Russia entered 1995 knee-deep in blood. We raised glasses of champagne and wished each other happiness, and in Grozny at that time people were dying. Our boys, who grew up, by the way, in the new “democratic” Russia, were dying, receiving lead instead of gifts on their nineteenth and twentieth New Year. They boys have been lying near burnt tanks and infantry fighting vehicles for the fifth day, and everyone is filming them in photos and videos and They are replicated on screens all over the world. And on ours there are jokes, dances, songs and toasts. And there is no more strength to look at it. Seeing the face of a most mediocre commander who sent hundreds and hundreds of people to their deaths. Listen to the bleating of speakers about the imperfections of the Constitution, the thoughtful reflections of politicians on the topic: “Of course it’s a tragedy. But...” It’s sickening to catch the pious gaze of the Patriarch of Moscow and All Rus' from the screen, broadcasting about the restoration of the Temple...