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Where is He from
Or
The Lapsa of
Mohydeen
Quandour
By
Dr. Luba Balagova
(Article from the “Horizon” Almanac 2003)
There
is a Circassian term, a very old and meaningful word in the
Circassian language, which is difficult to translate
properly into any other language; this word is Lapsa.
This is the exact word used by the Circassians in order to
give a meaningful identity to themselves and to their
household; a word which the Circassians use to describe
their private environment, their family heritage and the
materials used for their everyday survival. It is what a
child sees and hears in that private environment which
eventually forms his identity as a Circassian. All
modern-day Circassians enjoying any degree of intellect
recognise this word and react to it with nostalgia.
I am not sure that I can recreate the
Lapsa of Mohydeen Quandour in this short article. But I
will highlight some of the important events in his life,
which were responsible for the creation of his Lapas,
in the hope that future biographers might benefit from it.
To talk about the land to which the
Circassians immigrated and which later became the Hashimite
Kingdom of Jordan as a land of the Circassians is difficult,
if not impossible. None of the Adigha history exists today
in this land, at least not in a documented form. However,
the Ras Al Ein Springs where the Bedouins watered their
camels and sheep, and where the legendary Kabardans worked
tirelessly to clean up and make habitable, was the land
offered to them by the Ottoman authorities to make as their
home. Over a hundred years later, Mohydeen Quandour writes
his well known Trilogies and recreates the history of the
Muhajereen and resurrects this world in critical details
for all future generations of Circassians. I can not go
further without quoting the Author from his novel
“Revolution” (P 65) as he describes Ras Al Ein when the
Kabardans first saw it:
"Two days later Temur walked with the new elders along the
banks of the wide stream to look at the land which would be
their home. The closer they came to the source of the water
the greener and more like their homeland the scenery became.
Temur pointed to the mountains rising behind and explained
that he thought that the Kabarday would prefer to take the
higher section of land along an existing dirt road while the
Hapsay families would take the lower section by the water.
The men grew quieter as they approached closer to the source
and the terrible smell assailed their nostrils.
Clouds of flies swarmed up from beneath their feet as they
walked across ground which camels and sheep had stood on for
centuries, dropping their waste and moving on. The flies
rose in black waves and surrounded the men, getting into
their eyes and their mouths, buzzing in their ears. There
was no escaping from them. Temur pulled his Arab-style
headdress across his face but they still came through the
gaps and had to be continually swatted away.
“It will take many months of work,” he admitted, aware of
the horror the men were feeling at the sight of so much
desolation.
“You will have to clear all this waste if you want to get
rid of the flies and mosquitoes. You can use the rich waste
to fertilize the fields behind, digging it into the soil
where it is bare to nourish it. This will be a bountiful
piece of land although it is hard to imagine it now.
Everyone in the community will help. We will build houses
for you and walls to protect the fields.”
The men all remained silent as they surveyed the mess that
they were being offered, fighting the insects from their
faces. None of them doubted Temur’s sincerity and they could
all see the possibilities of the location, but they could
also imagine how hard it was going to be for their women and
children in the months to come and the likelihood that the
ground seethed with potential sickness.
“Is there really no other choice?” one of them asked.
“No,” Temur shook his head; “there is no other choice.”
“Then we should start work straight away.”
None of them
smiled as they walked back to explain to their families what
lay ahead, but a grim determination hung in the air. Having
come so far they did not intend to be beaten by the prospect
of some hard work. The job of clearing the banks and of
creating homes for the newcomers took over the community in
the coming months. Everyone labored their mouths and noses
covered against the stench and the insects. Slowly but
surely the vile black earth was scraped away and moved to
the fields behind, other people dug it into the uncultivated
soil, clearing the air and depriving the mosquitoes and
flies of their breeding grounds.
They planted trees so that their branches would provide
shelter from the scorching sun and their roots would
stabilize the soil and hold the banks in place when the
water flooded during the short rainy season. They built
little adobe houses like the others in the community, and
stacked stone walls around the fields. All the time that the
work was going on the Bedouins kept their distance, still
coming to use the water, watching suspiciously as the
settlers took root but saying nothing. Both sides eyed each
other and made no attempt to bridge the divide.
As the Muhajereen moved into their new
homes and the others went back to their own lives, the eyes
were still watching them from the desert. A false aura of
calm settled on the area like a midday heat haze. Lulled
into a sense of security the Cherkess got on with their
daily lives and forgot the Bedouins all around them until
the first sniper’s bullet found its mark. "
Mohydeen’s grandfather and his great
grandfather were among those Kabardans… maybe it was
accidental or maybe it was symbolic that the Mayor of
Amman’s complex of buildings (the most prestigious
government buildings in the capital) were later erected on
the land of Mohydeen’s grandfather in Ras Al Ein. It was on
this exact turf that the young Izzat, son of Hassan,
frolicked as a young boy and who later became the heroic
general of the Jordanian army. Izzat was the father of
Mohydeen, the chronicler whose destiny it was to rewrite his
peoples’ history in Russia and in the Diaspora.
I want to note here another occurrence,
which might seem like an accidental event but which has
great symbolic meaning. In this building of the Mayor, in
the cultural theatre of Al Hussein, Mohydeen gave his first
Jubilee Concert in Amman, Jordan. “Here, not long ago, ran a
beautiful stream…where our forefathers settled and made
their homes” he said and his chin trembled. The audience
fell absolutely silent. “Here is where I also played as a
barefoot young boy with other Circassian children.” The
audience broke out in thunderous clapping. Afterwards his
music began, a pure mixture of mournful themes and hopeful
expressions, Circassian classical music of the highest
order, which touched our souls like an echo from the past.
Those who sat next to me wept softly, possibly because most
of the audience where descendants of those forefathers
Mohydeen spoke about. Afterwards, he re-entered the stage
again. “I think it might have been God’s will that
Circassian Classical music should be played for the first
time on this ground” he said and continued “but I don’t know
why I was chosen for this undertaking; the high honour of
remembrance of our forefathers. I do it with deep respect
and I pray for their holy souls.”
I sat in the first row, afraid to look
behind me, but I felt the soft weeping of the majority
behind me… yes we all wept and we did not hide our tears. It
was a silent confession, because for all the Adigha in the
audience it was the music and that special nostalgia that
brought tears to our eyes.
The woman who sat next to me whispered
softly to nobody in particular, “You don’t know why you were
chosen…but we know. Thank God that he gave you to us.”
Mohydeen Quandour was born here, along
with many other small Circassian boys and girls whose
destiny it was either to preserve or to loose their
Circassian identity, their God given right to keep their
heritage (just like the other peoples among whom they lived)
or to destroy that heritage. Is it bad or is it good to save
your own traditions, your own language, in this period of
ethnic and religious catastrophes? I am not sure that many
can be made interested in this question today. But thank God
that people are born with hearts and minds which provide
them with belief in themselves and in their own identity to
develop and to grow like any other cultures.
The Circassians who settled in Amman,
including those Kabardans who made Ras Al Ein (The
Muhajereen) their home, have their own special history.
We should recall the story of that legendary delegation of
Circassians who went to meet Prince Abdallah in Ma’an upon
his arrival from the Hejaz. Jordan, as it is known today did
not exist, and the Prince had chosen the Circassian village
of Amman as his capital instead of the original Ottoman
capital of Salt. Furthermore the Prince decided to have
Circassians as his private guards. It is interesting that
this tradition of the Circassian guards continue until this
day, symbolic though it is. This is actually the original
history of Jordan…But I should not deviate from my main
theme of Mohydeen Quandour’s Lapsa, even though this
modern history of the Circassians and their earlier history
is exactly what helped to form Mohydeen Quandour’s Lapsa.
If we were to be even more precise, we should say here that
the spiritual origins of Mohydeen started from here. If we
were to explain this concept fully and scientifically, it
might require an entire book or two to do it. But I am
confined within the boundaries of a short article, therefore
I will try to tell the abridged story of Mohydeen’s family
in order to answer the titles question, “where is he from?”
Zakia Shid Quandour, Mohydeen’s mother
sits next to me. She is beautiful in her eighty-ninth year,
with her intelligent eyes and her soft calm outlook. She
remembers all the details of her son’s childhood. She
recalls his hooliganism as a child, and recalls, at my
request, all his anecdotes from the moment of his birth. She
remembers the midwife, the Binjapiwipsh. Called
Jalduz, a Kabardan old lady who delivered him and who,
carrying him in her bony hands, said the first prayers over
him hoping that he might serve his people the Circassians.
That prayer was the traditional prayer spoken over the
new-born. The Midwife had to possess worthy blessed hands
because she was the first to touch the new- born to give the
boy good fortune which could also be transferred to his
people.
Jalduz lived near the Quandour family and
she was already popular as the meritorious midwife in the
Diaspora. She knew that she would be chosen to deliver
Zakia’s child and therefore she would often come around to
look after the young wife during her pregnancy. She seemed
to guess from the physical form of her abdomen that the
new-born would be a male child. The family hoped for a boy
because the earlier births were of girls. Mohydeen was the
fourth child in the family and by the Quandour family
traditions, the person who tied the baby in his cot (the
Gusha) was his grandmother, Nursan. This Gusha
itself had served as Mohydeen’s father (Izzat’s) baby cot
and had been kept wrapped in white linens, waiting for the
birth of Izzat’s son. The Circassian Gusha, in those
days was a rarity and it was hand made by one single family
in Amman. Moreover it was traditional to preserve the
Gusha if an important person was raised in it. They
believed that it held a special spirit, which if given to
strangers would be dissatisfied and the goodness of the
Gusha destroyed forever. The Father of Mohydeen became
such a prominent person as the first and only general of the
Jordanian Army to be given the title ‘Prince of the Army’ by
His Majesty King Hussein.
The Dada, grandfather of Mohydeen,
waited anxiously for him to begin walking. As he took his
first steps, Dada Hassan took the little Pitera
(the pet-name he gave him) and placed him on a horse.
His mother and Grandmother looked on from the window, trying
to hide their anxiety. The little boy sat erect on the horse
like a warrior. His Dada Hassan smiled contentedly
and proclaimed “This will be a man”.
Pitera… was
the pet-name given to Mohydeen ! How we Circassians cherish
the sweetness of the pet-names given to us by our
grandparents and as we grow up and out of this name, what
remains in our consciousness are the dearest and most
intimate family recollections.
His real name Muhadeen was also
given to him by Dada Hassan. This name was the name
of Hassan’s closest friend, Hasher Balkar’s only son and so
he gave it to his grandchild because Hassan was the
unofficial Atalik (trainer in traditions) of his
friend’s son and he admired the manners and astuteness of
this earlier Mohydeen. Remember what the poet Keshokov wrote
“No one changed his name, if it was given, it was given”.
That is how it is…and was. Where he came
from…
Children’s earliest memories are usually
associated with colours or images or sounds. For Mohydeen it
was smell, the smell of horses, their breath and that
special smell of their manes and hides, the smell of stables
and mangers. This was the atmosphere, the horse paddocks,
where Mohydeen grew up, just like the six generations of
Quandours before him. Horses and their breeding were an
essential part of his childhood. At four years, he was
already working with them, riding them to water at Ras Al
Ein springs as his special morning duty. Dada
Hassan had picked an old docile mare for him to ride
bareback for leading the other mares. His little feet
dangled atop the mare’s belly and his tiny fingers clasped
on the mare’s main, but he rode it with pride, feeling
himself like a hero. The Neighbors would see this parade
every morning and they would comment jokingly but loudly for
him to hear. “Look, look… The Quandour family’s best
horseman leads their horses to water!” When little Mohydeen
would hear these comments his back would straighten even
more and his head would be held even higher.
One day, Mohydeen
came running to his grandfather, who was in the midst of his
Andez ritual (the washing of limbs) prior to his
noonday prayer. “ Dada, Dada, “ he exclaimed out of
breath, “There is a mouse in the feed room eating the
horses’ grains” he said. “Come quickly before he eats all
their food and the horses are left without any… to die of
hunger!” His grandfather, smiling, finished his ritual
slowly and as he lowered the sleeves of his shirt, told the
young boy, “ What then? Do you want the little mouse to die
of hunger? He must also eat to live. Don’t you think? All
God’s creatures must live son.” And he continued as he
turned to begin his prayers, “Don’t worry Mohydeen, our
stores have enough food for the mouse as well.” Dada
was the highest authority, the wisest and eldest of the
household. If he says the mouse must also eat then that was
enough for the little Quandour and he was visibly relieved.
The Horses were
always a part of Mohydeen’s life. No matter what jobs he
took or where he lived in the world, Mohydeen always had
horses near him to breed and to ride. This did not stop even
when he was working in Hollywood as a film
producer/director. Later when he moved to and settled in
England, he purchased a substantial horse property (Locks
Barn) not far from the famous racing grounds of Ascot, where
he began breeding pure Arabians and was registered in the
World Arabian Horse Organization (WAHO). Here he also
trained and raced English thoroughbreds.
Mohydeen
continues the breeding of horses in Jordan where he builds a
horse farm which later turns into an equestrian sports club.
Here on the wall of his small office you can see the names
and the history of his forefathers who were preoccupied with
horses, including their history with the Kabardinian horse.
I could mention the names of these forefathers: Ahmad,
Kazbek, Imam, Nakho, Hassan, Izzat. I should add here
another name which will undoubtedly be placed among them one
day, that of Mohydeen.
One day, during
Mohydeen’s childhood, he dared to ride the most nervous and
head-strong filly in the courtyard, the parade horse of his
father. Nobody was allowed to ride Samura, least of all
because she was dangerous and difficult to control. Mohydeen
had become bored with the docile mare his grandfather had
picked for him and at five years he felt himself an
accomplished horseman.
That morning
he dared to ride Samura as the lead horse to the Springs.
Everything went smoothly as always, until Samura lowered her
long neck to drink, then she went completely berserk. A frog
had jumped in the water next to her and she lifted her
forelegs high and took off like a demon. The result was a
terrifying gallop down the length of the stream and back up
the dirt rode with the little horseman hanging on for dear
life. The entire neighbourhood came out horrified, ‘he’ll be
killed …he’ll be killed’ they cried and tried to stand in
the fleeing horse’s path to no avail. Mohydeen’s mother says
that she was in the kitchen cooking when she heard the
screaming. She immediately realised whom the people were
screaming about because she knew that only her son was
capable of doing such deeds. She came running out but no
sounds came out of her throat when she realised the danger
her son was in. She witnessed the efforts of the elders who
tried hopelessly to stop the wild horse. Finally, after a
few more runs up and down the length of the rode, some of
the elders, friends of Dada, pulled up a wagon,
loaded with hay stacks, in the path of the running animal.
Samura, realising she could not clear it, came to a grudging
stop, frothing in the mouth and prancing around nervously.
Little Mohydeen remained on the horse, holding hard to its
mains, his little feet pressed hard to the sides of the
animal. Finally, when he realised that Samura had really
stopped, he slid off the sweating horse to the ground
unscathed except for his wounded pride. He could hear the
elders saying “ he held on… he held on, the little boy did
not fall off… it’s a miracle.” Mohydeen was not thinking of
miracles, only of what form of punishment he might receive
for riding his father’s parade horse. When he looked into
his Dada’s eyes he could see not anger but pride, and
he relaxed knowing that, at least for the time being,
punishment was not being considered. Pitera noticed
the anxiety in the others’ eyes and was tempted to cry but
held himself firmly. His legs trembling from the experience,
his little hands raw and bleeding from holding Samura’s
mains so hard, he entered the corridor to his room and saw
the saddle of his legendary great grandfather Kazbek,
hanging on the wall of the corridor. Here, he could not hold
himself any more and he cried his heart out. Nobody could
explain why the little boy cried, even though he was not
punished yet. Maybe he cried because at age five he
understood the price one has to pay for boldness, for
audacity, which had been the trademark of this family since
the time of Kazbek.
Dada’s
home contained sacred items, which were off-limits to
everyone including his beloved grandson. One of these items
was that ancient saddle of Kazbek, which hung on the wall of
the corridor. It was so unusual, so beautiful, so noble,
decorated with silver ornaments, it is still kept in our
home and our children look at it as a sacred item to this
day.
Kazbek is a
special theme and a special page in the genetic destiny of
Mohydeen Quandour. Kazbek was the first born son of the
nobleman (Wark) Ahmad Quandour. Ahmad’s uncle was the
prince, during the eighteenth century, of Lasha Psina, a
town presently located in the Adighey Republic. Starting
from this period, the history of the Quandour clan has been
kept meticulously, being passed from one generation to
another until the present day.
Ahmad Quandour
became a close friend of the son of the Hapsa Prince, whom
he met in Chechnia. This happened when Ahmad left his
ancestral home in Lasha Psina and wondered eastward in the
Caucasus. It was his destiny to end up and settle in
Chechnia. Here, the son of the Hapsa Prince of Little
Kabarda had had similar fate and was already living in the
Chechen mountains where the two young Circassian noblemen
met and became brothers. What brought them together and
unified their purposes was not only the fact that they were
both exiles from their homelands but that their hearts and
thoughts coincided and agreed. Although they had both
decided not to return to their homelands, destiny had other
plans for them, and special circumstances forced the son of
the Hapsa Prince to return to Little Kabarda. The two
friends could not be separated, therefore they both moved to
Little Kabarda with their families.
Here, in Little
Kabarda, was born the legendary Kazbek.
“In those early
years, Ahmad’s stud grew in scale and reputation. Little
Kazbek was often to be seen in the company of his father in
the stables. Tsema used to say that the wagon journey to
their new home while she was carrying Kazbek had obviously
affected his character, for even as a toddler he was
constantly wandering into the paddock, entirely at ease with
the animals and playing fearlessly under their feet.”
Because Kazbek
was a nobleman (Wark) and certainly because his
father was friend to the ruling prince, he had the
opportunity to be trained by the best Atalik
(Trainer) in the land, in the company of other prince’s
children, including the famous Tartar dynasty’s children,
the Gireys. Their teacher was not only a master of warrior
arts, nor was he only interested in making his pupils
physically strong. He was a real expert in the ancient
traditions, the Adigha Khabza, in addition he also
knew languages and philosophies of other ancient cultures
and had found many spiritual experiences by living with
monks and travelling to many holy places, fasting and
meditations… Therefore, this Atalik spent time perfecting
his pupils’ mental and spiritual perceptions. His pupils
learned great discipline and performed all the teacher’s
demands with great will-power.
The Adigha
Khabza, about which many have written and are writing
today to explain it as a form of etiquette, tradition or a
warrior’s code of behaviour, was the greatest knowledge
which this Atalik could pass on to his students because of
his superior knowledge and understanding of its roots and
its spiritual values. When Kazbek began his adult life, his
highest orientation was his spiritual experience, the
experience of his Adigha Khabza as passed down from one
generation to the next. These spiritual values became the
most important heritage, which the Quandour family nurtured
for centuries. They pass this heritage, this family secret,
from father to son like the highest belief and the supreme
family moral standard. When we speak of Lapsa, we
cannot ignore this phenomenon, on the contrary, it is a part
and partial of the Lapsa of Mohydeen Quandour as
inherited from the great ancestor Kazbek.
Kazbek followed
in the footsteps of his father in the breeding of horses. He
was the first Circassian to bring pure Arabian blood stock
to the Kabarday from the Hijaz ( Saudi Arabia). This was
upon his return from his pilgrimage (Haj) to Mecca. As fate
would have it, many years later, his great great grandson
Hamid should meet up with the Shammar tribes in northern
Syria, from whom Kazbek had obtained his best stallion.
Kazbek became
well known as a tough warrior, a true son of his nation
during the Russian-Caucasian wars of the early 19th
century. But throughout his life he sought the truth; a
meaningful path for his existence. He was a seeker of
knowledge and of answers to his peoples dilemma; their
unavoidable confrontation with a super power such as Russia.
He believed that war was an evil undertaking and that this
war should one-day stop. He was not a simple brave warrior
but a deep thinker who struggled with ideas and concepts and
who prayed constantly for peace in his land. That was why he
went to the pilgrimage and acquired the coveted name of
Haji Kazbek.
Kazbek refused
to immigrate to the Ottoman Empire. He understood that he
must stay on his land even if that meant hardships or death.
It was not in
Imam’s destiny to follow through in his father Kazbek’s
path. He was killed by the Cossacks, when they came to steal
his stallion, leaving a pregnant wife behind. The
fatherless child to be born was Nakho. As it was traditional
in Circassian society, the grandfather Kazbek brought him up
as his own and also became his Atalik. After the
prescribed three years, the mother of Nakho is given
permission to remarry and she immigrates with her husband to
Istanbul.
When Nakho
grows to adulthood he takes over the breeding of horses
seriously and establishes an important horse breeding farm
in the Kabarda. Nakho always understood, as taught to him by
Kazbek, that the land of the northern Caucasus was the
Circassian motherland and that it should never be abandoned
no matter what pressures the occupiers practised on him. But
Nakho never gives up the dream of seeing his ageing mother
in Istanbul
and after the repeated letters and requests from her he
reluctantly decides to immigrate to be next to her during
her last remaining years. Before he leaves his homeland, he
sells the best stock of his horses, including the pure
Arabians, to Count Strogonov, a well known breeder himself
out of Piatigorsk. It is interesting to note here that after
the October Revolution, the horse farm of Count Strogonov is
taken over by the Communists and renamed the Terski
Konizavod, which is today the most famous of all
Russian horse farms for pure-bred Arabians.
The story of the
muhajer (immigrants) and the destiny of Mohydeen
begins at this moment, when Nakho leaves the North Caucasus.
It begins in Turkey and then TransJordan…
Nakho brings a
nucleus of the best horse with him to Turkey. He builds a
new family home and begins a new program of breeding, which
quickly makes him a wealthy man. His four sons, Hassan,
Hamid and Majeed and the young Shamsuldeen help him with the
horse business and the family prospers. The Ottoman cavalry
is in constant need for good horses and they become his most
important clients. But when the army discovers that Nakho
has three healthy sons of subscription age, they begin
harassing him to take them away for the army. For a few
years Nakho manages to delay such an event by paying huge
sums to the officers in charge. In the end Hamid is taken
away. But the young Hamid runs away from the army and ends
up in Trans-Jordan with the earlier Kabarday immigrants in
Amman. After about ten years and to avoid this happening
again with his remaining sons, Nakho decides to immigrate to
Amman. Shamsuldeen is left behind with his step-father to
continue his education in the Military Academy of Istanbul.
And so the family Quandour, with their new born son Izzat
(grandson of Nakho and father of Mohydeen) move to
Trans-Jordan.
Izzat, son of
Hassan, grows up in Amman and formulates his character to
become the potential leader of his clan. He becomes an
important personality in Trans-Jordan. He understands early
on that he would shoulder a huge responsibility, not only
for his family or immigrant Circassians, but also for his
adopted country. I am not afraid to sound exaggerating
because it was exactly like that in reality – when a
Circassian became an important person as Izzat became, all
Circassians were proud of the fact because they were proud
of his achievements. They felt that they owed an honest
service to the country, which took them in as immigrants and
for them to produce such a man who could serve such a
country was indeed an honour. What creates such an
obligation for the Circassians is the concept of Lapsa,
which unites them, which obligates them to remain true to
their Circassian identity.
Here I remember
a family tale told by a noble old woman, Mohydeen’s mother,
when the family finished their lunch and the servants began
serving tea. It was a lovely time for us, while drinking tea
because it was here that family histories and legends were
often told. Even the children would remain glued to their
chairs to hear these stories. One of these was the story
told by Nana when several elders came from Syria to
congratulate Hassan for the promotion of his son Izzat in
the army. Izzat had become a senior officer and had received
a special service medal. Izzat was standing at the table
serving the elders, just as it was traditional for the young
son to serve. One of the elder guests spoke out addressing
Hassan. “ Please allow this young man to sit with us at the
table. We are embarrassed that he is serving us. After all
it was to honour him that we came to you. He has earned a
seat with us.”
“ Don’t be so
concerned Thamada,” answered Hassan. “He is a senior
officer when he leaves my house. In here he is the youngest
and he must serve.”
I heard another
story during one of our family meals told by Mohydeen’s
mother. He had already become a well known Hollywood
director and author when one time he flew back to Amman for
a two-day visit with his parents. When he entered, one piece
of luggage in hand, his father promptly told him that he
must travel immediately to Damascus to greet a Kabardan
delegation and to invite them to Amman. Mohydeen went inside
to change his shirt and to shave his beard and was on his
way out to the car when his mother complained, “can’t he at
least have a bite to eat?” Mohydeen kissed her forehead
telling her that he was not hungry and drove off to Damascus
to do his father’s bidding.
All of the
above, and much more which I could not write in this short
article, is what constitutes Lapsa… Where he is from.
Kazbek’s ancient
saddle was the symbol under which Mohydeen grew up as the
contemporary of a series of distinguished forefathers. They
passed on to him the deepest concepts of Khabza;
honour, pride, truth, virtue and self-worthiness; family
beliefs imbedded in their genetic make-up. Those who possess
such qualities, neither people nor time could ever take
away.
Dr. Luba Balagova
Fellow of the
Institute of International Literature
Moscow
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