For my ancestors, it was 1944, for me - 2014. What was before: I lived, loved, prayed (let everyone fill these words with meaning dear to him). They did not kill us in the hundreds or packed into wagons in the thousands, no.

We were abducted one by one; we were tortured: then killed; we were forced to leave our native Crimea; they put us in prison and continue to do so even now for long terms in Russian prisons. They took away our estates, and they do it now. They leave us unemployed and steal our history. This is where Hamlet would appear with “to be or not to be”. But this is not Denmark: it turns out that, in the new reality of Crimea, it was necessary “to be”.

It was necessary to go against the arbitrariness of the security forces, to reveal criminal plans. We had to do something. I would like to paraphrase a short story: First, they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a socialist. Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out— because I was not a trade unionist. Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

The history of my detention by the Russian occupiers has much in common with the detentions of other Crimean Tatars in occupied Crimea. Why? Probably because the work of the Kremlin’s secret services is the accumulation of stamps, the stereotypical thinking of officials; undisguised hostility to all “non-Russian”.

If your position does not accept the life of the wise minnow, then the question: “Will they detain me or not?” does not stand, only: “When?” My life before and after the arrest is not so interesting that I could tell a lot, but I do not know why I remembered this case.

In the early summer of 1998, as one of the deputy platoon commanders in the communications battalion, I led the company to breakfast. My sergeant friends walked inside the column and didn’t worry about anything. If it was my turn to lead the company, that would be my problem.

One, two, three! I see in front of the formation, 30-40 meters away - the brigade commander, Colonel Kudel, for many soldiers he was, if not the king, then his deputy for military training. An enormous man. When his deputy, Colonel Shcherbitsky, was not with him, one could imagine that the commander ate him. Adjusting the belt, headgear, camouflage top. The company is at a distance of ten meters. It’s time.

The company... - I address the soldiers loudly. Eyes to the centre, attention!

The company took a military step. Legs rise high, beat asphalt menacingly, totally in sync. Good. The soldiers became like stones: hands down, heads turned to the commander, only loudly stomping their feet.

What a sight for sore eyes. I am going with my left hand down and raising my right palm to my temple, this is such a military greeting from me to him.

- At ease!

- At ease! - I repeat the command.

- Sergeant, come to me - for some reason I do not like his tone. 

- Junior Sergeant Rodionov, take the company - the soldiers go without me.

- Sergeant Izetov, on your order, Colonel!

- Son, do you want to build Tarkhankut?

Of course, no one was going to build the peninsula in the west of Crimea. The most undisciplined soldiers, according to legend, went to that barren land in search of forgiveness from their commanders (heat, imported water, gigantic spiders - tarantulas, ugh ).

- No, Colonel.

- Therefore, command in Ukrainian, according to the statute of the Armed Forces of Ukraine. If I hear Russian again, you will go there. Agreed?

-Yes Colonel!

- Go!

I did not understand what Russian words got into my commands. I opened the Charter just in case. I found nothing.

Even now, I am a terrible builder, and I have no desire to go to Tarkhankut.

I don’t know, maybe my former commander is still alive, maybe he is a respected general with unlimited powers, so I write in Ukrainian according to the Charter.

If the Lord returns me to freedom in a body that will still move, talk, and think, then I will need to live twice, thrice an active life than it was before the detention.

Some greats said that rascals do not rest, and for evil to win, it is enough that good people do nothing. A good person can’t be outside of life. Do not make a deal with your conscience. Maybe when you get old you regret you did not find the courage to say “No” to tyranny.

*The style and spelling of the author are kept

First letter: You are in prison not for assault - you are in prison for your faith | Letter from political prisoner Remzi Bekirov