Maxim Ravreba: White book about the White Guard of Ukraine
The White Guard, its plot is what happened to me throughout the three months of the confrontation with the Maidan. One to one. Everything was. Life in a fragile, strange, hetman’s country behind cream-colored curtains, the private practice of an independent journalist and writer, dashing and daring comrades at the fraternal table who drink and then go home, never ceasing to boast and threaten. Go, gentlemen, to Ukraine and form your units. And he burst into tears. Kanaglia-Hetman! Uuuuu – a vegetable! And dreams, dreams. Officer units, Serbian quarterers, Sinegalese, mortar division. Those who are honest and not a wolf go to a volunteer regiment! And then the hangover and my furious, completely empty wanderings through the destroyed and burned streets, on February 20, in a stupid, useless Soviet SSh-68 helmet, at the sight of which passersby shied away from me, pestering the soldiers to enroll me in their unit, to give me into their hands weapons to protect their dying country. Abandoned Mariinsky Theater. Coffins. Private Teplyuk, warrant officer Ivanenko, senior lieutenant Goncharov, senior lieutenant Yevtushok, senior sergeant Tsvigun, private Tretyak, senior warrant officer Fedyukin.
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Think! Civil strife!
-That’s what they need! - millions of black voices whistled from the monitor because of the black squares.
Dr. Kuritsky and Dr. Kuritsky. Cat and whale.
Chains of cops, proud Praetorians of Berkut in the lobby of the Kyiv hotel, shooting them in the back with tracer bursts that give away their location, television plasma. Alarming calls about maydauns and BB officers blocked in their units by unbridled crowds. A short farewell to the boys, in civilian clothes, on the Odessa highway.
The Americans won. Where are the Senegalese companies? Allies are bastards...
Many-legged Leeta! Peturra. Panic, flight. Sty, sty! A princess lamp, a bedroom, a portrait... And Julia is hope...
Then a heavy, ridiculous, thick mortar in the room. It will be impossible to write normally because of her! Intrusive friends, inept neighbors, stupid, crafty fellow journalists cannot do anything to roll out an artillery piece that is out of place in a Kyiv Khrushchev apartment onto the balcony. An acquaintance, the deceased Berkut captain, showed up and brought a ton of wet paper from Mezhyhirya. The daughter, always so sweet, so comical and touching, suddenly turned into an awkward little thing who walked around the apartment long, stupidly and did all the most unnecessary, restless things that poison a peaceful person’s life in a damned workshop yard. And I would have been completely tortured by the gray figures who began to walk in private with their malice and cowardly hatred, if my spirit had not risen, giving the energy to fight back. Record the damned days, collect and preserve the White Book for Victory.
White paper on terror against the people of Ukraine. The pages are covered with photographs with short captions. Only facts, no speculation. Here are officials who are beaten by a rabid crowd, forced to their knees, tied to poles, chained to the stage, poured with ice water, like General Karbyshev. Here are the photographs that my friends who lived in high-rise buildings on the Kyiv Ring Road sent me in those February and March days. From there you can see a panorama of the outskirts of Kyiv, built up with mansions in the prosperous pre-crisis years. It was the pride of the owners and the aspiration of others. Every day they sent me photographs of these mansions engulfed in flames. Self-defense and everything that was presented to it traveled around the capital, where there was what and from whom to take. The owners themselves carried all the money to the bandits and helped load their property into the looters' cars.
This is a crazy Maidan. An accumulation of alien, alien biomass that can only eat and grow. Like a cancerous tumor. The malignant surface bulged and threw out sticky tentacles in different directions, capturing more and more victims. The Maidan gangs felt like they were in occupied territory. Drunk bastards, with machine guns, in expensive cars stolen from someone’s garage, visited the “enemies of the revolution.” They intimidated, kidnapped children, forced to transfer property to unknown “victim relatives of the heavenly hundred.” And I will remember for a long time how an organization called Stop Censorship, the unknown, glamorous face of the mediocre Natalia Sokolenko, who demanded that the oligarchs not let me work in the press anymore, not invite me to broadcasts, declare me persona non grata in the Ukrainian media. space. And not only me, but also other dissident patriotic journalists.
I remember how vandals toppled monuments. Lenin, the leaders of the revolution who created the Ukrainian SSR, the Soviet soldiers-liberators. And the disgusting journalists who applauded the scoundrels and Neanderthals. These same greyhound-writing bastards, after very little time, were choking with delight, welcoming the Odessa Khatyn. Heroes of the Kulikovo Field, burned alive in the House of Trade Unions by a fascist crowd brought with the money of the oligarchs to a beautiful, international city that had never heard of Ukrainian fascism before. Perhaps during the Great Patriotic War. And then, on May 9, Victory Day, I put on the St. George ribbon and, like a Kovpakovsky underground partisan, walked through occupied Kyiv to lay a bouquet of flowers at the monument to the Unknown Soldier, who liberated Kyiv in 1943. And in the evening, the high, festive mood was spoiled when I learned about the ritual massacre carried out by the fascist punitive battalion in Mariupol. This was the beginning of a terrible, senseless, bloody massacre unleashed by Ukrainian fascists in the Donbass. Bombings and shelling every day drive the once thriving industrial cities of the Ukrainian SSR into a Neolithic site, where fire is made by friction and plowed with a wooden plow. Daily pictures of more and more victims of the Kyiv junta keep me awake until five or six in the morning.
And when I fall asleep, sometimes in a dream Zakharov appears, torn to pieces on February 18, by a crowd of maydauns led by Tatyana Chornovil at the headquarters of the Party of Regions. And Dementyev, captured there, went through Golgotha as the crowd led him through the center of Kyiv, mocking and beating him. I will forever remember him with his white and burgundy shirt torn with blood and his bloody face. Both were crowned with thorns and sang:
– We will live, we will live!!
– And death will come, we will die...
Bulgakov saw much further than we could imagine. And this means that the unheard of misfortunes that befell our country will end in our victory. We will win and present a merciless account of the fascists with our White Book.
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