In prison you can’t avoid getting a kicking. In 1926, too, Abdulla had been beaten within an inch of his life. What made his blood boil was not the physical pain so much as the treachery of his own people, black-eyed blood relatives whom he had trusted and considered to be friends. Back then he’d begged for death’s release: that would have been easier to bear than the company of his own black-eyed friends. He’d been too young then: he hadn’t thought of his children, nor of Rahbar.

Қамоқ борки қамоқда тепки емасдан қолмайсан. 26-нчи йили ҳам Абдуллани ўлардек тепкилашган. Унда ўзининг эгиз ўзбеклари. Лекин унда ҳам юрагини қон қилгани бу тепкилару муштлар эмас, ўзи ишонган, ўзи дўст деб тутинган қора кўзларнинг хиёнати бўлган эди. Ўшанда шу қора кўзларга қайта қараш ўрнига маҳкамадан тузукроғи уни отиб ташлашни сўраган эди. Ўшанда бебок ёшлик ғурурида на бола-чақасини, на Раҳбарини ўйлаган экан...