I two years in a row, as a journalist studied his walkers, walked with them from the metro Arsenal to the eternal flame.

Listened to what they talked to each other, watched as they take out from their pockets the Colorado ribbons, how they shout "Fascism will not pass!", As they kiss icons with the image of Zhukov. He watched the faces of Boyko and Shufrych, Moscow priests, carrying portraits of supposedly relatives with the inscription: "He died for the freedom of the motherland," and below: "killed in the Soviet-Finnish war".

I saw crazy mothers who dragged preschoolers in their arms with tanned blouses and starlets, lime veterans with bruised cheeks and a veteran with pomaded red lips.

I saw shaved pitching in black, carrying a portrait of a Kalashnikov who had gone to the world. Mordatovy Komsomol members, aged Vitrenko. Titushek, "guarding" this rabble and bared his mouth on the colors of our flag. Political tourists from Rashi, nelfing for relatives in Moscow.

And all this - in the center of my native Kiev!.

I searched and did not find there a single normal person. No one!.

There's no one who just wants to remember the dead. This is a protest against the statehood of Ukraine. This is the consolidation of cotton wool in its refined form. This is the classic of the fifth column.

It might seem like a panopticon. If the Kremlin did not stand behind it.

And the immortal hatred of the empire against the Ukrainian people did not pour out black and yellow bile. Immortal envy and jealousy. Immortal death, hovering over our future.

I would forbid it all. Until before the walls of the Moscow Kremlin passes with the portraits of their relatives, a million Ukrainians - descendants of the victims of the Holodomor.

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