The Village Without Water
Almaty is Kazakhstan’s largest city.
Scattered around Almaty are small towns and numerous villages. Their residents commute to work in the big city. Yet life in the metropolis differs starkly from life in the nearby villages. And it’s not just that there is no McDonald’s in the village—often, settlements located just a couple of dozen kilometers from Almaty have no running water or electricity. This contrast between urban civilization and rural decay is staggering.
Once, residents of one such village contacted the newspaper where I worked as a journalist with a complaint. The village had been without water for two years. The villagers had lodged complaints with the local administration, the police, and the prosecutor’s office, but to no avail. So, as a last resort, they decided to turn to journalists for help. They hoped that perhaps the authorities would hear them, at least through the pages of the press.
For me, such cases were nothing new. Similar things were happening everywhere. Government agencies and law enforcement bodies in Kazakhstan were thoroughly riddled with corruption. And often, in their search for justice, people turned to the press as a last resort.
I no longer remember the name of the village in question—it’s been so long. But I made my way there at the appointed time, since its residents had decided to hold a sort of rally that day to tell the head of the village administration exactly what they thought of him. And, of course, to demand that their water supply be restored immediately.
The village’s taps had been as dry as the Sahara for a long time—there was no way to do the laundry, bathe, or cook. The villagers were in despair. And just twenty kilometers away, a huge metropolis—a symbol of modern civilization—hummed with traffic and blazed with lights at night.
This contrast must have weighed heavily on the villagers and perhaps even seemed unfair to them, because amid their own hardships, the luxury of the big city struck them as cynical extravagance. And so, at the appointed time, everything was ready. About five hundred people—mostly men—gathered on the village’s main street. A journalist (that is, me) had even come to the village. This happened, perhaps for the very first time in the village’s entire history. It was, without a doubt, an extraordinary event for the village.
The crowd was full of resolve. They were united in purpose, and their demand was non-negotiable: to tell the village head to his face exactly what they thought of him. Let him, they said, explain why there had been no water in the village for a full two years. And everything that was said, of course, would be recorded by the journalist, who would then write an article for the newspaper. And, of course, everyone would read it. And everyone would learn about the terrible lawlessness that had been taking place in the village. And then, without fail, an inspection team would arrive from the big city. And water would flow from the taps again in the little village.
Or so the villagers believed.
But the crowd had gathered, and the village head was still nowhere to be found. Half an hour passed, then an hour, and still he did not appear. And then the people realized they’d been deceived. Once again, they’d been brazenly and shamelessly led up the garden path—the village head had promised to listen to the people’s concerns, but had once again shown that he could not care less about the people whose taxes paid his salary.
And the crowd, feeling wronged, grew agitated. Outraged shouts rang out from all corners. Some suggested marching to the village administration office, which was located in a neighboring village. Others suggested forming a human barricade on the nearby highway to cause a traffic jam. And then, suddenly, someone in the crowd suggested taking a journalist—who was visiting the village for the first time—hostage and holding him until the village head arrived.
The crowd went mad!
To be honest, seeing things take such a turn really scared me. God only knew what had gotten into those people, who, in their frenzy, had somehow forgotten that I had come there precisely to help them. After all, I sympathized with them; I certainly wasn’t siding with the head of the administration, who had cynically ignored their gathering. But the crowd, driven by herd mentality, had forgotten reason and was now guided solely by reckless instincts.
The chaos that erupted among the people stunned me. Angry, hostile shouts were hurled at me. I was on the verge of running—and that would probably have provoked an even more irrational reaction—when a man emerged from the crowd.
I had seen him before: he was the man who had driven into the city to pick me up in his old car. The villagers wanted to provide the journalist with every possible convenience—after all, the press was practically their last ray of hope that their village would have water again. So they asked a fellow villager to drive the journalist in his car—to give this emissary of free speech the most comfortable ride possible.
The man emerged from the crowd, grabbed me by the elbow, and, in full view of everyone, shouted menacingly at me:
“Come on, let’s go! I’ll show you the water main—you’ll see just how dry it is!”
Then he shoved me into a car parked right there, and once inside—with the doors already slammed shut—he apologized and explained that he would drive me back to our newspaper’s office.
What I saw, of course, shocked me. It was the first time I’d witnessed a mob in action—and, to be honest, few things I have witnessed since have been more senseless. To this day, I still can’t understand how it could have even occurred to people to take hostage someone who had come to help them.
On the way back to the newsroom, I asked the driver to make a detour to a neighboring village, where the rural district administration was located. It turned out that the village head had been holed up in his office the whole time. Of course, he received the press representative. After I spoke with him, the newspaper published a lengthy article about how a cynical official had driven the people to utter despair.
Some time later, the village had water again.
