Your Will, We Will Inherit

Rumors spread quickly throughout Tbilisi—stories of armored vehicles crushing and killing innocent people on Rustaveli Street. Survivors, trembling and wide-eyed, ran back through the crowds, sobbing as they described how Soviet soldiers had opened fire on peaceful citizens and how the steel tracks of the armored vehicles had ground over bodies without mercy. Many ordinary citizens, unaware of the full truth, were inflamed with outrage. They rushed home, grabbed their weapons, and poured into the streets, determined to denounce these "brutal Soviet soldiers."

The situation in Tbilisi grew grimmer by the hour, far worse than the unrest three years earlier. It seemed as though the top leadership in Moscow welcomed this deterioration, seeking any pretext for a sweeping purge. Since the first thug was shot, the Soviet authorities had dropped all masks of diplomacy. "If you won't listen to reason," they seemed to say, "don't blame us for the harsh measures."

Yanayev's harsh crackdown was not only a warning to Georgia but a message to every Soviet republic: disobedience would be crushed. Even if the Union were to fall, Moscow vowed to drag its dissenters down with it. This ruthless stance sowed fear everywhere, forcing many to shrink back, desperate to escape the nightmare rather than perish alongside the collapsing empire.

Was Yanayev's "kindness" nothing more than trampling opponents who refused to bow?

The BMP-2 armored vehicles split into several groups, pushing forward relentlessly toward the city center. Unarmed civilians scattered in terror at the sight of the Soviet army's advance, disappearing into alleys or bolting inside houses as if the armored vehicles themselves were monsters set to tear them apart. The streets fell silent and empty.

The thunderous violence from moments before had transformed into a weapon of fear—etched into the hearts of every Georgian, an indelible scar.

Four BMP-2 infantry fighting vehicles rumbled through the Lunacharsky district when the commander inside noticed an old man in a dirty, worn Soviet military uniform by the roadside. The man was blindly groping in a muddy ditch, heedless of the grime covering his face and hair. His hands were red and swollen from the cold mud, but he didn't stop searching.

Out of respect for the Red Army's legacy and curiosity, the commander ordered the convoy to halt. The war machines ground to a stop.

The driver of the lead BMP-2 leaned out, puzzled. "Captain Valennin, why stop? If we don't hurry, we won't make it to the building."

"Why rush? Wait a moment," Valennin snapped before jumping down to approach the old man gently.

"Hello, sir. What are you searching for in this filthy ditch?"

"My Red Star medal," the old man replied, sitting on the muddy ground, wiping tears from his eyes with a dirty sleeve. "A group of students on their march snatched it from me and threw it here. I only wanted to stop them from making a mistake. Is the peace we fought for with our blood so worthless to them?"

His tear-streaked, mud-stained face struck a chord in Valennin. The empty cuffs of the veteran's uniform spoke volumes.

Moved and angered, Valennin returned to the infantry fighting vehicles and called out, "Everyone, get off immediately. You have work to do!"

"Captain, shouldn't we keep moving?" a soldier questioned.

"We move forward, yes—the enemy waits ahead. But first, raise your eyes and look at this man," Valennin said, pointing at the veteran.

Corporal Ivauri, the old soldier, was the man in the ditch.

"See how these thugs treat our Red Army heroes? They destroy what we built, all while claiming to fight for freedom and justice! Don't you think they deserve a lesson?"

"Yes!" came the unified shout.

"Speak up, I can't hear you! Do you want to or not?" Valennin urged.

"Yes!" the soldiers shouted louder, their voices united.

"Good. This ditch isn't deep—everyone out of the vehicles and find that Red Star badge before we move on. Soviet soldiers who can't protect their own people are no heroes!"

Without hesitation, the young soldiers jumped from the vehicles, plunging their hands into the cold mud despite the winter chill. They searched determinedly, understanding this act was more than just a recovery—it was a tribute.

"I found it!" a soldier called out triumphantly, holding up the muddy badge like a prized relic. Others gathered around, cheering as he carefully wiped it clean and handed it to Ivauri with a smile.

The old man's eyes welled with tears. Words caught in his throat, but he managed a shaky "Thank you."

Valennin wiped the mud and tears from Ivauri's face, speaking softly but firmly, "You've endured much, senior. Not everyone understands our ideals, and scoundrels will always mock us—but no one can deny our cause's greatness. You fought bravely in 1942. Now, we take up the banner and carry it forward."

"Don't cry, senior. We'll carry your will, no matter what."

For a moment, Ivauri was silent, memories flooding back of a company commander planting the red flag before falling in battle, clutching it with his last breath. The young soldiers before him carried the same determined spirit.

"Boys, don't just stand there. Let's move and deal with those bastards," Valennin ordered as he climbed back onto the lead BMP-2.

Once seated, he patted the driver's seat and shouted, "Let's go! We can't miss this chance."

"Forward, Davaritch!" came the rallying cry.

The BMP-2 roared to life and surged forward. Some soldiers smiled and waved at Ivauri, faces bright with the same resolve that sent others charging toward Stalingrad decades before.

Ivauri watched them go, hope swelling in his heart. "The Soviets have not fallen. Our spirit lives on."

Those words echoed in his mind long after the vehicles disappeared down the road.