Watchers

In every post-Soviet city, there exists an unspoken surveillance network far more efficient than any security system—an assembly of elderly women stationed at the entrances of apartment buildings, perched like sentinels on well-worn benches. They are the unblinking eyes of the neighborhood, the keepers of knowledge, the silent chroniclers of everyday life.

No movement escapes their gaze. They see who comes, who goes, at what hour and in what company. They track patterns, notice disruptions, and archive secrets with the precision of seasoned analysts. A whispered remark, a raised eyebrow, an exchanged glance—these are their instruments of record-keeping. They know who quarreled last night, who brought home an unfamiliar guest, and whose child has been staying out too late.

They do not need smartphones or databases; their collective memory is sharper than any algorithm. A newcomer to the building is not just seen—they are assessed, categorized, and stored in the silent ledger of the bench. They do not interfere, but their very presence is an unspoken law: the Watchers miss nothing.

Both feared and revered, they are the last standing guardians of communal knowledge, the passive yet omnipresent observers of the microcosm that is the courtyard. Their duty is neither chosen nor imposed—it is simply a way of being, an ancient role inherited from generations past.

And so, they watch.