My holiday

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E in every century there is a significant date that would be celebrated popularly, with a pure heart, in the mid -twentieth century there is such a day. From early childhood was and remained for me the sacred day of May 9. For many years I honored this date as a holiday full of high value. Along with the heavy and sad memories that the thought evokes to the war, the special joy flared up the soul, filled it with exalted and absolutely natural (unlike other state holidays) with a sense of exciting pride: after all, a terrible, very strong enemy, threatening all of humanity, was defeated.

I remember the war from the kindergarten. It was in the city of Murom. We played the war, painted tanks and planes, read poetry for the wounded in the hospital. I remember the hum of German aircraft. “They fly to bomb Gorky,” the adults told each other, raising their eyes anxiously to the sky.

Then Moscow, a school, a parade on Red Square ... When, after the war, my mother and I arrived in Germany, where she had to work as a translator (“What horror, how will we live among the Germans?”, I thought, and my mother, I remember, was afraid), I saw continuous piles of stones at the station. It was Berlin. There were long chains of exhausted children, thin -nits were drawn to us: “Cleep, riveting!”, They asked. And adults sold various unprecedented things. I felt sorry for the children and for some reason is ashamed.

On the ruins, men and chenins in apron stood in chains, all dressed poorly (as I see solid patches now), but clean. They handed each other bricks. "What are they doing?" I asked my mother. - "They want to build their city again." - "Where do they live if not a single whole house around?" It seems that I did not wait for the answer to this last question.

That was my acquaintance with defeated Germany. But after all, at home, except for the parade on Red Square, there were a lot of suffering, lean disabled people, beggars, gangs are raised, and there are the same destroyed cities, take at least the post -blocking exhausted Leningrad. I remembered this, so resentment and hatred could not be so easy to dissipate. But I see guilty, exhausted people, hungry children. Something is wrong here, I thought. Nothing, I will grow up - I'll figure it out. Grown. And I found out something. When the time came to defend the diploma, the topic chose the movement of neo -Nazis in West Germany. How could I then assume that in a few decades and in our country the voices of their brothers in spirit would be heard in our country? And it was not at all known to me that for a long time carefully

hid from the whole people.

Many changes have undergone the state over the past decades. The consequences and surprises of war, strange human relationships often stunned, brought into indignation. It happens to burning tears insulting when an innocent person is undergoing persecution, humiliation, and bullying. I will never forget one of the impressions of the post-war years: as an old, in my opinion, all loved (or afraid?) Jew of the APTKERA, who lived quietly in our yard with his family, teased our boys, threw incredible nasty things in the window, trying to get into the pots. And what, if the whole people are poisoned, expelled?.

Over the years, against the conspiracy of silence began to slowly seep into the light of God the truth about the history of the Chechen people. With great interest, more precisely, I also learned about her with bewilderment and horror. I found out late, just ten years ago. But this is my people, and Russia is my second homeland, which has grown and raised. I can’t stop loving either Chechnya or Russia just as I am doomed to love for the father-Chechen and for the Russian mother.

And then the first shadow fell on my best holiday. The warriors who arrived from the front, whom we honored and loved, arrested our brave defenders. Because they were Chechens. Or the Ingush ... their relatives, their families, friends, all the people with torment, diseases, deaths were forcibly relocated to distant lands.

The people know how to forget resentment, although the scars are eternal. After all, you have to live, develop, grow stronger. A new sprout will always reach for the sun. So he grew up, generously spread the branches, bloomed. Already began to bear fruit. But, as in a terrible fairy tale, someone's black membranous five is imperceptibly, stealthily put damage on a green tree. And there was someone who convinced everyone that the tree itself was guilty, it is so bad. And then they burned him. But the roots remained! A strong root will again give a fresh escape.

The revived and flourished Chechen land has been killed for a decade. Already in a new way: tanks, airplanes, torture. Real war. But without rules. Its cause, the so -called Casus Belli is forgotten. In the 96th I saw Grozny, where I was once born, I lived in infancy. I saw and ... remembered my first meeting with Berlin. But Berlin was the capital of an enemy country! And Grozny?! Who did it? Their! But how could this happen? Her-t. Here, more than one person is guilty, suddenly giving a team. This is some kind of ugly, insidious system, for centuries a worked out "school", perhaps not even for our first time.

So another shadow fell on my holiday. And he was faded. No, I do not renounce love for all the defenders of the Fatherland. But only to those, in that war. We will always call it both great and domestic. She was truly sacred and fair. From school textbooks, we know that the wars were divided into fair ones, which are waged in the name of protecting their home, aggressive, aggressive.

In what new war did the army of the great country, defeating the fascist invaders? Isn't it aggressive?

Now the former pure, uncomplicated joy of Victory Day has gone. Those warriors, veterans of the Holy War are less and less. And the current army does not cause enthusiasm, or pride, or at least just respect. There are only units. Their hearts, I know, are honest, and the hands are not covered with innocently shed blood. But only there are many of them?

In the old days, there were many songs about the war. I always thought, and now I will say with confidence: in Russia brilliant military songs were born, and in the old days, and during the years of the Great Patriotic War.

“The yellow leaf flows with a canopy from birches. The ancient waltz "Autumn Dream" is played by a harmonist. Sigh, complaining, bass and, as if in oblivion, the fighters, my comrades are sitting and listening.

And so he again sounded in the forest of Ofrontov, and everyone thought and was silent about something dear.

And everyone was thinking about his own, recalling that spring, and everyone knew: the road to her leads through the war ... ”Now the new bards from hot spots of the songs are full of aggression, roar and wheezing are torn from a sip. Fashionable? But there are other boys who insidiously sent to kill an incomprehensible enemy, bravado is not heard in their voices, touching and sad songs sound.

Recently I saw drawings of Chechen children. They are exactly the same as those of ours, sixty years ago. Only fascist crosses are not.

What will return to me respect for the army? (The day of February 23, a festival in a cynical, cynically hiding on February 23, 1944, the date of shameful and tragic deportation of innocent peoples, has turned simply on a male day, preceding the female. If without them it is impossible, is it really impossible to find a man of another, not a burdened number for this male holiday?) Is it a lot of years to me more years in this world? Will he ever have to celebrate Victory Day, freed from the shadows overshadowing him, without shame and confusion? Don't know.