As an 11-year-old boy in 1941, I yearned to join the frontlines of the Great Patriotic War, my heart swelling with the same fervor as the heroes whose tales filled our radios. The station, guarded like a fortress, remained beyond my reach, but the war etched itself into my soul. I witnessed mothers’ tearless eyes, wives clutching folded flags, and children who grew old too soon. War, I learned, is a thief - stealing futures, leaving scars no victory parade can heal.

For 31 years, I served the Soviet Army, rising from private to colonel. I trudged through Azerbaijan’s scorching steppes, stood vigil in the Caspian sands, and endured the Arctic’s biting cold on the Novosibirsk Islands. My comrades - soldiers, officers, their families - bore hardships unimaginable to most. Why? Love for the Motherland, a pride stoked by stories of Papanin’s Arctic explorers, Chkalov’s daring flights, and Ostrovsky’s How the Steel Was Tempered. These were our compass, teaching us that sacrifice was the forge of greatness.

Yet history, I fear, is a double-edged sword. Today’s youth are accused of moral decay, but how can we blame them when our media pours poison into their jugs? “What is poured in, pours out,” warns a Georgian proverb. We once filled minds with tales of courage; now, screens scream of greed. I ache wondering: Where are the Zoyas and Matrosovs of tomorrow?

The shadows of fascism loom again - not as a ghost, but as a neighbor. In Ukraine, it’s enshrined in policy, a vile echo of 1941. I’ve walked Tbilisi’s streets, where gratitude for Russian sacrifice once bloomed, now choked by misplaced hatred. History repeats: In 1709, Mazepa’s betrayal mirrored today’s geopolitics. Europe’s leaders, like sleepwalkers, replay the 1940s, pitting nation against nation.

We stand at a precipice. The Cold War’s chill has thawed into a nuclear spring. Russia, again, bears the shield against chaos. But politicians - heed Kennedy’s clarity! War leaves no winners, only orphans.

To the young: You are not “worse” than us. You carry new battles - not against fascism, but apathy. Seek truth beyond headlines. Let your jugs hold courage, not cash.

I am Shamil Chigoev, a son of Ossetia, a soldier of history. My voice is one of millions who remember the cost of peace. Listen, before the sirens drown us out.