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My father was a saint
My father, Shamselislam Shamsetdin ulı, was a renowned physician, a healer of souls and bodies. My memory of him is faint, like a whisper carried on the wind, for I was but a child when he left this world. Those older than I hold his image in their hearts; those younger may glimpse him through the stories of their parents. In my pursuit of life’s fleeting moments, traversing the vast Soviet Union, gathering ancient tales, legends, and melodies, teaching, composing music, raising children, and wrestling with life’s burdens, I failed to gift my precious father the time he deserved. I was six when he departed from me, in 1961, at the tender age of 38. Though I could not collect a wealth of memories, I sought out the reminiscences of our village folk, piecing together fragments of his legacy.
In our villages, the language is a tapestry of beauty, woven with the distinct dialect of northern Bashkortostan, untouched and true. I left their words as they were spoken—pure, unadorned, as they flowed from their lips: “idı iye” for “was,” “tider iye” for “he said,” “bu xadar” for “this much.” I am deeply grateful to my sister Rakhila, my brother-in-law Rifgan, and our village kin, who urged me to gather these memories of my father.
Marzia Xafiz qızı Salimova, from the village of Olı-Yelga (from the villageTupurale), worked as a nurse under my father’s guidance.
Masguda: Marzia apa, all the people say our father was an exceptional doctor.
Marzia: Oh, how learned he was! He pored over medical tomes—thick volumes on therapy, medical references ordered from Moscow. He’d fold the pages and say, “Read these, my dear Marzia, when you find a moment.” His shelves brimmed with books, for he understood every ailment. Gentle was his soul, never raising his voice to scold. His words were kind, his manner courteous, his love for his work boundless. “Time’s up, why do you come?” he never said, no matter the hour, day or night. People flocked to him—from Tupurale, Malakh, Mutabash, Asaul. They’d line up, claiming their turn, waiting patiently. In summer, they’d sit outside, so many they were. He offered wisdom, urged exercise, prescribed gymnastics, and shared anecdotes that brought laughter. He’d watch people chuckle, his own smile subtle, winking at me with a knowing glint. A master of stories, he’d weave tales that had us roaring with laughter. Wise he was, just and fair. Even after hours, they came to him for counsel.
Rakhila (my sister): He loved life fiercely. Once, hearing of a man in Yana-Kazanchı who took his own life by hanging, he said to our mother, “Here we battle illness, fight death even in its grip—why would someone choose such an end?”
Marzia: Inspectors came often, always leaving with praise. He’d speak of me, saying, “This is my right hand.” “She runs about tirelessly,” he’d say, his pride evident.
Masguda: You ran even faster for him, didn’t you? Do you hold his praise with gratitude?
Marzia: How could I not? He taught me so much - women’s ailments, men’s, every detail. “If it’s this way, do this; if that way, do that,” he’d explain, urging me to observe. Many came for injections, and he’d call, “Marzia, come for just two minutes, keep watch.” He’d examine hands and say, “Is it rheumatism, polyarthritis?” So skilled, so learned, he named every illness with precision. Other doctors marveled, asking, “How do you know so much?” He’d reply, “Marzia, I’ll teach you everything. Rejoice in it all. I’ve even taught you what other doctors don’t know.” Once, an epidemic struck—someone from Malakh collapsed in a fit. He administered injections, laid them down, brought them back to consciousness. Their tongue was bitten raw, but with four or five intramuscular shots, they recovered. For a week they came, and through his care, they were restored, returning to thank him. “I learned from him,” Marzia said. No horses, no machines - yet in winter, I delivered babies between Kıshlaw and Yana-Kazanchı. Even after his passing, people came, saying, “He taught you, didn’t he?” They’d plead, “Don’t be upset - he trained you well.” Elders leaned on their canes, saying, “Shamselislam abıy was remarkable; he taught me so much.” No matter the hour, whether I was weary or sleepless, his soft tongue, his sweet words, his gentle courtesy brought people back to life. He loved children, stroking their heads, coaxing smiles.
His apothecary held every remedy. People from Kıshlaw, Malakh, came to Shamselislam abıy for medicines. He understood their every word, their every pain, with unparalleled kindness. Never did he shout at anyone. He cared for people as tenderly as one cradles a child. He knew medicines, discerned illnesses, and people recovered swiftly. From Malakh, Asaul, Tupurale, Old Mutabash - they all called him a great doctor. He served not one village but all, never once raising his voice. Like soothing a child, he’d examine every part, listen, feel, and diagnose with certainty. “Your hands are healing,” they’d say of him. He’d lay them down, then lift them up, patting their backs with love, saying, “Be well - may my hands be healing.” Never did he grow angry. He believed in Allah, saying, “If God wills, so it shall be, my dear Marzia.” Even when I went to Askın, the district center, he’d say, “Oh, Allah,” if I lingered too long. Medicines came by appointment, roads were scarce, and I, a woman, rode on horseback. He would worry, pacing from window to window, fearing the horse had thrown me. His wife Rafiga (my mother - MSh), “No, no,” she’d say, “she clings to the saddle like a man.”
In Yana-Kazanchı, half his home was a clinic, the other half filled with four children and a throng of patients.
Raxmatullina Roza (Sattarova by marriage, Kıshlaw-Yelga): I fell ill with scarlet fever. My mother took me to your father. He listened attentively, asking where it hurt. He knew how to speak to children, to touch their hearts. Such a soulful man - I’ve never met another like him. If all worked as he did, there’d be fewer sick. He poured his heart and soul into his work. He spoke to children as children, to adults as adults - perfect in every way. Because of his excellence, Kadim abıy was inspired to study medicine in Leningrad. Shamselislam’s gift was from nature; no amount of study could teach such care, such instinct. His words healed as much as his hands. He listened with respect, as if angels whispered guidance to him. He awakened the body’s own strength to heal. Once, a child cried endlessly, and no doctor could find the cause. They said, “Your child is fine, just crying.” But Shamselislam examined closely and found a needle lodged under the child’s armpit. He removed it, saying, “Here’s why the cried.” He delved into every detail, a true healer.
Vilsor Sattarov (Kıshlaw-Yelga): People came to the clinic from everywhere. Your home was beautiful, with white birches he planted - now cut down. As a child, I ran with a stick, and it pierced my eye. The stick lodged in Maymuna apa’s window but didn’t break it. My mother wasn’t home, harvesting. The elders saw my eye hanging out, blood flowing. Maymuna, God rest her, carried me to the clinic. Your father laid me on a table, washed his hands, and gently placed my eye back. He applied medicine, bandaged it, and for a week I returned. That eye still weeps, but I see with it. I worked as an accountant for thirty-two years, my vision sharp.
Masguda: He set your eye, and now you weep with it. No surgeon, just a village doctor.
Roza (Vilsor’s wife): That eye served him for years. A seven-year-old child, and such a rare man. So gentle, so skilled.
Vilsor: I went to Ufa for an eye check. An elderly doctor asked, “Was your eye ever injured?” I told him the story. He said, “That was a genius, a truly learned man.”
Masguda: How did the stick pierce your eye?
Vilsor: Riding a stick like a horse, it went under my eye. I worked forty years as an accountant, never needing glasses until after sixty. When trachoma struck the village, he treated it, examining every schoolchild from Kıshlaw, Yana-Kazanchı, Vashyazı, Tupurale. He’d scrape eyes with a green, pencil-shaped copper sulfate stone. Now, no one sees such stones. He’d clean eyes with blue water - copper sulfate, used in folk medicine for conjunctivitis and more.
Roza: He found it in the mountains himself.
Masguda: Did he conduct checkups at the clinic or go house to house?
Vilsor: He went to schools, examining every child from first to seventh grade in a day or two.
Masguda: Did he treat lice too?
Vilsor: That was nothing to him. The village was full of lice until life improved. He used a gray pencil-like remedy, not chalk, to treat them.
Masguda: The village must be deeply grateful to him, guarding its health.
Roza: All around.
Masguda: Was he ordered to be so good, or was it just him?
Vilsor: People flocked from Russian villages, Malakh, Chernushka. Who would order him? He loved his work. For a stomachache, he’d give a powder, saying, “This is the best remedy - you’ll recover.” And people did, whether by medicine or his words.
Raxila: Remember? He gave children fish oil from a huge bottle.
Vilsor: I had rickets, my chest protruding. Shamselislam abıy cured it with fish oil. He’d lecture wherever people gathered, treating every illness.
Masguda: Was there tuberculosis?
Vilsor: No, not really.
Raxila: Fayzelxan from Old Mutabash, my father-in-law, had tuberculosis after the war. Your father told him, “Walk in the pine forest, breathe the air, and your tuberculosis will vanish.” He lived to ninety, telling that story.
Roza: God takes good people early.
Najia Safina (born 1936, Yana-Mutabash, Kıshlaw-Yelğa): A thousand thanks to him. When I birthed my second child, Zulkafeen, Shamselislam abıy was the lead. I was in grave condition. He came to deliver the baby himself. The child came, but the placenta didn’t. He tied a large cloth to the bedframe, saying, “Najia, stand, I’ll make tea.” As I clung to it, the placenta came. So experienced, so skilled. He worked with such care, making tea to comfort me. I was young, shy, but he delivered without touching, using a wet cloth. No shame when you’re near death. Later, he teased, laughing, “I saw your backside!” His humor, his dignity, his neatness - he was beautiful. He played chess too. He was saying women should never step out unkempt.
Dawlatova Ravila (born 1952, Tupurale): I lived in the forest guard post, Yana-Kazanchı. My stomach ached terribly; I vomited for three days. They carted me to your father. He examined me, gave injections, and handed me the empty ampoules. I loved him so much, I held those ampoules for months, believing they’d keep the pain away. I was six, living in the jungle-like woods, where no sun reached.
Klara Sufiyarova (wife of my mother’s brother Garifulla, Kıshlaw-Yelga): Shamselislam abıy knew everything. My daughter Munzila fell ill, needing injections every three hours. We stayed a week at your home in Yana-Kazanchı. Rafiga boiled syringes over a fire - no electricity, no gas. She’d say, “Shamselislam, the syringe is ready - shall I inject?” He’d reply, “Go ahead, I’ll sleep.” We moved like clockwork, careful not to wake him or make the child cry. Rafiga deserved a medal. Your home was a hospital, and her nerves were stone.
Nasıybulin Fail and Zubarjina (Yana-ch): Zubarjina cured her stomach pain with a liter of honey dissolved in warm water, as Shamselislam prescribed. She recovered fully, never suffering again. He treated everyone with respect, understanding their hearts. His father, Shamsetdin, was equally honest.
Rasima Sufiyarova (Kshlaw-Elga): Life is brief, yet Shamselislam abıy, though he lived only 38 years, remains in our hearts. His words are proverbs, his jests bring laughter still. His service was vast, his humility vaster. A versatile doctor, he worked in hard times, with no cars or phones, yet never lacked medicines. He was gynecologist, psychologist, urologist, neurologist, dentist, surgeon - cutting abscesses, stitching wounds. He loved his people, naming children after kin. His wife said he charmed all, from seventy to fifteen. God takes the good early, they say.
Zukhra Sagadieva: The earth forgets no good deed. My mother always spoke of Shamselislam abıy, who served tirelessly in Kıshlaw-Yelga. In 1958, my father fell ill with pleurisy, near death. With no hospital access, Shamselislam drained over two liters of fluid from his lungs through a tube, using alcohol to ease the pain. A golden-handed, lion-hearted doctor, he saved him without tools or drugs - a true miracle.
Raushan Biktagirova: Reading these memories, I wept and laughed, transported to childhood. My mother said, “Where is Shamselislam now? He’d know what ails my child at a glance.” He and my mother shared a warm bond, studying together in Birsk. He gifted her a precious book on children, a treasure she cherished. She called him the most beautiful of her eight siblings, always “my father,” never “my brother.” A rare soul, etched in eternity.
Masguda Shamsutdinova
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