A few days later, our whole street buried Akhrik…Akhrik was an Abkhazian boy I knew. He was nineteen. He’d gone to see his girlfriend one evening and gotten stabbed in the back. His mother walked behind his coffin. One moment she’d be weeping, the next, she was laughing. She’d lost her mind. Only a month ago, we’d all been Soviet, now we were a Georgian, an Abkhazian…an Abkhazian, a Georgian…a Russian…
