Русский форум Кипра

Prologue.
I opened this crime absolutely casually. I casually met the older sister of the killed in a nuthouse kinder, casually started to roll with her in a bed... Chuvash girl from Ishimbay-city – absolutely extraordinary exemplar: thin lines of the face, white skin and black hair, thin bones, tender shoulders... Clever, a painter and a bisexual. In those times she was 18-years old, and she was a student of the first course of the Academy of Arts of Ufa. It was her, who in one of breaks under cheese and red wine between sweet enjoyments and storied Me about her little brother tortured to death in a nuthouse. And I, as a journalist must, did not allow the theme to escape from My hook.
By this strange way the fatal mystery, forever, as it was imagined, buried behind seven stamps of the Bashkir Republic Psychiatric Hospital, rushed out to the freedom. How to not quote here the King Arthur: "The sentence of the God is being executed by various ways."


Rasul Yagudin
(Berlin, Germany)

Cource of Treatmen – Murder
(translator from Russian is unknown)


Don’t ask ever again for whom the bell tolls: it tolls for you.
D. Donne.

Murder. So much terrifying chilling force, as if in a cobra’s gaze, is contained in this word. What horror and darkness covers the human soul at the mere sound of this word! We hear the word murder - and the world around us seems to shift, altering planes and distorting perspectives, turning the usual warm earth into a terrible black hole in the middle of a merciless inanimate space, burning the heart with its icy breath, thrusting the brain with piercing hard needles of indifferent alien stars. Even murder at war, even murder in a fair fight, even murder committed by a murderer, after which, whatever you might say, a hunt will begin, even murder of a murderer who deserves their fate a hundredfold, any murder causes in us, people, horror and disgust.
But today we will be talking not about wartime murder, not about fair fight murder, not about murder committed by a murderer, after which, whatever you might say, a hunt will begin, not about murder of a murderer who deserved his fate a hundredfold... Today we will recall an ordinary young man, who once, when he was alive, was called Timur Rifovich Galeyev, and who was murdered by officials, official civil servants of the Russian Federation – the same Russian Federation that is now, while under the strict guidance of a former writer Tolyan Pristavkin, squeals to the rest of the world about the abolition of the death penalty – employees of the 21st department of the Bashkir Republic Psychiatric Hospital, the one in Vladivostokskaya Street in Ufa (capital-city of Bashkortostan), a thirty-minute walk from the Press House.
Rather, no – we must not be like murderous civil servants in white coats, we shouldn’t distort facts for the sake of a ready-made verdict or diagnosis, we should strictly follow the actual course of events – Timur was finished off in Ufa in Vladivostokskaya. But the murder, the deliberate, methodical, cold-blooded and merciless killing, started back in psychiatric hospitals in his hometown of Ishimbay, then continued in various places, including psychiatric hospitals in Moscow, Novo-Aleksandrovka and Blagoveshchensk.
They first took him when he was twelve years old, and for what? Hell knows, the kid probably got into a fight, maybe more than once, what's the difference, whatever he did, his death, so savage and methodical, stretched out for eight years, wasn’t well-deserved. By some miracle, he, merely a child, long ago, in his native Ishimbay, realized what awaited him, desperately tried to escape from the hands of the adults who were killing him, managing to run away from the psychiatric hospital more than once or twice. As if on a whim, obeying the animal instinct of self-preservation, he, like a tiny kitten that was being hunted, avoided people, crowded places and human dwellings, where imminent death awaited him. He was hiding in some basements (these days, residential buildings don’t even have attics where a human being could hide), he never came home to his dad, mom and little sister, desperately trying to save his life. But he wasn’t allowed to leave, for all the power of the Russian state pursued the little man, all the monstrous power of two ministries at once - the Ministry of Internal Affairs and the Ministry of Health, squeezing him out of life, driving him to hell. Doctors and policemen - they tore the child to shreds, like a pack of wolves, killing, killing, killing, killing him... and not letting him leave.
This is how Timur Galeyev was raising, he didn’t use to play football, he didn’t use to play war, every moment clinging to his passing life, every second at war against a terrible, mysterious, top secret, absolutely closed, incomprehensibly necessary psychiatric system of the Russian state, growing, becoming a man and at the same time dying in this war, slowly becoming a real suicide soldier, who, as he himself understood before everyone else, wasn’t destined to return back - he died at an age suitable purely for a soldier, twenty years old, in warm and sunny May, when his peers were finishing their service.

In fact, I’ve known people who weren’t doing bad in psychiatric hospitals. What else do you need – they give you food and drink, they wash you, they do your laundry, they don’t force you to work, and all that’s demanded in return is to be good and obedient.
For example, I know a certain someone who, after killing all his family: a wife and two kids – ended up in a psychiatric hospital, and six months later I accidentally met him in Lenina Street in Ufa, it was a wonderful sunny day in spring, and we even walked a couple of blocks down the street together, chatting about this and that.
After all, in a psychiatric hospital, like anywhere else, basically, the main thing is to know when to get it up your ass, especially in our sad times, when those who don’t want to get it up their asses are smeared into dust, so a psychiatric hospital is kind of a small model of society, where all the kids are like the big guys, where they’ve got their own masters, godfathers, errand boys and slaves. And where they’ve inevitably got their martyrs, the people who perish in a struggle for human dignity and freedom. They will perish in a struggle knowing that the struggle is hopeless. They are far from talkative and eloquent, far from being able to put forward clever slogans (take Timur Galeyev – he never received any formal education), they are far from broad-shouldered and brave, far from being able to overcome despair and refrain from tears. But the most important thing they still do is that, with the very fact of their existence, they crush the established sick order of things, pulling the rug out from under the feet of their murderers, the civil servants, depriving them of confidence in their omnipotence, disrupting the measured course of a slave life. Even when crying and shouting, they hammer the system to the last – resisting, resisting, resisting, resisting... And then the “doctors” face the inevitable - this one must be killed.
His little sister had already grown up and became a first-year student in Ufa, when their parents in Ishimbay were officially informed that Timur allegedly contracted tuberculosis in his Blagoveshchensk madhouse. True, at that time the doctors hadn’t yet decided which way to slice... that is, sorry, to diagnose Timur to death, and just in case they began to hint at a possible tumor somewhere in the brain. The parents were far away, in Ishimbay. Naturally, the sad need to pay her brother a visit in the madhouse fell on his underaged sister’s shoulders. Blagoveshchensk isn’t a short walking distance, especially in the dark gloomy weather of December 1999, just before the Happy New Year. Fortunately, at the right moment there happened to be a certain friend-with-a-car nearby, so he drove her there. In search of her brother. It turned out to be difficult. At the reception, some fat creature in a white coat with an indescribably obscene expression on its face, showing disdain with all its existence, with deliberately slow mocking movements began flipping through some pieces of paper. (I wonder what the whole circus was about? - Maybe she was hoping that she would be asked to act quickly, and then she could quickly call the orderlies, write down "agitated", pack the girl in the hospital and thus, save herself from having to rummage through the papers?) Finally, she seemed to have found what she’d been looking for. It turned out that Timur Galeyev wasn’t there at all, but... in Novo-Aleksandrovka, turned out he’d been transferred there, which was complete news for the whole world - turned out that patients in madhouses are constantly being thrown back and forth, without even informing anyone, so that one fine day a person may not be found at all - disappeared, they’d say, vanished into thin air, they’d say, we don’t have a patient by that name, where is he? – Good luck trying to find him, ha-ha!!! However, this time, they found him, okay there. And the friend-with-a-car took the girl there, to Novo-Aleksandrovka. Now they started looking for Timur there. Looked like they found him. And the hospital staff brought in... a complete stranger. The doctors and orderlies explained this as follows: "We have a lot of Galeyevs." Delightful. It looks like a pile of children's toys, where you can't find the right toy right away. Because of the complete mess.
Let's now go back to Blagoveshchensk.
In Blagoveshchensk, during their absence, nothing had changed – everything still smelled like some kind of abomination and the very same fat creature in a white coat with the same indescribably obscene expression on its face, still showing disdain with all its appearance, all the same deliberately mocking movements continued to serve the Russian state.
Timur Galeyev, as it turned out in the end, was already on the final frontier – in the 21st department of the BRPH – as you come inside the territory, turn left, all the way across the hospital grounds – into a building resembling a mix between a modern barn and torture dungeons of the times of Catherine II. This is the 21st department of the Bashkir Republik Psychiatric Hospital – the place which Timur Galeyev never left alive.

Meanwhile, the friend-with-a-car, shocked and stunned by everything he’d seen, dropped the girl off at a supermarket and gloomily said: "Buy whatever you want, I’m paying." She told me later, barely holding back her tears: “I didn't know at that moment what was waiting for me, I thought that I was going to an ordinary hospital, where I needed to bring something delicious to eat – so I bought it – all sorts of stupid potato chips, fruits and sweets…".
When she finally saw her brother, the scene was so terrible that it was impossible to describe it except in the extremely emotional style of some French romanticism – Timur, seeing his sister, stretched out his hands to her and shouted heartbreakingly: “Marinochka!!! Oh, my God!!! You've come!!! I knew you’d come!!! Lord, I knew that you wouldn’t leave me!!! I was waiting, and waiting, and waiting, and waiting!!! " He rushed to her and, burying himself in her shoulder and burst into sobs.
“My God”, – the girl continued her story, – “he used to be quite a strong, tall young man – but this time, a terribly emaciated, skinny man entered the room, shaking either from the cold, in his white shirt, or from weakness and hunger... He pounced on the stupid purchases I’d brought and began to frantically stuff them into his mouth, gagging and hurrying, as if afraid that they would be taken away from him. His wrists had horrible deep scars and bruises from the ropes... almost as if...”
As if he was hanged on a cross like Jesus”.
Then he was forcibly torn away from his sister and taken back into the darkness, and he was shouting as long as she could hear him: “Marina!!! Take me out of here!!! Don't leave me here, don't leave me!!!” – the scream was becaming quieter, disappearing into the darkness, from where there was no return...
“Where are all those warm things that we sent him? – for some reason his sister asked me. "Why was he wearing this hospital gown?" (By the way, I can answer – in psychiatric hospitals when transferring from department to department, and even more so when transferring a patient from hospital to hospital – I'm not joking!!!, they strip you down on entering the premise, take away all your possessions, and give you everything else, namely, a shirt and pants, while shaving your head and taking a swab from the rectum).
Timur probably knew that he wouldn’t be allowed to leave the BRPH alive – he knew that he knows too much, and the doctors should now not be allowed to release such a witness. A cry of "take me out of here" escaped from the very depths of his tormented soul in a moment of insane hope... a hope that wasn’t destined to come true. And in Marina's next visit, he, the older brother, tried to pull himself together and not cause unnecessary suffering to the little sister – she didn’t need to know in advance how little he had left to live. Therefore, the next meeting was calmer – and, in general, there was no need for the sleek, well-fed orderly, towering behind his back and vigilant so that Timur didn’t say too much. Timur was again wearing his thin hospital gown and he was freezing again. "Where are those things that I brought last time?" – asked the sister. And Timur replied: “They were taken from me. They beat me up and took them away. " And then the underage girl found the strength to raise her gaze and look the orderly directly in the eyes, like an adult, hard and straight. The orderly, who had a hard time trying to break Timur’s life, already knew very well about the Galeyev’s character, so he averted his eyes and, looking at Timur, blurted out this idiotic whinny: “Well, Timur, you weren’t behaving yourself, so I had to take it away, hee-hee-hee”. Like this. Such punishment, among other things, is commonplace in the Bashkir Republic Psychiatric Hospital – if a patient behaves "badly" – for example, doesn’t want to voluntarily get a shot of sulfazine in their ass, (sulfur injection, R.Ya.), all their personal belongings and food are taken from them, they’re left to die of starvation, cold and tuberculosis. At the same time, a savage sulfazine injection is still being given to them. Violently.
After the orderly’s tirade, the girl had to say: "Timur, if you don’t behave yourself, I won’t come again." Timur wasn’t a stupid guy, he, of course, understood what his sister wanted to tell him – so that he caved in, so that he surrendered, so that he could learn to bow his head to the executioners, God, we all live like this, the whole country is like that, the whole world, give in to them, Timur, be obedient and then you may be spared.
Timur understood. But he didn’t manage.
He only said as he was leaving: “I want that everyone to know that they are beating me here and everything is being taken away from me here”.
Once, just as thoroughly, just as carefully choosing his words, Pontius Pilate said something similar to Jesus. Jesus also understood. And he also didn’t manage either. Although he also cried and prayed to the Lord that this cup would pass him by.
The girl, of course, wasn’t going to leave Timur in trouble, she was going to come again, but it so happened that she couldn’t visit her brother soon enough. When she finally came the next time, it was already over. Timur was already standing on the edge, beyond which a dazzling light opened up, he was already leaving his earthly past full of suffering. He could no longer speak and cry, so now there were no tears or complaints. He couldn’t eat either, and his sister carefully and tenderly fed him with a spoon, as once, many, many years ago, he, the older brother, spoon-fed her, his beloved little sister... once... many, many-many, many years ago... in a different, irretrievably lost, beautiful, sunny, forgotten world, when a whole, huge, God-given life was available to them...
And then his mother decided to pick him up. Shocked by her daughter’s story, which was so different from the sweet songs of psychiatrists, she decided to try to save him, pull him out, take him to the countryside, into peace and quiet, for fresh milk. And now all the usual tricks of doctors didn’t have any effect on her, all this shit like: "he is mentally ill", "we want to help you", "you should save the family that you have left" (as this threat is soooooooooooooooo subtly worded, right? R.Ya.), “you have another child, think about her”, “no matter how hard it is, abandon your son – he won’t be able to live among people”... She carefully and patiently listened to all this benevolent nonsense, spilled out before her by all those polite, courteous, charming, attentive, cultured, de-e-e-e-e-eply intelligent civil servants in white coats and said only one thing in response: "This summer I’ll take him home."
It was again the Galeyev’s character, the psychiatrists recognized it, and it terrified the psychiatrists – now they had to act quickly, otherwise – it’d be over, the entire Galeyev breed could not be ditched in a psychiatric hospital, they had to work on Timur alone for eight years to no avail – and this was the soldier’s feat which people will remember later – Timur withstood everything, didn’t give up, he died at war like a real soldier, and thereby covered for and saved his family and his breed, forcing the omnipotent doctors to fear the Galeyevs. All of them. Even the children, just like Timur once was when he was first taken eight years ago, with confidence that this sucker would be easy prey for them.
Yes, now the doctors had to act quickly, and they began to rush, and they... did it in time, when it was just a matter of hours.
His mother was going to pick him up as soon as summer weather set in, summer was falling on the doctors like a guillotine blade, they were hurrying hurrying, hurrying, hurrying, they were killing, killing, killing, killing and killing him, but he was keeping holding on, he still was remaining alive. It seemed that Timur was barely alive, he was crying, he was weak – just a little more, one more effort, and he would finally kick the bucket, this damned, stubborn, undying, as if he’d suddenly gained immortality, as if he’d suddenly become invulnerable, like a formidable angel of revenge, this frigging, goddamn Galeyev Timur.
But he, like a Maurice Druon character, “was crying, but not dying”, he was still alive, he still did not give up his breath, he still was laying there on the bed, clinging to life with frantic stubbornness, he seemed was laughing at all the boundless power of the Russian state psychiatry, he was resisting, resisting, resisting, resisting..

It seemed as if one of the most unusual American writers, Bruno Traven, had described him many decades earlier: “Only now the real fun begins. First, we fought for papers, then, for rats’ food, then against the damned bars. Now, finally, it's a matter of the last breath. "
His mother was going to pick him up in the summer of 2000.
He died in May, several days before the summer.
The head of the department at that moment (such a stroke of luck!) was away on vacation – another one. If I were in his place, I would try to provide myself with an alibi that same way – by going on vacation. Another vacation – it’s very important to put it this way for the alibi to be more reliable.
The doctors didn’t succeed in waiting for him to die on his own – so they had to return him to his parents with an open skull, sawed all the way through. They explained that there was, allegedly, an autopsy to check if there was a tumor. (Remember, when reporting about tuberculosis, just in case, they hint at a tumor? – that's what came in handy – you always need to have plan B.) I don't know about an autopsy, but scars of this kind on the head actually remain after the so-called prefrontal lobotomy – severing nerve fibers in the frontal lobe of the brain – a purely psychiatric operation, in all other areas of medicine tacitly considered savage and pointless, and, most importantly, extremely convenient for the patient to accidentally die of.
Dozens of people have been told this story. None of them doubted the intended murder, only different versions were put forward, the mildest one, by the way, was expressed by Timur's mother – apparently, they beat him so hard that they crippled him, and since it was already impossible to hide it, they finally topped him off to cover their tracks. I don't really believe in this version, another thing seems more plausible to me – some illegal experiments were probably carried out on him, which, of course, ended in complete collapse, but did not pass without leaving a trace, everything could get exposed, so they... covered it up. There is an even cooler version – some internal organs were stolen from Timur, once a young and healthy guy, for sale, so... to, once again, cover the tracks, and this version in all its horror can be proven by the physical condition Timur was in not long before his death – remember? He couldn't even eat anymore. Sounds unrealistic? Not really. But then again, the official version offered by the doctors looks truly unrealistic – apparently, being in a medical institution, the young man burned to death from consumption in a few months.
Lord, even in prisons and in concentration camps tuberculosis patients live for years.
As for the tumor, by the way, according to Marina, there is not even a word in the medical report – the bullshit would be too obvious, but there is something like “intensification of psychotic processes”, ha-ha-ha. Let's leave aside the fact that any psychiatric diagnosis in general, basically, is always subjective, that any mental illness in general, basically, is never a fact, we will only mention an elementary psychiatric truth – no one has ever died of mental illness as such, people die from external reasons arising in connection with mental illness – for example, from the inability to feed oneself or as a result of a suicide act, or walking naked and sleeping on a roof on a moonlit night and – falling down from the roof...
Even catatonic people die not from catatonia itself, but from the bedsores and lack of proper care. The psyche is not an organ, after all, the psyche cannot catch a cold or become inflamed, it cannot be palpable, fluoroscopic or extracted, it cannot be surgically removed and carried away – the psyche as a physical substance simply does not exist, and it cannot kill.

Even if a mental illness develops as a result of a purely physical illness (for example, a brain tumor), a person dies from a brain tumor, and not from a quirk associated with this tumor. Even a bad tooth can kill its owner, but the psyche itself cannot.
So, what kind of bullshit is the "strengthening of mental processes" in the posthumous medical inference? Could it be just a catchphrase, to show how smart they are in the psychiatric hospital? Or maybe to sound all mysterious? What for??? Not to mention the fact that it is officially believed that Timur was being “treated” in psychiatric hospitals for eight years, and here you have an intensification of, you know, psychotic processes, – it turns out that as a result of eight years of treatment, the person only got worse, and so much worse that he died right from a mental illness – some kind of treatment, for God’s sake!
And this is also an indirect proof of the fact of the murder – it was important for doctors not to appear as murderers, and admitting their own professional incompetence in this situation is a very small sacrifice on their part.
Meanwhile, the story continued. Firstly, Timur's mother wondered where the hell his third-degree disability pension went, which Timur had been entitled to all these years. This question was zealously taken up by a certain Valentina Andreevna Shabalina, who said, ha-ha-ha, that she was the head physician. Oh really? Is it like what Vysotsky wrote: “This is the head physician, a woman, albeit to herself, but still insane”? And for some reason I always was thinking that the head physician of this most notorious BRPH, which without any exaggeration can be called the most terrible place in Ufa, and perhaps in the whole of Bashkortostan, and at the same time, the chief psychiatrist of the Republic of Bashkortostan, was a certain citizen Valinurov R.G., who took this post a dozen years ago, after the former chief physician Purik (this is how, in my opinion, this surname is spelled), had been defeated by an experienced journalist Victor Shmakov, my mentor and colleague, in the Supreme Court of the Republic of Bashkortostan, after which the entire psychiatric dynasty of the Puriks, having made a whole lot of mess in Ufa, in full force went to Belebey (poor fools of Belebey) with the clear goal of making a mess there. So – that same, ha-ha, “head physician-woman” Valentina Andreevna Shabalina uttered an absolutely amazing phrase, worthy of being written down forever in some psychiatric scrolls: “I will try to make an arrangement for you to get paid, because you are such an intelligent woman". And what if she would failed to make the arrangement? And what if Timur's mother would be a less intelligent woman? What do they, the psychiatric hospital, dispose of people’s pensions all they want? – if they want, they will pay you, but if they don’t want, will they spend it on booze, or what?
Secondly, a certain extremely charming Konstantin Sharkaevich – who is... also the head physician – appears on the scene.
All of this, by the way, is a fairly common thing in psychiatric hospitals – when an exhausted patient demands a lawyer, a prosecutor, an investigator or a head physician, the local doctors dress up one of their own and bring the costumed actor to the person. The costumed actor attentively listens to all the complaints and then in the medical records they write something like “intensified psychotic processes... has delusions of being beaten... thinks that all their possessions are taken from them... believes that the delicious hospital’s food is bad... thinks that they are hungry... hallucinates, believing that that they are cold in a wonderful hospital gown... prescribed: electroconvulsive therapy, sulfazine therapy, ice baths, cuffing, beating, hanging on a rack, prefrontal lobotomy, murder, crucifixion! " Previously, such a technique was used only in relation to patients, so that all sorts of psychos would not bother his Excellency, Mr Head Physician, but now, as we see, psychiatrists take a creative approach, charging the same crap on anyone, and it won't be long before journalists and prosecutors will be presented with an orderly or a janitor disguised as a head physician or another prosecutor.
So, this very "head physician" Konstantin Sharkaevich seemed to have an eye on Timur's sister. He asked her out on a date, to spend an evening together... and... and so on.
I asked Marina Galeyev: "How do You think – why he offered You to spend an evening together?"
And she answered: "I am a handsome girl – he, I think, was wanting to sleep with me".
Hm, it would be a very delicious shit – after killing the brother, to fuck his sister, but, I think, Marina like any other handsome girl slightly over-consider her sexual attractiveness – it is doubt, that she was needed to Konstantin Sharkaevich as a toy-girl, he has enough slave-toy-girls s in his nuthouse – tied to beds.
I think it was under a different pretense – Konstantin Sharkaevich needed to make sure that he would not have any problems in the future after the murder of Timur Galeev, that Timur's sister and Timur's mother would not be filing any complaints. Fortunately, he made sure that there really would be no problems. Neither the mother, nor, which is especially sad, Timur's sister demanded an investigation or an independent postmortem examination – and this is the main reason why I try to mention Timur Galeyev's sister’s name as little as possible, she simply did not deserve it, so far, unlike her brother she did nothing in her life, she did not even die at war, and the best that can be said about her is that she is a Timur's sister.
A sister of a soldier who died for all of us at war.
However, the statute of limitations has not yet passed. Isn't it about time? Hasn’t the time come for the civil servant who killed a person in the name of the Russian state to answer at least for this indisputable fact? They, of course, will deny it to the end, they will explain, elaborate, mentioning medical confidentiality, screwing in incomprehensible words and amazing with Latin, they will philosophize slyly, get into the weeds, muddy the waters and throwing dust, persistently exposing our ears to their illiterate nonsense like “intensifying psychotic processes”. And when they are pinned to the wall, they will repent, blame everything on each other, blame everything on their inexperience and refer to their incompetence, to a tragic accident, to criminal negligence, to oversight. And, perhaps, specifically on the charge of murder, they won’t be found guilty. But no tricks and no psychic technologies will help them to remove from the world, from reality, from the objectivity that surrounds us, at least one stubborn, sturdy, immutable, irreparable, implacable fact – the fact that they took a person alive and brought him back dead!
With his head sawed all the way through.

Опять же оцените качество перевода. Израильским антипсихиатрическим Сопротивлением планируется выдвинуть на нобелевку обе вышеприведенный статьи.

На русском (в оригинале), например, здесь:
Расуль Ягудин Курс лечения убийство
http://h-v-p.narod.ru/msg2.htm