-- A couple of weeks ago I read an excellent article on what happened at that school. It truly is a must read. It is absolutely harrowing and the fact that leftists flood to support and excuse terrorists - well that just supports my position of executing every last one of them. Let's take a quick look at just some of the atrocities the Left's allies committed:
When the terrorist had finished, Ruslan Betrozov, a father who had brought his two sons to class, stood and translated the instructions into Ossetian. He was a serious man, forty-four years old and with a controlled demeanor. The terrorists let him speak. When he stopped, one approached.
"Are you finished?" he asked. "Have you said everything you want to say?"
Betrozov nodded. The terrorist shot him in the head.
Some time during the siege, a female suicide bomber exploded by accident injuring many hostages, including Karen Mdinaradze.
"Go to the second floor and we will provide you medical assistance," he (a terrorist) said.
Karen stood with those who were able and limped upstairs to the Russian-literature classroom, and saw dead hostages piled on the floor. The injured men were given an order: "Lie down."
Their lives ended in an instant. A masked terrorist stepped forward, shouted, "Allahu akhbar!" and fired bursts from fifteen feet away, sweeping his barrel back and forth. The air filled with their cries and the thwacks of bullets hitting heavy flesh. The men rolled and thrashed. Errant bullets pounded the wall. At last the hostages were motionless, and the terrorist released the trigger. He pulled a chair to the door and straddled it with the hot barrel resting in front of him. He was listening. A moan rose from the pile. He fired again.
He remained for a few minutes, watching, listening. The room fell still. The night was warm. He rose and walked away.
Fortunately for Karen, he fell behind the corpse of a rather large man who shielded him.
Later, as the Russian forces started their assault
Terrorists clustered in the hall, and Abdullah approached and ordered the hostages to follow. They formed a line, and he led them down the long hall to the cafeteria, a light-blue room where perhaps forty hostages were sitting or lying on the floor. Terrorists ducked behind barricades at the windows, firing out…
Abdullah ordered the women to the windows. "Put the children there as well," he said. Aida froze. Bullets buzzed and popped through the air, pecking the brick facade, pocking the plaster walls. "If children are there, then they will not shoot and you will be safe," Abdullah said.
There you go. Brave warriors of islam using women and children as human shields. And this is after keeping children in conditions that lefties would be rioting over should we keep their terrorist allies in, after terrorizing them, denying them food and water and forcing them to drink their own urine to stay alive.
And worst of all (as Cooper pointed out), shooting children in the back as they ran.
Remember: these terrorists are the same kind of people that Mr Lefty tried to draw equivalence to our own soldiers with over at Mike Jericho’s site.
In Vietnam, Afghanistan, Iraq, Israel - you name it, leftists are trying to say there is no difference between our soldiers and those who shoot children in the back as they flee.
Remember that the next time you think the Left isn't that bad.
Along with the horrors of that day, there were also some incredible acts of bravery. These men and women embody everything that is best about Humanity. I do not have enough words to properly convey my respect and admiration for them.
A woman named Larisa Kudziyeva had been attending to a wounded man (who had been shot for not kneeling when told) defied the terrorists' order to be silent by calling out for a bandage for the man. When a terrorist came to grab her:
Bolloyev grabbed her shirt. "Do not go," he said. Larisa slipped free and stood, and the terrorist shoved her with his rifle toward a corner where confiscated cameras and phones had been piled and smashed.
"What are you doing?" she demanded.
He ordered her to kneel. "No," she said.
For this Bolloyev had been shot. "I told you," he said. "Get on your knees."
"No," she said.
Two men had been ordered to what was an execution room and told to throw the bodies out of the window. One knowing that when the task was done they would be the first two of the next lot to be thrown out:
Aslan realized that if he was going to leap, he was going to leap alone. Their guard's rifle was unloaded. This was it. He bent to another corpse, then rushed toward the bloody sill. He hit in a push-up position and propelled himself out. The drop was eighteen feet, and he descended and slammed onto the bodies in a crouch. A bone in his foot popped. He rolled toward the school wall, reducing the angle the terrorist would have to fire at him, and began crawling away from the window. He worried the terrorist would drop a grenade. Gunfire sounded.
The terrorist's mask appeared in the window. The wall was nearly two feet thick, making it difficult for him to fire near the foundation without leaning far. He opted to try. His barrel blasted. Bullets thudded near Aslan. Bits of soil and grass jumped beside him. He scurried to the building's corner. Before him was a parking lot. He crawled on, putting cars between him and the window. The terrorist did not know where he was and fired into several cars, searching.
One man from the start had been looking for a way to do anything to help protect his family
Kazbek was lucky. The terrorists had overlooked him during the last roundup. He had been spared execution.
Now his mind worked methodically. He wanted no one to see what he planned to do. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, his hand moved over the floor to the blue wire. Kazbek was forty-three. He had been a Soviet sapper as a younger man. He knew how bombs worked. He also knew how to disable them. The bomb overhead was part of a simple system, an open electric circuit rigged to a motor-vehicle battery. If the terrorists closed the circuit, current would flow from the battery through the wires and detonate the bombs. But if Kazbek pulled apart the wire inside its insulation, no current could flow. Then, he knew, if the circuit snapped closed, the bomb above his family would not explode. Kazbek had spent much of the day folding the wire back and forth, making a crimp. It was only a matter of time.
He lifted the wire. Back and forth he folded the notch, working it, looking directly at the men who would kill him if they knew what he was doing. He would disconnect this bomb. It was a step. Every step counted. His mind kept working. How does my family get out?
...
AFTERNOON. THE GYM. Kazbek Misikov felt the wire separate between his fingers. His task was done: Inside its insulation, the wire had broken. But chance contact, he knew, might still allow a spark to jump across, and he needed to be sure the two ends could not meet incidentally. This required a finishing touch, and Kazbek grasped the blue plastic on either side of the crimp and stretched it like licorice, putting distance between the severed ends inside.
Now a new problem presented itself. Stretching the plastic had turned it a whitish blue. The defect was obvious. The terrorists had inspected the wires and bombs several times, and if they checked again, they would discover his subterfuge.
Now Kazbek had put them in fresh danger and would have to take another risk. When a terrorist strolled past him, he addressed him politely. "This wire lies across the passage," he said. "They are tripping on it. Neither you nor we need these to explode."
"What can be done?" the terrorist said.
"If we had a nail, the wire could be hung," Kazbek said.
The terrorist returned with a hammer and spike. Kazbek stood and drove the spike into the wall. He lifted the wire from the floor and laid a few turns around the shank, taking care to wrap with the whitish-blue section. He put a wooden spool on the spike and pressed it tight. The severed portion of wire was hidden. Kazbek had succeeded. He sat back with his family beneath the disconnected bomb.
And remember Karen? As wounded as he was, when bombs went off and the assault had begun:
Karen Mdinaradze had been unconscious on the floor and had not been struck by shrapnel. He woke, heard moaning, and found himself surrounded by gore. Human remains had rained down; two girls near him were covered by a rope of intestine. He saw people hurdling the windows, mustered his energy, stumbled to the sill, and followed them out.
He landed in the courtyard and ran in a panicked human herd. A mother weaved in front, pulling her small boy. Bullets snapped overhead. They dashed across the courtyard toward the far corner, following those in front toward a gap in the fence. The mother went down. Her son stopped. "Mama!" he screamed. Karen bent and scooped the boy with his right hand as he ran past, pulling him tight like a loose ball. He charged for the fence opening and passed through it and out of the line of fire. Beside him was a small metal garage. He placed the boy inside. The mother ran around the corner. She had not been shot. She had stumbled. She fell atop her boy, sobbing. Soldiers, police officers, and local men were hunched and running toward them; Karen stumbled on, one-eyed and bloody, until a man hooked an arm under him and steered him down the street to an ambulance, which drove him away.
In continuing acts of bravery, even an old man would stand up to help the children - even though it cost him his life
Ibragim forced them on, mustering more hostages he found alive on the floor. At the far end of the gym, he directed them to the coach's office, where he looked out the window to see what he could of the Russian advance. When he turned, Ivan Kanidi lunged.
Ivan was seventy-four years old, but he retained the muscularity of a lifelong athlete. He seized Ibragim's rifle with two thick hands, trying to rip it from his grasp. The rifle barrel swung wildly as they struggled and spun. "Get the children out!" Ivan shouted.
"Let go, old man, or I will kill you!" Ibragim snarled.
Back and forth they fought, pushing and pulling each other around the room by the rifle. Basketballs and other sports equipment littered the floor. After what seemed a minute, Ivan fell backward with the rifle in his hands. He was a nimble man, big-chested but lean, with a finely trimmed gray mustache. Before he could turn the rifle, Ibragim drew a pistol and shot him in the chest. He was motionless. Ibragim leaned down, retrieved his rifle from the dead man's hands, and looked at the group. "Everybody out," he said.
And Kazbek, the man who had defused some of the terrorist's bombs, wounded in an explosion when the assault began
The barred windows offered no escape. Irina found paper and made a sign with red lipstick. DETI, it read, Russian for "children." She held it up at a window so they would not be shot. Kazbek staggered beside her, put his head at the window, where it was exposed. "There are children here!" he shouted. "Do not shoot!”
He was wearing a bloody turban and wondered if he would be mistaken for an Arab. Peering into the narrow alley, he saw the district prosecutor looking back. They both were startled. "Alan!"Kazbek said.
The prosecutor rushed to the window. "What can we do?" he said.
He was accompanied by a man with a rifle, and Kazbek asked him to aim at the door, in case a terrorist returned. He was weak but managed to lift a barbell and pass it between the bars. The men outside used it as a lever and popped the frame free. An escape route was open. Irina started handing out children: First the little ones, and then the adults helped her with a badly burned teenage girl. When the last child was out, the adults followed.
The Misikovs emerged behind the school. Soldiers passed them going the other way, rushing to penetrate the building through the hole they had made. The fire in the gym roof, which had spread slowly, was now a conflagration. Smoke rose over the neighbourhood. Kazbek moved woozily to a stretcher, lay down, and slipped out of consciousness.
And Larisa? The woman who had repeatedly defied the terrorists to help others?
The grenade exploded.
After the wave of metal hit her, Larisa was encased in something like silence, a state in which the absence of sound was overlaid by the ringing in her ears, leaving her to feel an effect like a struck crystal glass. How easy it is to die, she thought. But she did not die, not immediately, and as if in a dream she ran an arm over her son, who was beneath her. He was alive. "Mama," he said. "Mamochka.”
The shrapnel had blasted the right side of her face, tearing part of it off, and ruined her right arm. Larisa did not want the boy to see what had become of her and turned away and raised her left hand to her face. Her fingertips felt wet flesh and exposed bone. The bone fragments were sharp enough to prick. She passed out.
…
Larisa Kudziyeva awoke, unsure how much time she had spent on the floor. The hostages near her were all dead. She tried to move, but her right arm felt as if someone were atop it.
Much of her face was gone; soldiers stepped past her as if she were a corpse. They seemed calmer, having for the moment taken control of the room. One stood above her, a blurry form. She raised her left hand to wipe blood from her eyes. He glanced down, surprised.
"Girl, be patient," he said. "They will bring stretchers.”
His voice sounded kind. If he can call me girl when I look like this, she thought, then I can wait. She drifted to sleep.
As I stated earlier, I do not have the words to properly express my respect for their courage. These ordinary people would do extraordinary things, saving many lives in doing so. They have set the example and shown us the way.
Now we must follow.
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