It is not like I do not remember that I once had another sort of life. Once, I too was a peasant; I lived in Kyzyl-Kiya, in southern Kirghizia, with my small family. Our way of life had been poor, but in retrospect, I was definitely happier then than I am now. Our humble abode, a felt yurt, had been the centre of al our activities: we cooked, sang, danced and ate there. There was no regret, no selfishness or spite; there was only an omnipresent and simple joy. We were illiterate, but perhaps that was all for the better, as the onus of politics had no effect on us then. As a child of 5, I had wondered what life in Frunze, the capital, would be like. Oh woe! Only if I had remained in the safety and simplicity of my childhood home; then I would have never become the hateful personage I am now!

     That was the reason why I had decided to go to Kyzyl-Kiya once more, to revisit and refresh my memory of pre-Soviet Kirghizia before the nomadic way of life-- so unique to our people but looked down upon as primitive and atavistic by the Bolsheviks—disappeared in its entirety. I performed the first part of my journey on horseback. I afterwards obtained a mule, as it was the more sure-footed and least liable to receive injury on these rugged roads. The weather was wonderful; it was about the middle of November and the winds were not yet so rugged. I was delighted that this trail was so little-known; it would protect me from the prying eyes of the Bolsheviks’ secret police, the Cheka. The weight upon my soul was sensibly lightened as I plunged deeper into the valley. The naked hills that glared and steepened above me, the sinewy river that snaked besides me, the sweet melodies of the spray of songbirds above the river all spoke of the power and beauty of nature—and I suddenly ceased to fear and thus ended my cycle of self-hatred for the while being. Still, as I rode on, the hills gave way to canyons, which eventually released me into wind-torn uplands. The village I had been seeking was only a couple hundred of metres away; they were only nomad yurts on hillside pastures. Was my family here, I wondered? I felt that I needed to find them, in order to satisfy that horrible, grinding loneliness which had plagued me so often since the day my uncle Daniar had taken me away to Frunze to be educated. For no race or faction acknowledged me as one of their own; to my own people, the Kyrgyz, I was a puzzling presence, Western-educated and too politically involved, while to the Russian Bolsheviks, I was the foreigner and the enemy intellectual, the class of people they considered the lowliest. Not even the charming smile of my beloved Nurana could cure me of my melancholic ailment, for she would not and could not possibly understand as she was a peasant and knew nothing of my involvement in the Basmachi rebel movement.

     Tarmac, telegraph poles, and even the wind had gone by the time I arrived in the village. Beside the grazing yaks and cows, a cold stream clattered, soothing me with its tranquility and naturalness. A few meters away lay the Kyrgyz homes of my childhood; the same felt yurts with the same jovial villages clambering around. One could scarcely envision my ecstasy as I beheld them, my beloved countrymen! When one of them beheld me, his face split into a genial smile as he welcomed me to his village. He had killed a sheep the night before, he told me, and seeing that I was alone, he inquired of me whether or not I needed a place to stay for the night. Grateful for the peasant’s generosity, I thanked him and followed him into his yurt.

       To my utmost delight, the interior of the yurt was the duplicate of that of the one so adored in my childhood memories! The fireplace was directly in the center, and behind it was the juk, the stack of blankets, quilts and pillows that served as the indicator of wealth. In this case, there was only a small juk in the back, confirming the fact that my generous host was of peasant stock. I loved the yurt for its simplicity; it would protect me tonight from both the physical danger of being captured by the Cheka and the danger of falling prey to my own sentiments of shame and fear. Here, nothing reminded me of the Bolsheviks or the Cheka; instead, everything here was quiet, peaceful and jovial, all adorned with rustic charm.

        My host, a heavy-headed gentleman with a small mouth, clenched eyes and short nose, led me to the dinner table and introduced himself as Ilyaz. Dressed in the distinctive white felt hat of the Kyrgyz, the kalpak, he reminded me of my father; he too had possessed the same warm countenance and geniality. A pang of nostalgia struck me, and for a while, I was tempted to inquire Ilyaz whether or not he was acquainted with my parents, but I repressed this desire, because I knew that the less people knew about me, the less chance I would have of being found out by the Cheka. Unaware of my woe, Ilyaz started to describe to me how the changes that the Soviet government had wrought affected his life. When he mentioned how the Cheka had suddenly appeared at the village last week and seized food from them, I thought again of my involvement in the Basmachi rebel movement. In the name of peace and freedom, we killed Bolsheviks. Our hands were forever stained with their blood, and yes, they had done atrocious acts and slaughtered those who refused to surrender their food and land to them, but was that enough to justify the crimes we have committed against them? They too, were human and had rights to life. Were not our actions and decisions hubristic then? I had begun my career as a Basmachi leader with benevolent intentions and thirsted for the moment when I should put them in practice and make myself useful to my fellow beings. I had believed myself invincible, infallible and righteous; I had truly believed that my being a Basmachi leader would lead to the dissolution of Bolshevism. Bah! What nonsense. My hubristic actions had lead to nothing but pain and destruction. Striving to forget the world, my fears and myself, I helped myself to the beshbarmark mutton, horse milk and meat dumplings. As I tasted the food of my people and the milky flavor of the fat-laden meat, a tingling long-lost sense of pleasure came to me. Suddenly, I was able to forget my atrocious crimes and the light-hearted gaiety of my former self returned. The soft, unaccented inflections of Ilyaz’s tongue whispered in soothing accents and, for a while, the agony was gone and all conquered as I poured the vodka down my throat.

       Later that night, I found myself fettered to grief once more as I indulged in my agonizing memories. There is no escape for a sinner such as me! There are only sporadic fits of ecstasy for one such as I, and even those are marked by a certain melancholy. I myself had not killed before, but already too many times have I involved myself with the murders of others. I, being a part of the intelligentsia of the Basmachi, was in charge of making the plans of attach against the Bolsheviks; thus, every death caused by the Basmachi was indirectly caused by my hands. Many times, I have seen the corpses of our enemy sprawled on the floor in puddles of gore and oftentimes, many of them were only mere beardless youths. I had first decided to become a member of the Basmachi as a result of my idealistic desire to overthrow the Bolsheviks and restore Kirghizia and Turkestan to their former conditions, but what was I now? A murderer, a scoundrel, an imposter! “A Khan does not fetter himself to grief,” Daniar had said to me. A Khan indeed! While Chinghiz Khan , my namesake, had been a great warrior and fearless in the heart of battle, I most definitely was not and never had been, for I lacked the courage and strength of spirit most people associated with him.

       “And how about you, esteemed traveler? What sayeth you about the Soviets?” My blood congealed as I heard the name of my pursuers uttered by Ilyaz; could this seemingly kind man be a spy? My old paranoia, which I had thought was banished by the beauty of nature and the hospitality of Ilyaz, returned and drove a spear through my ephemeral nonchalance. However, I did manage to choke out:” My good sir, I believe in the preservation of our people, nothing more. I do not care much for the Soviets. If they leave us alone, then I have no quarrel with them.” Ilyaz smiled again, revealing a mouth full of black, chipped teeth, but his was a genial smile nevertheless. “You speak aptly, young traveler. For I fear that we may be—“

     The old man never got to finish his sentence, for it was then that he noticed that the Cheka had come into the yurt without our noticing. Presently, they stood glaring at us from underneath their thick fur hats with their hostile deep-set eyes. What agony was in my heart as they glared at us so fiercely! I could not flee, for that would reveal me as possibly suspicious; but if I stayed, they would find me out and arrest me on the spot. What could I do? My mind, agitated and confounded, was trapped in a void of indecision and fear as dark as Erebus.

     Suddenly, the leader of the Cheka, a middle-aged Russian with a rugged beard, demanded in a gravely voice:” We are looking for dissidents, for word has spread to our ears that Basmachi activity has spread here.” Presently, he stopped and gazed at our faces fervently, as if he was trying to pry the truth out of us by observing our countenances.  My heart was in my mouth and an unharnessed fear gripped my limbs, but I attempted to keep my face neutral and to make myself less conspicuous.

    “You,” the Bolshevik sneered at Ilyaz. “What is that you are holding, decadent bourgeoisie? Treatise on Democracy. What is that?” The poor, good old gentleman, his face now a mask of fear, turned around slowly to face the giant Bolshevik towering over him and said in a voice of half-suppressed emotion, “What do you mean, good sir?” The Bolshevik struck him violently across the cheek and spat at him, “Foolish old fop! Do not attempt to lie to me, for I well know your intentions. The bourgeoisie must die, for too long have we been crushed under your polished heels!” The huge man then dragged good Ilyaz to his feet, causing the latter to drop a certain familiar book. Despair! That book was mine! I had dropped it on my way here, and Ilyaz had probably found it and had been waiting the whole night for a chance to return it. So Ilyaz did know about my being a revolutionary; only now, he was the one to suffer for my crimes! I longed to strike the Cheka right there and then, but I knew that we would easily be overpowered as they were armed, whereas we were not. Anguish and despair penetrated into the core of my heart; I could not tell the Cheka the truth and risk imprisonment for then, the Basmachi would be leaderless. Thus, I convinced myself not to intervene, thoughtless and selfish as I was. Oh, how I wished at that moment that Ilyaz would admit his innocence! However, this was not to be, for Ilyaz did not struggle in the least as the Cheka dragged him out of the yurt and into the back of their automobile. I stood there in their wake in shock; I simply did not know what to do. Here again, the irony of life reigned supreme, unfair and absolute in its iron-fisted rule. Ilyaz, a genial man full of simplicity and generosity possessed qualities that promised to render his life happy; but now all of this was to be demolished in an ignominious grave, while I, the great sinner-rebel, the betrayer, had been forgiven and pardoned. How could I forget that one final look he shot me before he ascended the automobile? Rather than full of the hatred and malice I expected to see from him, the look he gave me was full of hope and love, and his mouth formed the words, “May peace be upon you!” as he slowly turned his countenance away from mine and marched to his death. Good grief! Did this mean that the good man had faith in me? Although he was not so well acquainted with me, did he already believe that I could save him and our country? “Chinghiz khan, may you persist in your endeavors to liberate us!” Ilyaz shouted one final time as the automobile speeded away.

    And could not such words from him suffice to chase away the demons that lurked in my heart? Alas, no, for my soul, so full of woe, could not possibly be redeemed by the tenderness of friendship or the beauty of nature. There was only one thing left to do now, and that was to break the cycle of guilt on which I had based all my woe on since joining the Basmachi. Thus, I ran and hurled myself at the fleeing automobile and stabbed the tire with my dagger. “Run, Ilyaz!” I shouted, but it was already too late, for all around me, I heard gunshots and screaming and there was suddenly an unbearable pain at the back of my skull. Struggling to stay conscious, I managed to crawl back to the yurt before my consciousness passed into sweet oblivion.