We sat down to bask in the sun next to the Tchaikovsky monument near the Conservatory building. Not a very good place to communicate with the most “mean girl” of post-perestroika Russia - a journalist and writer (or journalist and writer - I don’t know which is correct?) Daria Aslamova. Passers-by stare, clearly not recognizing me, some point their fingers. Of course, next to me is a proverb of the town, a woman “born for war and sex,” as one of our colleagues wrote about her.
For most of her readers, Dasha’s calling is to shock others. Her place of residence is the “hot spots” of the planet. However, war is not necessary, it is enough if it is interesting, there will be adrenaline. Those who know her personally speak no less unequivocally: “the sweetest girl,” “nothing to do with her image,” “her destiny is love and freedom.” What is she really like? Since the sex symbol of our journalism decided to chat with website, then let's start with this...
- Dasha, are you really a mean girl or...
No, I'm good!
- Why then such an image? Just for the money?
Image doesn't bring me money, I'm too practical for that.
- But was this a conscious choice?
Yes, this is just a good wording - a mean girl, and, besides, this all appeared for a reason. I wanted to become famous - I was 23 years old. I wrote an article where I talked about all my lovers. Well, I don’t know... I wrote about the secret, about what I shouldn’t have written about. What else could I call myself? "Bad girl" doesn't sound like it. That’s what I came up with: “Mean Girl,” and then it stuck to me like a nickname. And it was not said at all about my essence, but about the situation in which I found myself then.
- But, judging by your publications, you tried to live up to this image in the future?
No, I don’t think I’ve done any more terrible things. On the contrary, I’m so all white and fluffy...
- What about your famous reports with... an erotic slant?
Erotic bias does not mean bad. On the contrary, I am a good girl with an erotic bent!
- Most of your readers do not believe in this.
It's their problem, not mine!
- What is a good girl for you?
Nice girl? The one who does not betray, who loves her friends, her loved ones. A good girl is one who knows how to love. And I know how to love! In general, everything is according to biblical technology: do not kill... although no, you can kill too.
- For what?
Depends on the situation: self-defense, self-defense, state of passion - not due to conviction, due to circumstances. But in principle, a good girl should be kind. I must be able to forgive, and I forgive very easily.
- So a good girl can be trashy at the same time?
It's not even an image. The phrase just remains, a good phrase.
- Isn’t it hard to live with such a cliché?
Absolutely not! I don't care what they think about me. And I always didn't care. I live in a different world, you just don’t understand me! They ask me such strange questions! Is it hard for me or not? It’s not hard for me! I don't care what they say about me! When I open my website on the Internet, I start laughing terribly. They write terrible insults to me in the guest book, but I find it funny! I have the opposite reaction - I don’t like being praised. Is other people's opinion important to you?
- I guess it's yes.
- To make fewer mistakes.
Why the hell should you not make mistakes, you live and make them willy-nilly?
- What does your daughter think about this?
She doesn't think anything, she's seven years old.
- Don't be afraid...
Here's another question I get asked all the time! This stresses me out! Of course I'm afraid, I'm normal person. She knows my books, she knows the titles, and she asks me: Mom, why “mean girl”?
- What do you answer?
To immediately close these books and put them in their place!
- But he will still read it.
It’s clear that he will read it, and very soon... That’s why I’m in such a panic now!
- Do books bring money?
Few. It's more for the soul. Journalism brings in incomparably more money.
- Is journalism a good profession for a woman?
Super! If you are a free person, great!
- Should a woman strive for independence?
Should a woman even be human?
- What kind of men do you like?
All kinds. I love generous people, but not stingy ones.
- What else do you like?
Red and black colors.
- Clothing style?
There is none.
- Cosmetics?
- Favorite food?
Sushi and white eel.
- What are you drinking?
Alcohol. A lot of. Like a horse. By the way, it’s time for us to go, the guys are waiting.
The quick interview is over, we went to eat and drink. Eat - sushi, drink - a lot.
Interviewed by Alexander Kulanov
Photo by Sergei Gris
Komsomolskaya Pravda special correspondent Daria ASLAMOVA visited a country engulfed in fire and became convinced that the front line there runs almost everywhere
“Turn around! This is the road to Daesh (ISIS)*” A Syrian soldier is running towards us, waving his arms. There is a column of red dust all around, through which the sun looks like a burning bloody ball. The sand clogs my lungs, and if I open my mouth, I start croaking like a crow. Out of horror, I swallow whiskey straight from the bottle and in a trembling voice ask my translator and new friend Nazir: “We almost went straight to Daesh?!” “Well, they didn’t leave,” he answers calmly. “There’s just a fork here: to the right is Daesh, straight ahead is Jabhat An-Nusra*, to the left is Aleppo.”
The soldiers ask us for a bottle of water. But as soon as we stop in an open place, the sharp clicks of bullets drive us back into the car.
* organizations are prohibited in Russia.
THE DIFFICULT ROAD TO ALEPPO
Two hours ago we approached Aleppo, from which black smoke was rising and the roar of explosions was heard. A sense of danger forced me to polish up my armor. I powdered my face and put on lipstick, which is completely pointless in the fifty-degree heat. The powder caked into clumps, the lipstick smudged, and after five minutes I looked like a clown. My light dress stuck to my body. But Nazir promised me the best kebab in the world, arak (local vodka and excellent remedy from dysentery - if not diluted with water, it completely burns the insides) and even a hairdresser, if there is electricity in the city. The main thing is to break through to Aleppo.
But the beautiful new road is cut off by militants, there are desperate battles right on it, and the soldiers refuse to let us in. “But Aleppo is only ten kilometers away! - I beg. “Maybe we can break through?” Two mines that exploded not far from us immediately cooled my ardor. The situation is hopeless! Gasoline is running out and can only be obtained in the city (in Syria, people stand in line for days for gasoline). The nearest safe city of Homs is three hundred kilometers away. Even if we miraculously get gas, it will get dark in a couple of hours and the road will become deadly. On the one hand, there are terrorists from Al-Nusra, on the other, ISIS. Every night they try to cut off the only road to Aleppo. This is the same 150-kilometer stretch of road where drivers push everything out of the car. “Yalla! Yalla! (“Faster, faster!”). Just to avoid falling into the clutches of the devils.
Residents of the Aleppo suburbs do not seem friendly to me. Gone are the Syrian flags and the ubiquitous portraits of President Assad. The entrails of sheep are scattered everywhere, decomposing in the sun.
Maybe someone will shelter us? - I timidly ask Nazir. - Moscow reports that the road to Aleppo has already been retaken by the Syrian army. And tomorrow we'll make it through, eh?
Do not even think! They will shelter you with pleasure, and at night they will sell you to ISIS. And who do you believe? Moscow that the road is clear, or your own eyes?
Moscow,” I say, almost crying. - But there is a bypass road around the city.
It's two hours. Sand and stones. Only jeeps will pass there. And our car is low. If we get stuck, the snipers will turn us into meatballs.
But is it possible to try? - I ask.
“It’s possible,” Nazir says melancholy. I love that “maybe.” In the most difficult situation, when everything is going to hell, Nazir always says the same “it’s possible.”
DESTROYED TREASURE
Almost three hours later we enter Aleppo, but the feeling of triumph is swept away by the horror of despair. "My God! My God! - I whisper senselessly. - The Pearl of the Middle East! Mirage in the desert! A city that is eight thousand years old! Do not die! I saw all your bazaars and mosques in a dream, I mentally walked through your streets and alleys! You are a rest for a weary traveler and a dream for an enterprising merchant. Oh, what happened to you?!” All the scenery for a horror film pales in comparison to reality. The real Apocalypse! Skeletons of high-rise buildings, their dead eye sockets, walls that cry: “We saw everything!”
But suddenly the broken glass stops creaking under the wheels. Strong asphalt, clean streets and beating life at the end of a dead tunnel. Some volunteer sprays our dusty, red car with water from a hose. And I see an oasis: houses of noble oriental architecture made of amazing yellow stone, cafes selling ice cream, children diving into the river from the bridge. Women in clothes made of thick synthetic fabrics, black woolen pants, gloves, socks and sunglasses (real Martians!) meticulously examine my carefree dress. No one pays attention to the sounds of nearby explosions. Death is an all too familiar part of local life.
I see jewelry store windows with cheeky Tiffany signs on them. Hotels that have still retained the sheen of their former luxury, where electricity is provided from six in the evening to one in the morning (only thanks to generators, dim lamps shine in the lobby and fans stir up greasy hot air). There is no ice, refrigerators do not work, even the sheets seem ten pounds. At night, the heat makes the blood clot in your veins.
I'm rushing naked on the bed and I hear how Russian aviation bombs the suburbs and the eastern part of the city, where terrorists have settled. For locals living in the western part controlled by the Syrian army, this is the most soothing sound. “Our people have arrived,” they say proudly, “the Russians.”
In the morning I wake up from fierce machine gun fire under the hotel windows. Looking out the window, I see that passers-by do not react at all. Even women with children. “This is how we see off dead heroes,” explains the receptionist. “The body of a dead soldier has just been taken from the hospital morgue.”
BATTLE FOR THE CITADEL
I walk with the Syrian army soldiers through the deserted narrow streets of the old city of Aleppo, as if specially created for ambushes and attacks from around the corner. The ancient city, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, is the main battleground between the Syrian army and terrorists.
After three years of fighting, only the walls remained of the city. I trip over a sign that says “Belgian Consulate.” From the names of the destroyed hotels and shops, one can imagine the luxury in which Aleppo, the richest commercial and industrial center of Syria, bathed before the war.
We dive into the covered market, which stretches for thirteen kilometers, the longest in the world. I go up and down countless stairs, follow long passages and walk through cellars where rags, buttons, and shoes for sale are scattered. My velvet slippers step on broken glass, they are covered with the dust of war and devastation.
And then suddenly I find myself in Main Headquarters, where they stole solid furniture from the surrounding abandoned houses. Cards, chairs, real coffee with cardamom, ice water from a tiny refrigerator and even a fan! A special forces officer named Nadir, a handsome, tired, calm man, has been fighting in Aleppo for three years. It was he who led the operation to capture the ancient Citadel, towering 50 meters above the city.
Understand, taking and holding the Citadel does not just mean control over the main strategic height of the city,” explains Nadir. - The fortress is more than three thousand years old. This is the main pride of the inhabitants of Aleppo, its moral symbol. Whoever owns the Citadel owns the city. We are bending over the map of the fortress:
Our soldiers are staying inside,” says my interlocutor. - Outside, there are all these gangs united among themselves: “Jabhat Al-Nusra”, “Ahrar Al-Sham”, “Nur ad-Din al-Zinki” (groups banned in Russia).
I shudder: - “Az-Zinki” is the group that recently executed a ten-year-old Palestinian boy and posted a video of his execution on the Internet?
Yes. Now, having forgotten about the feuds, they are all fighting together. (“Al-Zinki” is a “moderate” Islamist group that receives financial and military assistance from the United States and Saudi Arabia. In connection with the murder of a child official representatives The United States announced the “possibility of reconsidering its relations” with the gang, whose members, at the insistence of the Americans, represent the official opposition at the Geneva negotiations. - YES.)
The ancient city is empty, there are no civilians. You control a third of the old city and the main fortress. Why can't these rats be smoked out of here?
“Tunnels,” Officer Nadir looks gloomy. - Everything under our feet is penetrated by a network of ancient tunnels. Terrorists control them, clean them, expand them and build new ones. We constantly listen to the ground where they are digging.
Look, Nadir shows a video on his phone: a hole in the ground and the bodies of killed terrorists. - Two weeks ago we listened to them and waited. When they came to the surface, they were immediately killed. This is luck. But we are not always lucky.
I want to see the fortress! - I say pleadingly. - They say she's gorgeous! What if I never get to Aleppo again? Or will the fortress no longer exist?
You will see her,” the officer says, smiling. “Although we haven’t allowed journalists in for three months now.” But no initiative. Follow me directly.
We walk in dead silence, interrupted by sudden explosions of mines. Suddenly officer Nadir stops in front of a pile of stones. - Press yourself against the wall! There are snipers working here. Look at these three destroyed buildings. This is where our detachment was located. Two years ago, terrorists dug a tunnel and blew up all three buildings from below. 67 of my comrades died. We were never able to get the bodies. The place is constantly under fire. Someday... - His voice breaks. “When it’s all over, there will be a mass grave and a monument here.” Must be!
And then I see the fortress! A tragic masterpiece, abundantly drenched in human blood for three thousand years! Who didn’t fight for this Citadel and for this ancient city, which stood on the Great Silk Road. The spilled blood has fertilized the Syrian desert, where olive and pistachio trees miraculously grow. Suddenly we hear the frantic prayer chants of the Mujahideen and freeze. Friday! - How far are they from us? - I ask in a whisper.
No more than 80 meters. Despite the scorching heat, I'm covered in goosebumps and cold sweat. And I remember the words of one of my Syrian friends: “These people are zombies. Imagine a person who had one computer program of his brain completely erased and another one introduced. They explained to him: life on earth is emptiness and a trap for sinners, paradise is up there. The sooner you get there, the better. Death in war is a ticket to heaven. Now imagine: how difficult it is for people who love and value life to fight those who are indifferent to it?”
EMPTY HUMANITARIAN CORRIDORS
There are only four of them. Three are for civilians, one is for militants. Only a few families managed to infiltrate at the very beginning, that's all. I stand, somewhat discouraged, in front of a huge garbage dump blocking a narrow passage in the old city.
Is this a humanitarian corridor? - I ask doubtfully.
Yes, the Syrian officers answer me. - There is a hole inside that you can go through.
I try to take a photo of the hole, but am immediately pushed towards the wall.
Be careful. The corridor is constantly being shelled by snipers.
How will civilians get through? - I ask doubtfully.
While you are climbing through the garbage heap, you will be killed ten times. Suddenly we see a man with a boy of about four years old. He walks calmly through the open space. It turned out that this is a local resident named Sultan, who lives right above the garbage dump. Every day he comes to the soldiers for bread.
The Sultan looks calm.
And here everyone got used to me: both on this side and on that side. Nobody touches me. They know that I need to feed my son,” he explains.
Are there many people on the other side who want to go through the corridor?
I haven't seen one in recent days. But there are as many snipers as you want.
I think everyone who wanted to escape ran away a long time ago. Western newspapers have been crying for several weeks over the “tragedy of the inhabitants of two million Aleppo” who are being bombed by “evil Russian planes.” But let's put everything in its place. Even the cautious Wikipedia reports that there are less than a million residents left in the city. (And, by the way, most of them live in the western, relatively prosperous part of the city, controlled by the Syrian army, and suffer there not from bombing, but from terrorist rocket attacks.)
What kind of civilians in the east of the city are we talking about? - Dr. Abdul Nached, a native of Aleppo, wonders. - When three years ago all these gangs like Al-Nusra captured the eastern part, all my acquaintances, friends of friends and in general all decent people from that side left long ago. Aleppo was the richest city in Syria! Everyone had savings for a rainy day. Those who were poorer went to Damascus, the rest to Turkey and Europe. Only the terrorists and their accomplices remained. No one else! And now everyone is running around with them and shouting that they are full of civilians. Where from? Of course, it cannot be ruled out that someone remained, although I find it hard to believe.
Dr. Abdul Nached, one of the few doctors left in Aleppo, belongs to a wealthy, respected family. A couple of weeks ago, the Syrian army liberated another part of the city, where the famous sweet factory owned by his father was located. He bitterly shows me a video on his phone: destroyed premises, looted warehouses. Expensive equipment was stolen. Everything must start from scratch. “If it weren’t for my doctor’s salary, I simply don’t know how our whole family would live.” I stayed here because my country needs me. Half of the doctors have left Aleppo. Every day I think about whether my son will return from school. And will I survive on the way home?
Dr. Nached is a very pious person who follows all the commandments of Islam. “The West and America financed Daesh, which covers up murders and lawlessness in the name of Islam,” he says. - And then the West is surprised when terror comes to their home. I'm not gloating. I do not wish harm to anyone, but only peace. I am a believer. But for me, Islam that calls for murder is not Islam. The West made Islam this way by sponsoring terrorists.
WHO HAS BEEN INTERFERRED BY RICH, POWERFUL SECLICAL SYRIA?
Before the so-called Arab Spring, Syria was one of the most prosperous, secular, safe and civilized countries in the Arab world. In the pre-war year 2010, economic growth was 4.5%, the state budget was deficit-free. (And this despite the fact that Syria had to feed 1.2 million Iraqi refugees and 400 thousand Palestinians.) Tourism flourished. Agriculture was one of the most successful in the world. Even the notorious drought, which supposedly provoked a “revolution,” is an unpleasant but common occurrence for Syria. It is thanks to the arid climate that Syria produces durum wheat, which, for example, was purchased by the Italians for the production of pasta.
There is fat, red earth everywhere here, which just keeps giving birth and giving birth. Wheat, olives, pistachios, grapes, figs. Everything ripens and fills with juice under the hot sun. Enterprising and cunning people live here, who have mastered the art of business for thousands of years. Before the war, excellent roads were built in the country, which brought trade and business activity to Syria. It was these roads that saved the state when terrorists captured the main highways. But there are many local asphalt roads left. Even in the most difficult year of 2014, when almost all of Syria was engulfed in war, industrial growth was 1% (I’m not talking about “gray” business, which, of course, was not included in official reports).
When I left Aleppo, I was struck by the huge number of trucks that, under the threat of shelling, were transporting the famous Aleppo textiles. Bulldozers were working right there, preparing a new road to replace the one captured by the militants. The fields are being cultivated even where ISIS fighters could attack at any moment. Syrians are tireless builders and amazing lovers of life. Damascus, a city that, according to conservative estimates, is at least ten thousand years old, is unusually modern and full of life. We are already used to shelling. A fashionable restaurant in the old city was hit by a mine a couple of weeks ago, killing several people, however, people are still sitting in the cafe, smoking hookah and enjoying life. In Syria, by the way, the most tasty food in the world. (Believe an experienced person. Even in warring Aleppo there is one establishment to which the Michelin restaurant guide would give all three stars.)
The people here are kind and helpful by nature. The local bureaucracy, of course, is intolerable, but even with it you can get along. Theft is not developed, and this despite the fact that the population in Damascus has tripled due to refugees. People often leave their cars unlocked. The first impression from Damascus is of a great civilization (unlike, for example, Cairo, where completely wild people roam). A beautiful city, in love with life, tolerant, indulgent, cultural. Before the war, hijabs were almost never worn here. But villagers and refugees pouring into the city changed the picture. However, native city women, unlike the “newcomers”, sport tight “torn” jeans, revealing blouses with a deep neckline and dye their hair the most unimaginable colors. And no one whistles after them, as is customary in the east.
Who was bothered by rich, strong, secular Syria, where Christians and Muslims lived peacefully side by side, and whose economy was growing by leaps and bounds? Yes, almost everyone. Saudi Arabia and Qatar, who dreamed not only of laying oil and gas pipelines to Europe through it, but also of completely converting the country’s 78 percent Sunni population to Wahhabism (a radical teaching spun off from Islam). Turkey, which, due to historical tradition (Syria was part of the Ottoman Empire), is accustomed to consider neighboring country something like your own fiefdom.
Israel, which at one time took away the Golan Heights from Syria (not only strategically important, but extremely fertile lands in terms of climate, Agriculture, tourism and religious pilgrimage). The Lebanese Hezbollah (one of Israel’s enemies) fighting in Syria on Assad’s side suffered serious losses (rumored to be up to two thousand people), which again plays into the hands of hostile neighbors. Therefore, Israel willingly provides medical care al-Nusra and ISIS militants, allegedly motivated by mercy. (Can you imagine an Israeli treating an ISIS fighter out of love for his neighbor?! I personally can’t.)
Prayer at the head of John the Baptist in the Umayyad Mosque in Damascus
In addition, many experts have drawn attention to the fact that ISIS never threatens Israel, and in turn, Israel keeps its mouth shut about ISIS. Apparently, they have developed normal business relationship. Moreover, Israel has more than once bombed Hezbollah columns in Syria that went to the aid of dying Syrian troops.
But Syria's main enemy is America. You don’t have to be a genius to notice the main strategy of the United States: they destroy only relatively secular, prosperous Muslim countries, where there is no smell of Islamic extremism.
Their goal is chaos, destroying peaceful Islam. Thus, secular Iraq under Saddam Hussein, moderate Libya, moderate Egypt controlled by Mubarak were destroyed, and now Syria has become a target. Americans do not care at all about human rights in Saudi Arabia and Qatar, which are obsessed with the misanthropic teachings of Wahhabism. They are not worried about Shiite Bahrain (where the American base is located), where power has been seized by a handful of Sunni self-proclaimed “monarchs.” Why?
Everything is very simple. Wahhabism was invented and paid for in the 19th century by the British, and in Saudi Arabia it was the Anglo-Saxons who elevated to the throne the usurpers Saudis, in whose veins there is not a drop of the noble blood of the descendants of the Prophet Muhammad. These are fake damn kings. It was these miserable invaders who were given the keys to the greatest shrines of Mecca and Medina. And the entire Arab world knows about this.
HOW PALMYRA LIVES
It's hard. Difficult. No water, no electricity. Although 150 families have already returned. Syrian officers invited me to the first “cafe” that opened. Right on the bombed street, where all the houses have “No Mines” written in Russian, the enterprising owner of the shop put up sofas where you can sit with a cup of tea and smoke a hookah.
Suddenly we see a three-year-old girl, and we all freeze, as if we had seen a miracle. And this is truly a miracle! If children appeared in Palmyra, it means life is returning! Feeling like the center of everyone's attention, the little coquette willingly poses for photography and takes poses worthy of a fashion model.
The treasures of Palmyra are still magnificent. And, thank God, the beautiful Roman colonnades and amphitheater survived. But the world community, which has been moaning about the sorrows of Palmyra, is in no hurry to restore the destroyed city. However, they can be understood. The front is only 20 kilometers away, and ISIS members simply dream of returning to Palmyra to organize their own “bloody concert” there. There is nothing left to plunder there, but to take revenge on the Russians and raise their prestige is for them a matter of their barbaric “honor”.
Two days before your arrival, a new offensive against Palmyra began,” says General Malik. - Our intelligence officers and Russian intelligence determined that at a distance of 25 kilometers from the city there is a large center of militants - weapons warehouses, training centers and a command post. All this data was transferred to the Russian aviation center. 6 bomber planes took off, and the attack on Palmyra was cut off. The danger has only been pushed back, but it has not gone away. (Later, local officers showed me horrific photos: the burned corpses of Syrian soldiers with their eyes gouged out, caught unawares at a checkpoint by the ISIS advance.)
“You allowed into the country not only the Russians, who are vitally interested in destroying the main hotbed of world terrorism, too close to our borders,” I say. “But Hezbollah and Iran are also fighting here. Aren't you afraid that sooner or later you will be presented with a bill?
Not at all. Let's speak frankly. Syria created and supported the Lebanese Hezbollah. Morally, materially and with weapons, especially during the war between Lebanon and Israel. They owe it to us, not we to them. As for Iran, we have always been a friend of this country. Even when Saddam Hussein, at the instigation of the Americans, began a war against Iran, which was too weak after the revolution and subjected to severe sanctions, Syria was the only Arab country that stood up to defend Iran. And don’t forget: Iran supports the Shiites in Lebanon in every possible way, but due to geography, it can only do this through us, the Syrians. So we have no unpaid bills either to Iran or to Hezbollah. There is mutual assistance.
Putin and Erdogan held talks on the Syrian issue. Have the supply caravans for terrorists crossing the Turkish border been reduced?
Hardly ever. Supplies go through Idlib. And not because Erdogan wants it. He no longer controls Daesh (ISIS), which he himself created. All settlements on the Turkish-Syrian border (where there are no Kurds) are under the control of ISIS. On the day of the coup, the lights at the border were turned off to allow ISIS troops to cross the border unhindered. They were going to march on Istanbul to save Erdogan.
On the column of the ancient amphitheater there was still a rope on which the militants hung the archaeologist’s head, putting glasses on it for mockery
Photo of 82-year-old archaeologist and custodian of Palmyra Khaled Asaad beheaded by ISIS
What will happen when ISIS realizes that Erdogan is playing a game against them?
I'm reasoning. Just because he survived one revolution does not mean he will survive the second. Experts in the Middle East believe that the Americans are going to remove Erdogan at any cost. Count his enemies: the Kurds, against whom he is waging war, most of the army, arrested and subjected to repression (they still have friends, relatives, comrades), the opposition (more than a hundred thousand people have lost their jobs), ISIS, which smells betrayal and will take full revenge on Turkey , if she turns her back to him, and the preacher Gulen, sitting in the USA, organized the coup with the help of the Americans.
“Your reasoning is correct,” notes General Malik. - If the Russians had not warned Erdogan about the coup, it is unknown how things would have ended.
Are we, Russia and Syria, in a strange situation? The main enemy of Syria, the sponsor of ISIS, the man who gave the order to shoot down the Russian plane, an absolutely unreliable partner - and now we are forced to help him stay in power.
Exactly. We are FORCED to endure it. Of all the evils at the moment, this is the lesser. Because if a civil war breaks out in Turkey, it will destroy the entire region.
CRIME ARMY
The Syrian army is drained of blood. Tired of the war. The best personnel were killed, new ones were not trained. Of course, I saw excellent special forces in Aleppo and excellent fighters in the suburbs of Damascus, where serious fighting is taking place. But this is NOT the WHOLE army. And its shortcomings are obvious even to a non-military person. Poor communication between parts. Weak motivation. Remnants of tribal consciousness (“my house is on the edge”). Lack of proper patriotic education.
I remember how I argued with Syrian refugees in Iraq: “Aren’t you ashamed?!” You are young, healthy guys, but you abandoned the country at a difficult moment and ran away.” “Why should we fight for Assad?” “Not Assad, but for the Motherland!” “But we weren’t taught to love our Motherland.” And this is a huge mistake of local propaganda. No one taught the children at school that they are citizens of ONE great beautiful country called Syria. And it is this country that they need to defend even at the cost of their lives. This is exactly what is called patriotism.
The level of discipline in the army is simply deplorable. I personally saw how soldiers at checkpoints at night sit in a circle, drink tea, smoke hookah and gossip. For example, a general is coming. Someone lazily gets up, waves his hand in greeting (the soldiers don’t even know that they should salute!) and raises the barrier.
This is what Russian officers told me on condition of anonymity: “Moral is extremely low. Many cases of desertion. We tell the Syrians: in war conditions, desertion is executed. And the answer to us: how can we shoot! Our entire army will scatter! And so they catch the deserter and put him in prison for three months. He rests there, eats three times a day, then he is sent to the front again. ISIS members are feared to death. There are many former peasants who are sent to the front poorly trained. One cry of “Allah Akbar!” able to put them to flight. There were shameful cases: twelve Islamists defeated a hundred armed soldiers, who also threw away their weapons while fleeing. They are calm only when they know that the Russians are nearby. Nobody taught them how to defend themselves. The entire army needs to be retrained and re-educated. Even girls who join the army are much more disciplined and responsible than boys. They can make good soldiers.”
The matter is complicated by the fact that local authorities refuse to carry out general mobilization. Many strong, well-fed young people walk the streets of Damascus, training in prestigious fitness centers or drinking tea in the old city in the morning. What are they doing? Unclear. Why not in the army? All of them must be driven to the front with a stick. Their homeland is in danger!
But the authorities have their own reasons, which political scientist Ali al-Ahmad voiced to me: “This is a long and difficult war. There were days when up to 200 military operations were going on simultaneously! The front line is very stretched. But the country wants life to go on. Civil institutions must work. Universities, schools, hospitals are a sign that the state exists no matter what.”
WORLD WAR ON TERRORISM
Indeed, the front line runs almost everywhere. Safe places does not exist! Even Damascus is constantly under fire from three different points. The first time I regretted not wearing a bulletproof vest was in the town of Daraya, a stone's throw from Damascus. The town is completely destroyed. The Syrian army liberated most of the territory and surrounded on all sides the militants holed up in high-rise concrete buildings with good basements. They are trying to starve out the terrorists.
Understand that taking this territory by storm means it is pointless to kill a huge number of soldiers,” explains the commander of the 4th division, General Hassan. - There are up to two thousand suicide bombers sitting there with stocks of weapons and food in the basements. We are very grateful to Russia for its help, but through you we want to ask: we need aerial bombs capable of piercing concrete. Otherwise you won't be able to get hold of these bastards.
Do you think there is a civil war going on in Syria? - I ask.
Oh what civil war we are talking if recently English newspapers published the official number of mercenaries who have entered Syria over the past 5 years: almost four hundred thousand people with a budget of 45 billion dollars spent on their transfer and supply! Where do the British get these numbers? By the way, I'm sure they are underestimated.
This is a war imposed on us from the outside,” political scientist Ali al-Ahmad echoes the general. - This war cannot be called civil! At first, Western media tried to present this as a revolution against the regime, then as a clash between Sunnis and Alawites, and later as a struggle between Sunnis and Shiites. But this is nonsense! The majority of the local population is Sunni. If the Sunnis rebelled against the state, it would fall within months! And the country has been living like this for more than five years. And it is the Sunnis who defend the country from foreign invaders, and Alawites, Christians, Kurds, and Shiites fight alongside them. The social climate here has always been moderate and tolerant. We are fighting with foreigners: with people from Chechnya, Dagestan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Iraq, Afghanistan, Turkey. There are even Chinese Uighurs! I do not deny that among the militants there are also duped Syrians, but they are not commanders or leaders.
In essence, there is a global war against terrorism going on in Syria. It is necessary that none of these terrorists return home. They should be buried here.
The first rule that I was taught at the Komsomolskaya Pravda newspaper, where I came to work at the age of 20, was: go and look. You must see everything with your own eyes. A journalist is a witness. People who say “I don’t believe it” or “they scare us” are not interesting to me. You are a blogger. Claim to be objective.
Try to come to Stockholm's Rinkiby district during the day (and if you are a very brave person, then in the evening) and get a camera in the main square. Or go on a Friday evening and take a walk with your camera through the center of Gothenburg, filming local Wahhabis who feel like they are the masters of the city. I was very lucky that, thanks to my audacity, I escaped from Rinkiby alive and even with my camera intact (I advise you to watch the video of what happened to the local journalists who arrived there with a police escort).
In Sweden, migrants beat up a film crew.
I am an experienced person and have been working in “hot spots” for 28 years. And there is no such dangerous place anywhere I have been. The last time I experienced such horror as in Rinkiby was during the Egyptian revolution, when four kidnappers tried to put me into a taxi in the middle of the day. I scratched, screamed, spun, kicked the car and bit the hairy arms of my captors until I could taste their blood in my mouth. The taxi driver drove away, a crowd gathered in response to my screams, and I escaped. Believe me, this is one of the usual episodes of the work of a war journalist.
But even after Cairo, Damascus, Kabul, Aleppo, Baghdad, Stockholm shocked me. As, indeed, the whole of Sweden. I never quote fictional characters. All people mentioned in the article have a first name, last name and a Facebook page. It is difficult not to believe, for example, the famous Somalian Mona Walter, who was sentenced to death by the Swedish imams for converting to Christianity. She constantly changes her place of residence, and at the same time she has three children. Her life has turned into a nightmare.
You may not believe me, but there are statistics. Sweden ranks first in Europe and second in the world for rape. (I’m only talking about official statements from victims. And, as a woman, I can assure you: most of them, due to shyness or young age, do not go to the police. They are afraid not only of publicity, but also of persecution by feminists. That’s it.) Your beautiful “ democratic” Sweden hides all crimes of migrants under a secret code, although the people have the right to know. Only high-profile murders come to light, such as the murder of 22-year-old Alexandra Mezher, who worked at a refugee center. She was allegedly stabbed ten times by a 15-year-old migrant. (In Sweden they take their word for it. Only refugees, of course. And that’s why thirty-year-old men call themselves “teenagers” because the state takes them on full content and invites their relatives to the country.)
But what are my words to you? So I asked my friend Hans Erling Jensen, director of the Khatun Dogan Foundation (a foundation that helps persecuted Christians in the Middle East), to write a letter (it is attached in English). Hans is in big trouble right now. He lives in the south of Sweden in the village of Lovstad near Malmo. A hundred meters from his house, the Wahhabis opened a “re-education center for troubled Muslim teenagers.” You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out why such recruitment centers are opened. Aggressive teenagers will be “re-educated” into proper Wahhabi terrorists.
And here is Hans' letter:
“Many people think that Sweden is still the best country in the world. Unfortunately, they are wrong. Sweden today has serious problems with antisocial immigrants who belong to cultures that cannot be integrated into society. More than half a million people have come to Sweden in the last 6-7 years. They have no jobs, they live mostly in ghettos, and they are undermining the welfare system, taking away much of the resources needed for the elderly and sick, while the police are forced to devote all their resources to solving serious crimes committed by migrants. Big cities Sweden lives in a state of chaos, like somewhere in Africa or South America.
But this happens not only in big cities. Now people from all Muslim regions of the world are moving to the countryside, to small villages. Here they can do their “business” without interference. I live in a village and I have new neighbors. Muslim "school" for young gangsters. Rape has grown to horrific proportions. The term "gang rape" was previously unknown in Sweden, but is now a daily occurrence. Just like murders. In recent years, 300 murders have not been solved in Sweden!!!
I live in the very center of things. I know what's going on. We are so close to civil war that you can't even dream about it. Cars are set on fire, elderly people are attacked and robbed, our daughters are raped - and this happens every day. And the worst thing is that the government is paralyzed and insists that those who are protesting are Nazis and racists.
If you don't believe me, come to Sweden and see it with your own eyes.
Best wishes,
Hans Erling Jensen.
And Daria Aslamova.
Daria Aslamova is one of those who does not hide the fact that forbidden fruit is the most desirable for her. In search of thrills, the talented journalist traveled halfway around the world, experiencing many spicy adventures. And what about her brilliant interviews with a variety of celebrities, whom she “splits” with cocky and uncomfortable questions. In general, the new adventures of the “mean girl” will certainly shock prudes of both sexes. But her credo: “Life is a bottomless bag full of sweets.” She draws from it with both hands. And advises others...
In general, the text is poorly proofread and there are grammatical and punctuation errors
Dedicated to Zhanna Agalakova, my beloved friend and godmother of my daughter Sonya.
Instead of a preface
The most dangerous thing in the world is books. Tell me what you read as a child and I will tell you what you will become. Adults should know this. My parents were very careless when choosing books. When they asked me what I wanted to become, I, looking at adults with honest eyes, answered: secretary of the district committee, astronaut, teacher, etc. But in my heart I firmly knew that I would be a courtesan./I read this luxurious word in the third grade from Balzac. I have learned well the difference between a courtesan and a banal prostitute: the same. What is a thief from a pirate? Thieves steal small things, pirates steal millions in pure gold. Kur-tgryan pRyr muzhg-ume ersha to shreds and ruin them completely, prostitutes give their bodies for pennies.
Books are the most lush memories of my childhood. Hot reading awakened in me a painful sensitivity and a heightened imagination. Having devoured a great many French novels, I realized that my calling was love. I was daydreaming. All flaring up in reckless dreams, I imagined how I would put gullible men on the skewer of my beauty and languish them in the juice of love torment. I only recognized debauchery good manners- with champagne. furs and diamonds. The mirror destroyed all my dreams. The merciless glass reflected a skeletal, thin, long girl (I was constantly slouching to appear shorter), long-legged, awkward, with vague, confused facial features and a complete absence of breasts. At school the boys used to tease me about being a punt. Big-breasted, big-assed girls with snub noses and bow-shaped lips were popular with them. But my strength was in my self-confidence. Life is a bottomless bag full of different sweets, and I will try them all! How I dreamed of breaking out of my cramped provincial world, where dangers are found only in newspapers! How mediocre people here are when it comes to the art of living. I didn’t want to spend my whole life sitting in a waiting room, and at the age of 16, after finishing school, I packed my bags. It's time to conquer Moscow. The instinct of great migrations awoke in me - an unknown force that suddenly rips people and birds from their places. The three of us went - three girls, almost teenagers, still without history, with pockets full of the most beautiful hopes. On the plane, one of my friends was throwing up all the time - during the eight hour flight she vomited all over the paper bags. The more she vomited, the more I wanted to eat. I developed a brutal, incredible appetite, and I devoured not only my lunch, but also my friends’ portions. At the end of the flight, the sour stench of vomit made the whole plane sick, but I felt great. It was then that I realized that no matter what pile of shit I sat in, I would always be covered with a nightingale - people like me sniff a rose and dung with equal readiness. Moscow gave me my first lessons in love. Kissing has become my favorite sport. On the very first evening, when I moved into the university dormitory as an applicant, a man (it seemed to me at the time that he was a terribly grown man—twenty-three years old) crushed me under him. I remember very well how I arched in his arms, how he caught my lips, how he kissed my upturned face. He did not touch my innocence, but he gave me a wonderful feeling of my own desirability. I left him with a new, feminine gait, and the whole world lay at my feet.
On the second night, another man tried to fuck me, right in the hostel kitchen, on an unwashed meat cutting table. I still remember the putrid smell of food remains on the tiles and the alcoholic breath of my unlucky rapist (I successfully escaped from him). All this was not very beautiful, but I suddenly found out that men liked me. A kind of cute and sharp girl, beautiful in her inexperience. A mixture of a virgin and a whore. There was something free in my movements and intimate, cooing notes in my voice. I began to generously paint my lips a monstrous carrot color and outline my eyes with black triangles. Artificial blush bloomed like beetroot stains on my cheeks, and blue plastic stars dangled in my ears (they seemed to me the height of beauty and grace). Ignorance was mine best friend, I was distinguished by infantile courage and did not know too much to be afraid of anything. Like a child, I climbed into all the mousetraps, ate cheese and never pinched my tail.
A tail of fans accompanied me like a comet. I entered any door and immediately declared: “My name is Dasha, I’m 16 years old, I’m a virgin.” I confessed my love to all the men I knew with tears in my eyes and a breathy voice. These simpletons were terribly flattered by the first love of a pure girl, until one day I was exposed. The men caught me in the dorm corridor, locked me in a room and gave me a formal interrogation about which of them I exactly loved. I babbled something absurd and shifted from foot to foot. They promised to lift my skirt and hatch me for lying, then they took pity on me and let me go.
Life became more and more fun. In my second year, I successfully lost my innocence - a man crushed me like a bunch of grapes, and, fermenting in his love, I became wine. Lovely stories followed one after another. My God, how many men have drunk from my cup! It was an almost chaste sensuality, devoid of vulgarity, purified by the clear truthfulness of Youthful pleasure. I had a goal in front of me: male flesh, blissful, secret intimacy, when a man carries you inside him forever. With my cat morality, I easily walked through life. I remember what a shock my mother had when I flew to my hometown of Khabarovsk after my third year. She saw me walking away from the plane, wearing a long, colorful shirt with slits up to the navel (I simply forgot to put on a skirt). I was wearing black stockings, and my garters opened in all their glory with every breath of the light summer breeze. Some random fellow traveler dutifully carried my suitcases. I walked, moving my hips, and the men did a stance, looking after me. “Whore,” my mother summed up sadly. At some point in history, I realized how many benefits the fleeting carnal charm brings. member can't think. Stop wearing tattered skirts and smoking Bulgarian cigarettes. I slowly grew wild, looking for weak points in men. The ease with which I controlled my own body freed me from material worries. In one wonderful film, an old countess, who in her youth slept with all the richest and most famous men, teaches a young girl: “Just walk past a display case with jewelry, turn to your traveling companion and, pointing your finger at a diamond necklace, say in an innocent tone: “What a beauty.” "And that's all: the necklace is yours." Of course, I didn’t set my sights on diamonds, but my wardrobe was significantly updated.
In my free time from men, I was engaged in journalism. After a couple of months, I got tired of being a gossip reporter at Komsomolskaya Pravda - always going to endless presentations and writing party reports. It was necessary to do something decisive, to express oneself in some way. And I mentally saw a picture: a long-legged, fearless girl in a short skirt in a war, in the trenches, among burning Caucasian men, numb from her charm, love on the verge of death, kisses while bullets sing. Romance, damn it! I stood on the border of an unknown country called "Adventurism". To get a visa, I had to fill out a declaration: profession - girl-woman, special characteristics - audacity and recklessness, purpose of the trip - fame and men. And I set out in search of military adventures.
Who are the adventurers? These are people of a strongly individualistic nature who know how to take advantage of any circumstances. When I was raped in captivity in Nagorno-Karabakh, I just marveled at the sudden twist of fate. What a wonderful story is floating into my hands! A real action movie with all the attributes: a beautiful journalist captured by insidious villains, an ambush on the road, shootouts, a happy release and the killing of all enemies. It would be a sin not to take advantage of such a situation. Having experienced a delightful feeling of horror, I immediately sat down to write a report. I have always been amazed by women who cry for months after rape and run to see a psychiatrist. What happened, happened. We must step over the trouble and move on.
Having visited all the “hot spots”, I got bored. A new spicy dish was needed. Why not become the country's first sexual brawler? It is enough to remember your famous lovers, undress them and expose them to the amusement of the public. Suppressing my last breaths of conscience, I sat down to write. And soon a masterpiece called "Memoirs of a Mean Girl" shocked the country. The newspaper with the above-mentioned article overnight became a bibliographic rarity, and I woke up famous.
After this diligent sowing of the wind, a storm had to be expected. And she was not slow to burst out. What kind of epithets did respectable women reward me with! “Depraved girl”, “whore”, “prostitute”, “creature”. Calm down, guardians of morality, I'm just a mean girl.
Everyone expected that marriage would put me in a straitjacket. No matter how it is! I pulled the invisible chain tightly and was just looking for an opportunity to break from it. And cases turned up every day. I went to conquer exotic countries. Rwanda, Cambodia, warring Yugoslavia, Thailand, Yemen, Bahrain - and everywhere men, men, men. Blondes and brunettes, young and old, handsome and not so handsome. All my life they give me the best pieces, and I am grateful to them for that. Once I asked my next lover: “Why, in fact, do men fall in love with me? After all, I am by no means Marilyn Monroe.” He replied: “You are neither beautiful nor ugly, neither a candidate of science nor stupid, you are just a Woman – the way God created you.” And another friend of mine usually says: “They love not for something, they love in spite of it.” Now I am a writer, the author of two books and the mother of a little girl, a living rose named Sonya. It’s time to calm down, but there’s still a greedy cat inside me that loves to sharpen its claws on men. Mikhail Zhvanetsky once made an evil joke at my expense:
“Daria, after “Notes of a Mean Girl,” “Notes of a Disgusting Old Woman” and “Notes of a Vile Dead Woman” will follow. Well, that would be nice. I have one regret: when I go to the next world, I won’t be able to come back to write my best report on this latest journey.
MEAN GIRL TIPS
Why do women refuse?
The French say that the biggest trouble in love is that the desire clock does not strike at the same time. Several years ago, the object of my desire was a young married man, my work colleague, who is steadfastly faithful to his wife (let’s call him Pavel). I was simply obsessed with the idea of sleeping with him and didn’t even get into his pants myself, but it was all in vain. Once he was tasked with urgently bringing me a tape recorder for an interview (my own was broken). Pavel called me at six in the morning (!) from filming and said that he had no other time to call on me than to do it right now on his way home. I muttered something sleepily into the phone as a sign of agreement and went to bed to get some sleep. An hour later, a bell rang in the house. Pavel stood on the threshold, swaying slightly, and I realized that he was drunk. "Won't you give me some tea?" – he asked, seeing that I was about to slam the door. I had to invite him and, yawning desperately, start fiddling with the kettle. When I finally made tea for Pavel, he said that he actually likes coffee, and rushed at me like a lion, already sensing the victorious beat of the tom-tom. Fate has a well-developed sense of humor. I resisted in earnest. “What! He thinks that I’ll go to bed with him without taking a shower, without shaving my legs, without spraying perfume on myself?!” I thought indignantly. “And it’s a good idea to brush my teeth after yesterday’s binge.” I felt like a schoolgirl who hadn’t prepared her homework, but the teacher had already called her to the blackboard. Pavel lifted the siege, discouraged by my rebuff, and in a fit of anger uttered many cruel words. Left alone, I began to laugh. The jokes of the gods have gone too far! And I thought that Pavel was a heroic monogamist.
Such an unfortunate set of circumstances, of course, is an exception to the rule, but it is very indicative of female psychology. Women are entangled in many internal rules that serve as a brake on their desires. They firmly believe in the ritual of the first night with a new man, which includes expensive lingerie, exquisite perfume and impeccable cleanliness. Most of all, they are afraid of disgracing themselves in terms of hygiene. The smell of love sweat, thorns on an unshaven shin, unclean breath, the real taste of a rose between the legs - all this can excite a man after, but not on the first night! I don’t know under what circumstances my readers tried to woo the ladies of their hearts and received a cruel refusal, but maybe it was just that the ladies put on the wrong panties or didn’t get a pedicure on time, and now their heels are tearing their tights .
The aristocracy of a woman's imagination is sensitive, like a Geiger counter, to what may conflict with her beauty. Since that unfortunate night, I haven’t left the house without putting a disposable razor, toothbrush and menthol tablets in my purse. If I don’t have time to freshen my mouth, I order cognac at a restaurant. For practical reasons, I used to wear stockings, killing two birds with one stone - quickly (a man only has to lift up his skirt) and effectively (legs always look elegant). One day I had to shave my legs in the car because a love affair threatened to end in the back seat of the car. One of my colleagues, coming to work in the morning and making an appointment over the phone with her next lover, took the razor out of her purse, sat comfortably in a chair and shaved her legs “dry”, saying: “Oh, girls! Today is an important date.” Women often refuse for physiological reasons (I don’t just mean such a banal excuse as menstruation). Full bladder- the reason for the failure of many novels. It would seem that it would be easier to apologize and say that you want to go to the toilet. But no. When an incensed man leans over you, breathes into your ear and takes your earlobe with his lips, when his hand has already gone to dangerous journey to your thighs, it's completely unthinkable to say that you're dying to pee. This is such a childish reason.
My friend has been hating champagne with chocolate for some time now. This fatal combination prevented her from making love one day, as she bravely struggled with belching. Fear of embarrassment led her to flatly refuse. Men, don’t forget that champagne, sorry, makes you swell. It is better to prepare chilled white wine for the night of love (red stains lips black). Champagne is suitable for a first date, when you need to charm, and not drag into bed. And don't make love on an empty stomach. All these are small things from a man’s point of view, but women attach enormous importance to details.
Smell is something that always bothers married women or those who have a regular boyfriend. Any more or less experienced spouse can smell someone else's sperm or condom lubricant. So, if a romantic date takes place in a place where there is no opportunity to take an after shower, the woman will most likely refuse, citing some decent reason. By the way, swollen labia, worn out in a love battle, also give away married women. (My advice to ladies: you can always tell a good lie that you wore jeans that were too tight during the day.) Men, don’t rush to crush your lover like a bunch of grapes so that she gives up her juice. For women are slow in love. There is no greater pleasure for them than to put a man on the spit of their beauty and simmer him on the fire of desire. Women have a well-developed sense of pause and the ability to glide through the thinnest ice, feeling the terribly sweet cold under its layer. They find endless appeal precisely in the absence of certainty. Moral: if the stars are not in your favor today and you get rejected, try again - ask for another date. Just do it in advance. Women hate impromptu and spontaneous actions. If you are rejected a second time, do not despair. You are not a dollar to please everyone without exception. Is it possible to buy a woman? (Advice for men)
All of us, Eve’s daughters and calculating gold diggers, have a tender weakness for arrogant luxury and, under the hypnosis of gifts, we become completely tame. Each of us at least once imagined ourselves as a courtesan accepting royal gifts. Women flock to the fabulous shine of wealth like midges, the demon of greed whispers sinful thoughts to them. Money sweeps away all the bastions of imaginary modesty, and a tightly stuffed wallet exalts the actions of even the most unattractive man. Do not believe a woman who claims that she is not for sale - either she is so deprived of nature that no one wants to buy her, or no one gave a real price for her.
You can blame us, poor cats, for the lack of moral principles, but let's face the truth. The poetry of materiality captivates women at all times; the sensual excitement that luxury evokes in them easily turns into a thrill of love. And cunning men know very well that the sparkle that appears in a woman’s eyes at the sight of another trinket of fabulous price can be replaced by the fire of love.
Feminine beauty It's expensive, and rightfully so. Carnal charm is fleeting, the world is cruel to a woman, and from her youth she needs to hurry to provide for herself. Gifts are a significant confirmation of men's feelings. The seducer must evoke in his beloved the emotions of a child at a Christmas tree, who is wondering which of the packages contains the best gift. And every self-respecting Santa Claus needs to know that the more beautiful and experienced a woman is, the more expensive she is. Of course, an inexperienced girl can be bribed with pillows
"Orbit" and a can of beer. But a lady who values the secrets of her body will laugh in your face if you hint to her that you expect appropriate payment after going to a fashionable restaurant. So before you give, find out the level of the woman. One of my friends was being pursued by a self-confident, soon-to-be rich man, the owner of an expensive shoe store. He took her to restaurants, gave her flowers and small gifts, but could not get her into bed. Finally, he brought her to the warehouse of his store, made a broad gesture with his hand and offered to choose any pair of shoes. The cheapest ones cost three hundred dollars. The admirer was sure that this was a more than generous offering. The girl curled her lips contemptuously and remarked: “I have a closet full of such shoes at home. Are you really counting on something? Now, if you gave me a car or an apartment, then you would have a chance.” And she left, angrily tapping her heels, without taking anything offered. Stores now provide all the cures for boredom. Avoid cheap items, choose things that captivate with their true qualities, and not with their tinsel shine, exaggerate the value of your gifts tenfold. Women always meticulously calculate the cost of each item; it is important for them to know what it costs in order to accurately calculate to the nearest ruble how much they have “ruined” their admirer. Men, don’t be shy, give them tetanus-inducing prices. If you are being delicate, then be vague, speak in hints, intrigue, present your gifts as if they were stolen from heaven or Aladdin's cave.
The fatal mistake that men make is haste. Don’t rush, wait, watch over the woman like a cat watches over a mouse. Appreciate the luxury of a slow approach, do not make rude attempts to get closer. For some reason, our men prefer to follow the principle: “Whoever feeds the girl will dance with her.” Having treated their lady to dinner at a restaurant, they become confident that they have bought all the rights to her. The woman has the feeling that an unforgiving creditor is driving her into a corner.
Skillful inaction is an excellent strategic maneuver, gentlemen! Stand before the gates of heaven without trying to enter, and victory is assured. If a woman has been taken to a restaurant or nightclub several times, presented with a bouquet of exquisite flowers and good perfume, and no attempts have been made to seduce her, she herself begins to wonder what is going on. The lack of initiative on the part of the admirer puts her at a dead end. “Maybe he doesn’t like me?” she thinks. “Maybe he’s impotent? But then why all his money? There’s some kind of mystery here! Either there’s something wrong with me, or something similar is happening.” for love, with a long romantic foreplay." Here's her train of thought. She is flattered and annoyed at the same time, tries to find logic in male behavior, is tormented by doubts, languishes in the fire of expectation and, finally, takes the initiative into her own hands - she steps on the dangerous path of coquetry and herself finds herself in the role of an attacker. This is where you need to grab it, while it’s still warm! One of my friends was perplexed why her admirer was not trying to sleep with her. “He spent more than a thousand dollars on gifts,” she said. “We visited many chic restaurants with him. And all our meetings end with is a kiss on the cheek at the door of my apartment. I’m starting to get mad.” It ended with her luring a fan to her home for a cup of coffee and literally raping him.
Well, what if a woman, after a long, patient courtship, remains cold as ice? Then you should find out her tastes and find out what she cannot refuse, for example, a cosmetic set from a good company. When the stage of meetings on neutral territory drags on, you call your beloved, make an appointment with her at your apartment, letting her know that a surprise awaits her. But the bait must be really good, otherwise you will be rejected. If the lady agrees, all you have to do is create that banal mixture of fresh music, good wine, which affects every soul, and hope that the night will take on the role of pimp. But in case of failure, do not scream in a fit of rage, like one of the heroes of the novel “Walking in Torment”: “The bitch was not fed sweetly so that another would cover you!” And if you are lucky, but the taste of defeat prevents you from enjoying your triumph, your pride is hurt by the direct connection between your spending money and your love victory - in this case, be generous, do not blame the woman for her weakness, consider that you just did successful purchase, at cost. Women don't like having their sins pointed at them. Brought up in a spirit of admiration for conventions and endowed with an innate sense of decency, they prefer to cover even their most unseemly actions with a sanctimonious veil of decency. Don't deny them the little pleasure of playing around.
All these tips are good if you are rich. Well, if the wind is blowing in your pockets, don’t skimp on beautiful words and promises, blow soap bubbles of euphonious phrases, color the gray camouflage of everyday life with bright colors, encourage your penchant for myth-making, lie godlessly, inspiredly, creatively. Women have a strong penchant for the romantic, they adore legends, and Chrysostoms are always a hit with them. Poetic confessions and vows are indispensable yeast in the love dough.
The woman wants to be deceived. I will tell you one story, not as an example to follow (she is too shameful for that), but as proof of the naivety and gullibility of a woman’s heart. Two idle young people went to a party in a nightclub, where they met four pretty girls. The boys had no money, and the girls looked very arrogant and spoiled. The young people introduced themselves as television operators who had just returned from a dangerous military mission in Chechnya, like unknown heroes. (Note, not by journalists or presenters, but by cameramen - modestly, but with taste.) The imagination of the imaginary heroes worked well, and with a cheater's chic they launched into lengthy descriptions of the difficult everyday life of the war. They told how bullets whistled over their heads, how they froze in the cold trenches of Yugoslavia and Grozny, how they buried their dead comrades. “And tomorrow we’ll go back to war,” they said. “Death is mowing down our ranks, and it’s unknown what the coming day has in store for us. We are ready for anything.” The thought they expressed was as simple as a moo - is it really possible to deny the heroes simple carnal joys, when, perhaps, tomorrow their bed will be a coffin, and their only beloved will be the damp earth. The girls shed tears and softened. The young men invited them to the apartment to see padded jackets, pierced by bullets, and combat helmets. There, all four beauties rewarded the heroes properly. Two of them are still faithfully waiting for the return of their new lovers from the harsh land. As you can see, eloquence works wonders, although, venturing into the jungle of words, remember that deception must have its own ethics. Well, if you are tongue-tied and awkward from birth, and God has not given you wealth, charm, or courage, still hope for a miracle. After all, Shakespeare's Titania once fell in love with a donkey on a magical moonlit night. Life plays us strangely, seize the moment. As a consolation, I will give you the words of my husband:
“There are no women who “don’t give.” There are men who ask badly.”
Ode to Pornography
Several years ago there was a period in my life when I lived completely alone, without friends and men. The whims of my body demanded satisfaction, but a feeling of disgust prevented me from setting out in search of dubious one-time love affairs. Desire, like a caustic acid, clouded and destroyed my blood. At night I had crazy dreams in which sex took the most sophisticated forms, and in the morning I woke up completely broken and discouraged. The matter would probably have ended with one of the forms of neurasthenia or casual sexual intercourse if a porn film had not ended up in my house. On one of the countless lonely evenings, I put on the cassette and, through the simplest manipulations familiar to every woman, achieved orgasm. Feeling a hot spasm of pleasure, I rejoiced. My joy was almost feminist, the joy of liberation from men. Long live freedom from own body! Now you can have little sensual sprees without resorting to the help of egoistic partners. For a whole month I lost all shame and almost lost my mind, constantly masturbating. The world, seen through the keyhole of a porno cassette, was fraught with an irresistible, attractive force. At any time of the day or night I could get a short barbaric pleasure, I just had to press the video button. This gave me a wonderful feeling of freedom, familiar only from dreams.
When I got married, I lost interest in pornography for a while, being carried away by love discoveries in the family sphere. But after a few months, sex with my husband acquired clear forms, regularity, regularity and predictability of reactions. I yawned out of boredom, realizing that the track had already been laid and it would be difficult to turn off it. Looking into the mirror of my own marriage, I wanted to take a rag and dust it off, brush away the cobwebs of sexual conservatism. Pornography has come to the rescue again.
One afternoon I found a familiar tape and decided to savor the old footage. As waves of adrenaline rushed through my veins, I realized that my ship had once again landed on forbidden shores. From that day on, I secretly indulged in porn films once a week, not intending to share such moments with anyone, and always fearing that I would be caught off guard. I enjoyed the delightful feeling of impunity - it turns out that you can commit adultery and change partners like gloves without crossing the red line of adultery.
Having once caught my husband in the same weakness, I decided to introduce new seductive colors into marital sex. The porn cocktail, that stimulating drink, turned out to be an excellent warming agent, a shameless prelude to a respectable family concert. It awakened instinct, warmed cold bodies and increased lust. There were now many partners in our bed. We received double pleasure contemplating someone else's love and creating our own. Pornography not only peppers and salts the fresh family life, but also serves as a sexual educational program. It shows all the mechanics of sensuality in action. This is a kind of visual aid for beginners. After all, where can a normal person acquire the necessary knowledge? Not at school or at university. And not from love melodramas that give rosy ideas about the animal side of love. Only unprincipled “porn” takes upon itself the courage to be completely frank.
God knows what secrets are hidden in the human heart! Sometimes it is dangerous to look into your soul - you can find a pit of sewage, abscesses and ulcers of monstrous vices. I often wondered why the dirt of life has such a magical attraction, why everything dark, criminal, sinful makes the human psyche pliable, like wax. Why do I, a married woman, enjoy watching extremely naturalistic German “porn”, why do many healthy young people enjoy footage of bestiality or child sex, and well-bred ladies hide their secret interest in lesbian magazines? These questions of a sensitive nature concern the most ancient secrets of blood and find their explanation in the original depravity of human nature. However, there is a whole gulf between imagination and crime. All our weaknesses and sins, safely digested in the cauldron of the subconscious, remain unrealized. The conflict between temperament and morality, which requires abstinence, is successfully resolved with the help of a surrogate - pornographic postcards, magazines, films.
All of us, voluptuous dreamers, strive to satisfy the instincts inherent in nature, but pushed back into the mysterious realm of the subconscious by the harsh laws of civilization. Pornography gives flesh and blood to our fantasies and thereby gives life to that part of our self that we cannot express except by breaking the law. If I have a penchant for group sex, I don’t need to look for partners - just watch the appropriate movie to get rid of the obsession. If a man has a weakness for intercourse with animals, he will not run to rape a meek village goat, but will simply buy a porno cassette and realize his desires at the level of imagination. Thus, pornography relieves us of the need to break all norms of legalized morality and dare to commit a crime. After all, everyone knows how dangerous suppressed sexuality is - it gives rise to maniacs and perverts, people whose sophisticated nervous system cannot cope with the burden of desires. Contemplating vice, we throw out our dark emotions and return to normal life, whiter than sheep. Pornography has long been in need of amnesty. It allows you to organize orgies at home. We learn to direct our desires with a skillful hand, like a traveler of an obedient horse, now pulling and now letting go of the reins. Sex rules the world, it is capable of taking different shapes and knock on all doors. And do not try to escape his power, it is better to unlock all the bolts, open all the locks and let the wonderful guest onto the threshold.
Is it worth paying for your career with your body?
In the beauty salon, where I visit a couple of times a month, I watch with interest a certain contingent of women surrounded by an aura of unshakable superiority. They are perfection itself - perfectly cut, delicately made up, well-groomed, dressed simply, but expensively. You can't tell from such women that they ever go to the toilet.
My first diagnosis was unmistakable: “First-class whores, icy, calculating bitches, covered with a thin layer of cosmetic charm.” In my mouth this is a compliment. These pink predators, who know their worth, are not ordinary courtesans, but women of business, creating their own business with money and with the help of men. They are well aware that the position of an ordinary kept woman, even a highly paid one, is unenviable. Their incredible flexibility and common sense allowed them to make careers in a man's world. They did not shy away from low intrigues and did not spare their own chastity, they trained their conscience, and these women are on the verge of triumph. What is written on the tablets of the social code has long lost its force in our country. All compasses of moral criteria are useless since Money came to power. This world is cruel to a woman, and she must provide for herself while she is young and pretty. If the world is so ridiculously structured that the levers of control are in the hands of men, and women have something between their legs that these arrogant animals cannot do without, why not use this momentary power? It’s only worth loving for free at the age of 16; later you can love for half the price if your heart asks.
Anticipating the furious protest of moralists and feminists, these tireless warriors for the rights of their sex, I note that with all my heart I wish them good luck. If they win, I'm on their side, do they have time to fight for justice? Great. But I do not have it. I have ten years left of youth and attractiveness, and I want to live them to the fullest, without burdening myself with questions of conscience. The bitterness of worldly wisdom gradually pours into the souls of the most well-meaning women. One of my friends, a good girl in the generally accepted sense of the word, five years ago, as a sign of gratitude, spent the night with the man who gave her Moscow registration. Prostitution? You can call it that. Now imagine how much the notorious registration, obtained by other means, would have cost her. Another example: a friend of mine, a talented journalist, decent to the point of detail, with strong moral rules, once violated her principles by sleeping with a man who secured her a position as a correspondent for one of the television programs. This place shone for her about ten years later. Now she, laughing, tells me about one enterprising, pretty journalism student who wanders around the television center with the only question: “Who do you need to sleep with to get a job?” Why dress up in the tinsel clothes of idealism if, according to unspoken statistics, 90% of successful ladies have taken off their panties at least once in their lives for personal gain?
Women's sly penchant for moral make-up is not surprising - I am well versed in this cosmetics that powders sins of conscience. Much less hypocritical is my soft, condescending, boneless morality, which forgives evil where it sees the necessity or impossibility of its destruction. Sometimes I try to imagine an ideal society in which a co-worker is afraid to give you a compliment (what if it will be misinterpreted?), your boss will not dare to invite you to dinner at a restaurant (what if you sue him for sexual harassment? ) - a world without random touches, flirting and the ability to use your most powerful weapon - coquetry, and I become unbearably bored. Do I need these rights that feminists shout so much about if I have the actual power to achieve my goal through carnal love? And what are these rights? Crutches for the weak, buskins for the short. When I'm old and have nothing left to lose, I'm sure to take those old-fashioned, high-quality goods out of my mothball-smelling cupboards—incorruptibility, integrity, decency. After all, virtue and sin live in the same country, speak the same language and, when meeting, shake hands with each other, like good old friends.
Europe is overwhelmed by hordes of greedy migrants Komsomolskaya Pravda special correspondent Daria ASLAMOVA visited several European countries, where tens of thousands of people from Africa and the Middle East arrive every day. But these are not classic refugees at all. They feel like masters in a new place, despise the local residents who help them and demand more and more benefits for themselves. The small town of Kanizsa on the Serbian-Hungarian border. Every morning at six in the morning the bells of the Church of Peter and Paul begin their sad song. They cry so shrilly and desperately until seven in the morning that it is no longer possible to sleep. I go to the window and pull back the curtain. The square in front of the hotel was empty. They are gone. Only the “lookers” remained - several dark young men sleeping on the grass under the trees. But then the first intercity bus slows down at the central stop, releasing a fresh batch of refugees. Mostly these are men under 30 wearing jeans and T-shirts. But there are also women in hijabs with small children in their arms. Despite the sweltering heat, the women are wrapped in dark woolen clothes. Some even wear black gloves. All these people are very self-confident and completely indifferent to the charm of the old Christian town. At nine o'clock, the Venice Cafe opens on the corner, where refugees go to charge their brand new iPhones and laptops, go to the toilet, or even wash their hair in the sink. By evening there is nowhere for an apple to fall in the center of Kanizha. Hundreds of people camped temporarily in two central squares. According to the most conservative estimates, there are about two thousand of them. They sit on the grass, eat, drink and look with contempt at the city cleaners who are forced to pick up plastic bags, bottles, cigarette butts, and leftover food after them. Night is falling. Darkness is a signal. People are divided into groups of 30-50 people. Each of them has its own leader. By eleven in the evening, the groups advance on foot to the Serbian-Hungarian border. Residents silently watch through the windows as immigrants move like black shadows through the quiet, seemingly dead town. “They leave the city on foot, and then the gypsy mafiosi pick them up on buses,” says taxi driver Victor. “We are not allowed to transport illegal immigrants. The police have already seized five cars from our taxi fleet. And the gypsies do what they want. They are the main guides for refugees throughout Balkan route. The gypsies take refugees almost to the border, and then lead them through the forest to Hungary along paths known only to them. It all started in January. People began to arrive in an organized manner, every day. And the flow is growing. To be honest, we are scared. Well will it happen to us?" Great Migration In 2015, Europe exploded. What started out as a thin trickle of immigration suddenly turned into a powerful human wave, ready to sweep away cozy, clean Europe. To the two previous routes: through Gibraltar to Spain and the Mediterranean Sea to the Italian Lampedusa, a new, convenient and safe Balkan route has been added. First, from Turkish Izmir to the Greek islands (the famous island of Lesbos fell as the first victim. The Greeks told me that the Turks help immigrants in every possible way. There are rumors that Turkey deliberately sponsors refugees and literally pushes them into international waters.) Then Athens, Macedonia, Serbia, Hungary , and then the flow is divided into two parts - Austria and Germany or Slovakia and the Czech Republic. Even England, which bombed unfortunate Libya with such a sense of superiority, suddenly discovered that its island position did not save it from invasion. The Channel Tunnel is stormed daily by angry refugees. And in Germany, the authorities had to resort to the help of the army, which provided tents for immigrants and protection from angry locals. From January to July, one hundred thousand people traveled along the Balkan route alone. Sociologists predict that by the end of the year there will be 250 thousand. And next year promises disaster. I have worked in “hot spots” many times and have seen a huge number of refugees in my lifetime. Crying women in home clothes and slippers on their bare feet, dirty children in cast-offs, stone-faced men, angry from their own helplessness. They were glad to have a bottle of water, a piece of bread, and a little financial help. THESE refugees amazed me with their external well-being and ability to quickly establish their own rules. A park in Belgrade next to the bus station. It looks like parks in many European cities look like now. Men washing in fountains, entire families sleeping on the grass. As soon as I enter the park, a group of guys rushes towards me. “You can’t take pictures here,” one of them says in decent English, pointing at my camera. “Is that so?!” I exclaim and put my hands on my hips. “The park is a public place, and I’m a journalist and I’m doing my job.” "Our women are here!" “So what? Your women are all in hijabs and covered from head to toe. If they don’t like the rules here, they can go back. Do you know that Belgrade is the capital of an Orthodox Christian state? And women walk here with their faces open? How many hours? are you in Belgrade? “Three days,” my confused opponent answers. “And you’re already making your own rules? This is not your land.” Here we both lower our tone and conclude a truce. My new friend's name is Khalid, he is from Damascus, he is 21 years old. “I’m a real Syrian,” he says proudly. “Not like all these...” He gestures contemptuously at the people occupying the square. "Why is this important?" – I’m surprised. “And everyone here is lying that they are from Syria. It’s just that Syria is fashionable now. They write in all the newspapers. No one is interested in refugees from Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya, Tunisia. Even Afghans have begun to call themselves Syrians.” Khalid and his comrades fled Syria to avoid being drafted into the army. “Why should I fight for Assad? I’d rather go to Germany.” “Why didn’t you ask for asylum in Greece, Macedonia, or at least here in Serbia?” “These are all poor countries,” Khalid wrinkles his nose contemptuously. “I didn’t even know that Europe was so poor. We lived much richer in Syria before the war. I paid the carriers and guides $3,000 just for the trip to Belgrade. And to Germany - I still have to pay fifteen hundred thousand. I have money. I can pay for a five-star hotel in Belgrade, but they won’t let me in because the local authorities only give us 72 hours to stay in the country. And my registration ended today. Even here in the park , I pay for a shower and toilet. But then in Germany everything will be free: education, benefits, housing for immigrants. It’s good there! I want to enter the Faculty of Economics. As soon as I get settled, I’ll move my whole family there: two brothers, father, mother , grandmother and three sisters." Five pretty young women in hijabs sat on a bench in the shade under a spreading tree, guarded by two fierce men. “Salaam alaikum,” I greet. “Hello,” they answer in unison. One of them, named Aisha, takes on the role of translator. Having difficulty choosing English words, she explains that they are Syrians from Aleppo and the whole family is traveling to Germany. They have been on the road for ten days already. They have no one in Germany, but they heard that all refugees are accepted there. They have money. A trip for the whole family will cost a tidy sum: over 20 thousand dollars. Their mother has diabetes, but they are sure that the Germans are obliged to treat her for free. Married Betul shows me her wounded legs. “The day before yesterday we crossed the Macedonian border through the forest,” she explains. “You are beautiful because you have white skin. But I was beautiful too, until I got sunburned. Look.” Betul rolls up the sleeve of her sweater and shows the border between tanned and white skin. "I will live in Europe and become white again. There is less sun in the north." The refugees in Belgrade are nothing like the Syrian refugees I saw in Lebanon. There are tragic figures there, people who have lost everything and are slowly dying under the cruel sun in crowded camps, about whom no one cares. Those who made it to Europe are the elite. With money and with your super goals. How to become a refugee Early in the morning, from a Hungarian forest near the town of Ashothalom, groups of dark-skinned people with backpacks on their shoulders come out onto the road. They all crossed the border illegally last night, and now they have nothing to fear. They are very good at navigating using the GPS on their phones. Their main task is to meet the first policeman and present him with a sign in English “asylum” (shelter), if there is no one in the group who at least speaks English. In official language this is called "expression of intention to seek asylum." From this moment on, they are entitled to a 72-hour stay in the country. And not only. A bed in a refugee center, free three meals a day, second-hand clothes and shoes, and free train tickets throughout the country. Zoltan, a muscular, tall guy in camouflage, brings me to one of the refugee camps. Zoltan belongs to a group of nationalist (or patriotic) Hungarian volunteers guarding the border, and tries to forcefully prevent refugees from entering. But he is not a policeman and in fact he has no powers. But it will be bad for those refugees who fall into the hands of his organization. At best, they will be kicked back across the border. Hungarian forest near the border. Refugees under police surveillance. In a clearing in the forest, under police guard, refugees from different countries. One of them, a young Afghan named Ammanula, tells me that he walked for two and a half months from Kunduz through Iran and Turkey with his comrades in the hope of settling in Germany. He shows me the convincing calluses on his feet. Nearby is a group of young Syrians who look like perfect Europeans. Blondes with light eyes who speak fluent English. Along with them is a defiantly red-haired, impudent young woman smoking one cigarette after another. She, like her comrades, is a Sunni Syrian, but she bravely stands among women in hijabs. They all intend to get to Sweden. Red is worried about the fact that they've all already been fingerprinted. "I heard that we could be sent back to Hungary even if we get to Sweden. This new agreement between Schengen countries. Where they took your fingerprints upon entry, there you must stay." (She is absolutely right, but I reassure her that this agreement exists only on paper for now.) Hungarian forest not far from the border. Immigrants who crossed the border illegally at night are waiting for help. Swarthy A Sunni from Idlib named Jamil with two children asks me when the bus will pick them all up and take them to their holiday destination. He is extremely indignant at such “disorganization”. It’s hard to believe that this man crossed the border illegally last night. He behaves like a passenger on bus stop, annoyed that for some reason the buses are not on schedule. He demands that I talk to the police. And they were terribly tired of the flow of refugees: “We no longer have enough transport to transport them all to Szeged, to the railway station. Six full buses left in the morning. We are waiting for them to return to pick up the rest.” Welcome Hungarian city of Szeged. Train Station. A wooden house where everything is ready to receive refugees by volunteers from a charity organization. Water, fruit, sandwiches and “halal chorba” (meat soup). “Why halal?” I ask a fat, ugly, but good-natured woman who is washing the sidewalk in front of the house. “Shouldn’t refugees get used to living conditions in Europe?” “Of course not!” she is indignant. “This may offend their religious feelings. They are very vulnerable.” I carefully find out that my interlocutor is single, like most “volunteers,” but she finds joy and inspiration in “serving unfortunate people.” Dry toilets, showers, water fans for refreshment have been prepared for refugees, free Internet And detailed instructions how to behave with the authorities. Everything is polished to a shine, apples are laid out on a tray, the faces of the volunteers shine with the upcoming joy of meeting the “victims”. What happens next offends me to the core. Several buses stop at the station, filled to capacity with young men. When they go outside, they immediately start talking on the phone and connecting fashionable gadgets to the Internet. Casually, not paying any attention to the excited, flushed “volunteers,” they take bottles of water, sandwiches, and bowls of soup. They don't even say "thank you"! “Crazy old women,” Junet from Pakistan shares her impressions. “Why don’t their children or grandchildren watch them? Why do they let them out freely on the street? Everywhere we go, we are met by these crazy people.” I choke with anger and exclaim: “They are doing this out of nobility! To help you!” Junet is a little confused. “Yes, I don’t argue that they are kind. But where are their husbands? And is it proper for old women to wander the streets in the evening and communicate with young men? We went through all of Europe, and the people here are strange. We even saw young women who handed out sandwiches for us. They are almost naked and they are all at least twenty. They don’t marry people that old in Pakistan anymore. But why are you alone? Where is your husband?” “Two steps away from you,” I say vindictively. “He’s taking pictures.” The frail Junet glances at the imposing figure of my husband, a Croatian journalist, and immediately changes his tone. “This is right,” he approves. “Women should not be left alone.” But then he gets scared: “Just let him not take pictures of me. I forbid it. I still have so many borders to cross. I want to go to London, because there are a lot of Pakistanis there. When I get to England and call my two sisters, I won’t allow them unaccompanied "They found a decent groom in England for the youngest (she is already fourteen years old). Let her marry a respectable man as a second wife." “But no one in England will register this marriage!” - I’m indignant. “And it’s not necessary. For us, the main thing is the blessing of Allah in the mosque. And then it’s profitable. As soon as the children come, for the British she will be considered a minor single mother. You can’t imagine how much money they will pay her! And medicine, transport, food, education - everything is free. The British are our former colonialists. They will pay for everything. Inshallah!" The "Great" Hungarian Wall Serbian-Hungarian border. I'm standing in front of an impressive four-meter high fence that should stretch for 175 kilometers. This is the already famous Hungarian wall, designed to protect Hungary from the invasion of immigrants. It has not yet been completed, and refugees cross the border every night. “It’s a strange feeling,” says Veronica, an employee of the mayor’s office from the small town of Ashothalom. “I never thought that my country would live behind barbed wire. But you don’t know which side the prison is on.” The wall is entangled with NATO razor wire, which easily cuts the skin. “All major non-governmental organizations protested,” says Veronica. “Yes, there may be victims here,” I agree, imagining refugees fighting and bleeding in the night, cut to pieces in a steel grip. “You see, poor wild animals can get hurt,” explains Veronica, and I look into her calm face with surprise, suspecting irony. But no, no irony. “Local wild boars and deer have already run into the wall,” she says with concern. “They might cut themselves.” “Yes, they can. Well, people will still find some way out,” I note. “They will make tunnels or cut holes.” “It’s enough to buy a good Swiss knife in a store,” says Hungarian Jobbik MP Márton Gyöngyösy. “The wall is not an obstacle. If an immigrant has walked thousands of kilometers to get to Europe, it will not be a problem for him to bypass this wall or buy knife. Maybe not right away, but immigrants will find a solution. They are everywhere in Budapest. In public parks they sleep right on the grass. We don’t know what they are sick with, what viruses they bring with them. This is a real disaster! Two years ago, the number asylum applications did not exceed two thousand. And this year already at the end of July we received one hundred thousand applications! We do not have any infrastructure to cope with such an influx of people! The European Union does not want to talk about real problems. Bureaucrats from Brussels talk only about economic and social reasons for the new migration of peoples. But if we want to see the root of the problem, we must understand that the main reason is Western foreign policy. Intervention in North Africa and the Middle East, destabilization of countries such as Iraq, Syria, Afghanistan, Tunisia, Lebanon, Egypt, Libya. And this is just the beginning. We still do not know how many migrants will come to us from Ukraine if its collapse and economic catastrophe occurs (and this is only a matter of time). Europe is still talking about multicultural policies, about tolerance, about refugee rights. But the European Union is like a patient who does not know that he is sick. For Hungary, all this is offensive. Hungarians never had a colonial past. Here France and England are paying for their crimes. They colonized the eastern peoples, and now their former slaves are returning and demanding compensation. But we have nothing to be ashamed of." "Are you sure that you have nothing to be ashamed of? Listen to the story of Dr. Ahmad from Libya." "No one is innocent!" I met Dr. Ahmad (that’s his name) in the Serbian border town of Kanizha, in the Venice cafe. I immediately noticed this son of Africa with a dark, shiny face and thick, protruding lips. African god mask. He slowly drank coffee and smoked a cigarette, and I looked at his hands, large, beautiful, with such precise, meager movements. Surgeon's hands. And I guessed right. I introduced myself and we struck up a conversation. We talked about “fashionable” and “unfashionable” wars, about the fact that all refugees assure local authorities that they are from Syria. "Fashion" wars! – Dr. Ahmad laughed sarcastically. - Well, you're right. Europe doesn't want to hear about refugees from Iraq and Afghanistan. They are ready to plug their ears with cotton wool! But they react even more offensively to refugees from Libya. After all, it was France and Great Britain that bombed my country. Now they are turning their backs on us! Like, we brought you democracy, but you couldn’t take advantage of the fruits of freedom! It is you Libyans who should be ashamed for disappointing our expectations. I confess, I was a fool too. There was euphoria when Gaddafi was overthrown. My son was an enthusiastic boy and admired the revolution, but he died." Dr. Ahmad's face remains calm when he talks about his son. The fatalism of a Muslim and the reserve of an Easterner. "I have two daughters. We fled to Egypt almost as soon as the chaos began, leaving our son's grave behind. I am a doctor, but I have not found a job of my level in Egypt. Everywhere has its own competition. They don't like strangers. I don’t want to retell to you the boring story of my wanderings. In Europe I hope to confirm my diploma. I have good English. Maybe I'll be lucky." "But the locals are panicking from the invasion! - I say. – Greeks, Serbs, Hungarians, Slovaks, Czechs insist that they don’t deserve it! It's not their fault that the entire Middle East and North Africa are drowning in blood." "That's it! - Dr. Ahmad exclaims, and the yellowish whites of his huge African eyes become bloodshot. – I have no complaints against the Serbs. BYE. But Greece, Hungary, Slovakia, Croatia are NATO members. Yes, they didn't bomb my country, but don't they pay money to NATO's military budget? Don't they send their soldiers to Afghanistan and Iraq? They will not be able to escape punishment. NATO has flooded the entire Middle East with blood, and now weak Europe, which has given power over itself to the American Satan, will be destroyed. Our women give birth to children. In five years, the face of Europe will completely change. I'm not happy about this. I respect the great European culture and do not want minarets to stand here instead of churches. But it will be so. This is retribution. Inshallah!" "The blame will have to be shared by everyone" “But he’s right, your doctor!” Márton Gyöngyösy, a member of the Hungarian parliament from the Jobbik party, suddenly exclaimed when I told him the story of Dr. Ahmad. “Hungary is a member of the EU and NATO. And when this organization pursues an aggressive policy to destroy Syria, Tunisia, Libya, Iraq, we must not remain silent. We must tell our allies directly: “Listen up! This is against the interests of Europe and against the interests of our country!" Yes, we did not take part in the bombing of Iraq and Syria, but our silence is our fault. I still believe that we made a huge mistake by joining NATO. On paper we entered into a defensive alliance. In practice, Hungary is a member of an aggressive offensive organization that is destroying the Middle East and provoking Russia in the situation in Ukraine. The leaders of Europe are either fools or traitors. Although, when you learn from Wikileaks materials that even Merkel is under constant surveillance by American intelligence services, then you understand: most of the leaders of the European Union can be objects of blackmail." Zivadin Jovanovic, former Serbian Foreign Minister, is one of those people who clearly see the connection between the past and the present. “The new destructive wave of migration is the consequences of the imperialist policies of the West,” he claims. “It all started in Serbia, after the destruction of Yugoslavia and NATO bombing of Serbia. It was here that the first step was taken to attack Somalia, Sudan, Afghanistan, Iraq under the pretext of fighting terrorism or the protection of human rights. America always pursues a policy of chaos, which gives it control over natural resources, strategic lines of communication and the traffic of people, drugs, weapons. The consequences fall on Europe, but the European Union is not so much an ally of the United States as a rival. Here why America forced the EU to participate in every US sponsored military operation since the war against Yugoslavia. In reality, the Europeans are fighting against themselves. The attack on Libya was a barbarity, symbolized by the horribly brutal murder of Gaddafi. Now we have a huge uncontrolled territory with rampant banditry The war in Libya has exposed the face of the West - selfish and neo-colonial. We saw France suffering from an inferiority complex, having long ago lost its prestige, and Sarkozy playing Napoleon. We saw Britain, which has a huge colonial history, but lacks military power. It is the British who often instigate conflicts, trying to combine their ambitions of the former empire with American power and authority. And now both the British and the French shouted in unison that something needs to be done about the immigrants. But we are dealing with the classic boomerang effect. Yes, the immigration bomb went off, but the reasons for the explosion are more complex than they seem at first glance. Young, educated men with money come to us. All the trendy hair salons in Belgrade are filled with people from the Middle East. At expensive dry cleaners they hand over whole bags of clothes. It is absolutely clear that someone is helping them financially. The police have already admitted that there are extremists among the immigrants. All the police can do is take their fingerprints. Before us are the so-called “sleeping terrorists.” When necessary, they will be “awakened”, and a wave of terror will sweep Europe.” Panic in the Balkans! Macedonia. The country has announced emergency. Complete chaos on the Greek-Macedonian border. The police have blocked all crossings and are installing barbed wire. The refugees launched an assault. The police had to use tear gas and call on the army for help. Refugees lay on the tracks, causing the railway connection between Greece and Macedonia to be interrupted. Thousands of people gathered in the neutral zone. Macedonians accuse the Greek police of being inactive and trying to push outsiders out of Greece. Serbia. The government is talking about a humanitarian crisis. There are already about 80 thousand refugees, but there are only enough places in immigration centers for a couple of thousand. Although the refugees themselves do not want to stay in Serbia at all (it is a well-known trick to announce their intention to seek asylum, but not write an official statement), the tightening of controls on the Hungarian border puts them in hopeless situation . The first Serb to contract West Nile fever has died. Croatia. Caught in the throes of summer tourism, Croatia suddenly woke up and panicked to find refugees trying to cross the Serbian-Croatian border. Which is logical: on the border of Croatia and Slovenia (Schengen zone) there are dense forests through which the gypsies used to lead the Chinese. And behind Slovenia begins rich Austria, and there is no border between them. In Croatia itself there are many “useful idiots” from among the neoliberals who call on their fellow citizens to open their hearts and doors to Middle Eastern immigrants. The neoliberal newspaper Jutarnji list has already proposed places where refugees could be accommodated in beautiful Croatia - in empty military barracks in Pula, Varazdin, Karlovac, in Dalmatia. And even in the abandoned Esterhazy Palace near the charming Ilok. But small, self-contained Croatia recently experienced a shock - in Cairo a month ago, terrorists from IS (Islamic State) kidnapped a Croatian citizen and cut off his head. A photo was published online showing the 30-year-old father of two holding his own head in his hands. It is understandable that the supposed invasion of strangers drove the local population into hysterics. Recently a poster appeared on the Internet: "Dear immigrants! Welcome to Croatia! No work, no money, no future. Please travel to Slovenia. Thank you." “Forget the Europe you once knew,” says Professor Branislav Djordjevic, director of the Serbian Institute of International Politics and Economics, bitterly. “Europe is being squeezed by Muslim geopolitical pincers: from Spain, Italy and the Balkans. Even in Bucharest, where there are practically no Muslims, the largest mosque in Europe was built at Turkey's expense. Victoria Nuland recently visited the Balkans and said in an interview: in order to defeat the Islamic State, the United States will need from 5 to 10 years. I am a former military man. To destroy the Islamic State, it does not take time, but determination. You ask who benefits from the chaos in the Middle East? Just count how many people in the United States work in the military-industrial complex. Directly or indirectly. Count their family members. And how many voters support them? For the military industry to develop, you need to spend already ready-made weapons. And you need to try new ones. You can't just produce. This is the biggest industry in the world. Bigger than gas and oil. And another question: does America need a strong Europe?” “Of course not,” I say. “So still: who is the main culprit?” The saddest thing in the journalistic profession is when, when asking a question, you already know the answer to it, and you know why the interlocutor cannot answer directly. Dr. Branislav Djordjevic, director of the institute, where EU ambassadors regularly come , is careful in his comments: “Big Brother is watching us all. You know his name. Why are you asking?" Daria ASLAMOVA Original publication
