Monday, December 3, 2018

My book in English language

Мои дорогие читатели, наконец-то вышел мой роман "Завещание Матери" на английском языке! Пока его можно скачать как электронную книгу, но скоро он будет и в печатном варианте. Если у вас есть англоговорящие друзья, которым было бы интересно узнать о жизни народов Казахстана, их культуре, традициях и ценностях, пожалуйста порекомендуйте им мой роман в эти предстоящие праздники. Благодарю вас!
My dear readers, my novel “Mother's Testament” in English has finally been published! While it can be downloaded as an e-book, soon it will be available in print version. If you have English-speaking friends, who would be interested to learn about the life of the peoples of Kazakhstan, their culture, traditions and values, please recommend them my novel on these upcoming holidays. Thank you!

Monday, November 5, 2018

Mother's Testament: 8 Ardent hearts

Tursun was now nineteen. He looked every inch the dzhigit: tall, handsome, serious like his father, equally hard-working and with a pure nature. Now the story of his love began. One of his fellow students at the Zharkent pedagogical institute was Saadat, who also came from Bolshoy Chigan. They became friends, then fell in love, then swore that they would spend their lives together. So Tursun the dzhigit planned that once their studies were over, he would make a formal proposal of marriage, sending a matchmaker to Saadat’s home. But meanwhile there had come this terrible – interruption. No more studying for him, no more thoughts of marriage – he had to prepare to leave for the front.
            On the day before his departure he and Saadat met for the last time in the garden of her house. The young man and woman stood with their gaze fixed upon each other. The warm evening darkened into night. Tursun embraced Saadat tightly and kissed her lips; she laid her head on his chest, and so they stood together beneath an apple tree. They heard a nightingale singing and they felt the beating of their own hearts. Tursun’s arms were strong but tender, and there was a soft aroma in Saadat’s hair of peach and honey.
            ‘Saadat, do you know how many men and their girls are saying goodbye right now?’
            ‘Damn this war! It’s ruined our lives. I’m afraid, Tursun!’
            ‘Yes, it’s hard for us to endure.’
            ‘If something happens to you in the fighting I won’t be able to live. I’ll die.’ Her voice was trembling and her eyes were filled with tears.
            ‘Don’t talk like that. We’ll win and come home victorious. Then we’ll invite the whole village to our wedding, and afterwards we’ll live together for the rest of our lives.’ He held her still tighter.
            ‘I just hope so much that you’re right.’
            ‘When I come back, you’ll probably already be working as a teacher.’
            ‘No, I probably won’t be able to finish my studying because of the war.’
            ‘Well in that case we’ll both finish our studies together. Then we’ll teach children and educate them. Other people’s and our own.’ He looked into Saadat’s eyes.
            ‘That would be so wonderful,’ she sighed. Her reddened eyes moistened again.
            ‘Come on, let’s walk round the streets so I can say goodbye to them.’
            They wandered at length through the familiar streets and corners, holding hands, then at last returned to the garden. Saadat went back to the apple tree and took her bag from a branch, where she had hung it while they went walking. From the bag she took out a togach – a small round nan, and turned to her dzhigit: ‘Bite off a piece. I will keep the rest until you come back.’
            Tursun looked at her tenderly. ‘Let’s each eat a piece, and then we’ll finish it – but only after the war. Shall we?’
            That endless night of farewell, they each took one bite of the togach. Then Saadat wrapped the remainder in a kerchief, placed it in her bag and again hung the bag on the branch. The full moon, an involuntary witness to their vows, now hid behind a cloud. They settled down beneath the apple tree. Saadat took a white handkerchief from her pocket and gave it to Tursun. Tursun unfolded it, and saw a picture embroidered in coloured stitches: a bird flying towards a bush, in which another bird sat waiting.
            ‘That’s a very wise piece of stitching,’ he grinned.
            ‘The bird in the bush is me,’ Saadat explained, slightly embarrassed. ‘I hope that you will come home from the war and back to this garden. I will be waiting for you here. Just be sure to come back!’
            ‘I shall keep this handkerchief like the pupil of my eye,’ said Tursun, as he folded the handkerchief and placed it in the inside pocket of his jacket.
            Unable to bear to part, they sat for a long time under the tree, and after a while they found themselves overcome by tenderness, passion and despair. Saadat melted into her beloved’s arms and gave herself up to him. Afterwards, confused and agitated, they could not look each other in the eye, but sat a while in silence. The moon, emerging from the clouds for a moment, seemed to ask them: ‘Hey, happy ones! What’s life going to bring you now, what lies in store for you?’ Then it paled a little and slid away through the night sky.
            It began to grow light; the garden turned from black to grey, and then all its bright colours began to show. Now Tursun was more consumed by trepidation than ever. ‘Oh Allah,’ he thought, ‘Will I ever see my home again, my father and mother, my friends, my sweetheart?’ He pulled at a flower and placed it in Saadat’s hair, then lay his head in her hands and closed his eyes. She felt two hot tears on her palms, and she also wept softly. After a while Tursun kissed her again, took her wet face in his hands and looked at her and went on looking. She sank into his gaze that was so full of longing and tenderness.
            ‘Look after yourself, and whatever happens, come back,’ she whispered at last, and went towards the house, looking back at him time and time again.
            Tursun was just entering his house when he met his father coming out. ‘Have you only just come home? You’ve got to travel today, you should have got some sleep.’
            ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ Tursun answered.
            Kurvan-aka sat Tursun down beside him. Maysimyam also sat down with them. ‘Son, this war is like a wildfire that is consuming people’s lives. But you’re going there for our sakes, for the sake of your motherland. So guard the honour of your parents. Remember where your home is, and beat back those Fascist reptiles without mercy. We will be waiting for you and for victory. I hope to be going to the front soon as well. But you’re my firstborn, and if I don’t come back, you will be the senior of the family.’
Kurvan embraced his son strongly. Maysimyam came up to her son from behind and pressed herself to him. The war was taking her son. She could not contain her sobbing.
That day, the young men of all the villages between the ages of eighteen and twenty-one gathered at the military commissariat. They were registered and then began the long march to the railway town of Saryozek, two hundred kilometres away. Sorrowful fathers and mothers, brothers, sisters, brides, relatives and fellow villagers accompanied the dzhigits as far as the Usek river. This crowd of followers then stood and watched for a long time as the line of draftees moved further and further away. Saadat was among them, watching until her eyes could make the men out no more. It seemed to her that while she watched him, her beloved might be protected.
After some time, a letter arrived from Tursun addressed both to his parents and to Saadat. Tursun told them in the letter that they had travelled from Saryozek to Kharkov on a goods train. They would receive training there for four months and then go to the front.
Soon another worry was added to those Saadat already had to bear. A month after Tursun had left, she realised that she was pregnant. She began to suffer from a sense of heaviness in her body, dizziness and nausea. Saadat felt guilty for what had happened in the garden on the night of their parting. If only Tursun had been able to make the marriage proposal and if only the marriage ceremony of Nikah had already taken place, her conscience would have been clear. She realised that others would soon see what was happening, and she was pierced by a sense of shame. No longer was she the cheerful girl student who was fun to be with. Her friends assumed that she was simply missing Tursun. But Saadat went out with the others to the harvest and did her best to hide the way she felt.
  The first autumn of the war drew in, with a mixture of weather – sometimes sunny, sometimes overcast. And though the war was far away, life in the rear was lived fully in accordance with the laws of wartime. The villagers thought constantly about their men at the front. There was an immense amount to do; some of them worked on the harvest, while others joined in the winnowing. Small children went gleaning in the fields for leftover ears of wheat, while the women loaded sacks of grain onto carts and sent them in convoys to Zharkent. The old people encouraged the young: ‘Go and get busy, it’ll be a lean time if there’s no harvest!’ Finally, with immense effort, the villagers brought in the whole of the harvest and submitted it to the authorities under their red banner with the slogan ‘All for the front, all for Victory!’ Then, tossing their spades and pitchforks onto their shoulders, they returned home empty-handed.
Now that the work in the fields was done, the villagers started preparing for winter: drying the vegetables from their plots and storing them in cellars, laying in a stock of hay for the animals and gathering brushwood. Aware that there would be no help from the kolkhoz this year, each person had to rely on his own strength. If they were not to die of hunger they would have to make their supplies last through until springtime. To general dismay, the price of flour at the bazaar had gone up. Still, maize could be used in place of flour. And so the people set to thinking about how they would cope with the difficulties ahead.
When term started, Saadat went back to living in college accommodation. After classes she did not mix with the others but concentrated on studying. She could not sleep at night because of the unhappy thoughts that crowded her mind. She would pray tearfully: ‘O Lord, let Tursun come home safe’.
It was not long before her rounded belly became obvious. She wrote to Tursun that she was pregnant, and anxiously waited for his response. She did not know what to say to her mother – a widow with three children to look after. Her mother had placed high hopes on Saadat as the eldest in the family. Time and time again she would say: ‘Daughter, you must marry with honour, and only after you have your diploma. Make sure you don’t shame me in front of other people’.
‘Whatever am I going to say to my poor mother? She’s so ill – will she be able to take it?’ She struggled with these thoughts at length. Finally a letter arrived from Tursun: ‘I have told my parents everything truthfully. Don’t worry. They will send matchmakers to your mother. When the baby is born my family will help you. We’re going into battle now. I kiss you, my love.’ It was a short letter, written in a hurry.
That same day, Kurvan-aka and his family also received a letter from Tursun. When the younger son Turgan read it out to his parents, a change came over Kurvan-aka’s face.
‘I wouldn’t have expected this of a son of mine,’ he said, tight-lipped. ‘Clearly all my guidance has been to no avail. How can we look Imyarahan in the eye? And those two want to educate children? Teachers are supposed to set examples for the rest to follow.’ He gave Maysimyam, who had grown very quiet, a menacing look. ‘So that’s how you bring up your children, is it?’
‘Don’t get so angry, Kurvan. Remember he’s at the front. Don’t curse him – it might come true.’ She said nothing more.
She asked Turgan to read the letter again. As soon as he had finished, Maysimyam took the letter and put it in her pocket. ‘Do you also know this girl, son?’ she asked Turgan.
Turgan took his mother in his arms and wiped away her tears. ‘Aha, Saadat-hada – she’s very beautiful and she’s a good person. My brother’s been seeing her for over a year. When they were in Zharkent together they promised they’d marry and spend their lives together. Tursun has asked me to keep an eye on Saadat for him.’
This calmed Maysimyam a little.
Kurvan-aka did not come home until it grew dark, and then he went to bed without speaking to anyone. Maysimyam, as though guilty of something, could not look him in the eye.
Kurvan-aka was a highly respected man in the village. He had been noted for his honesty and directness since he was a child. Often he would say to his sons: ‘I have had a hard life. But never once did I let my honour be compromised, never did I go against my conscience. So you too, you should never steal and never lie, never play with hashish and never indulge in gambling.’ There were five children in his family, but it was on his sons that he placed his highest hopes.
And now Tursun had done something inexcusable. Kurvan-aka tossed and turned in his bed until morning. Then at breakfast he said to his wife: ‘This evening we’ll go to see Imyarahan. We don’t need anybody from outside, we’ll just take my sister and Gyuli. We can arrange everything ourselves. What lengths don’t you go to for your own son!’
Sensing that her husband had cooled a little, Maysimyam sighed with relief. She went into the end room and opened the chest in which she had kept everything that would be needed for her son’s marriage. Modangul followed her mother and asked her:
‘Mama, what have you got in this box?’
‘If we go to pay our respects to Imyarahan, kizim, we’ll have to take her presents. I’m looking for a nice piece of material. I know what, I’ll give her this white lacy shawl.’
Maysimyam untied a small knot and showed Modangul a golden ring with a red stone set in it. ‘My mother gave me this ring for my wedding. I’ve kept it to pass down to our eldest daughter-in-law, the one Tursun will marry. And we’ll give the nicest of these four lengths of cloth to Saadat, and another one to Imyarahan.’
‘Mama, how did you manage to collect all this?’
‘I’ve kept them all for a long time, hoping that they will come in useful some day.’
‘And these other two pieces of material – who are they for?’
‘One is for your father’s sister, Adalyat, and the other is for Gyuli, your kichik-apa.
 ‘But why do you wear a patched-up dress, Mama? You could sew yourself a new one from some of this?’
‘Daughter, your chon-apa and kichik-apa will also be bringing gifts for Imyarahan, so I have to give them something as a thank-you. That’s our custom.’
‘Are you taking them tonight?’
‘No, today we’re going to make Tursun’s proposal of marriage to Saadat. First we will listen to what she has to say, and then your father will discuss the day of engagement with her. On the day they agree we must show our thanks by killing a sheep, giving out presents and inviting people to tea. Imyarahan will then invite the elders of the village. When Tursun-zhan comes home safe, if God wills, we will arrange a wedding and hold the Nikah ceremony.’ Maysimyam stroked her daughter’s long black hair. ‘I hope that all of you can set up your own nests happily while your father and I are still alive.’
Modangul hugged her mother and gave her a kiss. ‘Apa, you are wonderful, as well as us you’re looking after your grandchildren too,’ said the girl to her mother in a serious tone. ‘So you should wear this yourself.’ Modangul handed her mother a beautiful new shawl from the chest.
‘No, kizim. We’ll need that shawl later.’ Maysimyam put the shawl back and closed the chest.
At dusk Adalyat arrived and greeted them with ‘Assalam!’ Maysimyam invited her sister-in-law to sit in the place of honour. At once Modangul put out the dzhoza and laid a cloth on it.
‘No need to make tea for us, daughter. We’ve only come briefly,’ anticipated Adalyat.
‘Well, really, hada, surely you’ll have some tea with us? You don’t come here very often,’ responded Maysimyam. ‘Gyuli’s on her way here at the moment. Soon we’ll all be going out.’
Adalyat gave a sigh and shook her head. ‘You know, Kurvan came round yesterday. He told us about Tursun.’
‘I thought he must have gone to see you.’
‘Well, I said to him, “There’s nothing you can do, aka. You’ll just have to invite the elders for tea and then take the baby on as your grandchild. Then people will say that Kurvan did the right thing. And then when Tursun-zhan comes back, we’ll put on a big wedding.”’
At that point Gyuli came in and looked questioningly at the women.
‘Sit down for a while, Gyuli, we’re waiting for Kurvan,’ said Adalyat.
            While they were drinking their tea, Kurvan arrived.
            Aka, may all be well with you,’ smiled Gyuli.
            ‘Thank you, hada. Today I wanted to go to the commissariat and ask to go to the front, but now there’s all this fuss here. We need to sort this out first.’
            ‘Why are you in such a hurry to go to the war?’ asked Adalyat reproachfully. ‘My Mahmut’s gone, and now I’m in a state of constant anxiety, it’s like living in a dream. I’ve only had three letters from him.’
            Adalyat-hada had reason to be worried. Her only son had gone to the front on the same day as Tursun. Meanwhile her husband Abdul-aka was in poor health and could not work on the kolkhoz; his daughters had to replace him in the fields. And in the last few years Adalyat herself had suffered chest pains from time to time and shortness of breath. She and her husband were hoping that their son would take care of them, and when the time came, bury them. But now this accursed war had shattered their hopes, and Adalyat could think of nothing but her son.
            It was beginning to get dark outside: time to set off to visit Imyarahan.

The marriage proposal was accepted. Kurvan-aka and Maysimyam slaughtered a sheep and invited the villagers to tea at Imyarahan’s house. Their respect for Kurvan only grew when they learnt that he had made the decision to help his future daughter-in-law. The chairman of the kolkhoz came up to him and shook his hand, saying: ‘You did right, brother, like a man.’
            Now that Kurvan-aka had fulfilled Tursun’s request, he went to the war commissariat’s office. His plea was declined, however: ‘We will call you when we need you, but for now, carry on working here.’
            A harsh winter set in. The troubles of the villagers did not cease. Every morning Kurvan-aka walked seven kilometres to the ‘machine and tractor station’ in Zharkent where the kolkhoz tractors were repaired. He came home very late in the evenings.
            The women were now working on the farm in the daytime, and in the evenings they spun, knitted socks and mittens and sewed sheepskins for the soldiers at the front. Alahan was a skilled seamstress; she taught Gyuli, Zaynaphan, Mariyam and Sariyam how to cut out and sew quickly, and they were soon declared the top team. Often the women would receive letters of gratitude from the front. The soldiers’ encouraging words warmed their hearts and gave them a sense that every sheepskin they sent would keep warm a son, a husband or a father. Despite the difficult times, people had not grown hard or lost spirit.
            The villagers’ food was meagre: pumpkin, potatoes and a pottage of corn meal. Yet they were grateful. All they wanted was for the war to end and for their loved ones to return home alive. Students from the pedagogical institute in Zharkent would come to the village, give concerts and tell the villagers about the situation at the front.
            Kurvan-aka’s second son, the sixteen-year-old Turgan, was also a first-year student at the pedagogical institute. He was a tall and slim young man who could bring people to the brink of tears when he sang the folk song Ilahun in his soulful manner. And this happened more and more as time passed since the beginning of the war, when villagers started to receive ‘killed in action’ notifications. One could not but feel their pain on hearing the grieving of mothers and fathers, old people and children when such a letter arrived. The high spirits of their pre-war lives was now far away and more like something from a fairy tale.
            The first notification of death in action was delivered by the postman Masim-aka to the parents of Dzhelil Iminov. The official document informed them that ‘…the hero Iminov, Dzhelil fell during fierce fighting in the Ukraine’. So now Dzhelil’s four children were orphaned. From this point, the villagers began to dread the arrival of the postman. Although the bloody fighting was far away from the village, it was echoed in the groans and weeping that issued from each house.
            No more letters came from Tursun. Saadat was no longer embarrassed in front of the villagers, but her heart was heavy. She was expecting soon. She stroked her swollen belly and whispered: ‘You’ve got to meet your father, my boy. We’ll wait for your father to come home when the war is won!’ But then, when she thought about Mervanam, who had been widowed at an early age, she would be overcome with fear.

Harsh as the winter was, it passed into spring as though by appointment. The world turned green once again. Before the collective work began in the fields, each family prepared the soil of their own plots; and then, once more, the women in their teams took up their ketmens on their shoulders and set out to dig new aryk ditches and to clear out the old ones. From early morning to late evening, Kurvan-aka ploughed and sowed. Sometimes his tractor rumbled up and down close to the village, and sometimes it was far away. The villagers kept in mind that they were labouring not only for themselves but for the men who had gone to the front.
            That spring Saadat gave birth to a boy. When her sister Rihanbuvi came running with the news to Maysimyam, she gave her a beautiful shawl and even wept for joy. ‘Thank you, daughter, for this wonderful news. May God bring my Tursunzhan home and let him hold his son close to him.’
            That evening Maysimyam prepared a tasty korum shova from a small piece of meat that she had carefully kept for an occasion such as this. She chopped the meat finely, fried it in a hot kazan with onion, garlic, pepper, dried tomato and spices, then added water and boiled the broth a little. When the entire house was filled with the teasing aroma, she poured the broth into a small pot and wrapped a towel around it to keep it warm.
            ‘Modangul, please will you take your father his dinner and tell him the good news at the same time. And on your way back, tell your kichik-apa that we’ve got a grandson,’ said Maysimyam to her elder daughter. She then took the younger, Mahinur, with her to her daughter-in-law Saadat’s house.
            Imyarahan opened the door to them. She was beaming with happiness.
            ‘Congratulations!’ Maysimyam embraced her. ‘I’m not coming into your house until twelve days are past. But please give this broth to your daughter.’
            Imyarahan was insistent, however, and finally Maysimyam was persuaded to go inside. Seeing her, Saadat got up from her bed.
            ‘Lie down, kizim. I congratulate you with all my heart.’ Maysimyam kissed her daughter-in-law on the forehead and stroked her head. ‘With God’s will may you and Tursun bring the child up to be a good man.’
            Imyarahan handed the baby to Maysimyam. ‘Congratulations, svatka. May your son grow up to be a noble dzhigit!’
Maysimyam took the child in her arms. He bore a striking resemblance to her son. Mahinur, sitting beside her, looked into the face of her baby nephew and whispered ‘He’s the very image of Tursun’. She also held the infant for a while. Imyarahan meanwhile gave the nourishing broth to Saadat, who was still weak and pale after giving birth.
            ‘Daughter, you should drink it up now, while it’s still hot. Get up your strength, and then you’ll produce milk,’ Maysimyam said to her gently.
            Maysimyam and her daughter sat and talked for a while with the in-laws and then returned home. ‘We’ve seen the child. Oh Allah, he’s so like Tursun. God give him good health!’ she said to her daughters afterwards.
            At that moment there was a creak and the door opened again. In came Cholpan, Adalyat’s daughter. Her eyes were red from crying. Maysimyam and the girls stared at their unexpected visitor.
            ‘My brother’s come back,’ she said.
            ‘Mahmut’s back?’
            ‘Yes. But he’s lost an arm.’ Cholpan broke down in tears.
            ‘Oh, Allah, when will this war be over?’ said Maysimyam to herself. Then, thinking of her son fighting somewhere far away, her insides felt pierced by cold.
            She looked at the weeping Cholpan. ‘Daughter, the main thing is he’s alive. Come on, let’s go and see him.’
            Adalyat’s house was full of people. Adalyat did not know whether to be pleased about this or unhappy. Her son had come home from the war but was disabled. The people sitting with him expressed their sympathies to Mahmut and plied him with questions. The mothers asked him whether he had seen their sons, the old men asked how the war was progressing and when would our side win. He answered their questions carefully and without hurrying.
            Mahmut was now shorn of his previous youthful ardour. No longer did he resemble the tall, pale-faced twenty-year-old who had set out for the front. The empty sleeve of his soldier’s blouse was tucked under a belt. The people listening hung on to his every word; images of brutal battles appeared before their eyes. After a while the chairman of the kolkhoz, Imyar-aka, called in. He greeted them all and sat down next to Mahmut. 
            ‘Don’t tell the old folk these stories, uka,’ he said, putting his hand on the young veteran’s shoulder. ‘It’s good that you’ve come back. We can’t get enough strong dzhigits. The women, the old people and the children are working themselves to the bone. Look, rest a little and recover, and then you can come and be the brigadir for the irrigation. There’s so much to do. I’ll always be there to help you.’
            A glimmer of hope appeared in Mahmut’s eyes. ‘Thank you, Imyar-aka. I’ll give it all I’ve got.’

Two more men appeared in the village the following evening. They plodded slowly up the street, emaciated, exhausted, their eyes sunken. People came out of their houses to look at them but did not recognise them. Then one of the men said to them: ‘Don’t you recognise us? It’s me, Kasim, and this is Askar.’
            The women sighed and rushed towards the haggard wanderers. Kasim and Askar fell straight into their arms. The villagers took the pair to Kasim’s house, where they were met with shouts and tears by grandmother Rozihan, mother Alahan and the children. They lay them down, let them come round a little and gave them something to drink.
            Askar propped himself up on one elbow and glanced about the room, trying to see his wife Tadzhigul and their children among the people gathered.
            ‘Make them some tea. They’re dying of hunger,’ Rozihan ordered.
            Alahan brought two large apkurs of aktyan-chay and the old people contributed pieces of nan. They propped the two returnees up so that they could eat more easily. ‘Drink something hot, it’ll bring you some strength back,’ Rozihan-aka kept saying.
            ‘Thanks be to Allah! You’ve come home alive,’ said old Zair.
            Alahan found some clothes for the two men. The villagers went outside, discussing what had happened. Kasim’s children, Hasan and Husan, took the torn jackets and trousers from their father and Askar and helped them change into clean ones. Askar slowly got up.
            ‘I’m going home now to my family. They don’t seem to know we’re back.’
            Nobody had yet found it in themselves to tell Askar that Tadzhigul had died. Some villagers helped him walk to his house. The elders went into the house with him. Old Zair-buva sat down in the place of honour and sighed heavily.
            ‘Askarzhan, you have come home, and that will be the greatest joy for your children. But you know the saying that life is always followed by death. We have had to bury Tadzhigul in your absence. She was a good wife and mother. But her time came very early. Try to be strong!’
            Dropping to his knees, Zair-buva read a passage from the Qur’an, then all present said a prayer in memory of Tadzhigul. Askar clenched his teeth and did not speak. The tears on his sunken cheeks had a fearful look.
            Finally he released his jaw. ‘O Lord above, why do you pour all this misery on me? Have I not suffered enough humiliation already? And now I’ve lost Tadzhigul as well…’
            The people sitting with him could only sigh.
            ‘Take courage, son,’ old Rozihan said a number of times. ‘Allah will help you raise the children.’ She looked with pity on the frail Askar.
            ‘You need to build up your strength,’ she said, getting up and turning to the others. ‘Come to our house. Alahan will cook you something to eat.’
            In the meantime, Alahan, her daughters and the other women had prepared supper. Kasim and Askar, sitting at the table surrounded by their family and friends, seemed unable to believe what was happening. They ate, unable to eat their fill, and looked at those around them, insatiable in their hunger to see their loved ones again.
            After the meal the old men asked the two ex-convicts about their five years spent in faraway exile. Kasim pushed the empty bowl away from him and passed his hand through his hair.
            ‘Well, what can I tell you? It was five years of brutality and survival. We were sent to a labour camp in Siberia. Fifty degrees below zero, and we were hungry, frostbitten and in torn clothes. The political prisoners were kept separately, they had armed soldiers with dogs with them all the time. Anybody who collapsed out of weakness was shot where he fell, because this was considered an attempt to escape.’ Kasim looked down, and linked the fingers of his two hands together tightly. ‘What else can I tell you? They shot political prisoners in front of the ordinary criminals. They didn’t regard us as humans. People died ten at a time, mostly from cold and hunger. But they released us a month ago. We got as far as the station by train, and the rest of the way we walked. We slept where we could. There was no food anywhere. We just held on to each other and kept walking.
            There was silence in the room. The villagers were drained of spirit. If it wasn’t war, it was forced labour. Where could anyone hope to live in peace?
            For several days after that, people from the village came to see Kasim. Again and again he told them about his ordeals in exile. His health was poor; a deep-seated cold sapped at his strength.
            ‘Well goodness me, the whole village has been to see you and welcomed you home. The only one who hasn’t been is Shavdun,’ said Alahan with some surprise.
            ‘He won’t come. It was him who got us sent away. He was the informer,’ said Kasim harshly and broke into a fit of coughing. Beads of sweat broke out on his brow.
            ‘Oh Allah, what are you saying? Shavdun informed on you? Well if that’s the truth, then God has already punished him. His wife Zorabuvi died – he’s been left a widower with an elderly mother and his sons.’
            The sound of crying could be heard from outside. Alahan rushed out and saw that Tadzhigul’s parents and their grandchildren had arrived to see Askar. Amina and Omar embraced their father, then began sobbing out loud. Alahan, glancing towards the garden, called softly to her mother-in-law: ‘Apa, come over here. Patam-ana and her husband are here.’
            They greeted each other and went into the house. Grandfather Momun and grandmother Patam looked with pity at the emaciated Askar.
            ‘Let me read from the Qur’an,’ said Momun.
            While the prayer was being recited, Aminam and Omar clung to their father, afraid to let go of him.
            ‘Askarzhan, son, thank God you’ve come home. Now we don’t have to worry about our grandchildren,’ said Patam.
            ‘These are dark times. However did you survive in that hell?’ added Rozihan.
            ‘We thought about our families,’ Askar replied. ‘I was longing with all my mind to be with Tadzhigul. But she’s dead, and my hopes are gone.’
            ‘We’ll all be moving on to the next world sooner or later,’ said old Momun, glancing at the children sitting next to Askar.
            The nine-year-old Aminam poured some water into the kazan and lit the flame in the oven. Alahan brought a whole apkur of milk with kaymak and prepared an excellent aktyan-chay. Patam put a plate of manty onto the dzhoza as well.
            ‘Rozihan, Kayman, Askarzhan, come and eat. I’m not even sure what’s happened. It’s so long since I made manty that I could have forgotten how to.’ The old woman served the manty onto plates.
            Alahan placed a large bowl of the tea in front of each person, then broke a large thin nan and placed a piece in each of the bowls.
            ‘Sit down with us, daughter. Thank you for the tea, it’s delicious. You’re a wonderful neighbour. Tadzhigul always said good things about you.’ Patam smiled at Alahan approvingly.
            Kasim broke into a fit of coughing, and sweat appeared on his brow. ‘I saw Mahmut this morning. He’s only got one arm! That’s the end of the fighting for him.’
            Grandmother Rozihan now joined the conversation. ‘We’ve already had three killed-in-action letters in the village now.’
            ‘And where we are in Zharkent, just our part, Donmiallia, more and more people are getting them. Oh God, let them, whoever they are, just come home again alive and unharmed,’ sighed Momun-buva. ‘Anyway, it’s time to get ready for evening prayers.’ He stood up, and the others followed.
            ‘Come and see us again, Patamhan. Thank you for coming,’ said Rozihan, as she put on her overshoes.
            ‘Thank you. We’re going to be here for a few days, to see Askarzhan recover a little.’
            After seeing the neighbours off, Patam-moma lit a candle, then, whispering something under her breath, consecrated the house.
            Apa, is dada going to stay now? He isn’t going away ever again, is he?’ asked Omar once they were in the street.
            ‘No, my boy. He’s going to be with you now always.’
            ‘And you, are you leaving?’
            ‘We’re already very old. You need to live just with your father,’ said Patam, wiping away tears with the end of her shawl.
            Aminam, Omar’s sister, now burst into the conversation. ‘Apa, the apples and apricots in the garden have really come on, the spring onions are up, and Mama’s flowers are in full blossom, you must come and see them! And I’ve seen Gyuli chon-apa. She was carrying a big bundle of wood on her back. She kissed me and told me I’d really grown. She said she’d come and see us in the next day or two.’
            ‘That’s good! Tomorrow we’ll make porya and invite Gyuli, Hadzhyar-han and the children round.’
            When Gyuli got home she found Hadzhyar-ana and her friend Zaynaphan sitting under the awning in the garden. After washing her face and drinking a little water, she came into the arbour and greeted the two elderly women. Selimyam placed a bowl of suyuk ash in front of her.
            ‘Will you share this with me?’ offered Gyuli.
            ‘No, thanks, we’ve just eaten. But you, have your supper, daughter. You’re working from dawn to dusk after all,’ said Hadzhyar, shaking her head.
            ‘Well that’s how it is for everyone these days,’ answered Gyuli, then, looking at Zaynap-apa, asked after her health.
            ‘My soul deserted me after my daughter died. I cry all the time, I’m even worried about what’s happening to my eyes.’
            ‘You can wear your eyes out with tears, but grieving won’t help,’ said Hadzhyar-han.
            ‘You’re right, Hadzhyar-han. I’m living for the sake of the grandchildren. The elder one’s already eight and the younger’s six. They can do everything at home by themselves.’
            Finally Zaynaphan-ana, a little embarrassed and looking now at her friend and now at Gyuli, came to the main purpose of her visit. ‘Gyuli, daughter, you’re from a good family. You suffered terribly when Tair was taken from you, but you kept on looking after your children and knew no peace. And then you took in Hadzhyar like a mother.’
            Gyuli tried to work out what Zaynaphan was hinting at. Zaynap continued:
            ‘Since my Zorabuvi died I’ve been getting weaker every year. I don’t know if I’ll have the strength to bring up my grandsons. Please don’t be angry with an old woman, but I’ve come to offer you a marriage proposal from Shavdun. He’s a widower too. You could be the mother to Shavdun’s children and he could be father to yours.’ Zaynaphan-ana looked shyly at Gyuli and then moved her gaze to Hadzhyar, hoping for support.
            Gyuli said nothing for a moment. Then: ‘Zaynaphan-ana, I love you as I love my own mother. I see you want to become related to us, but I’m never going to marry again. I want to dedicate myself to my children.’
            ‘But listen, daughter, you’re still young,’ added Hadzhyar, ‘don’t let your life waste away. Shavdun’s not a bad man. Give it some thought, then let us know.’
            ‘You’re still strong at the moment and you can be both mother and father to the children. But what if, God forbid, something happens to you?’ persisted Zaynaphan-ana.
            ‘Like the old people say, widows have three chances to marry. A woman should live under a man’s care,’ Hadzhyar added again.
            Gyuli cleared the bowls from the table, frowning. ‘I don’t want to hear any more of this,’ she snapped, and went off to the kazan.
            The two old women exchanged glances in silence. Zaynaphan got up, wished them goodnight and, leaning on her stick, moved towards the gate. Gyuli rushed after her, hugged her and said: ‘Ana, don’t be upset. But I mean what I say. Look, it’s dark now. Selimyam will walk you home.’
            Next day, as they were working in the fields, Shavdun rode up to Gyuli. ‘How’s the irrigation going, Gyuli?’
            ‘It’s already finished, I’ve just got to cut off the water,’ she said, and taking a large armful of grass and mud, stopped up the branch of the aryk. Then she picked up her ketmen and set off along the path. Shavdun dismounted his horse and placed himself in front of her.
            ‘Gyuli, my mother-in-law came to see you last night, and I know what you told her.’
            ‘That’s how it is, and I’ve nothing to add. And please don’t stand in my way,’ said Gyuli resolutely.
            ‘I’m off to the front tomorrow. I wanted to apologise to you.’
            ‘What?’ Gyuli took a step back.
            ‘I know what I have done is unforgivable, and I am guilty beyond hope,’ the brigadir continued, faintly.
            Gyuli dropped her ketmen to the ground, not understanding him.
            ‘Before the war started the Party organs called me in and offered me work. I couldn’t refuse them because they threatened reprisals against me and my family. I had to accept. To cut a long story short, it was me who informed on Tair. I can never forgive myself for this. Now I’m going to the front, and maybe I can expiate my guilt before Allah by dying.’
            Gyuli stood fixed, shaken. Then, swallowing a lump in her throat, replied: ‘I would not wish what my children and I have been through even on you.’
            ‘I thought you were going to curse me,’ said Shavdun, bewildered.
            ‘I never curse anyone. But look, people who play with fire will get their fingers burnt.’ She turned and walked away.
            Clenching the bridle in his hands, Shavdun stood and watched her for a long time. Neither of them was to know that a notification would shortly arrive that he had been killed in action.

* * *

            ‘So Shavdun did have a troubled conscience after all?’ said Ruth thoughtfully.
            ‘There’s no forgiveness for him and his kind,’ said Mehriban. ‘What use is there in meekly confessing to having informed on someone when that has ruined lives and caused good men to die? How many mothers have been condemned to suffering because of informers like Shavdun? Some men go and defend and die for their motherland, while others creep and fawn, then do vile things and profit from other peoples’ grief. And all for the sake of saving their own skin.
            ‘I’d like to tell you about another cowardly informer who lived in the village. But you could meet someone like him anywhere.’
            ‘Do tell, I’d love to hear more.’ Ruth leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes.

Thursday, March 9, 2017


Гүлжаһан ОРДА, М.О.Әуезов атындағы Әдебиет және өнер институтының бас ғылыми қызметкері, филол.ғ.д.


(Дүрнәм Мәшүрованың «Ана мирасы» романы туралы)

Қазақстан халықтарының әдебиеті ішінде көп зерттелгендерінің бірі – ұйғыр әдебиеті. Қазіргі ұйғыр әдебиеті тағы бір романмен толығып отыр. Ұйғыр жазушысы, драматург Дүрнәм Мәшүрованың «Ана мирасы» атты романының негізінде ұйғыр театрында осы аттас драмалық шығарманың қойылымы жүріп жатыр. Ал, романды қазақ тілінде сөйлеткен – ақын, аудармашы Дәулетбек Байтұрсынұлы бауырымыз. Аудармашының ұйғыр халқының тарихы мен мәдениетін, ұлттық этнографиясын жақсы білетіндігі аталған шығарманың өн бойынан анық көрініп тұр. Романның сәтті аударылуының негізгі себебі де осында болса керек. Ендеше шығармаға үңіліп көрелік.

ХХ ғасырдың отызыншы жылдарындағы ел басына түскен ауыр күндерден басталған оқиға желісі қазіргі таңға дейінгі аралықты қамтиды. Үш ұрпақтың басынан өткен айтулы оқиғалар сол дәуірдің көркем шежіресі ретінде танылған. Апалы-сіңлілі Майсимәм мен Гүли төңірегінде жүріп жататын оқиғалар желісі бір әулеттің басынан өткен тарихы негізіндебір дәуірдің шындығы шынайы бейнеленген.

Отызыншы жылдары қазақ даласын әбжыландай аралаған ашаршылықтан бір пенде де аман қалмағанын бір ауыл тұрғындарының аштықтан бұратылып, әлсіреп ұйықтап кете беретін нәубетімен бейнеленген. Халқым дегендердің «халық жауы» болып, елім дегендердің Итжеккенге айдалып кеткен кезінде олардың артында қалған отбасының жағдайы одан да мүшкіл болғанын тарихтан білеміз. АЛЖИР-дегі аналардың аянышты тағдырын жазушы ел ішінде жүрген Алахан, Гүли, Тажигүл тәрізді аналарымыздың тағдыр талайына сыйғызған. Туған ауылдарынан жат жерге қоныс аударғанда шиеттей балаларын асырау үшін жоқтан бар жасаған аналардың саз балшықты илеп тандыр жасауы – аналардың бауыр еті балалары үшін неге болса да даяр екендігін ұғындырған. Жасынан ерте қартайып, екі-үш айдың ішінде қайыстай болып қатып қалған аналардың өз аузынан жырып, тапқанын балапандарының аузына тосуы да өмір шындығы. Қыстың күні қырауда жағарға отын, ішерге тамақ таппай отырған Ажар ананы өз балаларына бас-көз етіп, бірге тіршілік түзеген Гүлидің жанкешті тірлігі Тәжигүл тағдырымен толыға түскен. Өзінің үш баласына, урушаң келіншектің екі баласын қоса асыраған жанның жанкештілігімен екі әулеттің аман қалғаны шындық.

«Халық жауы» ретінде жазықсыз айыпталғандардың бірсыпырасы өлім жазасына кесілсе, енді бір парасы Сібірге жер аударылып, ауыр еңбектен титықтап сүйектен өткен суықтан үсіп өлсе, аман қалғандары табанынан өткен суықтан айықпас дертке шалдыққан жандар екенін роман кейіпкерлері растайды. Кебін киіп кетіп, елге оралмаған азаматтарды Тайырдың қазасынан көрсек, кебенек киіп кетіп елге арып-ашып, тірі аруақ болып, бір-біріне сүйене сүйретіліп сүйегі жеткен Қасым мен Асқардың Қиыр шығыстағы бес жыл тартқан азапты өмірі – «Кебін киген келмейді, кебенек киген келеді», «Қырық жыл қырғын болса да, ажалды өледінің» мысалы.

Суреттеуден гөрі баяндауы басым публицистикалық стильде жазылған романның тілі қарапайым, жеңіл оқылады. Романды этнографиялық бояуы қалың, тәрбиелік-танымдық шығармалар қатарына жатқызуға болады. Оның төмендегідей бірнеше себептері бар. Жазушы ұлттық салт-дәстүрлер мен әдет-ғұрыптарды тәптіштеп түсіндірумен аналардың кейінгі ұрпаққа аманат етіп қалдырған мұрасын кейіпкерлердің диалогы арқылы жеткізген. Кішкентай Меһрибанның анасына қойған сауалдарымен көптеген ғұрыптарға толыққан сипаттама берілген. Осындай бір мысал адамды соңғы сапарға шығарып салуға байланысты эпизодтан көрінеді. Әйел адам өмірден өткенде көрші-қолаңдар мен туған-туыстарға ине-жіп, бір дана шәй және көйлектік мата, жыртысүлестіретінін білеміз. Осының мәнісін сұраған қызына анасыкүнделікті өмірде қазан-ошағы араласып жататын көршілердің, туыстардың кейде ұмытып кететіні осы ине-жіп, шай тәрізді ұсақ-түйектер болады. Кезінде қайтарылмай, ұмытылып кеткен дүниелер марқұмның мойнына қарыз болмасын деп артында қалған балалары таратып жататындығы айтылады.

Тағы бір мысалды ұзақ сапарға аттанған жанға нан тістетіп алып қалудан көруге болады. Ағаларымыз әскерге кетіп бара жатқанда аналарымыз балаларына нан тістетіп алып қалатынын, сол нанның екі жыл бойы көз алдымызда шүберек дорбашада ілініп тұратынын көріп өстік. Жазушы осы ырымның мәнін өз кейіпкерлерінің тағдырларымен бейнелеген. Ұлы Отан соғысы басталғанда Сағадаттың жігіті Тұрсынға тандыр тоқаштың шетінен тістетіп алып қалғанын, он тоғыз жыл сақтаған тоқашты Тұрсын оралғанда екеуі еткен шайға салып жібітіп жеп отырғанына кезігеміз. Қазақта «Адам шақырса барма, дәм шақырса қалма» деген мақал бар. Бір өлімнен қалып, от пен оқтың арасынан аман шыққан Тұрсынды елге шақырып тұрған осы нан, яғни дәм шақырып тұрғанын жазушысүйгені Сағадат, баласы Аманжанмен кездесуі арқылы нанымды бейнелеген.

Романның өн бойынан адам баласының дүние есігін ашқанынан бастап, мәңгілік сапарға аттанғанына дейінгі аралықтағы ұлттық салт-дәстүрлерін үйлену тойына қатысты оқиғалардан көрсек, мұң-шерге қатысты ғұрыптар соңғы сапарға шығарып салу рәсімдерімен нанымды суреттелген. Әдет-ғұрыптың әдемі бір көрінісі – аналар шайы. Майсимәм апаларының орнын
жоқтатпай, Сағадат пен Ранә жеңгесінің Меһрибанға аналар шайын өткізіп беруі, жиналған аналардың Алладан перзент сұрауы, оның жүкті болуы – көп тілегі көл екендігін, батамен ел көгеретінін байқатады.

Қырқыншы жылдардағы тыл өмірі сұрықсыз, сүреңсіз қалпында бейнеленген. Белі қатып, буыны бекімеген балалар мен нәзік жанды қыз-келіншектерге колхоздың бар шаруасы қарап қалғаны – сұрапыл жылдардағы ел өмірінің шынайы көрінісі. Қаһаған қыс пен аспан айналып жерге түскендей жаздың ыстық күндерінде күні-түні егіс даласында жер жыртып, шөп шауып, егін орып жүретін тракторшы Құрбанның асқынған дерттен қаза табуы, мектеп оқушыларының бірнеше шақырым жерге аудан орталығына жаяу қатынап оқитыны – кеңестік қоғамда адам өмірінің екінші планға шығып, олардың еңбектері бірінші кезекке қойылғандығының мысалы. Дерті асқынып кеткенҚұрбанның қыршын өлімі «күші адал, еті харам» деп есекке қаратыла айтылатын мақалға жан бітірген. Ауылдан 7 шақырым жердегі МТС-қа таң қарағысынан жаяу кетіп, жатар орынға сүйретіле жетіп, төсегіне құлай кететін Құрбанның бейнеті – сұрапыл жылдардағы тылдағы азаматтардың жанкештілігін танытатын эпизодтар. Құрбан өлімі – адамның тынымсыз адал еңбегінің көзі тірісінде бағаланбайтындығының белгісі.

Романда көзге түсетін үлкен мәселенің бірі – махаббат. Оны үш баламен жесір қалған Гүлидің Тайырға деген адал махаббатынан, Мәрийямның Әділге деген сезімінің пәктігінен, Сағадат пен Тұрсын арасындағы үлкен сезімнен байқаймыз. Он тоғыз жыл ақыл-есінен айрылып қалған Тұрсынды жетелеп жүрген де сүйгеніне деген сезімі болса, оның Сағадатты көргенде естен танып қалуы – соның көрсеткіші. «Бүйтіп тірі жүргенше, өлгенім артық» деп аңсаған әлеміне жүріп кететін Мәрийям – қырқыншы жылдары қортық Қадір тәрізді колхоз бригадирлерінің зорлығымен, қорлығымен шерменде болған әйелдердің жиынтық бейнесі. Мәрийям бейнесі мұсылман әйелдерінің ақ некеге деген адалдығын, пәктігін танытумен бірге аналар бейнесін асқақтатып тұр.

Тағы бір ерекше атауды қажет ететін мәселе – қырқыншы жылғы келіншектер образы. Гүли, Мерванәм, Зейнепхан, Мәрийәмдар – қырқыншы жылғы келіншектердің жиынтық бейнесі. Күн ұзаққа егіс даласында жүретін жандардың су суғаруға түнгі кезекке түсуі, сондай түндердің бірінде қортық Қадірдің жемтігіне айналуы өмір шындығы болса, жарлары майданда жүрген жүректері жаралы жандарды зорлауға баратын Қадір де қырқыншы жылғы колхоз бригадирлерінің типтік бейнесі екені жасырын емес. Бүкіл колхоздың бейнетін көтерген нәзік жанды келіншектерді Алла тағаланың қауқарсыз етіп жаратқанын көргенде еріксіз күйінесің. Қорқау қасқыр тәрізді ұйқыда жатқан келіншекті қой сүйреген қасқырдай сүйреп бара жатқанын көргендеқортық Қадір сынды көрсоқырларға лағнет айтасың. «Дәніккеннен құныққан жаман» дегендей, ұйқыға кеткен келіншектерге жігіттік жасамақ болған Қадірге құрбы келіншектердің құрған тұзағы оның өмір бойы мүгедек болып қалуына алып келеді. Жазушы қолыңмен жасағанды мойныңмен көтеру керектігін Қадір тағдырымен суреттеген. Соғыс жылдарында қыз-келіншектерге қырғидай тиіп, нәпсінің құлы болған жанның жеңіске жеткен жауынгерлер елге орала бастағанда Әділден қорқып асылып қалуы – ар алдындағы дар ретінде бейнеленген.

Соғыстың салған жарасы елге мүгедек болып оралған Махмұт пен Тұрсын өмірімен шынайы суреттелген. Жайшылықта әділ, жомарт, турашыл, ер мінезді Махмұттың ұсақ-түйекке бола өзін ұстай алмай, қалшылдап шыға келетіні оның контузия алғандығымен түсіндірілген. Жиырма жастағы жігіттердің майдан даласында көрген қанды соғыстары өмір бойы оларды мазалап, елес болып қыр соңдарынан қалмайтыны шындық. Жазушы соғыс біткеннің адамзат баласына келтіретін зиянын Ұлы Отан соғысынан мүгедек болып оралған Махмұт пен Тұрсын өмірімен суреттесе, Полина апаның жалғыз баласының Ауған соғысынаекі аяғын беріп келуі – соғыстың ешкімді аямайтындығы. Өмір мен өлім бетпе-бет келгендегі жан үшін арпалыс мүгедектердің айықпас дерттерінен менмұндаласа, Меһрибан мен Рус арасындағы әңгімеден Американдықтардың Ветнам соғысынан тапқан тауқыметін аңғарамыз.

Романдағы қазақ пен ұйғыр халқының арасындағы достық Тұрсын тағдырына қатысты өрбиді. Қиын-қыстау заманда қолында барын бөліп жеп, екі бөлме болса соның бірін, бір бөлмесінің бір бұрышын бөліп беріп, мыңдаған жандарды ажал тырнағынан аман алып қалған кең пейілді қазақ халқы екені осында мекен етіп жатқандарға белгілі. Осындай бір мысалды аталған романнан да көреміз. Майдан даласында ауыр жарақаттан ес-түсінен айырылып жатқан мұсылман жігітінің өткенінің бәрін ұмытып, өзінің кім екенін білмей қалуы өкінішті. Жеңіске жетіп, жауынгерлер елге қайтып жатқанда қазақ жігіті Болаттың досын батыс жеріне тастамай шығысқа алып келуі, елге келген соң оның әке-шешесі бұл бізге Алланың берген баласы ғой деп оны Құдайберген атап кетуі, Құдайбергенді он тоғыз жыл өз балаларынан бөлмей бірге өсіруі – қонақжай қазақ халқының бауырмалдығы, адамзаттың бәрін бауырым деп сүйетіндігі, мұсылман баласына деген жанашырлығы. Осы қатарды қалада тұратын Сағадаттың баласы Аманжанмен бірге оқитын студент жолдастарына деген қамқорлығы толықтырады. Үйіне келген Зылиқа мен Болатты танымаса да қабақ шытпай қонақ етуі – ұйғыр халқының қонақжайлылығын танытса, елден келген қазақтардың сүрленген етті бұрқыратып асып, ортаға қойып алқа-қотан отыруы – олардың арасындағы үлкен достықтың көрінісі еді.

Ес білгеннен не нәрсеге де аса көңіл қоя білетін еңбекқор Меһрибанның болашақты болжай білетін қасиеті оның тегін адам емес екендігін байқатады. Бала күнінде сүйекшілерге ілесіп көппен бірге бейіт басына баратын Меһрибан – Алла тағаладан қасиет қонып, әкесінің әруағы желеп-жебеп жүретін жан. Мектепте жүргенде күздің қара суығында аяғы малмандай су болып, кешке дейін сабақта отыратын Меһрибанның өмірде жеткен жетістіктерінің барлығы дерлік оның еңбекқорлығымен келгені белгілі. Меһрибан мен Сейітжанның Алладан сұрап, аналардың батасымен дүниеге келген қызы Самийәның Қазақстан Республикасының Президенті Н.Ә.Назарбаевтың «Болашақ» бағдарламасымен Америкада оқып жатуы – батамен ел көгеретінінің мысалы. Кішкентайынан ауыр азапты күндерді басынан кешірген кейіпкердің роман соңында ұшақта Руспен әңгімелесіп отыруы – бүгінгі бейбіт өміріміздің көрінісі.

Жазушы жекелеген кейіпкерлер, жекелеген оқиғалар арқылы қоғамдағы өзекті мәселелерге назар аудара білген. Мәселен, Саин көшесін жағалап жүріп, бес бауыры мен әке-шешесін асыраған Айнұрдың СПИД-ке шалдығып, ұяттан өртеніп жүре алмай, ауылға барған соң асылып қалуы – өмірден алынған шындық. Бұл – бүгінгі тәуелсіз Қазақстанның қасіретіне
айналып отырған дерт. Сол тәрізді шалғайдағы шағын ауылдардың жағдайын көтеру, ауыл өмірін қала тіршілігіне жақындату мәселесі де бүгінгі қоғамның кезек күттірмес проблемасы.

Қорыта айтқанда, Қазақстандағы қазақ пен ұйғыр халықтарының арасындағы мызғымас достықты паш еткен, ұйғыр халқының ұлттық болмысын әлемге танытқан, «Малым – арымның садақасы» дейтін мұсылман халқының болашақ ұрпағын тәрбиелеп отырған аналарының көркем галереясын жасаған, бүгінгі тәуелсіздігіміз жолында шаһид болған арыстарымыздың қилы тағдыры арқылы ХХ ғасырдағы тарихи оқиғаларға жан бітірген, Үлкен Шыған ауылындағы ата-аналардың мұрасын кейінгі ұрпаққа жеткізген шығарманың ғұмыры баянды болмақ.