The hot wind in the steppe smells of smoke, not the smoke of a home when pieces of dough jump in boiling oil, but the one that smells of sorrow, burned yurts, ruined nests, and the blood of proud sons of the steppe who did not give up. Why does humanity want to remember the killers of women, children and the elderly? Tyrants who wiped out tribes and countries from the face of the earth. Only love can change this false memory.