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Should the city of Pripyat be saved?:

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Darina Pustovaya: The right to life

Pripyat school № 1, 3-B class. High bivalves door, painted white. Wooden desks with benches, attached tables to learn small schoolchildren the correct posture and the distance between the lid and sitting table respected in the millimeter.

These rules for primary school teachers were so important, that now I think - in the first years of school life taught us not to read and write, but only to sit for the desk. I remember the words of my first teacher, Tamara Petrovna. It sounded like "There should be distance in hand between you and the table". Afterwards, kids grew up, became smarter and went to secondary school- moved to the second, third, fourth floors. There were other desks. And chairs, sometimes massive and heavy, gray-colored, blue or beige, sometimes with metal and wooden base and back. Very often girl's tights and clothes suffered from score nails and screws. Painted desks "were painted during lessons by classmates.

Although they were constantly painted over, preparing for the next school year, just a month of occupation and graffiti renewed. But here, on the first floor, everything differs- more correctly, orderly, without violations. The only thing that made all classrooms look similar was the blackboard. Big, brown, soaked with knowledge so that it, knowledge, these are not washed and not by any razed diligence and, in the form of divorce Cretaceous instantly evident at the glittering surface of the board as soon as it dries after the regular “harvest”. Enormously large foyer of the 1 floor is decorated with frescoes, resembling happy Soviet future, that never became true. Warm summer rain of 2006, cutting off a part of a wall of Pripyat school № 1, forever buried the entrance to the 3 - Class B - high bivalve door, colored white.
Pripyat School № 1 - the first building that could not withstand the pressure of time. Which walls will prevail next, as a house of cards from the wind blow - one of 5 storied houses in the first neighborhood? Even now, entering one of it is entering the unreal world - a warm, crude, cave, which walls and ceiling covered without lumen dark thickets of green moss.

In addition, if want to rise above, then you face the staircase, the same green, wet, slippery and "live". Frightened be buried under the remains of houses already dead, gently, slowly descend you quickly leave this place. The next candidate "for the flight" - one of 16 storied houses? At its balconies, stair steps rains washed out concrete fragments, fixtures protrude out striping building’s skeleton. They are ready to turn into small crumbs, after a simple touch.

The city is sick. It dies. It is hard for it to breathe. People infected it twenty years ago with a terrible disease; now left to its own fate. And what are we?! Write tearfully reports, messages at the forum, collect signatures. At these moments, we unnecessarily cruel or stupid for years forgot to love a seriously sick person that burns in a high fever. We are trying to patch City’s wounds but choose actions and exhortations, lengthy speech, expression, are not always correct. Time passes. Soon, very soon Pripyat is no longer able to breathe. Just DO we imagine this? Do we have enough arrogance to forgive?

When, after visits to the dying City, promised to come back, executed with a sense of duty, you will tilt you body on the chairs back in satisfaction and re-edited sincere message that you need to save Pripyat, remember - a little bit and there will be nothing to save!

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Darina Pustovaya

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