Читать книгу O’TKAN KUNLAR - Абдулла Кодирий - Страница 13

While the previous events were transpiring, disturbing news arrived in Margilan:

Tashkent’s Hakim Azizbek had incited a rebellion against the khan of Qoqan. He had murdered the major divan beks tasked by the khan with collecting Haraj and Zakat taxes. The next day the rumors took an even more dramatic turn: “Musulmanqul deployed five thousand soldiers under the command of Nur Muhammad Qushbegi to Tashkent!”

The populace greeted the news with their characteristic quietude, even a studied indifference. No one was surprised, not seeing anything extraordinary in these events. And their reaction was justified, since they had witnessed these sorts of political rivalries play out all too regularly. They thought, if not today, then another day, one of their Buzukboshi or one of the privileged Oftobboshi, anyone, it didn’t matter who, one of their beks would rise to power through this sort of infighting. But we cannot include Otabek among the ignorant; he could not remain indifferent to the rumors, nor remain calm. On hearing these reports, he lost his appetite. He could see with his eyes wide open, with perfect clarity, the terrible consequences, the great calamitous events that would result from the anarchy to come. He foresaw his people, his nation of Muslims, teetering on the edge of a cliff, below it a bottomless abyss, on the verge of falling terribly downward, and when he heard the news, he thought, Protect us, dear God. He was stunned, lost in himself, and his past grievances toward the state of his homeland returned: “Unable to separate right from wrong, citizens are thirsty to drink one another’s blood, all for the benefit of a group of ambitious despots with dark visions of the future!”

As Otabek sat, despondent, lost in thought, Hasan Ali entered the room with a letter in his hand. Handing it to Otabek, he said, “It is from Tashkent. Maybe it is from your father.” Otabek opened the letter. It was written on paper in thick pencil strokes. It read:

By the name of the creator… Let it be known and clear to the light of our eye, power of our loins, fruit of our life, our son Mullah Otabek.

Thank God, we, your supplicant father, gentle mother, and close friends, under the protection of Allah, are in good health and praying for the light of our eyes, day and night continuously, with hopes and wishes. In blessed times, at a happier hour, let God bless the hour that we all meet again, amen! Next, we want to say that we thanked God when we received your letter regarding your safe arrival in Margilan.

You might want news of the situation in Tashkent, but perhaps you have already heard it all in Margilan. Here, Azizbek, with the support of unknown forces, rebelled against Qoqan, killing the beks from the khanate who came here for tax collection and hanging them from the gate of the orda. I think Qoqan is preparing an answer to these actions. Today we heard from Kerovchi that Nur Muhammad Qushbegi was sent to Tashkent with five thousand soldiers. What is the fate of the nation, my son? Today the people vowed their loyalty to Azizbek. The savage Azizbek’s bloody sword struck keenly the heads of many people. Sons, fathers, mothers, brothers were all sacrificed. Their wracked bodies were left out to rot in the open, yet nevertheless the nation promised fidelity; they swore to defend Azizbek until the last drip of their blood. Under the orders of Azizbek, all the people of Tashkent were gathered in front of the orda – there were mullahs, intellectuals, all levels of our city’s society. Standing in the guard tower, Azizbek greeted the people. The people, honored to see Azizbek, cried out with tears in their eyes upon hearing his greetings. My son, since you can distinguish between white and black, read carefully what I am about to write.

Displaying two bodies hung from the orda gate, Azizbek asked the people, “Dear citizens, do you see these two found guilty? Why has this verdict fallen upon them? Why was it visited upon them in this manner?”

The people replied, “We don’t know, master!”

Azizbek answered his own question: “Here are the bodies of two bastards, soldiers of Musulman the Lame, leaders of the Qipchaqs and the enemies of all Qora Chopans! I executed them as revenge on behalf of my Black Robe citizens, to bless the martyred spirits of your Black Robe brothers who died by the hands of the Qipchaqs. Are not my actions justified, my people?”

The people answered, “They are just, it is justice! You defended us, Taksir. All Qipchaqs should likewise be punished!”

Azizbek now explained his true purpose: “Why would I perform this act of goodwill on your behalf, the Qora Chopan? Without a doubt, I will be persecuted by the Qipchaqs. They want to expel me from Tashkent, even kill me! What say you to this?”

The people shouted to the heavens the following answer: “We will give up our souls to the last drop of blood! The Qipchaqs will not dare to touch a hair on you while we are alive!”

Azizbek thanked the people and opened up his heart’s deepest wounds: “Thank you, my citizens! I have heard the Qipchaqs are advancing under the direction of Nur Muhammad Qushbegi against Tashkent. Do we prepare to meet their attack or not, my people?”

People: “Of course, of course, we must prepare, our master! If you allow us, we will begin restoration of the fortress’s defenses today.”

“Thank you, my people! As long as I have your support at my back, I have no worries.”

“As long as you are safe and at peace, we will not give way to the Qipchaqs. Bless us in the restoration of the fortresses, our master.”

Azizbek delivered his blessings, and the people started to prepare for battle.

My son, one doesn’t know whether to cry or laugh at the people’s fate. However, bloody clouds have appeared over Tashkent. Only God knows how this will resolve itself. Most importantly, there is one thing I need to remind you of: please be cautious in discussing politics. Remember the past victims who have been killed for the same miserable reasons. Only God knows what we deliberate in our souls. In Ferghana they may consider me Azizbek’s ally and will consider you the son of a traitor— consider these matters carefully and mind your step! In these days of ill will, our lives are in danger— you must not forget this! I must add, do not come to Tashkent until matters settle. After Tashkent calms, if I am safe, I will send news to you. Here all your closest friends remain in good health.

Written in Tashkent on the 27th of Dalv 1847.

When he finished the letter, Otabek read it again, clarifying some points. Reaching the description of the events involving Azizbek, he burst out, with uncontrolled hatred, “You fox!”

“Do not come to Tashkent until matters settle!” Upon rereading this phrase, he said quietly to himself, smiling at the prospect of delaying his return home, “If that is the case, let it never settle, let there never be peace!”