There's a place in Eastern Europe near Caucasian mountains where free and brave people live. The warmth and majesty of the Caucasus never leaves anyone indifferent. The green valleys by the wild rivers, the snowy peaks rising out of moving clouds, the fragrant herbs my  grandmother picked in the hills, the spirited horses galloping across the wide plains, the flocks of sheep grazing under the watchful eye of a litttle boy - that is the Caucasus.  The women are supposed to be faithful guardians of the hearth, while the men are heads of families. And there's nothing more important to the people of the Caucasus than their traditions and respect for elders.

The heat from the old stone oven brought colour to the cheeks of the four women. They were sitting on a grey blanket, scarves on their heads, busy with their work. My black-haired mother was rolling a dough on a round, low table. My paternal aunt was making dots on flat bread with a branch of sticks. A cousin of mine helped my grandmother to keep the fire in the oven burning. Grandma, of course, did the main work, putting the raw bread in the oven and checking when it was ready. Fourteen-year-old me was running up and down the stairs bringing water, flour, salt or whatever the adults asked me to bring.  
My mom asked me to make them some good tea.
I poured fragrant black tea into five glasses, put them in a tray and came downstairs. Mom allowed me to sit finally.

"Who was that woman you were talking to at the wedding?" my grandmother suddenly inquired.
Yesterday, we all went to our distant relative's wedding, except for the grandma. She must have watched the wedding on videos. 
"I think it was Suleiman's daughter, mother," my aunt returned instead of me.
"Why did she even talk to her? How could you let that happen?" my grandmother asked angrily.
I was confused. Is this girl a criminal or what? I looked at my mom puzzled. She replied with the "your grandmother hates everyone" expression.
"That shameless creature will mess up her mind!" my grandmother was totally irritated.
Is she a bad girl? She seemed to be nice. But granny didn't explain.

Grandmother left for a prayer with my sister and I was free to be curious. 
"So what's wrong with the girl I was talking to?" I asked mom and aunt.
"She married a non-Lezgian," my aunt replied casually.
 I was even more confused.
"So what? Is she not allowed to?" 
"Well, of course not, my dear," she replied with a pretty serious face.
What? I didn't know about that. I looked at my mom. She looked like always.
"But why?"
"Well, if our ancestors had married Dargins or Kumyks, there wouldn't be any Lezgins left, would there?"
She is right. But it's so cruel from the grandmother's side to hate a person for marrying the other nationality. Does that mean that I can only marry Lezgins? What a stupid law we have! What if I fall in love with a non-Lezgin? Would my grandmother hate me too? 
My face made my disagreement too obvious, so my aunt tried to convince me of the wisdom of such a rule:
"My dear, if you marry a man from a different nation, you will have to deal with his nation's laws and traditions. The other problem is his family. You know the influence of relatives on a man, especially his mother. When you marry a man, you marry not only him but also his family.
"I certainly agree with that," said the sister, who suddenly appeared and walked away again.
"But I know several languages, Aunt, and in the end, isn't his love for me what matters? If he loves me, he will do anything for me. In the same way, if I love him, living together won't be as terrible as you described. If we love each other, we'll be happy. But if I marry a Lezgin whom I don't love, our life together will be terrible."
They certainly didn't want to continue that conversation. Talking about love is tacitly forbidden in Dagestan. Women there don't marry for love. None of my sisters did. Neither did my brothers. They just choose an option they like more than others, mostly under pressure from their parents. Nobody ever talks about falling in love there. They say that love comes after marriage, not before. But in Ukraine, people get married when they fall in love. I fell in love with boys a few times, but I never told my mom. She would have killed me.

That night I was ruminating over this conversation. This kind of talk is really rare, and I can recount every serious conversation with my relatives very accurately. But that day it was fate-determining.
I went to my mother and asked her opinion. "You can marry whoever you want as long as he's a Muslim," was her sleepy answer. Thank God! I was relieved. At least my mom wouldn't hate me if I married a non-Lezgin. As for religion, I always thought that if a man loved me, he would convert to Islam. But how can people forbid you to get married to a person of other nationality? That's absolutely repressive and cruel! I'm certainly not going to follow these stupid rules. I'll marry an Italian, or a Ukrainian, or an American, or an Arab, and just tell the whole family. If they humiliated me, I would run away with him. I don't care. That's it.