Biography of Dinar Khalilova

Google Mountains from the mind: Ukrainian about how Dagestan became her former homeland, Ukrainian student Dinara Khalilova originally from Dagestan. Recently, after many years, she again visited this country - and wrote for Platfor. By nationality, I am Dagestan, my parents come from one of the deaf villages, lost in the huge massif of the mountains of the North Caucasus.

But since birth I live in Ukraine, and I visit the Earth of my ancestors once every few years. And what I see there invariably arouses a strong desire to return home, to the world of values ​​and realities that have at least any relation to the European way of life. I arrived in Makhachkala late at night, so I did not immediately plunge into the bottomless pool of the bustle there.

Waking up late in the morning from the terrible heat, I clearly felt that I had arrived at the destination: the local climate could not be confused. Mentally, I was already preparing myself for the continuous stream of guests and campaigns for numerous relatives who consider it their duty to scold me once again for ignorance of the “native” language or to remind you that you should marry only for the Dagestan.

But I was lucky to some extent: I stayed at home alone with my young wife’s young wife. Aishat is 25 years old, she grew up in Rostov-on-Don in a large family, and moved to Makhachkala when she got married. And here, in Makhachkala, even if you want to get a regular nanny, you need to pay a minimum of thousand. Without connections and money here, in general. ” Then the dialogue moved to the eternal topic of restrictions and prohibitions.

According to a relative, parents always hold a certain line in front of the girls, for which you cannot cross. Everyone around, acquaintances, relatives will begin to discuss, say: oh, so, so that she does so late on the street, her parents will disgrace. People cannot keep silent, and for a long time they will remember this trifle. They may not even allow her son to marry a girl if somewhere once a rumor was indecent about her.

And you won’t explain to everyone that you just walked. It’s better to sit at home again. ” Of course, in me there was a sharp desire to go for a walk. As if by order, Camilla’s summer sister entered the house and I invited her to go to the center, to look at the city. She was not at all opposed, we began to gather and while Camilla persuaded me to circle the lips with the dark contour, because “so beautiful, you,” my uncle noticed our manipulations.

Ruslan is my cousin.

Seeing my perplexed look, my uncle added with a smile:-Yes, yes, so it is necessary, the city here is so specific. It was useless to argue. The taxi driver caught on the street was also a good poet. Inspired by some “goat” on the road, he read his own poem called “The City of My Dreams” about how the rich people were burning, and the rest of the ends cannot make, about the famous Dagestan showers, the long motorcade of the Makhachkala officials and “their faithful Buldog is traveling in front of them”.

The poem was so long that we had already arrived in place, and the taxi driver continued to recite. Up my further path ran towards the mountains, through Derbent and a new aul, straight to the village of the Siererek of the Rutulsky District. It is located at an altitude of more than meters above sea level, in close proximity to the border with Azerbaijan and from all sides is surrounded by practically untouched nature.

As a child, I was surprised at the fact that people live in this area, because even the local trees - and they emit confident superiority over a person. Each village that we drove was apparently similar to the previous one. But this is only at first glance - in fact, in the villages that are in the same area, there can be different orders, traditions and even language. But the structure is approximately the same everywhere - there is a “central square”, where there are small shops, a column with spring water, shops for assembly of elders and a special wedding “dance floor”, which several times a week stably attracts the attention of all residents.

Here you can see a lezginka for a year in advance, believe me. Around the central square, stone houses with tiled roofs were built in a chaotic order. Picturesquely hung linen, donkeys with hay, noisy games of children-everything makes you directly pick up the camera and shoot, shoot, shoot. We stopped by all relatives who came across in our way, and at some point I already lost my account.

You are kissed and hugged at your uncles, aunts and second cousins, ask how your studies are in Kyiv, and you will only now learn about their existence - this is a really strange feeling. In Dagestan, it is not customary to let go of their guests, without covering in front of them a completely full -fledged table with delicious home bread and cheese, sweet tea and a bunch of various snacks.

The clock spent behind such feasts merge in memory into one whole. But for some reason I remembered one moment: dad asking his brothers about their life in the village and, as usual, sprinkles with advice.In response, my summer uncle, good-naturedly, retorts: “You definitely need to do something, make some plans to build, back and forth. Can't you live calmly?

There was a feeling that as soon as I look away, all this beauty would disappear. After all, how is it possible that you look from the window at a mountain chain, which is more than 20 million years old, and not at gray Khrushchevs and the same courtyards. And I endlessly answered the questions of my cousin, which sometimes reached the point of absurdity. I had to explain to a summer schoolgirl that Ukraine has its own currency, its own language and, in general, we are like a separate country, yes.

And no, this is not a clogged rural girl from the god of forgotten wilderness, she studies in the capital of Dagestan. For three days it was continuous rain. I constantly looked out the window - a thick fog that hid a whole block of land from a kilometer from a foreign eye, fascinated. There was no Internet, and Roaming threatened to bankrupt the whole family, so it was only possible to read.

And, of course, communicate with relatives. Once, a sister and daughter came from a neighboring village. We sat with the girls in a separate room, and everyone started the most traditional topic for a circle of relatives - a discussion of other relatives. I decided to break this tradition and ask Samira’s summer sister, where she wants to go after school. It just so happened that modern Dagestan girls entered the medical, and the guys go to the Ministry of Internal Affairs.

I hate Makhachkala. And I hate Derbent too. He is so beautiful, feminine or something, ”Samira replied dreamily. Go there somewhere, learn, find a job and stay living. In general, the main thing is to get away from here. The second sister, Reikhan, asked Samir to put her phone in the next room for charging. They just take the phone and climb, check with whom I communicate, where I am sitting.

Stalin is alive the main goal of our trip was the wedding of my second cousin. And the closer to her, the more relatives from all over the CIS gathered in Sierere. Including mother, the old friend of Maine from Moscow with her daughters and nieces of approximately my age. Maine is a pleasant woman, positive and very emotional. But at a certain moment, she asked her mother how we have it in Ukraine, whether everything was calm and, not allowing her mother to answer, began to erupt the endless streams of propaganda stamps.

It turned out that America was to blame for all the troubles of Ukraine, because our country was sold to “these Pindos”. In Turkey, Obama also arranged a coup, and only Americans are bombed in Syria in Syria. To fix everything, Putin must obey, because "he is well done." I went into the far room. She looked out the window to distract herself with a mountain landscape, and the inscription on the roof caught her eye.

Or maybe the truth? The wedding is how the traditional Rutul wedding in the village usually takes place. First, the guests go into the bride’s house, everything is according to the program: a banquet separately for women and men, congratulations and gifts, and as it gets dark - the so -called evening, where everyone becomes in a circle and look at those who go out to dance.

A dance is a sign of respect for the newlyweds and their parents, respectively, never to go into a circle is considered a bad tone. The evening ends when the bride enters the circle. Recently, fireworks have also been added to entertainment. The next day, the same thing happens in the groom’s house, but somewhere in the middle of the banquet young people sit in the cars and go to pick up the bride.

Moreover, they do it with a whistle and screams, and they take the bride out of the house with a scarf covering the whole face. The groom returns with his bride and this becomes the culmination of the celebration. Later, the banquet stops so that the owners can prepare in the evening. Guests return in a few hours, dance and have fun. However, I learned about such a clear organization only a few days after the wedding, but in fact everything looks completely different.

The groom has a complete chaos in the morning-an endless stream of guests scurrys back and forth, women help housewives with training, men argue loudly, and the children just hang under their feet. They go to the bride’s house with a friendly motorcade from SUVs, but he simply stucks out of the village, because everyone forgot about the photographer who should go ahead and take off joyful faces.

The space, as usual, no one calculated and even on the way to the bride’s house begins, the crush begins, which exacerbates those who are unbearable to dance. It is not easy to withstand such an environment, and then the guy near me abruptly takes out a gun and lets a few bullets into the air. Such a custom. I really wanted to see as much as possible and imbued with the atmosphere of a real Caucasian wedding, but I did not have enough for a long time.

There was little space, there were only chairs for grandmothers, and in general I had the feeling that the more noise and fuss per 1 square. However, it was simply not possible to leave. Home my mother is sure that this is only while I am indifferent to trips to Dagestan and I do not want to return there. Like, time will pass and genes will be reserved in me, "Caucasian blood will make itself felt."And I think that if I want to return there, then only to set up the camp on the most beautiful grief and spend a week there, eating in blue to the dump.

I will not advise you to go to Dagestan to make sure everything yourself. After all, any response is subjective, but you will not see the same that I saw there.