About
My family carried its history on horseback long before anyone wrote it down. As a Tatar boy on the Volga steppe I learned the old songs my grandmother sang while riding — each verse a map, a genealogy, a warning. The steppe does not keep ruins; it keeps rhythm and memory. I write to hold the things a nomadic people never trusted to stone: names, debts, betrayals, and the long endurance of those who must always be ready to move.
