Хаз йо1
Хаз йо1 in my father’s handwriting
If I google my paternal grandfather’s name, I find him in a long list of people; all victims of Soviet repressions from Chechen Republic. Scrolling down to the letter «Ц», the section where his name is, I see 2 simple lines near it – one is the date of his birth; another is the date of his rehabilitation (18 July 2005). There is no information about his death, but I know it well myself – he left us on the year I was born, 6 years before the creation of this list. There is nothing about the life he led or the family he had there either. It is a simple list, but heavy in its connotation.
I wonder what my dad’s father would have said about this list, if he was still alive to witness it. I wonder if he would’ve felt all the emotions I felt when I found it – anger, disappointment, grief. I wonder if he would’ve cared at all.
I am half of what he was, a part of a beautiful and proud nation which was never treated nicely by my country. At some point in history, their suffering laid a foundation every new generation now builds a life on; a foundation my dad built his life on. Sometimes I think of how much it affected him. Sometimes I think how he could never escape it.
Childhood
Growing up, my dad had this nickname for me I don’t think I have ever thought too deep into. I don’t remember ever wondering about its meaning or spelling; I don’t remember ever registering it was a word from another language, language I was never taught. This nickname was a part of my own vocabulary, with no need for an explanation to it; it was like my second name, not registered in any official documents, not used by anyone but my father.
This nickname – ‘Хазйо1’ , pronounced “hazio”– means ‘a beautiful girl’ in Chechen language. This nickname is part of a heritage my dad passed onto me. It is his way of saying that there is a place I will always belong to, that I was born with a right to his language, to his country.
When I call him these days, this nickname is the first thing that I hear him say. I hear his voice, deep and reassuring, and I think of many times I was told how much I looked just like him.
I imagine that when he looks at me, he sees his parents and siblings in my eyes, the color of my hair, in my nose. The only link I have to them is my dad; I have never met anyone from my dad’s family.
I look at myself in the mirror and it makes me think of a long generation of people who looked like me; their faces all joint together to create mine. The generation after generation of kindness and struggle.
I hear my dad talk in Chechen language and think of what it feels like to lose a country; a feeling I can understand even better now.
I think of his stubbornness and immense sense of justice – the foundation of his character; the foundation of mine. I know he belongs to his homeland to the core; I know he finds peace in his language, in his people.
I am grateful he gifted me this nickname; the peace he finds in saying it is the same one I find in hearing it. A connection to the land that raised him and is now shaping me. A connection to my grandfather, who passed away the year of when the last of his children, his youngest son, had a child of his own. This nickname is the connection to his life that will never be contained or defined by any lists.