Azerbaijan had always played an important role in world affairs due to its unique geographical position at the crossroads of Iran, Turkey, and Russia. In the past, Islamic Azerbaijan served as the gate between the mysterious faraway East and prosperous Europe. By the 1970s, Soviet Azerbaijan had become a faithful, staunch outpost of European Communism as it made its way farther into Asia.
Our ally, Hafez al-Assad, became the president of Syria, and a Stalin disciple, Saddam Hussein, took the presidency of Iraq. The Iranian Revolution, with its Communist roots, sent the Shah and his family packing and out of the country. And the Marxist Party of Afghanistan appealed to the Kremlin for military support in its fight against the Islamic Mujahideen.
May 1979 was the month that would reshape the entire world. It was then, behind closed doors, that members of the Politburo of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union signed a top-secret document ordering the invasion of Afghanistan. That single decree was the irrevocable beginning of the end of the great Soviet Empire, which had been crumbling since its inception in 1922. Of course we, the people of the Empire, had no idea at the time. Communism—the only order of life we knew—kept its mighty grip on our hearts and minds.
On Friday afternoon, I left college early to attend the Assembly of the 26 Baku Commissars District Committee of Komsomol for the first time as its junior member. Afraid to be late, I ran all the way there—along busy Communist Street, past the white colonnade of the Azerbaijan State Philharmonic Concert Hall, past a beehive of people moving in and out of the Baksoviet Metro station, past the pointed arches and ornate facade of the Academy of Sciences, and all the way to Nizami Square with the magnificent bronze sculpture of the medieval poet Nizami Ganjavi.
The sun patted me on the back. The wind sprayed me with salty mist. A shortcut through the alley, down Uzeyir Hajibeyov Street with its row of blooming magnolia trees, and I arrived at the steps of the District Komsomol Committee Headquarters, joining the motley crowd of delegates.
At exactly twelve thirty, the heavy doors opened, and we poured into the auditorium. Red satin covered its walls. A crimson banner hung over the stage with the slogan: “Long live Azerbaijan, the younger brother of the Soviet Union.” At center stage, a placard depicted our founding fathers—Karl Marx, Friedrich Engels, and Vladimir Lenin—their names painted in gold on the red streamer of the Revolution.
I took my seat next to a young woman from some rural aul who wore a long, purple dress with multiple skirts, her head scarf tied in a knot so the ends stuck out like ears. On my other side sat a Russian sailor with the frame of a bear and the face of a Siberian husky, his watered-down blue eyes heavy with exhaustion.
The auditorium boiled in anticipation, but the sound of the drums silenced the crowd instantly. Comrade Farhad, poised and stately in a formal black suit, came onstage from the left side carrying the flag of Soviet Azerbaijan. Another man emerged from the right. Short but sturdy, with a pale face, thin blond hair, and a military bearing, he gripped the wooden pole of a notably larger flag of the Soviet Union, the Red Banner.
Meeting in the middle of the stage, they descended the stairs together and marched through the auditorium accompanied by the beat of the drums. Circling the rear, they returned to the stage, placed both flags next to the bronze bust of the leader of our country, Comrade Brezhnev, and gave him a military salute. The crowd rose and, on Comrade Farhad’s signal, began singing the State Anthem of the Azerbaijan SSR.
“Azerbaijan, the splendorous flower of the Republic…
The astute leadership of the Party of Lenin set us on course…”
The young woman next to me reached into her sack, dug up a handkerchief, and wiped away the tears sliding down her cheeks.
“Attention!” Comrade Farhad knocked on the microphone, ordering silence. Leaning with both hands against the red of the podium, he announced, “Comrades, the thirty-seventh Assembly of the 26 Baku Commissars District Committee of Komsomol is officially opened. Long live Soviet Komsomol!”
Springing to our feet, we applauded enthusiastically until Comrade Farhad gestured for us to stop. The ovation gradually subsided, and we settled in our seats.
“Long live the next generation of the Communist Party!” Comrade Farhad shouted.
In a flash we were back on our feet with another round of applause. This time the front row seemed to be leading the chaotic ovation into a steady beat. After a while, Comrade Farhad knocked on the microphone. We returned to our seats.
“Long live the Communist Party of the Soviet Union!”
Another standing ovation. Another signal to stop. Down…up…down.
“Long live the Soviet people, the builders of Communism!”
That ovation was the loudest by far. I thought the ceiling was going to come down. Finally, Comrade Farhad raised his right hand and ordered the people to take their seats. This time for good.
“Comrades,” he said, “today, as never before, we stand united against the vicious incursions of American imperialism. I have received an urgent memo from Moscow about the American military machine waving its muscle at our ally, the free people of Afghanistan. The people who have deposed their dictator and decided to choose the only right path of life”—Comrade Farhad struck his fist against the podium—“the path of Communism.”
The room broke into a hurricane again. The peasant woman next to me shouted her support in the highest trumpet decibels.
“I’ll tell you this.” Comrade Farhad’s powerful voice cut through the noise. “We will say to corrupt America—NO! We’ll say to gluttonous America—NO!”
The crowd joined him: “We’ll say NO! We’ll say NO!”
“Let the enemy beware,” Comrade Farhad continued, “that we, the Komsomol of Soviet Azerbaijan, the fearless future generation of the Communist Party, stand shoulder to shoulder with the freedom-choosing people of Afghanistan. And we are ready to spill our blood under our red banners!”
Tall and commanding, his eyes shining with determination, successfully restraining his stutter by carefully articulating every word, Comrade Farhad was a drummer of the Communist faith. He delivered his message clearly, logically, and directly, his charisma and fervor echoing in the hearts of his audience. Leaders like Comrade Farhad stood on the front lines of our lives, capable—I believed—of changing history.
But something didn’t feel right. Was it the pounding of his fist against the podium that kept distracting me? It seemed disconnected from his body or his words and reminded me of the orchestra at the Baku opera house accompanying the “Sabre Dance” by Aram Khachaturian. A poorly rehearsed orchestra, with the xylophone and strings struggling to find a common pace with timpani in the opening ostinato. Then the dancers poured onstage, whirling in their war dance, waving their papier-mâché swords, and clashing with the low brass.
Comrade Farhad concluded his speech and gestured toward the blond man who’d carried the flag of the Soviet Union. “I’m privileged to introduce Comrade Popov, our honored guest from Moscow, the First Secretary of the Novokuznetsky Committee of Komsomol.” He started clapping enthusiastically, conducting the crowd to follow.
Comrade Popov marched to the podium and cleared his throat. “I will focus on two issues: the People’s Revolution in Iran, and the role of Marxism–Leninism in our successful annihilation of religion. As we all know, Free Iran abolished its American surveillance bases near the Azerbaijani border. Comrade Leonid Brezhnev sent his congratulations to Ayatollah Khomeini, promising to stand shoulder to shoulder with our new friend and neighbor, the People’s Republic of Iran. And soon we will witness the final stage of the Iranian revolution—the victory of Iranian Communism…”
I listened to Comrade Popov in total confusion. Just a few days earlier, I’d overheard a conversation Papa had with his friend Parviz—a member of the Tudeh Party of Iran. Parviz said that the Communist revolution in Iran was lost to ayatollahs, and soon the entire country would be transformed into a single, giant mosque.
Was Comrade Popov misleading us? But why?
“Now I will focus on the role of Marxism–Leninism in our fight against a two-headed hydra, religious fervor coming from the East and toxic hedonism coming from the West,” he continued. “As Karl Marx stated: ‘Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, and the soul of soulless condition. It is the opium of the people.’ The same applies to the so-called Western democracy, which is nothing more than a poisonous materialistic ideology used by the ruling classes to deceive and enslave their people.
“The only difference between those two ideologies lies in their methods—the venom of religious zeal is God, while the weapon of Western corruption is money. And Communism is the only alternative to these decaying, evil dogmas. We’ve been successful in annihilating the religious hydra on our soil, but we must continue to root it out, one head at a time…”
Comrade Popov spoke for a long time, slamming the podium in the same disconnected manner Comrade Farhad had done but with seemingly less conviction. I sank, melting into my chair, terrified by my state of mind. What was going on with me? Why was I doubtful about my leaders’ sincerity? I had never had thoughts like this before. Seditious thoughts. Had I been contaminated? Had Aladdin slipped something into my tea?
Or could it have been his music?
Whatever it was, I had to clean myself up. To tell Comrade Farhad my findings about Aladdin. Something dangerous existed behind that green door. Something that had easily intercepted my rational thinking. And that’s why Comrade Farhad had sent me there in the first place—to test my Communist perseverance.
I didn’t like the idea of getting Aladdin in trouble. But I couldn’t shirk my duty. The duty of a Komsomol member. I had to report him.
After the end of the assembly, I rushed to Comrade Farhad’s office. The waiting room was empty so I peeked through the glass partition. Inside, Comrade Popov sprawled like a sultan in Comrade Farhad’s big brown chair, smoking a cigarette, dropping ashes on the floor, and bossing Comrade Farhad around. To my surprise, Comrade Farhad, who I had never seen take a command from anyone, bustled about, swearing into a phone and trying to arrange a special tour for Comrade Popov at the major oil-refinery plant.
The moment he noticed me, his dark highlander’s face turned carnation red, and he hastily waved me off. I reached into my bag, found the invitation to my recital on Saturday, placed it on his secretary’s desk, and left.