In the bed with the enemy... drama in two parts

Part 1: Daughter of Russian Revolution

…The day I was being baptized nothing extraordinary happened. The earth kept revolving, the mid-afternoon sun was kissing the sky gently, and middle-aged woman with bad perm was selling warm beer by the bus stop. That was the day my severely religiously disoriented parents brought their only six-year-old daughter into the church. Why religiously disoriented? Well, there were living in the Red Russia, they were products of communistic society, and they were not supposed to believe in God. Nevertheless, they were involved in the forbidden ritual of christening.

I think my dad was drunk that day, and so was the priest. My scared mom was nervously fixing my hair and looking around as if hoping to find Jesus himself in one of the dark corners of the church and ask him if it was OK to baptize me.

They were risking losing their jobs if anybody found out, and possibly jail.
I loved the ceremony even though I burnt my hand with the candle wax and was scared of the entire water thing. I loved the smell of the church, the dark faces of the saints in ancient gold. The priest put a tiny golden cross on my neck.

I am a child of wild 90's. Wild 90's in my country are an equivalent of American wild 60's. Bitter instant coffee, Hare Krishna's dancing on the main streets, bubble gum, Pepsi, and stuttering, suddenly pale Gorbachev resigning from the ruined empire. Russian version of Apocalypses. Has anybody ever killed your favorite journalist when you were 12? Have you even had one at the age you are supposed to play dolls and watch Disney's cartoons?
Should I even mention bombs explosions in Moscow, tanks near Kremlin, no food in the stores, multiple detergent commercials, fake Levis jeans on my history teacher, and my mom crying in the kitchen watching the collapse of Soviet Union? How about "Swan Lake ballet" on every channel during the Putch?
I was buying vodka and cigarettes for neighbors when I was 10, I was talking politics when I was 12, and I was speaking perfect English when I was 16. There is a Chinese proverb:'" There is nothing worse than to be born in the time of changes." What if you have no choice? I greedily inhaled the rebellious revolutionary air of 90's. The air that smelled of gunpowder and bubble gum at the same time.
Then amidst terror and horror, the most wonderful thing happened – the religion came back and blossomed like lilacs the April I was baptized. The monuments of Lenin were collapsing being rapidly replaced with newly built churches with golden domes that as a child always reminded me of the onions. My parents were still blissfully ignorant when it came to religion.

My dad singled out his religion primarily by hating all the others. He hated Jews (He blamed them for ruining our country. There was even a rumor back then that Lenin was a Jew and my father firmly believed it). He could not stand Muslims because of Chechens. He slightly disliked Indians, and was somewhat fascinated with Americans. Every Sunday instead of church, he would drag me to the meetings of one political party organized by a man with a bad breath whose political believes strongly resembled Hitler's.
My mom was indifferent and apolitical. She was a busy English teacher and had energy only to hate the local Hitler who had a habit of throwing drunken parties at our house.
As a result, I grew up very open-minded and hating politics. Maybe because it was spoon-fed to me all my life, or better yet – shoveled down my throat.

My country has been torn apart by bloody wars and conflicts for centuries. I grew up a pacifist. I grew up accepting all religions and cultures, but still having mine – Russian Orthodox. Maybe because my lost generations was not given anything else but religion – we had ruined empire, drunk president, and our church. I never liked glamorous blinding churches of my little Southern hometown. My own little temple was the part of military hospital that was changed to trauma center. I still remember sunlit Sunday mornings filled up with beautiful voices of chorus and my priest's prayers. That place was my emotional and spiritual asylum, I spent so much time there, my mom told me one day:" Please, do not become a nun. I want some grandchildren." She was close, but still wrong. I did not want to be a nun. I wanted to marry a priest. It is the story I shall tell you some other day.

When I came to America, I proclaimed it my new motherland, or a very kind "stepmotherland". Different cultures were boiling in the" international pot "of happy people who were getting along. Being a waitress I patiently waited while my favorite cook Ahmed will finish his praying (he was Muslim), to ask him to cook hamburger, rejected by the table four, some more. I had Jewish friends; I worked with Hindu doctors, Jehovah witnesses' nurses, took care of sick Amish people. All people were brothers and sisters in my mind. On the social and professional level.
My overpopulated island of religious "Utopia" started sinking faster that Venice once I started dating. The imaginary lawn where all of the brothers and sisters were supposed to sit down and peacefully have lunch on sunlit Sunday morning ,suddenly turned into grim minefield...

Part 2: Mohamed and Agidel

...The story I am about to tell you is not supposed to rock your world or touch you on any level. It is not about Muslim Romeo and Christian Juliet. Nobody dies. Everybody keeps living happily ever after in the grey world of convenience and comfort. In the tight grip of the never-ending Cleveland winter. Actually, the story looks so typical, it might have happened to you last Friday. Have you met (you in the sequins mini skirt dancing to Craig David's "Hot Stuff") by any chance the beautiful dark-haired stranger from the country where the sun never stops shining? If not, come back Saturday.
However, this story is different.
He is my young sweet Mohamed who chose spiritual path of the martyr over my double D's.
And, I am an angel named Agidel who was shot right in the left shoulder by the enemies on the way to Jerusalem right near the Temple Mount.
Green eyes and double D's – only decor. Next time around, I am going to reappear as a slender brunette with dark eyes, A-cups and better attitude.

Nice to finally meet you, my prince.

Yes, our hook-up was quite typical. Neon sun of downtown is not too prejudiced. Somehow we were able to dive into romance among dirt, bathroom sex, cigarette butts and toothless screamers selling roses in the dead of the winter:" Only two dollars, sir!" Merciful God, forgive us. Maybe the stage was not perfect but we sure put a lot of passion and soul into our roles. "You have beautiful eyes". Unfortunately, I still remember.

I liked how he was stumbling with compliments and never had prepared eloquent speeches about my beauty. I liked how he passionately loved his country and listened to "Radiohead" at the same time. I liked the boy in him. It was the case of the unresolved ten-year-old love to the stubborn boy from my school. I wanted him to take me to soccer games with him and show me his treasured collection of video games. I wanted his world so badly, and that silly boy did not let me in. Well, ten years later I conquered the different but the same boy. Only I was not that girl anymore. I was in the "downtown diva" stage in my life, which included dealing with sleek glamorous liars and aroused "sicko-s" on every weekend basis. He was a breath of fresh air.

He never lied and kissed with the passion capable of collapsing the mountains. I really liked him. I liked how he was holding my hand, struggling but not giving up on the role of the younger boyfriend of the smart and sarcastic girlfriend. (I was constantly feeding him with nice blunt statements like: "I never knew I would like you that much." "I'd rather change a man that a religion for him.") I do not think he ever had it easy with me.
Did I mention that he was Muslim and I was still as Russian Orthodox as on the day I came to America? Good. It is very important because what happens next is…
Well, first answer me. Have you ever heard that Hallmark statement that "love conquers it all?" Were you ever tempted to stab the enthusiastic idiot proclaiming this in the ear? The way I was tempted to do so?
Love does not conquer shit. In reality, it does not even try. It just sets us up for trouble and cowardly takes off.
To say that about different religious conflicts is a pathetic attempt to put a band-aid on the ancient wound that has gone bad and was bleeding and bleeding for centuries... Long before you the author of this idiotic statement was born.
Who are we? The children of God who did not want to let go of something they once found? Lack of compromising equals strong faith. We both want to wake up in the morning and see our true selves in the mirror. We both have our own definitions of God, faith, and love. And we both want nothing less than our version of events.

And that's why this is what happens next..

If you are a vulnerable woman just like we all are, imagine finding yourself in the worst nightmare of your adult life – your man asking His God for forgiveness for being with you, the sinful woman of the other religion, other tribe?

You are laying naked on the iceberg, you are all by yourself, you are choking in the cold... Only the monotonous sound of bathroom water and burning pain of knowing exactly what's going to happen next.

Agidel spreads its broken wings and heads out through the basement window. The daughter of Russian Revolution quietly cries and speed-dials her mom… Mohamed comes back with a long sword…
This is not the end of the story. But this is where I want to end it.

…I tried to live in denial. I tried to cancel out this winter with pouring into myself pink poison of "Sex on the Beach", with dressing myself in purple coats, curling my hair…Pink, purple..does not matter. Did not help. Romeo comes back too late. Juliet is already gone. Her warm body has no answers.

…I will forever stay in this cruel never-ending winter as a sad six year old girl in a silk robe by the broken window watching him start his car hastily and disappear in the blizzard…asking herself the eternal questions of religion , love and cowardliness...
…and the earth keeps revolving as that happens.

P.S. Understanding is not always forgiving, my prince. It's not about the fact that we leave, it's about how we leave.. I think if I ever look into you eyes again
I. Will. Turn. Into. Stone.