…God had given him the talent to invent stories and anecdotes out of nothing. Moreover, to speak with the same talent.
Had he had the environment, perhaps he would have grown into one of the world's renowned screenwriters or stand-up comedians. However, regrettably, his talent did not extend beyond his circle of friends and acquaintances.
As those around him got carried away by his stories, his imagination would “fountain” even more. You yourself knew that much of what you heard was fabricated, yet he narrated with such skill that you still couldn't stop yourself from laughing.
But once, he told one of the world's most real and painful stories: “We were retrieving the bodies of our martyrs from the combat zones. Sometimes, the sleeves of our sweaters would be soaked in blood. There was no opportunity to wash and clean them. When we ate, we would see dried bloodstains remaining on our sleeves.”
There are stories that cannot be created.
He himself had lived this story during the Patriotic War, in which he voluntarily participated as an officer.
Yesterday, we laid to rest journalist and Patriotic War fighter Rashad Bakhshaliyev.
A period was put to my memories, which began with our acquaintance on a pleasant September day in 1997 in front of the second building of Baku State University, at Masazir cemetery.
He had joined our group in the second year through a transfer. A year earlier, for some reason, the extramural department of the Faculty of Journalism had been temporarily abolished, and admissions were conducted for two groups instead. Moreover, more than 12 students had also come from Turkey. Therefore, at the beginning of the second year, our number exceeded 65. This was probably a record number of students in the faculty's history.
Usually, it takes some time for new students to adapt to an unfamiliar environment. However, Rashad, with his positive energy, blended in so well with the other students from the very first days that many of us felt as if we had been studying together not just since the first year, but perhaps even since the first grade.
I later observed his ability to communicate with people, his skill in quickly adapting to new environments, and his talent for creating a positive atmosphere wherever he was, even at the “Sharq” newspaper where we worked together. He was capable of making friends and preserving the friendships he gained.
During breaks, you would often see our fellow students gathered around Rashad, as he strung together the anecdotes he knew.
Once, an interesting incident occurred.
Our dean had changed from the third year. Akif Rustamov, who was kind-mannered and inclined towards democratic principles, had been replaced by the late Yalchin Alizade, a former communist who was a staunch supporter of strict discipline. He was trying to solve the students' attendance problem. The ones who missed the most classes were our fellow students from Turkey.
During one of the classes, teacher Yalchin came into the auditorium and began checking the register, one by one, to see who was present and who was not. Only two of the Turkish students were present in class: Mustafa Karapınar, and Huseyn Gurhan Tuncer. When the dean inquired about the other students, each of them gave a reason for their absence. The name of one of our fellow students was Ali Galib Igit.
Teacher Yalchin asked nervously:
-Alright, we know about these, but what happened to Ali?
At that moment, Rashad's voice was heard from the back row:
-Ali died, Ali died!
This phrase was very familiar to everyone from the role of Tekin, the mentally challenged character in the famous “Yuva” TV series, which was aired a few years ago.
Rashad's well-placed humor elicited such a loud burst of laughter in the auditorium that teacher Yalchin, who was a very serious person by nature, could not help but laugh himself and left.
Our time of losing friends had started a bit early. Our fellow student Dayanat Sohbatov, a very wonderful young man in every respect, perished while swimming in the sea in Buzovna during the last days of the first year. A few months after we completed our bachelor's degree, just before spring, the sad news arrived from Tartar about another unforgettable fellow student, Shalala Karimova. She had a thyroid condition and passed away from a simple operation.
At the mourning gathering, although the parents and sisters of the late Shalala insisted greatly, setting a separate table inside with true Karabakh hospitality, no one could swallow a bite due to the shock.
On the way back, Rashad had the bus driven from Tartar to Mingachevir. His mother prepared food between two stones, and up to 30 of Rashad's fellow students were guests at their home. Like all Soviet apartments, their home was cramped for so many people. But the generosity of their hearts made this unnoticeable. We felt as if we were in our own home, at our parents' table.
Rashad had grown up in such a family.
Diligence, honesty, purity, reliability, and love for his homeland had permeated his personality as values.
He had a great interest in military studies. Shortly after graduating from university, he served as an officer in the army and then returned to his work at the “Sharq” editorial office. A few years later, he moved to the “Azerbaijan” newspaper. Although we no longer worked in the same place, it was always very pleasant to perceive how he matured from one article to another, to feel the respect he gained among journalists, and to hear good words about him.
From his social media posts, I occasionally saw his photos in military uniform and his articles from the front line as an experienced officer in the “Azerbaijan” newspaper. He eagerly participated in events held in military units. This dark-haired young man, who had no quarrels with anyone in ordinary life and, on the contrary, brought a pleasant mood and an atmosphere of peace wherever he was, also possessed a warrior spirit. He seemed to find himself among the military personnel.
When the Patriotic War began, he took up arms and joined military operations. He returned from the war as a victorious fighter. Together with our other fighter-students, Rasim Bayramov and Amil Maharramov, he became a source of pride for all of us.
He had promised to write his war memories and publish them as a book. He wrote a little, but then, it seems, he did not continue. Perhaps he didn't have time due to daily work, or perhaps his health later prevented him. If only he had written it. This book would also have been one of the most unforgettable memories left by him.
Since yesterday, the moments written into my life with his participation have not left my mind's eye. Our student years, our joint pursuit of interviews and reports from the editorial office, our travels together by train, bus, and car, the gatherings we attended, his extraordinary dances, Rashad's own wedding...
Rashad was a very good young man.
It's a pity he lived so little. What is 48 years?!
May God grant the continuation of his life to his family, to his two beloved children, and gladden his soul with their successes.
Yadigar Jafarli
Journalist
