The armaments of various armies and from different periods were on display almost in every room and hallway of the palace. It was everywhere, and there was no room or even a corner of the room that did not have something from the warring reality. There was also a room of the flags and standards. Yes, Mongols were the warriors and not only on display. All these armies that came in bled and left, but mostly, just went through. Even then, a few shots would be fired and a few people killed; the animals would be taken, the women raped and the yurts burnt. And, every time, the Mongols would follow the invaders, wait for the right moment and pay back as much as they could. Blood had to be spilled to protect the honor. Blood was the only acceptable currency. That was the Mongolian pride, the honor of the wild tribe.
Nothing was forgotten, and nobody was forgiven. Who lost more in the end? What difference does it make? Just never die alone. Share the privilege. Die and let die, but better live and let die. Mongolia was not a very hospitable environment for those who was not really invited. There were a few places like that around the globe. Well, there are only a few places in the world that were not like that. Yet, Mongolia was one of the harshest ones, one of the bloodiest ones. The land was exacting, and the people were even more stringent. So, the remnants of the belligerent powers visiting this corner of the world were quite impressed considering the size of the place. In the end, the visitors were taxed in full. Many were happy to get away alive. Why did they come? Why did not they go around? It was not that difficult. It would not take too much of an effort, just a few hundred miles or so.
What we know that, in some cases, it was pride and incompetence but not often. Yet, one could’ve taken another route. It was easy and not that demanding. They came so far; what’s another few hundred miles? The Mongolian steppes were only the prairie lands, nothing special. It was flat, cold, hot, dusty with not much water or the wild game. So, what was it? Why did you want to conquer that place, these people? Is it just because Mongolia was situated on the crossroads to everywhere or the Mongols started it first? It could be both, but definitely, one of it.
For years, ever since the original palace was constructed, two servants were assigned full-time just to dust the armament collection. It took almost a week to dust and clean it all and then, they would start from the beginning again and again and again. That was not the job but the position, for life. Those positions were transferred from father to the oldest son from generation to generation for a few hundred years already. And now, the armament collection was so enormous that the chief of staff was considering adding one more servant to the cleaning crew. That was a new and an unexpected expense, but it was justified in the minds of the rulers. Every Mongolian ruler ever since before the revolution liked to display his heritage in the form of weapons, animal pelts, paintings of battles, the silk robes of the mighty Khans and the gigantic library of war books. There were some other books as well but, on another floor, the basement, of the palace. The servants believed that the inhabitants of the palace had never ever touched any of these books, but it was still very inspiring. They did not need to read about history. They were the creators of it. They were history. They created the tales and became the fairytales. That’s what they believed in, but after the Mongol empire, not too many of them left even a small indentation on the fabric of antiquity. There was not much to remember but the blood, slavery, rape, pillage, death, and the tragedy of that all. Yes, there are still a few beautiful palaces here and there but what do they tell you.
Who built it, for whom and at what cost? Who enjoyed it and who cried the fountains of tears in the rooms made of the white marble? Only if the marble walls could speak, they would tell the real story. But then, if any wall could talk, what would we hear? At least with the Tatars and Mongols, we knew what to expect, but what of the other walls? What of the good guys? The walls could tell us how good the good ones were, but there was a gag order in place for the walls big and small just about everywhere. Was anyone really good? Ever? Walls had to behave as they knew nothing, heard nothing, and could say nothing. Walls knew its place. They would not let anyone in and nothing, even a gossip, out. If the walls talked, they would get demolished, and many already did. They were the threating walls. Maybe, just maybe, if you stop and listen, if you were gentle and polite to the wall, it may tell you something. Listen. Maybe there was something good in there after all. Still, even the smallest of the nations had the right to think as a big one, and this one also used to act like one and for hundreds of years. Slow down. Stop. Look and listen. Walls are talking.
The other types of books, art and the artifacts in the palace were stored in the basement room that was not meant for exhibition. Yet, the most exciting things could be found in there if one cared to look but who had the time. Yet, some servants did. The turmoil created by the present laboriously attempting to catch up with the future while leaving the past behind had no room for the memories in the form of a few old yet, only slightly used books. Often, it was not clear what was in those books. Was it all Kosher and Hallal when one wanted the history to be on your side? Was it the right history or the wrong version of it? How do we know the right and the wrong side of it if even the history did not know that for sure? Questions, problems, misunderstandings… Go figure. How badly do we need it on a good day? How miserable do we need to be on a bad day to keep adding to the misery? Who could afford to step back in time, and read the old books when the future was calling? The time of the old books was gone already, right when they became old. Reading… What, why? When… The new stuff was coming out every day, every minute; no, every second. The old books were good only for the décor now.
Keep it that way. The old books made the room look unique, meaningful, and you smart and profound. That’s for better. Impress the youngsters of the new generations. They do not know much anyway, but they may know something when they are the age of old books. So, let them see the books, open a few, dwell on it. It may give them some ideas or maybe not. You are the leader, and the leaders had to be upfront riding the magnificent horses and not trailing behind with the wagons, children, old people, animals, and the memories of the past. What would that do for you? No old books, please. No useless morals. No heavy luggage. Nothing should slow us down. Nothing should be in our way. The leaders will ride up front wearing the shiny armor and write the new books for the people behind, on the wagon train. That’s where your nation is. The wagon train people were not strong and brave enough to be upfront with you. They were the followers — what a comfortable place to be when trying anything was not your cup of tea. The leaders will tell the history the way they see it fit. That’s the benefit of being the leader. That’s your fate and station in life.