07-17-2025, 11:25 AM
Deryasman, Karakhtan
“I will ask you one more time: Where did you get this information? Who gave it to you?”
The harsh voice of the local police commandant cut through the journalist’s exhaustion, making him rub his eyes with his shackled hands. Seventeen hours in police custody had not done Aibek Yul-Aynur Serdarovu well, as his ratty clothes and glaring expression would indicate.
“As I told you each time before, no one had to give the information to me. The acquisition documents, which are public record, speak for themselves.” Serdarovu sighed through gritted teeth, his intonation that of an exasperated parent speaking to a particularly stubborn child.
“And as I told you each time before, no one writes an article like this, a blatant piece of political propaganda, without cooperating with the governor’s political opponents or some insurgency movement. So I will ask you again: Where did you get this information?”
Serdarovu met the commandant’s gaze, but remained silent, his exhausted expression remaining unchanged.
Without hesitation, the officer struck him with the back of his hand, nearly sending the journalist out of the chair he was shackled to.
“Alright, then. You want to stay here for days on end to save some traitor the justice they deserve? That's fine by me.”
The rusted metal door swung shut behind the officer, leaving the journalist alone with the darkness and his thoughts.
—
“Please, keep him safe. I beg of you, please keep him safe…”
The cold stone floor did little to soothe Sezim kiz-Maksat Ataeva’s emotions as she prayed through tears, trying not to wrinkle or tear a picture of her friend she clutched in her hand.
Yesterday’s events flooded her thoughts yet again, and the image of Aibek being snatched from his chair by armed officers and beaten right in the middle of their quaint newsroom felt like it was branded on her eyelids.
He writes an article exposing political corruption and, instead of an award or commendation, he gets arrested and assaulted. What kind of society do we live in? Is this the Republic anymore? Where is the justice?
“Where is the justice?” She repeated aloud, her voice a hushed whisper as to not echo through the temple around her.
The ornate statue of Perdebil, the god of secrets, truth, and justice, declined to answer Ataeva’s inquiry, instead staring down at the journalist with a smile that indicated they possessed hidden wisdom that the latter had yet to discover.
“True justice is rarely found outside of our hearts and minds, my dear.”
The soft and unassuming voice of a priest shook Ataeva out of her desperation, and she stood quickly, recomposing herself.
“My apologies if I was being too loud, Dano. I don't mean to disrupt…”
“My dear, you are far from the first person who has cried in this temple, and you will not be the last. You weren't being disruptive at all.” The priest’s customary veil and purple robes swayed lightly as they spoke, their jewelry occasionally clinking. “May I ask what troubles you?”
Ataeva hesitated to reply. “I… it's quite complicated, you see.” She thought a moment about the priest's words. “If justice is rarely found in the real world, how do we approach the idea of justice in our society, or government, or world?”
“Our hearts and minds are part of the real world, so we are not entirely helpless. Humans inherently want justice, and so I have found that justice may be achieved in the end through the sincere acts of a multitude of people,” the priest said, only pausing a moment to consider Ataeva’s question. “If justice is not achievable yet, the next closest thing is the truth revealed. Revealing the truth goes a long way in building the sincerity needed for societal justice.”
With a pat on the shoulder and a knowing nod, the veiled priest disappeared back into the temple, leaving the young woman alone with her thoughts.
“I will ask you one more time: Where did you get this information? Who gave it to you?”
The harsh voice of the local police commandant cut through the journalist’s exhaustion, making him rub his eyes with his shackled hands. Seventeen hours in police custody had not done Aibek Yul-Aynur Serdarovu well, as his ratty clothes and glaring expression would indicate.
“As I told you each time before, no one had to give the information to me. The acquisition documents, which are public record, speak for themselves.” Serdarovu sighed through gritted teeth, his intonation that of an exasperated parent speaking to a particularly stubborn child.
“And as I told you each time before, no one writes an article like this, a blatant piece of political propaganda, without cooperating with the governor’s political opponents or some insurgency movement. So I will ask you again: Where did you get this information?”
Serdarovu met the commandant’s gaze, but remained silent, his exhausted expression remaining unchanged.
Without hesitation, the officer struck him with the back of his hand, nearly sending the journalist out of the chair he was shackled to.
“Alright, then. You want to stay here for days on end to save some traitor the justice they deserve? That's fine by me.”
The rusted metal door swung shut behind the officer, leaving the journalist alone with the darkness and his thoughts.
—
“Please, keep him safe. I beg of you, please keep him safe…”
The cold stone floor did little to soothe Sezim kiz-Maksat Ataeva’s emotions as she prayed through tears, trying not to wrinkle or tear a picture of her friend she clutched in her hand.
Yesterday’s events flooded her thoughts yet again, and the image of Aibek being snatched from his chair by armed officers and beaten right in the middle of their quaint newsroom felt like it was branded on her eyelids.
He writes an article exposing political corruption and, instead of an award or commendation, he gets arrested and assaulted. What kind of society do we live in? Is this the Republic anymore? Where is the justice?
“Where is the justice?” She repeated aloud, her voice a hushed whisper as to not echo through the temple around her.
The ornate statue of Perdebil, the god of secrets, truth, and justice, declined to answer Ataeva’s inquiry, instead staring down at the journalist with a smile that indicated they possessed hidden wisdom that the latter had yet to discover.
“True justice is rarely found outside of our hearts and minds, my dear.”
The soft and unassuming voice of a priest shook Ataeva out of her desperation, and she stood quickly, recomposing herself.
“My apologies if I was being too loud, Dano. I don't mean to disrupt…”
“My dear, you are far from the first person who has cried in this temple, and you will not be the last. You weren't being disruptive at all.” The priest’s customary veil and purple robes swayed lightly as they spoke, their jewelry occasionally clinking. “May I ask what troubles you?”
Ataeva hesitated to reply. “I… it's quite complicated, you see.” She thought a moment about the priest's words. “If justice is rarely found in the real world, how do we approach the idea of justice in our society, or government, or world?”
“Our hearts and minds are part of the real world, so we are not entirely helpless. Humans inherently want justice, and so I have found that justice may be achieved in the end through the sincere acts of a multitude of people,” the priest said, only pausing a moment to consider Ataeva’s question. “If justice is not achievable yet, the next closest thing is the truth revealed. Revealing the truth goes a long way in building the sincerity needed for societal justice.”
With a pat on the shoulder and a knowing nod, the veiled priest disappeared back into the temple, leaving the young woman alone with her thoughts.
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