"Wind! You're powerful and strong, you command the clouds along…"

The child forgets the rest of the poem and the mother complains about the forgotten traditions that the father told the family. But his ashes are now scattered in the fire with food. "He loved condensed milk, ravioli … My heart."

In southern Siberia, we do not want to forget. Neither the drugs that are smoked in secret, nor the disobedient horses. Even less the maggots which cling to the sheep which gallop in circle in their enclosures. One repeats tirelessly the same gestures with each gust of wind, each relief, each horizon. 

We wait with empty eyes in front of the portrait of the deceased. We leave him the rest of our soup. During the day, between the children and the work, and at night because we cannot or no longer sleep; we wait for the mourning to come. 

Then the shaman tries to establish contact. "I want him to speak to me, at least in my dreams," his daughter tells us. And then, he comes. On a road. White. "You have to hold on. It's going to be okay." 

So we sing of the gentler winds, the calm waves with their glittering reflections and the silent moon floating in the sky. And the camera also sings. Through the glances, through the zooms, the blurs and the movement, Nataliya Kharlamova captures the silent cries that cross these faces so young, borrowed to new changes.

Rémi Journet
Tënk's editorial assistant