Free The Mountain and the Wall by Alisa Ganieva Page B

changed the name of our ancient mosque in Baku from ‘Lezgi Mosque’ to ‘Twelfth-Century Mosque!’ How can we stand idly by and let that happen? In Karabakh they turned our countrymen into cannon fodder, and even fired on them from behind! They give them no autonomy whatsoever! And what if they start in with pogroms? What will we do then? Russia won’t help us!”
    “The Russians are dirty cowards!” Shamil’s neighbor bellowed.
    “You know, don’t you, that the best Azeri poets, the best athletes, the best composers, all of them have been Lezgians who were fluent in Persian. They adapted everything to their own culture. But we must remember that we’re not alone! The Talysh also want to split off from Azerbaijan! The Zakatal and Belokan Avars want to split from the Azeris! Remember how hard it is for our brothers the Udins. They may be Christians, but they’re Lezgians too, their roots are here in Caucasian Albania! And there are only four thousand of them left! We’ve sat around long enough under the Avars and Dargins. Even the Kumyks in Dagestan have more seats in Parliament than we do, and we were here before the Kumyks! Let us unite northern and southern Lezgistan!Those internationalists who are sitting out there on the square,” the dark-skinned man nodded in the direction of the city, “are undoubtedly Azeri agents and traitors to the Lezgian people! They’re making money on the backs of our unfortunate countrymen, whom the Azeris enslave and treat like pariahs.”
    The crowd bustled and shouted. Shamil couldn’t make out what they were saying. His young neighbor bellowed through his hands: “The tsaps are assholes! Total assholes!”
    Then there was someone new standing next to Shamil and his noisy neighbor. It was a young man with a protruding lower lip—the same one Shamil had seen at the newspaper.
    “Hey, sissy, shut your trap, yelling is for grownups,” he said, crowding the man to one side.
    “So, are you a tsap too, or what?” smirked the loudmouth.
    Several onlookers turned to look at them.
    “Not at all, I’m a Lezgian myself, but I know the Azeris inside out. Who are they going to give autonomy to? The likes of you? You must have heard by now that Russia has closed itself off from us!”
    “You, gada, what are you spouting off about?” drawled someone in the crowd, stepping closer.
    “Brother, don’t muck everything up,” Shamil intervened, nudging the kid with the lip to one side and looking him straight in the eye. “Don’t make a stink, they’ll rip you to shreds.”
    Unexpectedly, the kid calmed down and obediently took a few steps back.
    In the ensuing pause Shamil could hear the next speaker, a man neatly dressed in a suit jacket despite the heat:
    “They drew the national border between the Russian Federation and Azerbaijan along the Samur River channel without any discussion with the people there! As a result, entire Lezgian villages and enclavesformed on the territory of Azerbaijan. I got a letter from a group of people in the village of Khrakh-Uba, complaining that for many years they’ve been living there like unwelcome aliens. And on their own land, too! They’re experiencing the same kinds of problems as illegal immigrants in a foreign country! The people of Khrakh-Uba sent a whole series of appeals to both the central and local governments. And what was the response? All the bureaucrats sitting in Derbent can think about are their own personal waterfront properties! All they can come up with is, ‘if you don’t like it, then move.’ But how are they supposed to move, with their family cemeteries and historical lands in Azeri hands? And what if we try to drive the Azeris from Southern Dagestan, what then? The Republic owes us an answer. Why won’t they help their own disenfranchised people? Why isn’t a single one of them here to speak with us?”
    Someone poked Shamil in the shoulder. “What’s with all the bitching and moaning? Is your pal here