The night was drawing in and we had to hurry to escape the captivity of the dark mountainous ravines. It was long after midnight when we descended into the valley which lay at the foothills of the Genghiztau where there was a lonely shepherd’s yurta where my friend’s younger sister and her husband lived.
They were expecting us. The table was set. The samovar hummed and the meat was cooking in a cauldron. We were exhausted, worn out after the day’s riding and all we wanted to do was to lie down and close our eyes. However, we were obliged to observe the customs of the steppe and so we tried to behave like real dzhigits.
While on the road, my friend explained the terrible misfortune which had befallen his sister and her husband, who was a good-hearted, simple and hard-working fellow. Their first-born, who was by now almost five had been born without arms. They had another two children who did not live long and died of leucosis. His sister had a fourth child who is also disabled – a freak of nature – the crown on his skull would not harden.
„When I think about her, my heart bleeds,“ he said finally. „After the last birth she went grey, she wanted to commit suicide, but her husband saved her. He’s a reliable fellow; bears all this misfortune bravely. I love him for his courageous faith and because he has not become embittered. Do yon know what I mean…?“
„Yes,“ I replied. „But perhaps we had better not bother them so late?“
„What are you saying? No, they’re always glad to have company.“
Thank God he did not grasp the underlying motive behind my question. I felt ashamed but I did not want to look into the face of yet one more tragedy amidst the untold number which had been our nation’s lot. I had had my fill of sorrow in my native land. In Djambul, I was shown the victims of the chemical industry – children with two heads, three arms and legs. To this day, I still remember those inhuman, disfigured faces, their mothers’ desperation and their fathers’ silent shame. I remembered the people from the Aral who die like flies from cancer of the oesophagus, the misfortune of the coal-producing Karaganda, of Mangishlak Peninsula with its oil pipes of Guryev, Baikonur, and of the copper and lead production of East Kazakhstan. These days one is hardly able to find any place where one can breathe clean air, drink clean water, walk through one’s native land without the fear of radiation, poisoning, infection.
