Poor unfortunate savage people

I am sitting in the courtyard of the Bakhchisarai Palace. Crowds of excursionists mill about. They listen to the guides, take pictures against the backdrop of the minarets and recklessly drink from the fountain. Two weddings paraded past one after another: a human one and a dog one. From the minaret someone sang "Allahu Akbar".
Life goes on as usual, everyone knows their role and copes with it perfectly.
For a second, the harmony of the resort evening was disturbed - a woman passed by, quietly whispering, “Poor, poor people. They lived in such luxury, but had no freedom.”
Her words died down, and the daily bustle of the resort museum continued its feast.