It was a cold, grey afternoon on the streets of Moscow, and a small crowd had gathered around a group of pro-Russian speakers on one of the city’s bustling main streets. The leader of the group, a burly man dressed in a thick, black coat, stood on a makeshift stage, waving a Russian flag as he called out to the crowd. His voice boomed through a loudspeaker.
“Russia is under threat!” he declared passionately. “Our great nation is in danger, not only from external enemies but from within. Our birth rate is the lowest it has been in 25 years, and we are losing our future. President Putin has told us what must be done: every woman should have three or more children. Only through strong families, through children, can we secure the future of Russia!”
The crowd nodded along, some cheering in agreement, while others simply watched. The speechmaker continued, his words growing more fervent.
“If we continue down this path, we won’t have the strength to defend our country, to fight the long war against Ukraine, to stand up to the decadent West! We need more children—more soldiers, more workers, more Russians to keep our country strong!”
Just as the speaker was about to launch into another call to action, the sound of a wheelchair creaking slowly through the crowd interrupted him. An elderly woman, her grey hair tied back in a neat bun, rolled her wheelchair forward. The crowd parted to let her through, and her presence seemed to silence the street for a moment. Her face was lined with age, and though her body was frail, her eyes held a sharpness that cut through the speaker’s bravado.
She spoke in a soft but firm voice, her words carrying a weight that made everyone listen. “Is it a good idea to have more children for the sake of war?”
The speaker, caught off guard, hesitated for a moment. Then, regaining his confidence, he replied, “Yes. If there are no more children, Russia has no future. We must be strong to defend our country.”
The old woman nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving his. “I was born during the German-Soviet War. My father went to the battlefield when I was just one year old. He never came back. He was killed in action before I even had the chance to know him.”
Her words seemed to pierce the air like a knife. The crowd, which had been murmuring moments before, fell into complete silence.
“I have lived my whole life without knowing my father,” she continued, her voice trembling with emotion. “I never heard his voice, never had a conversation with him. Not even once. And now, as my time grows short, I have a wish that will never come true—that I could speak to him, just once. Do you really want to send more children into war? Do you really believe that we need children for that?”
The speechmaker stood frozen, his mouth half-open as he struggled to find an answer. But the words would not come. The old woman’s question hung in the cold air, a question no one could easily answer.
Without another word, the elderly woman turned her wheelchair and began to roll away, leaving the crowd in silence, the weight of her story sinking into their hearts. The speechmaker, still on his stage, found himself speechless for the first time that day.
All names of people and organizations appearing in this story are pseudonyms.
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