke on behalf of the wise and noble ancestors begin to spew out the spells of their real God - the god of death. In the service of this god there is a meaning: like public executions, sacrifices hypnotize the audience and make it animal-root. The effect known to all priests and rulers.

From plastic stands they require death, they urge her to go through the whole world with an atomic fire, because the essence and meaning of this new cult is in death, in sacrifice for the sake of power, and valor - in suicide with the whole world. Demons that have mastered our rulers have nothing to do with the shadows of our ancestors. Those who rules us, and those who rule them are still shy, but more decisive and decisive - pushes people into the furnaces of mobile crematoriums. Victory Day turns on the day of death.

And our ancestors wanted us alone - to live.

The author’s opinion may not coincide with the opinion of the editorial office.