Juanna Artmane - Test-&-mend

© Juanna Artmane, 2021

The story within the covers of this edition is a reflection of lives – partially of my own and partially the combined image of those, I grew up surrounded by.

I was born and cultivated in the culture, where national wisdom spreads the following proverbs: “Those, who don’t beat their daughters, will beat their knees”, “Girl is a burden, like salt”, “Let a girl free and she will marry God knows whom!”. All these examples absorb the accumulated through centuries “wisdom of sages”.

Raising me, my family orthodoxly adhered to these words, which I despise and find ridiculous. Now, being a mother of two girls myself, I categorically refuse to follow these guidelines in their upbringing. I do take pains to shield them from the conventions! Unfortunately, I cannot change the situation for others!

The aim of this book is to address my nation: do you feel, it is high time we steered clear from the cliches of the past? Do you see the evil in the whole structure of our existence?

This, produced from the bottom of my heart, monologue is targeted at hundreds and thousands of those, who still fail to see the situation from aside. The story line explains in detail, what might happen to the apple of your eye – your precious princess – while you are sticking to the pecking order of these outdated rules. However, mothers, mine included, do not see a single fault and whole-heartedly support the thing, which breaks trust between them and their off-springs.

However, I do believe, they do it unintentionally! I do believe, they are blinded by the cultural taboos – they simply cannot see what harm they are doing. Probably, if I stayed in that social medium, I would think the way they do.

Thanks God, my siblings do not suffer from the broken trust; they do not witness all the domestic cruelties I had to overcome; they will not be forced to sort out the consequences this blindness entails for the rest of their lives!

People! Cruelty does not exist outwards – in some given Testament! Sadly, it exists within our hearts and not only in one sphere!

The story will take you into a city, where there are layers upon layers of violence; where the government put binds on those, they make a cat’s paw service of; where there are numerous cunning schemes to clench common people on those binds; where each family is a pyramid of cruelty that copies the brutality of the whole State. Up until now, the scheme is an uninterrupted chain…

To finish my introductory word, I would like to turn to Abu Said-al-Hudri’s catchphrase, where he suggests that we could at least change our own attitude to the things going around. This is the minimum, each of us can afford!

I plucked up the courage to write this semi-autobiographical book and share the story, which, I am absolutely sure, is and will be an eternal food for thought for many more generations to come. I must admit that my task would not be completed but for some God-blessed people that cropped up on my severe path to maturity:

– My University Teacher and the editor of this story

– Pugacheva Elena Y., who supported me through the whole process of writing;

– The person, who inspired me to undertake this responsible enterprise and to whom I express my deepest gratitude – Feshchenko Ruslan M.;

– Each member of my family, who endorses my prospects, though still not totally shares my point of view.

Do not be harsh on me!

“The previous time it didn’t take this much,” – despairingly said a shivering with cold man.

“By George! 7 f*cking hours!” – commented another, hotching from foot to foot. “Look! The cars are coming!”.

The crowd sighed with relief at the sight of the approaching engines. They were expecting to greet President, while he was being driven in his respectable cortege.

“Raise your flags! Be ready to cheerfully welcome!” – commanded well-padded police officers at the fatigue-stricken faces. The latter obeyed.

“Pre-si-dent! Re – si-dent!.. i-dent!” – chorused the herd, by order waving free flags.

The polished porches speedily passed by, splashing slush on the salutes. A glimpse of glumly grudging gazes was caught by the Leader, who was comfortably perching at the back seat of his black limousine.

“Free!” – vociferated the gendarmes, as soon as the automobiles disappeared. With heavy kicks and punches, they started to disperse the crowd that blocked the street like a flock of sheep. At the announcement, the creepy countenances, numb limbs, hungry stomachs started to scatter slowly through the muddy streets of the city “N”.

The settlement was located in the fraternal country of the post-Evil Empire. One must have a sharp eye not to take it for a rural area, as there were barely enough modern comforts. The so-called “metropolis” was scraping through the standards, typical of a city, to be called one itself. The place would offer no lanes or theatres, though it had two railroads around it, several stations of regional account and a central district, at heart of which there was a public square, surrounded with business and entertainment facilities (including a cinema house, showing no films).

Right in the middle of the square, which was considered the most significant part of the city, there were several benches, placed in such a way, that the sitting inevitably faced the main and only attraction – a grandiose masterpiece, a giant sculpture of the president. Made of clay, the monument felt grey and cold, with an air of indifference in its posture. Instead of looking at the citizens, relaxing on the wooden benches around him, the artefact rested its eyes on the Court House, located in the opposite direction. It seemed to be reading a tattered slogan over the porch: «Truth cannot be concealed!». Due to the thick layer of white glue under the thin poster, the last two letters of the word «not» looked greyish and blurred, making the whole phrase unreadable – especially at dusk.

Occasional lampposts, standing on both sides of the central avenue, laid path to a view of the town’s modest architecture. Constructed during the times of the Evil Empire, small featureless houses stayed unaltered. They were mostly built of clay, either.

In one of such habitats in the western part of the town, there lived a family – a traditionally eastern one. By local standards, the family was quite well-off. Abdul Husein, the father, kept a post of an investigator in the Central Public Prosecution Office. He was a man of Power, who could easily twist anyone's arm to make them do things in the way, suitable and lucrative for him. This particular feature of his personality allowed to line his pockets through every case, entering his office “for further investigation”. If put together with his declared income, it was a small fortune, but it could barely cover Abdul’s indulgences in cars and women. The first were used to impress those around with his authority; the latter served a substitution for the lack of natural attractiveness. By appearance, he was a man of no great stature: with pale-grey eyes framed by heavy bushy black brows. His thin brownish lips gave the right finish to an arrogant narcissistic dandy. Despite the infinite love of his wife Leila, he appeared to heighten his self-esteem only by conquering other women's hearts.