Cruel Mannequin

Sundet Muratbekuly Seitov (born October 3, 1998, Shygnaz district, Tashkent region, Republic of Uzbekistan) is a Kazakh poet and a member of the Union of Writers of Kazakhstan. He is the author of the poetry book "Umytpas" ("Unforgettable").

Cruel Mannequin

— Hello! Are you Ms. Gul?

— Yes! What are you looking for?

— What do you mean, “What are you looking for?”

— Whether I say “what” or “who,” does it really matter? Were you looking for number 6?

— Yes, I was told to come to number 6.

— In that case, open the refrigerator.

…Akqagaz, who dreams of becoming a fashion designer, had brought home mannequins of various shapes. Every day, she sewed different outfits and dressed them up. If she didn’t like the design, she undressed them, leaving them completely bare. Looking at them, you’d think even Kurman would feel cold. After all, he was a sensitive boy. Sometimes, even Akqagaz herself got scared of the mannequins in the dark. Dressed in black, they seemed ready to grab her by the throat. Imagine it yourself—you turn on the light, and suddenly, a row of mannequins in colorful outfits appears before you…

— Kurmaaaaan…

— Huh? What is it this time?

— I got scared, aaaaah!

— Akqash, instead of sewing outfits for a wicked witch, why don’t you make something for normal people? Even I get freaked out by this eerie mannequin! Why not sew a classic tuxedo for men or a stylish jacket for women? Only a lunatic would wear these witch clothes! A sane person would die of a heart attack! You dreamer!

I was already having a nightmare, and now you scared the life out of me!

— If these clothes scared me, that means I created an incredible fashion piece! Hooray! I will win a university grant with ease! This time, for the fourth attempt, I will pass the exam with my own effort, without a bribe. Oh my God!

— You and your fantasies… Just turn off the lights. I’m going to sleep.

The next morning, Akqagaz woke up to a strange noise. She thought it was the kettle boiling and jumped out of bed, rushing to the kitchen. But suddenly, she realized something—her younger brother Kurman was still in the next room, lost in deep sleep, probably brewing tea in his dreams… His snoring was so loud that even their parents woke up. Their father was so irritated that he was ready to send him straight to the village elders for discipline.

— Damn it, you rascal! Get up! Does a person really snore that loudly? We all woke up at five in the morning, thinking someone was making tea! You’re disturbing everyone’s sleep. Get up!

— Oh, come on, Dad! Let me sleep a little longer!

— No sleeping! It’s already noon. The sun is right above your head, and you’re still lying down? Get up, I said!

— Ugh, Daaad! First, Akqash kept me awake last night with her screaming, and now you’re yelling in the morning! The only thing making it feel like daytime is the light in my face—it’s still just 5:00 AM!

Kurman was a notorious troublemaker. Because of his mischief, his parents had to transfer him from school to school. His sister, Akqagaz, was like the female version of him—at least at home. However, at school, she was an excellent student and well-behaved. Calling her a troublemaker would be an exaggeration; being their father’s favorite, she was just a bit spoiled. As for Kurman, now that he was over twenty, he wasn’t as wild as before. He had become calm, reserved, and even intellectual. His songs were about the people, and his words were for the people. It seemed like he had a bright future ahead—perhaps he would become a public figure who truly cared about his country…

Their mother prepared breakfast and called her husband and children to the table. The moment she said, “Come eat,” they all gathered around in an instant. Their father began the meal with “Bismillah” and took the first bite. The eating process was in full swing… Mmm, so delicious! Three candies, four pieces of baursak, seven walnuts…

While driving his car, their father often gave lectures to passengers about society and politics. He couldn’t resist continuing his usual talk at the breakfast table:

— Our country has a bleak future. That mayor is an absolute fool. He was dozing off at the meeting!

— Oh, old man, can’t you keep politics away from the table? Who even thinks about the fate of people like us? Forget the mayor—wasn’t the President himself put in office thanks to us, the teachers? If we hadn’t “borrowed” votes for the dominant party during the election, there wouldn’t be a Parliament or a President!

Sensing the conversation taking a risky turn, Akqagaz anxiously tried to steer it in another direction.

— Mom, God willing, one day I’ll be designing suits for Presidents, mayors, and ministers! A good word is half of success, so please don’t say such things. What if the police take us away just for this conversation?

Her father raised an eyebrow, doubtful.

— Akqash, by the time you become a designer and start making suits for them, the common people will be left naked. Instead of sewing for those big shots, make suits for the people.

— But, Dad, if most people are illiterate and ignorant, how will they even wear a suit properly? A suit needs the right owner!

— So only crooks and dictators get to wear suits now?

— Daaaad, that’s not what I meant! Suits should be worn by intellectuals!

As the conversation took an amusing turn, Kurman decided to chime in:

— Akqash, before dressing the President, try putting the suit on a mannequin first. Otherwise, it might not fit. And if it doesn’t fit, you’ll lock yourself in your room and cry, hahaha!

— Kurmaaan, don’t get on my nerves! Or else, I’ll turn your pants into a hat and make you wear it! Hmph!

Lost in the engaging conversation at the breakfast table, the family didn’t even realize how long they had been sitting there. They soon understood that politics and society only existed within their discussions and quickly got back to their daily routines. The father left to drive passengers, the mother went to teach, and Akqagaz started cleaning the house.

Still caught up in the excitement of the morning’s discussion, Kurman had an idea. He grabbed his best suit, dress shirt, and tie—his formal outfit for special occasions—and dressed one of the hunched-over mannequins in the room. The suit fit the slender mannequin perfectly, as if it had been tailored for it. Yet, something still felt incomplete.

Kurman stood in thought, then, as if struck by an apple falling from a tree, he suddenly grabbed his mother’s thick-framed glasses and placed them on the mannequin. That was it! Now it truly looked like a distinguished man. However, there was still one thing missing. The mannequin was bald. It needed hair. Not just any hair—something that would suit its hunched-over frame, something that gave it the look of an aging intellectual. Black and white mixed hair, just like an old wise man’s.

Kurman, with nothing better to do, seemed to have the makings of a talented stylist. He had taken a lifeless, naked figure and turned it into something almost human with just some fabric and accessories.

Without hesitation, he rushed to the marketplace. And if you’re wondering what for—of course, to buy a wig!

Finding exactly what he needed, he quickly purchased an artificial wig from the first row of the market. Eager to complete his masterpiece, he hurried home. As soon as he stepped inside, he saw Akqagaz laughing so hard she could barely breathe. She was clutching her sides, her ribs probably aching from the laughter.

Kurman wasted no time. He placed the wig on the mannequin’s head. Oh, what a charming old man it had become! Bravo, Kurmash!

Akqagaz was astonished. She had never seen such enthusiasm from Kurman before.

— Aaaaaah, Kurmaaaash!

— Oh, for God’s sake, what now?

— Kurmaaash, you’re a true stylist! How did I never notice this before?

— Oh, come on! Even I never noticed it. I have no idea why I went all the way there just to get this wig, but once I started, I had to finish. Turns out, styling has its own kind of satisfaction, huh? Feels pretty great!

— I’m serious! You have real talent as a stylist. But… your physique and personality don’t match the profession. To be a stylist, you have to be delicate, elegant, you know?

— Akqash, you’re such a strange person. Do I really need to have thin, arched eyebrows and a slender frame just to be a stylist? Is that some kind of civic duty now? I think that’s a ridiculous notion. Even a bodybuilder can be a stylist if they want to!

— Hmmm, whatever! But you’re really good at this. Just don’t give up—if your “heart” is in it!

Feeling proud after Akqagaz’s kind words, Kurman gazed at his well-dressed, “adorable mannequin grandpa,” lost in thought. He had always mocked Akqagaz for being too imaginative, but now, it seemed he had caught the “imagination virus” himself. As if infected with COVID-19, he was breathing in nothing but fantasy.

Snapping out of his thoughts, he carefully placed the “charming mannequin grandpa” next to the television, where everyone could see it.

Did the sun set, or had the evening simply fallen? Either way, it was dark outside. Suddenly, the front gate creaked loudly, letting out a piercing screech. It was his father returning home. He drove in with a stern expression, his face clouded with frustration. The car he was driving was only fifteen years younger than him. At forty-five years old, he owned a thirty-year-old vehicle—a 1992 Opel Vectra from Germany. Ah, Opel! If oil had been sustaining the country for thirty years, then Opel had been sustaining this family. A truly economical, humble, and resilient car!

His father’s scowl showed no signs of softening. It seemed he had heard some bad news.

“Damn this government! Just when I’m struggling to buy winter tires, they introduce another fine. The law took effect today, and I had the honor of being its first victim—$200! How am I supposed to pay that? The New Year is coming up, and we can’t just ignore it like it’s any other day.”

Hearing the commotion, Akqagaz rushed out of her room, alarmed.

“Dad, what happened? Is everything okay?”

“What do you think happened? The same old story—road troubles and ridiculous fines. I have to pay $200.”

“Ugh, bad luck! But why are you talking about the fine in dollars? There’s a perfectly good currency called the tenge!”

“If you convert $200 into our poor tenge, it’s somewhere around a hundred and something thousand. Honestly, thinking in tenge gives me a headache. I prefer dollars—at least they don’t change value every other day.”

“Still, we should think in tenge, Dad! But save money in dollars!”

“Oh really? That thought never even crossed my mind. My daughter is so smart. Come here, let me kiss your forehead. Mwah! Hey, where’s Qurman?”

Hearing his father’s grumbling sparked another idea in Qurman’s mind—he would dress up another mannequin, one even older than the “charming old man” he had already created. What would it look like?

Qurman’s creativity was flourishing; he now spent all his time lost in imagination. He had developed an interest in recreating the faces of political figures he saw on television every day. The “charming old man” mannequin already bore a striking resemblance to someone, though Qurman wasn’t quite sure who.

Saying “Bismillah,” he eagerly began dressing up another mannequin. This time, he had no spare suit of his own, so he took his father’s formal suit—the one he wore to weddings and celebrations. He grabbed a tie as well. Taking everything he needed, he carefully dressed the mannequin.

After stepping back and inspecting his work, he realized something was still missing. The mannequin’s build was too slim and straight—it needed more weight, more presence. An idea struck him: he could stuff the suit with cotton to make it look like the mannequin had a round belly. He got to work, stuffing and shaping until the mannequin took on the form he envisioned. Then, he tightened the tie.

Now, he had two figures standing side by side next to the television—the “charming old man” and the newly crafted, slightly overweight, imposing figure. If you looked them in the eyes, it felt as though they were staring back, silently demanding, “What are you looking at?” If you examined them closely, they bore an uncanny resemblance to certain individuals. But no matter.

Just then, his father emerged from the bathroom, humming a tune as he walked into the living room. The moment he spotted the two mannequin elders standing by the television, he nearly jumped out of his skin. Terrified, he let out a string of colorful curses, each starting with “S,” “B,” “Z,” or “Q.”

It’s natural, after all—when someone gets scared, they react either through action or words. His poor father did both.

•Kurmaaaash!

•Yeees, Daaad?!

•Come here! What kind of creepy things did you put next to the TV? I nearly had a heart attack when I saw these two hunchbacked mannequin old men!

•Oh my God, Dad! When Akkaqsh sews clothes for a witch, you don’t get scared, but when I dress up some mannequin old men, you freak out. What a paradoxical family! Oh my God! Aaa… If they scared you, that means I created an amazing fashion piece, right? Hooray!

•Astaghfirullah, now we have a second dreamer in the house! Unbelievable…

As dusk settled, their mother returned from school. Exhausted after a long day of teaching, the mistress of the house instructed Akkaqaz to prepare dinner. In the blink of an eye, dinner was ready, and everyone gathered around the table. Kurman, the stylist, looked at his father with curiosity, thinking, “Apparently, hungry people really do just want to eat.”

•Dad, enjoy your meal!

•Ah, thank you, son!

•Dad, you came home angry today. What happened? Were you just really hungry?

•Oh, son, it wasn’t hunger that made me angry. It was the loss of my dignity…

His wife nearly choked on her tea, coughing violently.

•For God’s sake, can we not talk about politics at the dinner table? It’s politics at work, politics at home. I’m so tired of it! Today, the higher-ups assigned a young teacher to decorate the New Year’s tree. He fell from the top of the tree and is now in intensive care. And here I am, barely managing myself, while you stir up unnecessary conversations…

•Hey, woman, is that teacher dying? Who will take responsibility for this? What will happen to his wife and children?

•It looks like he’ll survive. But the management is avoiding responsibility, covering their tracks. They’re turning on each other. I just hope innocent people don’t suffer because of it…

•Damn those scoundrels! That’s our government for you! They don’t respect their people, they don’t protect citizens’ rights or safety. What a miserable society we live in! Even Kurman is protesting—he put two mannequin old men who look like bureaucrats next to the TV. You should see their faces—absolutely terrifying!

Kurman glanced back at his mannequins. He couldn’t recognize who the shorter one resembled. However, its expression looked sterner than the “charming mannequin old man” standing beside it. And that charming mannequin… it looked very familiar. But who did it resemble? He couldn’t quite place it. Oh well, maybe it would come to him later. In the meantime, he felt like all 32 of his teeth were about to fall out from frustration.

Not wanting to waste time, Kurman decided to watch the news. He put his smartphone on silent mode and focused on the screen.

Ding-ding-ding-turu-ru-ru… Today’s news…

…He was staggering forward, struggling under a heavy load, when suddenly, he saw a giant figure ahead of him. When he looked down and saw that even the giant’s toes were a hundred times bigger than himself, he nearly fainted. Can a person really be this enormous? Wow!

The giant was at least ten times larger than the swaddled baby he had once seen at someone’s house, and not only that—he was strong and could even speak! Suddenly, the giant’s right foot lifted into the air and began to plummet towards the ground.

Realizing he could be crushed at any moment, he made a split-second decision to run for his life. In sheer panic, he dropped his burden like a bouncing ball and bolted away. By some miracle, he managed to reach a safe spot just in time. The giant foot crashed to the ground with a thunderous boom, nearly splitting the earth in two. The entire landscape trembled. In the distance, the cries of panicked people echoed.

As if that weren’t enough, a massive hand then came swooping down. Its fingers, each the size of a towering sequoia tree, began scratching at the ankle of the enormous foot. And just like that, the entire world was covered in a blanket of white snow.

What a breathtaking sight!

The enormous foot kept shifting—one moment left, the next moment right—putting his life in constant danger. The poor thing, who had yet to experience the joys and struggles of life, decided he needed to return to the anthill where he belonged… before it was too late.

Kurman often imagined his country as a magical place, just like the stunning scenes he saw on TV. But this time, on a different channel, he witnessed the grim reality of his homeland. Crying citizens, young criminals, a heartless father abandoning his children, and a society drowning in corruption—it all weighed heavily on him.

For the first time, he truly understood the frustration his parents always expressed at the dinner table. He wanted to share his realization with his sister, Akqagaz. Without hesitation, he rushed to her room.

— Akqash, I just watched the news. So many people are jobless. Homeless families were crying on camera, pleading with the government for help. But on another channel, they proudly claimed our country is one of the most developed in the world. If that’s true, why does Papa come home worried every day?

— Ugh, Kurmash, what does Papa ever like? He just complains about everything—always blaming the government.

— Maybe he has a point. He works as a taxi driver every day, meeting all kinds of people. Just think logically—if our country is so developed, why doesn’t Papa have a new car? Why don’t we live in a fully equipped, comfortable home? Why do we have to take out loans and pay them off every month? And why, even though you’ve scored high for four years in a row, can’t you get a scholarship?

— You’re right… Why are we always struggling? Everyone’s biggest dream is just to buy a nice car and a good apartment. That’s absurd! Look at social media or talk to people—owning a car and a house is considered the ultimate achievement.

— Exactly! People here don’t see those things as basic necessities. This year, we couldn’t even celebrate New Year’s properly. That means we’re suffering from a materialistic disease! We’re sick! Even after paying off a loan, you immediately want to take another one, even if you don’t need it. A person who is free from debt loses motivation.

In the next room, their father was reading a newspaper when he overheard their conversation. They seemed to be discussing something important—society, the people, cars, something serious. Curious about what was happening in the country, he went to the living room, turned on the TV, and sat down with a cup of coffee to watch the evening news.

The headlines flashed across the screen, and one in particular caught his eye—gas prices in the west had doubled, angering the people. Protests had broken out in the central square, with citizens demanding lower prices.

He suddenly remembered an event from ten years ago when oil workers in the same region protested for their constitutional rights. The government had responded with gunfire, massacring them in a single day. The memory sent chills down his spine.

He hoped such a tragedy wouldn’t happen again. But deep down, he knew his country well. Here, peaceful protesters holding signs were labeled as troublemakers and drug addicts—and the government had no hesitation in silencing them with bullets.

And the worst part? They always justified their actions as being “for the future of the country.”

He no longer expected justice.

The faces of the citizens speaking in front of the camera do not resemble well-groomed individuals as one might expect. A moment ago, a man demanded timely payment of wages and lower food prices, addressing his appeal to the president. The man, nearing his forties, looked utterly worn out. The deep wrinkles on his face revealed a life filled not with wonders but with suffering. His mouth showed signs of missing and damaged teeth—he probably had only ten or fifteen left. Humans are naturally born with thirty-two teeth, so where had the rest gone?

Of course, a poor Kazakh, struggling to survive, does not even dream, let alone worry about losing teeth. And if he does dream, his dreams are nightmares—visions of oppression and hardship. With no choice but to interpret those dreams as good omens, he simply carries on with his life. Before worrying about his teeth, he must think about his wife and children’s well-being.

Unable to watch the distressing news any longer, the father, outraged by the injustice, tore apart the newspaper that described his country’s supposedly wonderful life and shouted in anger:

“Damn this government! You’re about to start shooting innocent people again, you scoundrels! Not in thirty years, not even in three hundred years, but in five hundred and fifty years, you have accomplished nothing! Maybe your ancestors were warriors, but how could they allow pathetic men like you to sit on the throne? How could they let an entire noble nation be slaughtered and scattered? And you call them heroes? Curse them all!”

The father threw the shredded newspaper pieces at the old mannequins standing beside the television.

Lost in his endless imagination, Kurman vaguely heard his father’s sharp voice. Thinking it was just another one of his usual outbursts, he didn’t pay much attention. He put on his headphones and started browsing social media. Various ads and posts flashed across his screen. Suddenly, he came across news of unrest in the western part of the country. The sight of thousands of people gathered in the square shocked him. Unaware of the reasons behind the protest, he only began to understand the situation after seeing footage of other regions organizing peaceful demonstrations in support of the western protesters. Without hesitation, he rushed to his father.

“Dad, have you seen the latest news? A huge protest has started in the west! And now other regions are organizing peaceful rallies to support them.”

“Yes, I saw it, and I’m deeply worried. Ten years ago, the people in that same region rose in protest. But the government refused to listen to their demands, labeling them criminals and drug addicts, and then mercilessly gunned them down. I can only hope things don’t end the same way this time. That’s probably why people in other cities are also taking to the streets—to make sure the bloodshed doesn’t repeat itself. But dealing with this ruthless government is like talking to a brick wall. These scoundrels disguise their tyranny under the mask of democracy, bragging about their so-called freedom to the world. But when it comes to their own citizens, they kill, persecute, and imprison them. If the people throw one stone, the government fires a thousand bullets. That’s why authoritarian regimes fear even the smallest pebble. May God protect us from this calamity.”

Shaken by recent events, Kurman also wanted to join the peaceful protest and demand his constitutional rights. With this determination, he started searching for potential protest locations in the country’s third-largest city. In the end, he decided to head toward the administrative building. Protests usually took place during the day, but this time, it was happening at night. Why? He would find out when he got there.

Aqqagaz had turned a corner of her bedroom into a small sewing workshop. She would start working early in the morning and wouldn’t be free until late in the evening. As usual, she was busy sewing, completely unaware of what was happening either at home or in the country. She was so deeply in love with her craft that she was ready to dedicate her entire life to becoming a great designer.

However, aside from her passion for design, she had another persistent “headache.” Now that she was in her twenties, relatives and friends constantly asked her: “When are you getting married?” This was the most irritating, most unpleasant question for her. Sometimes, she would reflect deeply on this topic:

“How can a girl who hasn’t received an education, hasn’t learned a profession, and hasn’t interacted with people in a good environment get married and raise children? Let’s say she does get married and have children. If she has no life experience, no perspective beyond working and making money, how will she raise her child to be a wise person? A child takes after the mother more than the father. And every woman who dreams of becoming a mother should be educated, knowledgeable, and have a profession. If she succeeds in her chosen field and earns an honest living, won’t she become a wise mother? Won’t she know her worth? Won’t she attract a man who values her just as much? Today, our society’s illness is fueled by purposeless, hopeless, and ignorant families. But I want to build a family that will cure this disease. I want my children to grow up as loyal citizens of their homeland…”

And those who dream, achieve.

Five days after the New Year, the situation in the country escalated. What had initially begun as a peaceful protest spread to every region, and the people became restless. The crowd, which had started with thousands, quickly grew into hundreds of thousands. Various groups with hidden agendas also seized the opportunity to act. But the people’s demands were clear and unwavering: to march peacefully and demand justice and honesty from the government.

Kurman’s father, who was working as a taxi driver, noticed thousands of people heading toward the administrative center. A thick fog had settled over the city, and the cold was biting. People’s shouts echoed through the streets as police vehicles moved alongside the crowd. The once quiet city streets were now filled with unrest. No matter which road he took, he kept running into peaceful protesters. Some were singing the national anthem, while others were chanting slogans as they advanced toward the administration building. Passersby voluntarily joined the protest, eager to voice their demands.

Seeing this, Kurman’s father felt a surge of emotions. He wanted to join the march, but who would earn money if he did? And what if the peaceful demonstration turned into a violent crackdown—who could guarantee his safety?

“A wise man knows when to step back,” he thought.

Without hesitation, he turned his car toward home.

Most roads were jammed, making it difficult to drive. If he didn’t get out of the area soon, he might end up stuck in the middle of the protest. Grabbing his phone, he tried calling his wife, Aqqagaz, and Kurman, but just then, the internet was shut down, and all communication was lost. He couldn’t reach anyone, nor could he receive any news. Left with no choice, he pressed on toward home.

The thick fog seemed to be leading everyone straight to the administrative center.

Aqqagaz was in her room, fully immersed in her work, listening to soothing music. Her only thought was to create a unique piece of clothing. She was about to sketch her design on paper and start sewing when suddenly—

BANG!

The front gate slammed shut with a loud noise.

Even with her headphones on, Aqqagaz jumped in shock. She ran outside. Her father had just arrived, visibly distressed. As soon as he got out of the car, he asked:

— “Where is Kurman?!”

Kurman wasn’t home. There was no way to contact him.

Her father rushed inside and turned on the television. The screen showed a live broadcast. A government official was announcing that “terrorists have infiltrated the country, and in order to prevent danger, a shoot-to-kill order has been given.”

But there was no video footage—only a lifeless voice delivering the message.

Kurman’s father immediately suspected that his son had gone to the administrative center. If only he could find him there in one piece… He had no time to lose.

As he hurriedly reached for his money bag from the TV stand, the strap got caught on one of Kurman’s mannequins. The figure, elegantly dressed with a neatly tied necktie, tilted and fell to the ground.

For a moment, Kurman’s father froze. The mannequin looked eerily like someone—someone who irritated him to his core. His frustration boiled over, and he punched it.

The mannequin landed on its back, its tie fluttering slightly as it hit the floor.

Shaking off the uneasy feeling, he rushed out, started his car, and sped toward the administrative center.

Seeing her father so furious left Aqqagaz feeling lost. She wanted to cry, but who would comfort her? Her mother wasn’t home, and neither was Kurman.

She tried calling them again, but the network was still down.

She had no idea where to go or what to do.

After taking a deep breath to steady herself, she quickly threw a light shawl over her shoulders and ran toward the school where her mother worked.

The mother’s heart senses everything. After lunch, she felt restless, and a dull ache settled in her chest. Her blood pressure fluctuated, making it difficult for her to work. Something felt off. She kept checking the clock—the time dragged on. She glanced at her phone—no signal. She couldn’t understand why the internet was down.

Suddenly, the vice principal entered her office and instructed everyone to finish their lessons and go home. Just then, Akqagaz burst through the door, her throat tight with suppressed sobs. The moment she saw her mother, she broke down in tears. The mother, sensing something was wrong, immediately asked what had happened. She was already aware of the latest news in the country. Her colleagues had told her that people had taken to the streets in a peaceful protest, marching toward the administrative center.

When she heard that there was no word from Qurman, she froze. Telling Akqagaz to go home, she set off to search for her son at the administrative center.

The streets were eerily empty—no buses, no cars. She decided to take a shortcut, walking through the backstreets. The city was a city in name only; in reality, it was just a large village, full of barns and sheds. As she hurried along, she suddenly noticed two elderly women in the street, nearly at each other’s throats in a heated argument.

She considered walking past them, but it felt improper to ignore them. She thought of intervening, but her heart was elsewhere. The uncertainty about her son’s fate gnawed at her. Yet, something made her stop and ask what the argument was about.

The taller of the two, a fair-skinned, elegant-looking old woman, was the first to speak:

“Oh, dear child, don’t mind us! This is just a habit we’ve had for sixty years. If we don’t argue at least once a day, we get headaches, and we can’t sleep properly! But really, we get along just fine. It’s just that this senile old woman has an evil eye! Whenever she looks at someone, they end up falling sick. That’s why I always tell her, ‘If you stare at someone, at least spit three times to ward it off!’”

The short, blue-eyed woman across from her, clearly irritated, snapped back:

“Oh, neighbor, who have I ever cursed with my eyes? If my gaze is so dangerous, should I just drop dead? Yesterday, when your son came back from abroad, we all gathered at your house to see your youngest grandchild. Everyone was fine! We had a wonderful time together. So what’s the problem now?”

The tall woman folded her arms.

“Well, just before you arrived, my little grandson was playing happily, his cheeks plump, a big smile on his face. But the moment you walked in and said, ‘Oh, what an adorable child,’ I thought to myself, ‘I hope this old woman leaves soon.’ And sure enough, as soon as you left, my grandson doubled over in pain. His stomach was hurting all night! Oh, your cursed eyes!”

The blue-eyed woman threw up her hands.

“I spit three times for good luck, didn’t I?”

“Bah! Spit all you want, but stop staring at people with those wide, piercing eyes of yours! And don’t think I’ve forgotten—before this, you used to stare longingly at my cow, the one that gave the richest milk! And then, just a few days ago, when my cow wandered into your unfenced cornfield and ate some of your crops, you cursed her until your tongue nearly fell out!”

“Oh, dear Lord, my good neighbor! I admired your cow, yes, and I cursed it, too. But I also spat to ward off the bad luck! What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal?” The tall woman huffed. “The very next day, we had to slaughter the poor cow!”

The mother stood there, torn between laughter and sorrow at the absurdity of it all. Without saying another word, she hurried off toward the administrative center, her mind consumed by one thought—her son’s safety.

As she neared the square, a thick cloud of smoke stung her nostrils. Then, just a hundred paces ahead, a public bus exploded into flames. People screamed and ran in every direction.

Witnessing the chaos with her own eyes, she plunged into the heart of it, desperately searching for her son. But how could she find him among thousands? The streets leading to the square were littered with lifeless bodies. Her heart pounded against her ribs, her breath caught in her throat. Overcome with grief, she let out a piercing wail.

Elsewhere in the crowd, the father was also searching for Qurman. They were in the same place, yet completely unaware of each other.

His old car was in ruins. The clashes between civilians and the police had left it battered, its windows shattered, its body dented by stones.

Before he could process what was happening, riot police wearing helmets descended upon him. They dragged him out of the car and beat him mercilessly.

A heavy blow to the head sent him into unconsciousness.

As he lost himself in the darkness, the last thing he did was call out his son’s name… and then, silence.

By around ten at night, the clashes began to subside, and the number of protesters dwindled. Only those desperately searching for their loved ones remained in the square. Some rushed to scour the city’s hospitals and morgues. Having no other choice, the mother followed them, heading toward the nearest hospital. She ran through the streets, her mind consumed by a single question: Is my son safe?

She finally reached her destination. In the hospital courtyard, dozens of people stood, unable to find peace, praying for the safety of their loved ones. Oh, these poor people… Citizens of a broken nation!

A duty doctor, scanning the list in his hands, called out, “Are there any relatives of So-and-So?” One by one, he read through the names. Upon hearing their loved ones’ names, some rushed toward the morgue, while others headed to the hospital wards. The mother, nearly losing her breath, strained her ears, hoping—yet fearing—to hear her son’s name. If it was called, where would she have to go? To the morgue or to a patient ward?..

The father opened his eyes. The moment he awoke, he realized he was trapped in a stone-cold prison. The chilling screams and sobs from neighboring isolation cells weighed down on him like a nightmare. No sane person could remain unaffected by such sounds.

“Confess your crime!”

Those words echoed through the halls, striking fear into his already trembling heart. What crime? He didn’t even know what he was accused of. He was terrified that if they turned their wrath on him, he might confess to something he hadn’t done just to escape the agony.

Suddenly, the blood-curdling screams of two young men pierced the air. It wasn’t the usual cries of pain—this was ten times more harrowing. The father shuddered. Moments later, two guards dragged the young men past his cell.

One had the skin on his back completely flayed. The other’s flesh was scorched, blackened like a charred fish. The sight was horrifying.

The interrogator’s voice boomed through the hallway:

“If you don’t confess, I’ll press a scorching iron against your backs, pour boiling water over your heads, and force you to wash your hair with shampoo!”

Terror gripped the detainees. The father imagined himself in their place. If they did that to me, I would confess to anything, even if I were innocent… He knew he wouldn’t be able to withstand such torture.

A Nation of Contradictions

This country’s entire system was built on cruelty and mercilessness. Yet, before the world, it played the role of a peaceful, democratic society. The hypocrisy was infuriating. In this nation, the impossible was possible, and the possible was impossible—a land of contradictions.

Before the arrival of the colonizers, this was a land of true democracy, where people could challenge even their own rulers and demand justice without fear. But after centuries of oppression, that proud, free-spirited nation had been reduced to a submissive, broken people. Three hundred years of subjugation had made tyranny the norm—its government and police had become ruthless oppressors. And the people? Their suffering needed no explanation. One only had to step inside a prison cell to understand…

Freedom, but at What Cost?

There is a God…

A single day in that isolation cell had been enough to crush the father’s spirit. He had always cursed the government under his breath, but now he fully realized how justified his words had been.

By some miracle, he was released—his innocence proven. The moment he was set free, he rushed toward the square, desperate to find his son.

First, he searched for his car. When he finally spotted it, his heart sank. It was nothing but a burnt-out wreck, destroyed beyond recognition. Only one thing remained untouched—the sticker Kurman had placed on it, reading “My Homeland.”

The words had survived. But what about Kurman?

This very car had brought him to the square in search of his son. Now, after thirty years of faithful service, it had met its end here…

The streets were desolate. No honking cars, no pedestrians, not even a lone eccentric riding a donkey. Only a ruined city, the stench of blood, smoke, and the father—alone.

He wandered like a madman, muttering incoherently. Then, as if jolted awake, he snapped back to reality and sprinted home. His mind could focus on only one thing: Kurman!

“Please, my son, don’t die… I beg you…” he sobbed as he ran.

Tears streamed down his face. He ran and ran.

On the roadside, he spotted a car speeding toward him. Desperate, he waved his hands, signaling for it to stop.

The driver took one look at the father’s face and understood everything. Without a word, he let him in and handed him a bottle of water.

- Brother, are you alright? Where should I take you?

- Am I dead or alive? I don’t know… But I need to go home. “Son, please, don’t die…”

- Brother, don’t worry. Believe that everything will be okay. May your son return safely!

- May your words come true… I just want my son to come back alive. Who would have thought we’d suffer like this in our own land, in our own country?

- Brother, this society is turning into a brutal regime, a land of death. It’s terrifying… Yet, we still hold on to hope.

Aqqagaz sat leaning against the wall near the entrance, staring blankly into the distance. It was obvious she hadn’t slept. The weight of worrying about her father, mother, and younger brother, Qurman, was unbearable. One day, ten days—perhaps she could go a lifetime without closing her eyes. She cried and cried.

As she looked out the window toward the street, the gate creaked open with a loud groan. The moment she saw her father, his clothes tattered and his body weakened, she nearly lost consciousness. Rushing outside, she broke down in tears.

- Papa! What happened to you? Where have you been? Are you hurt?

- My daughter, my dear, don’t cry! I’m okay! Where’s your mother? Has Qurman come home?

- No, Papa… No news from Mom or Qurman. I didn’t know what to do. I was all alone in the house… I was so scared!

- Oh, God… Where have you gone, my dears? Where are you? Please don’t die! Oh, Allah, if You exist, tell me where my loved ones are!

- Papa, let’s go inside. Then we’ll go search for them together.

- My dear Aqqagaz, how can I step into this house when your mother and Qurman are missing? How can I cross this threshold?

- Papa, please, let’s stay strong! Let’s go inside!

In just one day, their entire world had turned upside down. The house was cold, as if all warmth had been drained from it. The darkness inside felt like an endless abyss. The father, devastated, kept checking his phone, trying to find an internet connection. He moved from the window to the doorway and back again. Finally, a single bar of signal appeared. He immediately called Qurman.

A voice answered.

- Hello, Qurman?

- Hello, sir. Who are you to him?

- I am his father! Who are you?

- I am a staff member at the central hospital. We couldn’t reach out to inform you earlier… We couldn’t unlock his phone. I’m so sorry, but… your son has passed away. A bullet went through his forehead and chest. We sent his body to the morgue yesterday.

- What? Hello? Doctor? Why… why did my son die?

- Sir, I understand your pain. I don’t even dare to tell you to stay strong… May your son rest in peace. Our deepest condolences… Please come to the morgue this afternoon to claim his body.

This is fate’s gift and its torment. Hearing the words “has passed away” is unbearable for anyone. There’s nothing you can do.

Hearing her father’s wailing cries, Akqagaz seemed to understand everything. She, too, was overcome with grief and began to sob uncontrollably. As her father stepped through the door, weeping, he embraced his daughter tightly.

“We’ve lost Qurman, my daughter…” he wept.

The house filled with cries, tears flowing endlessly…

With his head bowed low, the father trudged into the living room, intending to call his wife. But suddenly, his eyes landed on the “charming mannequin old man” standing next to the television. It was as if he saw a living person before him.

Clenching his fists, he lunged at the mannequin’s collar.

“You cursed wretch! It’s all because of you! You killed my son! If it weren’t for you, my Qurman would have stayed home. He would have said, ‘Papa, enjoy your meal.’ My son would have become a talented stylist. It was Qurman who dressed you in a fine suit, who made you presentable! And this is how you repay him, you scoundrel? You monster! You heartless fiend!”

Blinded by grief, he threw a punch at the mannequin. He tore its shirt and suit, yanked its tie, and tried to strangle it.

Akqagaz rushed forward to pull her father away, desperate to calm him down. But he paid no heed. The helpless mannequin, shattered into pieces, lay sprawled on the floor, its empty eyes staring back at the grieving man…

They both knew that the dead do not return.

Now, they had to bring Qurman’s body home. First, they had to call his mother. Delivering this kind of news wasn’t easy. For a mother, hearing such words was no different from dying herself.

The father dialed her number. She answered.

“We’ve lost Qurman…”

Before her husband and daughter could arrive, the mother had already gone to the hospital’s reception desk to ask where her son was.

The duty doctor found Qurman’s name not among the patients in the wards, but in the list of the deceased.

Her heart felt as if it would burst. Losing a child—who could bear such agony?

Staggering like a drunken person, she made her way toward the morgue. She knew she didn’t have the strength to see her son’s lifeless body, yet she braced herself for the unbearable.

As she approached, an unfamiliar scent reached her nose—pungent, suffocating, terrifying.

Cold.

So unbearably cold.

At the entrance to the morgue, she stopped at the information desk…