Aleksei Polikovskii, “Мы объявляем траур”. Novaya Gazeta. July 21, 2014.
A young woman fastened her safety belt before the flight. The strap actually held her back, it didn’t tear, it didn’t let her out of her chair. Strapped in, chained to armrests torn from the airplane, she lay with her cheek on the black coal-country ground. Eyes closed. Arms spread.
War happens in someone’s brain first. It’s a disease of the brain. Then the war grows, spreads to other brains in the world, and it becomes impossible to live with all the hatred and meanness.
How corpse flies buzz over a broken body and say: “You are to blame … You are to blame! … We are not to blame! .. They’re the only ones who are guilty!” Sanctions, gas, prices, a question, he said, he announced, we to them, they to us, we to you, you are such, аnd we-and-so-on. Her arms were pretty childlike, with small fingers, the left one lay calm and serene on black, unfamiliar ground. On one foot, detached from the body, sticking out to the side, a pink pedicure.
Anyone who would like to talk with Gandhi will not talk to Gandhi. He will be talking to this woman until the end of his days.