If I were to continue my research on the trauma of the deportation of the Crimean Tatars as a clinical psychologist, these two stories would definitely become part of this work. But for now, these are just two stories - two different fates. These are stories about people who, on May 18, 1944, were shoved into cattle cars in the corners of Crimea and given a death sentence that never came to fruition at the time. But then it was carried out every day. A sentence that every Crimean Tatar is still fighting against. Every day.

(The names of the people have been changed to protect their anonymity)

AYSHE ABLAEVA

Ayshe Ablayeva was born in the village of Taraktash, Sudak district, 6 years before the deportation. There were 10 children in her family. One of the most vivid memories of Ayshe's childhood is when, before dinner, her father would gather all the children around the table and give each one an assignment: younger girls would dance, older girls would read the Qur'an, and the boys would usually compete in kuresh (Crimeantatar wrestling). Meanwhile, Melikie's mother set the table.

On the morning of May 18, when the Soviet soldiers knocked on the door, Melike tried to pretend that nothing was happening so as not to scare the children. She dressed them as usual, but Ayshe noticed that her mother had taken some towels, a Qur'an, and her exquisite, expensive gold and silver belt from the trunk. On the way, Melike's main concern was not to lose any children. After each stop, she lined them up against the wall of the car and counted them to make sure no one got lost.

The Ablaev family arrived in the Urals and lived in a stable, occupying one corner of the stable. Other families lived in the other corners. The territory was divided by curtains. This small corner behind the curtain became the new home of the large Ablayev family. Each family member was given 100 grams of bread per day. The whole family was given a loaf.

A meter and a half to two meters of snow, fur coats, boots, unbearable physical labor, hunger and death all around - for several years, her mother, father and older sister worked as loggers.

Ayshe Ablayeva started school only at the age of 11, straight into the fourth grade. The main difficulty was that she did not speak Russian well. At the end of the year, the teacher summarized the results and called Ayshe to the blackboard and began to pat her on the head: “This girl is very good. Obedient. She is well-mannered. But she doesn't speak Russian. I'll keep you for the second year. You need to learn Russian. Don't speak your own language during the break. You can't speak your own language at home with your parents either. Only Russian. Do you understand?” - The teacher was sure that her speech was convincing to the 11-year-old girl.

“Why aren't you talking? Will you speak your language at home with your parents?”  
“Yes,” Aishe replied.

The teacher was enraged by this answer. She turned around and hit the girl on the lips. Ayshe hit her head on the blackboard behind her, and her nose started to bleed.

“Forget your language,” the teacher wagged her finger.

This episode would affect Ayshe's entire life, although she would realize this much later.

In 1954, the Ablayev family moved to Uzbekistan. There, Ayshe finished school and entered the Andijan Pedagogical Institute (attention!) to study Russian philology. All her life, Ayshe Ablayeva worked as a teacher of Russian language and literature.

Today she is at home in her native Taraktash, surrounded by children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. She is indeed fluent in Russian, juggling words in a way that would make the teacher who once hit her proud.

But she would probably still be very annoyed and angry that Ayshe gave this interview in Crimean Tatar. In the language of her native land, the knowledge of which she carried through her exile.

OSMAN IBRAHIMOV

Osman Ibrahimov had no memories of Crimea. His family was evicted from their home in the village of Foti-Sala, Bakhchisaray district, when the boy was 2 years old. But all the time in exile, Osman greedily grabbed every word his mother said about Crimea. And she did not skimp on the memories of her own lost paradise. Every day, his mother told her son about the house in which he was born, thus forming in him only one goal: to return.

There were six children in the Ibrahimov family. After a 20-day journey, they ended up in Samarkand, where they were housed in a barrack room with another family. Thanks to their father's cattle breeding skills, the Ibrahimovs survived. After graduating from school, Osman learned to be a carpenter. But could he live a carefree life, dream, set goals, if every day the family talked only about Crimea? Thanks to these “dreams of the past,” it seemed that if he just returned to his native Foti-Sala, everything would be as it was before.

For the first time after his exile, Osman Ibrahimov set foot on his native land in 1987. His heart was full of joy and excitement - a long-awaited meeting with his homeland. He went to his native village to buy a house and move his family there. He was shown 2-3 houses that were for sale. Osman chose one of them. A few months later, he left for Uzbekistan.

All his stories about Foti-Sala made his mother's heart sink. But when Osman told her about the house he had bought and where it was located, she burst into tears: “But this house is next door to our house, where you were born!”

Osman returned to Crimea and lived 10 meters away from the house where his father raised cattle and his mother fried yantiks, where his brothers and sisters were born, where he himself managed to live for only two years. And now this house has become his dream.

For 10 years he waited for the right moment to buy this house. And he did. The first thing he did was to clean out the well in the yard, which his older sister had told him about.

Today, Osman Bey's main task is to take care of the house he has heard stories about since childhood. And he is happy to have this opportunity. Despite everything, Osman Ibragimov calls the land that gave birth to his people paradise. But when he prays that this land will finally belong to the indigenous people of Crimea again, tears come to his eyes.