What is the secret of this old tower,
Which survived people and centuries?
Noble and powerful
The hand has conquered the stones.
We caressed the cold stones,
Heated hearth sore chest…
The symbol of the spirit is the Ingush tower,
Beacon illuminated the way.
She did not fall mad
Not bent your stone camp.
Only quietly moaned in the wind,
When they were driving people to Kazakhstan.
And when we returned home,
Like a gentle, kind mother,
Gathering children at the foot,
To tell your grief…
There are graves in faraway Bishkek…
It is heavy, chilly in them to all mothers.
Dear them more often Ingush tower,
Sing to them the song of running stream.
Chases us to rock a hell of a circle..
How many were there in our fate!!!!
We put our hearts in stones
Having become like a tower.
Ingush Tower
Written by Maryam Lyanova.
>«Hello, disrespected by me governor of the Kremlin in Ingushetia!»
My name is Dasy what means from my relative Ingush language «honor of fathers». I am explaining this for you because I have some doubts about the fact that you are Ingush, but you say that you are. I don’t think that you are the part of my nation. I want to tell you that I lived in the real castle when I was young. Even in not simple castle, in the whole castle complex, with defensive, residential, combat towers, with a barrier wall. It calls «Aegi Chozh» and it is located in my native Ingushetia near village Dattih. Do you remember? Yes. This is the castle complex that you sold on the twenty-sixth on September in 2018 to the governor of the Kremlin in Chechnya. I want to tell you about it, about that piece of land, about life and pain of my native, not small mental emotions. For what? Answer is simple: I understood that you don’t know me, you don’t know them, and you don’t know any misery which we suffered from. I want to tell you that stones cry when they see how the heart of a tied father breaks, unable to bear the scene, how their son is slaughtered, and how these stones groan when they were burned alive and buried alive. And also I want to tell how people turn into walking stones. I want to tell this story beginning with my young years. The first childhood memory that pops up in my head is my decade (1930). I turned 10 years old on day of the murder of governor of the Kremlin in Ingushetia (at the time – the Ingush Autonomous Region) – Chernoglaz. He had not got any difference from you. He impassively hurt and insulted Ingush old man’s feelings by telling him that will make him personally breed pigs. That evening, Joseph Chernoglaz was beheaded. The Chernoglaz’s head was not found and he was buried without it. In the court, the Ingush who made revenge refused to answer the question about where is the Chernoglaz’s head is. He just told that Chernoglaz had not got head, otherwise he would not have told the Ingush that he will make them breed pigs. On that fateful day, a large number of Ingush were sent to Kolyma as state traitors. At that moment I did not understand anything, I did not feel the whole grief of their wounded and humiliated people, their suffering and overcoming. In those times shooting a rifle seemed to me a fun and activity that allows you to escape from the hassle and useless thoughts. My brothers and I often came across a forest in which they taught me how to hit the target and climb mountains. It was a happy time, no one had any thoughts about a difficult future, no one thought about it at all – we didn’t want to plunge into hard thoughts.
