A hero's granddaughter: "I'm proud to have their blood in my veins"
May 9th is a sacred date that resonates in each of our hearts. On this day, we not only remember the Great Victory but also honor the memory of those who forged it—our grandfathers and great-grandfathers. Today, ORIENT received a special letter from Jennet Orazova. This is a deeply personal, touching story about her grandfather, a front-line soldier whose name is inscribed in the "Memory" (Hatyra) book of the Balkan velayat. We are publishing this text without changes because it is from such family stories, full of love, pride, and pain, that our shared memory is woven.
Memory That Never Fades, or a Festival of the Colors of Old Photographs
For some, May 9th is simply a red-letter day on the calendar, reminiscent of the parades and songs of the war years. But for me, this holiday has always been deeply personal, tinged with the colors of old photographs and the sound of my grandfather's footsteps. Today, when I look at the portrait of my grandfather, Mukham Nuryev, I feel not just sadness, but immense pride in being the granddaughter of heroes. My grandfather's name is inscribed not only in our family history but also in the first volume of the book "Memory" (Hatyra), dedicated to the heroes of the Balkan velayat.
His journey began in 1922 in a fisherman's family in the village of Kumushdepe (in northwestern Iran, in Golestan Province, one of the centers of ethnic Turkmen settlement – editor's note). He then moved to Esenguly, studied at the pedagogical college in Turkmenabat, and then in Ashgabat. In 1940, he managed to work as a teacher in the village of Chekishler, but his peaceful work was interrupted by the war. In November of that year, my grandfather was drafted into the army, graduated from infantry school, and went to the front with the 554th Rifle Regiment.
My grandfather endured the most severe trials. In early 1942, as a young platoon commander, he participated in the heroic defense of Sevastopol. After being wounded for the first time and hospitalized, he returned to duty as a company commander in the 328th Division. By May 1943, on the North Caucasus Front, Mukham Nuryev had already held the post of deputy battalion commander.
Newspapers of those years and archival records describe him as a tall, stately, and incredibly courageous officer. In fierce battles, he proved himself a skilled sniper.
It was during one such battle that an enemy bullet struck him in the left knee. Even when his strength was failing and the ground was stained with blood, my grandfather remained an officer to the end: he continued to command his soldiers, encouraging them with his voice, until medics carried him, exhausted, from the battlefield. For this unparalleled heroism, he was awarded the Order of the Patriotic War, First Class.
I remember his distinctive gait—he always limped slightly. As I grew older, I realized that his every step was a silent reminder of the enormous price his generation and women like my grandmother, Gurbanbagt Nuryeva, paid for our peace. My grandmother, a participant in the labor front, brought Victory closer with her selfless work behind the lines. In November 1943, my grandfather returned home as a Group II invalid, but his unwavering character would not allow him to remain on the sidelines.
He continued to serve his country in peacetime, holding responsible positions in Bereket and Etrek, and working in Balkanabat. His colleagues respected him for his exceptional honesty and discipline—he was a true man of the "old school." Even after his well-deserved retirement, he continued to create—many of Balkanabat's gardens and clean streets owe their existence to his diligence and leadership skills.
Every May 9th, our large family would gather at his home. It was a day of laughter and special warmth. The highlight was the festive dinner: my grandfather cooked the shashlik himself, and I still remember the smell of the fire and the concentration he exerted on the coals.
My grandfather was a stern and taciturn officer. But one incident has always remained etched in my memory: one day, as a little girl, I fell asleep on the sofa in the living room. In my sleep, I felt someone approach very quietly—it was him. A man who had lived through fire, wounds, and commanding battalions, carefully, trying not to make a sound, covered me with a blanket. At that moment, I realized what a tender and kind soul hid behind his stern exterior.
When the borders opened, my grandfather, deeply moved, visited his native village in Iran, where his name is still spoken with reverence. Today, we, his children and grandchildren, continue his path in a variety of ways. We strive to follow Mukham agha's most important legacy: to love the Motherland, to be fair, and to live honestly. They say that a person is alive as long as he is remembered. In our family, the memory of grandfather Mukham and grandmother Gurbanbagt will live forever. I am proud to have their blood flowing in my veins. I bow deeply to you. You will forever be in our hearts.
Dzhennet Orazova
