The power of words

When I feel difficulties, when doubts about my own strength make me weep with pain, and when life demands swift and bold decisions, which I cannot make because of weakness of will, -- I recall an old story which I heard long ago in Baku of a man who had been exiled forty years before.

It had a useful effect on me: it lifted my spirit, strengthened my will, and made me take this short story as my talisman and mantra, the inner oath which every man has. This is my anthem.

Here is the story, which has been shortened into a parable that can be told to anyone.

It happened 40 years ago in Siberia. At a secret joint meeting of exiles from all parties. The speaker will come to the meeting from the neighbouring village. This was a young revolutionary, famous and prominent, and a man of great promise. I'm not going to say his name.

People have been waiting for him for a long time. He didn't come.

Put off the meeting. The circumstances were inadmissible, and those who belonged to a different party advocated that he should come without him, because, they said, he would not be able to come in such weather.

The weather was really, really bad.

Spring came early this year, and the snow on the bare slopes of the mountain south was softened by the sun, and dog-sledding was out of the question. The ice in the river was thin and green and floating in places, and it was dangerous to ski under these conditions, and it was too early to sail up the river: the ice would crush the boat, and in fact even the strongest fisherman could not resist the impact of the ice.

The proponents of waiting, however, did not compromise. They had always known the man who was coming.

"He will come," they insisted. "If he has said, 'I will come,' -- then he will come."

"The environment is more powerful than we are." "Said the former impatiently.

There was an argument. Suddenly there was a noise outside the window, the children playing in front of the wooden house were excited, the dogs barked, and the anxious fishermen hurried to the river.

The exiles also came out of the house. A surprising sight met their eyes.

There was a small boat winding slowly up the river against the broken ice. In the bow stood a thin man, in a fur coat and a fur-eared cap; He had a pipe in his mouth, and with a serene movement he pushed the ice away from the boat with his pole.

At first no one noticed how the boat could be going upstream without sails or motorbikes, but when they came near the river, they were surprised to find that it was being pulled along by dogs from the bank.

Nothing like this had ever been done before, and the fishermen shook their heads in amazement.

One of the older men said:

"Our ancestors and fathers have lived here for generations, but no one has dared to do this."

When the man in the earhat came ashore, they bowed low to him:

"The one who has come is better at advising than any of us. A brave man!"

Shaking hands with those waiting for him, he pointed to the boat and the river and said:

"Comrades, please forgive me for being late. It's a new kind of transportation for me, and it's a little hard to keep track of time.

Actually isn't that true, or you tell me the full of poetic story is something, I don't know, but I hope that all this is true, because for me, no more than this sentence about trust and the story about the power of the word more real and more beautiful.