Every revolution marks the end of something that had existed before<\/em> the revolution. Often, it must be said, a revolution is an ending in more ways than one. And often, it\u2019s people<\/em> who come to an end. You could even say that these people are now dead<\/em>. During the Russian Revolution<\/a>, they included Tsar Nicholas II and eight million others (still just an estimate). These people were now dead. That\u2019s awful. What we can learn from this is that eventually, all revolutions also come to an end. Often, they meet their ends alongside those who led them. You could then argue that these<\/em> people are also <\/em>now dead. Revolutions are just one big disappearing act. It\u2019s not easy to determine exactly when the Russian Revolution pulled its own disappearance \u2013 so what should we say? How about this: at some point, Lenin met his end. Then Stalin took over. You could perhaps argue that that\u2019s when things really got started. But then when Stalin disappeared \u2013 that was definitely an end.<\/p>\n It\u2019s interesting how these people come to an end, the people whose revolutions also come to an end along with them. That is, how they meet their ends, how they lead the revolutions, and how they cause others to meet their own ends. These people: like Stalin, for example.<\/p>\n Stalin had a heart attack. And survived. He lay there in his big bed in the dictatorial bedchamber of his splendorous dacha, just outside the gates of his capital (Moscow). Nobody dared enter the room. Because they knew that anyone who happened to do THE WRONG THING was done for. Stalin had had many people killed because they\u2019d done THE WRONG THING. No one was ever certain, however, exactly what<\/em> THE WRONG THING was, and thus nobody wanted to enter the room of the beloved dying labour leader. Even if you were to ask what THE WRONG THING was, no one would have been able to give you an answer. The only thing that was clear: even the act of asking <\/em>might constitute THE WRONG THING. So better to just let things be and remain outside the door. Because one more thing was clear: if you didn\u2019t know what the WRONG THING was when the dictator was healthy<\/em>, how could you even begin to imagine <\/em>what the WRONG THING was in the eyes of this terminally ill, heart-attacked, sick<\/em> dictator? (Like, maybe the dictator, displeased<\/em> with his infarction, would feel that his heart was doing the wrong thing<\/em> and thus sense a certain \u2018wrongness\u2019<\/em> about anyone or anything that passed through the door \u2013 that someone being yourself, if, of course, you were to actually venture into the dictatorial bedchamber in the first place.) Perhaps ANYONE who entered would be deemed a WRONGDOER and have to be made RIGHT again. That is, made dead. And that\u2019s why everyone was better off just waiting outside<\/em> the door to the bedroom, the bedroom with the big bed with the big dictator with his busted-up broken heart.<\/p>\n And so everyone waited outside at the door. Nothing had been heard from inside for quite a while. Not a peep. No groaning. No moaning. Time passed. Everyone was huddled together: personal bodyguards, personal doctors, servants, handmaidens, some officials and military \u2013 all the dictatorial posse. And then \u2013 surprise \u2013 right in the middle of them was me<\/em>. What the hell?<\/em> I had no idea why. But there I was. However it had happened, I was standing there among the dictator\u2019s minions, waiting outside the door through which we could have come face-to-face with an increasingly quiet dictator and mass murderer. That is, if any one of us were actually to go in.<\/p>\n I don\u2019t remember exactly who came up with the idea, but at some point, one person or another suggested that somebody go in there and find out just what was going on. The situation was becoming increasingly unbearable.<\/p>\n Okay, okay everyone \u2026 uh, who wants to go in there and check on Stalin? Anybody?<\/em><\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n Nobody.<\/p>\n Instead, all those gathered before the door just stared blankly into the wallpaper and candelabra. To be honest, I don\u2019t remember whether someone actually voiced this question out loud or whether it was just a collective idea hovering among us. In all likelihood, I don\u2019t think anyone actually asked. It must have just been in the ethers.<\/p>\n Okay, so who? Who\u2019s going in? Listen up, people, Stalin\u2019s flat on his back in there and has suffered a heart attack \u2013 what if the guy needs something!?<\/strong> <\/em><\/span><\/p>\n It had been so quiet in the heart-attack room for such a while now that you could even say it was dead silent<\/em>. And yet no one wanted to be the one who went in. More time passed. And then finally, at some point, it was decided: may the bravest one among us go in. But this, too, was never really articulated \u2013 it\u2019s just what happened.<\/p>\n Okay, fine, so here\u2019s how it went: when it became clear that all movement in the Stalinian bedchamber had ceased, the \u2018bravest one\u2019 among us was sent forth. I don\u2019t know why anymore, but that turned out to be ME.<\/em> (I really don\u2019t know why.) Gingerly, the \u2018bravest one\u2019 cracked open the door and stepped inside. And there, the \u2018bravest one\u2019 \u2013 that is, me \u2013 stood by himself, drenched in sweat, heart pounding, before a moustachioed corpse. For Pete\u2019s sake,<\/em> don\u2019t do the wrong thing!<\/em> I thought to myself. I reached for a dictatorial hand.<\/p>\n Oh thank God \u2013 he\u2019s a goner.<\/em> Talk about good luck!<\/em> The dictator\u2019s end has come.<\/em><\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n Yeah, so that\u2019s the end of the story of the great dictator and the great revolution \u2013 the rest is history. Next in line to be called history was Khrushchev and Brezhnev, then some time later Gorbachev and Yeltsin. Now it\u2019s Putin\u2019s turn. Or Trump\u2019s or Saddam\u2019s or Assad\u2019s or Kim Jong-un\u2019s or whoever it happens to be. No one dares enter their rooms. Only long after all stirring has ceased from within is someone \u2013 the bravest one \u2013 chosen to go forth, and that person gently turns the handle and tiptoes in.<\/p>\n
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