Grozny. A Few Days...

Preface

         Dear Reader,

You have surely heard that far away, in South Russia, a cruel and bloody war has been going on for many months. In a small anclave called Chechnya, the Russian military are fighting several rebel groups which demand independence and creation of an Islamic state. Some of these groups wish to establish such a state only in Chechnya itself. Others intend to create a larger state that would include vast areas of  southern Russia, areas that are predominantly Moslem. Some of these groups are extreme fundamentalists, others are following the mainstream Islam. Some emphasize their connection to Taliban, some deny. Some groups are heavily involved in organized crime and drug trafficking, some are not. Some groups consist predominantly of natives, some others are dominated by fighters who come from Arab countries, Pakistan, Afganistan and even from England in hope to die for Allah and to ascend to the Paradise. Some groups obey the self-styled rebel "government," while most obey only their fearless and lawless warlords.

Accounts of that conflict, provided by the Western media, are controversial and sometimes contradictive. Prior to 9-11-2001, the media emphasized the cruelty with which the military were trying to quell the rebellion. Some of those awful stories didn't hold water, but some were true. After that date, it has often been mentioned that the Russian Government is fighting its battle against international terrorism, that some Al-Quaeda associates have got refuge in the Chechen mountains and that many Chechen warlords had been trained in the Taliban military schools.

Still, many critics of  Russian policies insist that the army is excessively tough and that the suffering of the civilians has been unbearable. The Russian media, on its part, writes a lot about the atrocities against the population carried out by the rebel gangs. As a matter of fact, a considerable portion of the population has left that area and has found refuge in the nearby regions of Russia.

What is really going on in Chechnya? How many faces does this tragedy have? In fact, even for an experienced political scientist it is very hard to offer a full account of the events and of their roots. The life of the Caucases region is a tapestry of many strands, some of which have for centuries been stained with blood, vengeance and unrest. The present conflict is a result of many political, cultural, religious and economic reasons and its complexity cannot be reduced to a small set of pivotal matters.

This war has a strong smell of oil, but it would be extremely naive to state that this is merely a fight for oil-rich terrain. This war has a very distinct smell of heroin, but it would be utterly wrong to think that the Russian Government is simply trying to cut the old drug-trafficking roots. The past decade has been marked by revival of the ancient craft of ransom kidnapping and slave trade in Chechnya, however, this military operation cannot be defined as another attempt to reduce crime. This is a war for political independence and for the tribal pride, but at the same time it is a tragic sibling feud, because the Chechen society itself is dramatically split on this issue. This is a war for the unity of Russia, but at the same time there are circles in the Russian society which benefit from this warfare through shady arms deals. Finally, this war is largely about militant fundamentalist Islam, and still this struggle is not merely an anti-terrorist action similar to that carried out by the US in Afganistan. There is still more to it...

Once, in some pro-rebel newspaper I came across an article by a Chechen intellectual who insisted that this war is not merely a conflict between the State and the rebel underground, but rather is a profound conflict between the freedom-loving tribal spirit and the modern way of life. Well, I am not an expert in history, even less in ethnography, but all my experience of life in those lands tells me that this author has his point. What is for certain is that the old rule "War is continuation of economics" badly fails in this instance.

I have lived in Chechnya for 40 years. Though being of Slavic origin, I know the language and the ways of the Natives. Together with that land, I have lived through its most desperate and cruel months. I witnessed its successful push for de-facto independence from Russia and I saw how swiftly this independence evolved into a complete independence from law and order. I saw how barbarianism and anarchy swept over that area and I have acquired an experience of living in an almost neandertal society which was, though, equipped with cars, rifles, machineguns, and cellular telephones.

In my documentary story I shall describe the events that I became witness to, and which have dramatically changed my life, the life of my family, as well as the lives of hundreds of thousands of people who had been unfortunate to live in Chechnya in early 90-s.I’m one of those who suffered from Holocaust in Grozny. My story will help you learn something you haven’t heard before, something which was concealed from you.

Since this is an introduction, may I start out with a bit of history.

The area where I used to live was known, in the Soviet epoch, as the Chechen-Ingush Republic and used to be an administrative unit of the Russian Federation (which itself was a Republic or in the American terms, a State within the former Soviet Union). The Chechen-Ingush Republic consisted of two anclaves: Ingushetia and Chechnya, which were populated predominantly (though far not exclusively) the Ingush and Chechen peoples, appropriately. Most part of the 1.5-million-strong population of the Chechen-Ingush Republic has always been Moslem. The capital of the Republic was Grozny, founded in 1818 as a fort to protect the boundaries of Russia from the attacks of savage Caucasian tribes. Through almost two centuries the town had been  developing  and eventually grew out from a provincial fort into a prominent industrial city which had its theaters, universities and colleges, industries and crafts.

Some 12 years ago Grozny was a hardworking city with the population of 470,000 people. It used to be a large center of oil-processing. It also had dozens of factories producing mechanical hardware. Their production used to be exported to more than 60 countries. It was some 12 years ago... A lot of water and blood have passed under the bridge since then. Changes began when a group of enthusiasts came up with a good slogan: Return the historical tribal land to its people and establish an independent Chechen or Chechen-Ingush state. The Ingush people soon rejected this option and chose to form a separate Ingush Republic which has been since then a part of Russia. In Chechnya, however, the slogans of independence and tribal pride began gaining support from various strata of society: from the organized crime and from the clergy, from some tribal elders and from some intellectuals, and even from some of the former Soviet officials who understood that in a quasi-independent anclave they would be able to privatize the state-owned property without giving a share or even a bribe to the Moscow bureaucrats. One of such high officials, retired Soviet Airforce general Dudaev was "elected" as a "President" of the new-born "Chechen People's Republic of Ichkeria." Whether he was elected by democratic vote or by some other mechanisms (like, say, fusillades in the streets) will be studied by the historians. What is truly important is that the then Russian President Yeltsin accepted Dudaev as a ruler of Chechnya and agreed to grant him a very large degree of independence in exchange for support in federal matters. This is how the story began, in peace and agreement. It ended in a bloodshed unseen by those lands since the years of the  World War ll.

I want to tell you this story as seen by the eyes of a simple citizen who happened to become a cog of the state machine in an hour when that machine started to badly falter. In my story you will not find a scientific analysis of that tragedy, but you will find an account of the everyday events, an honest sketch of that life. Possibly, some future historian will want to use it as food for thought.

Before I start, may I express my sincere gratitude to my friends who helped me with translating this story intoEnglish.

About the story

In my story I tried to present a concise chronicle of events that took place in the city of Grozny prior to and during the period which some journalists used to miscall "Chechen Revolution". A term like "The eve of Chechen Tragedy" would be more adequate. I apologize for some possible minor chronological inaccuracies. Over the past years, my life has been full of events and changes; so it is hard to trace back some of the past events with high precision in time.

I will not offer to your attention an exhaustingly comprehensive account of those months and years. This is, after all, not a diary but only a short memoire, a description of that life as experienced by an ordinary man from the street.. After this story had been written, it came not once to my mind to add to it more details and descriptions. When the Russian-language version of this story appeared on the web, I started getting letters and calls from my friends who lived in Grozny during the described period. They began to remind me of more and more episodes which were relevant and deserved being included into the story. After some hesitation, I decided not to do this. First of all, the present content is sufficiently informative, and I do not want to overload the reader with excessive amount of heart-rending episodes or with excerpts from the official news of that time. Second, it is quite a burden for me to write of those events and even to cast my thoughts back to that my past. For several years after having fled Chechnya, I used to often wake up in the night because of nightmares tormenting me: each night I saw ruined houses, desolete parks, and a burned skeleton of my apartment building. In these nightdreams, I was running away from the gang. I heard their war-cries and gunshots, tried to shoot back, and was persistently missing the approaching targets, and only awakening used to save me from what seemd to be imminent. I heared that some of the Holocaust survivors used to experience similar symptoms for years after the war.

Nowadays I live a happy life and don't want those nightmares to return. I don't have guts to live through that inferno again and again, even in my thoughts and recollections.

Dozens of thousands of people who fled Grozny live now all over Russia and abroad. Some of them are professional jounalists, writers and academics and they can write better than I did. I asked one of them to do so, but he refused and honestly explained me the reason: he and his family live in Russia, and no one will protect them from the possible revenge of the tribesmen insulted by his testimony. Russia does not have a witness protection scheme. I understand him, because I myself did often receive agitated and aggressive "responses" from some readers who threatened me and promissed to cut my throat.

This story has been written at the request of Vyacheslav Mironov, the writer who participated, as a Russian army officer, in the military campagn of 1995, also called First Chechen War. (His semi-documentary book "Assault on Grozny Downtown" can be found at).

1990…

Well, that was it! My working day was over and it was time to head toward my garage. I was driving there with one thought in my mind: “Hopefully, the day when I shall drive my “Own” car, is not that far away. Sure, it will be neither a fancy Mercedes, nor even a Lada, but rather a tiny Zaporozhets, but still - my own”. “Some day...”

I did understand that it was a kind of shame not to afford a car at the age of 38. What made things worse was that having a car had always been my cherished dream. Anyway, not much could be done about that: cars were highly expensive in the former Soviet Union and in the post-Soviet era they were regarded as a sort of luxury. I am quite a handy man, almost a jack-of-all-trades: I can fix various equipment and appliances with my own hands. Besides being a qualified craftsman, I am a pretty stubborn sort: when necessary, I can work double shifts. I really did enjoy working like a drudge horse: it is a part of my nature. I started my career as a simple worker right after I had finished my compulsory military service. My part-time studies at a technical university helped me to grow from the ranks: from a worker, I was promoted to a technician and then to an engineering position.

My wife was a schoolteacher and a really good one she was. “She had a talent for it”. Beside our regular full-time jobs, we both used to work extra hours part-time. Nonetheless, we never became really rich, for a thing was true in those days that are still true in the post-Soviet era: honest labor never paves the way to wealth. Those who have studied the sophisticated mechanism of the post-Soviet economy know that straining the limits of the law has made almost all good fortunes there. In the Soviet epoch we had quite a few underworld millionaires, especially in the South; but their success was achieved through corruption and the black market. Later, when the market and private enterprise became legal, many became rich with their hands remaining clean. But don't look under their nails...

The mockery of it was that in mid- and north Russia there was and still is, a common opinion that the folks from the Caucasus are moneyed and well off. It was a ridiculous assumption, wholly provincial in concept, and as nonsensical as any myth. These days, crowds of the so-called New Russians travel across Europe, with a lot of money to burn and vice to spare. Does this mean that Russia is a prosperous country? No, it simply illustrates the strident gap between our oligarchs and the rest of the population. Back in the late Soviet era, we had a similar stratification in the Caucasus. This may sound like a revelation to those who think that the Communist ideas of economic equality were fully implemented in the former Soviet Union. In its European and Siberian parts they were in force (to some extent, at least) and the level of corruption was not that high. 

But please do not ask about Middle Asia and the Caucasus. Rather try to imagine a weird symbiosis of feudalism and early capitalism, where local feudal lords hold the positions of Party bosses and unofficially tax the underground economies. A certain share goes to the local police, while a considerable part goes to Moscow, sometimes to the very top of the pyramid. Here are the rules of the game. The regional Party bosses (many of whom represented the local tribal aristocracy) were doing their best to conceal the incredible corruption and to make the impression that the Caucasus and Middle Asia were living in compliance with Soviet laws. Moscow, on its part, pretended that it believed in this. This concord rested on mutual interests and often on generous “presents” in money and in kind, that used to flow from the southern provinces to the Moscow political elite. The paramount reason was the one known since times immemorial: whenever aging rulers of an oversized empire were trying to keep it under control, they often preferred to give carte blanche to the local satraps in exchange for their loyalty. This system can work for dozens of years, sometimes even for centuries. It works until the central government gets weak, so that the satraps can break out and become kings of their domains. So it happened in the Soviet Union, but while the center was strong enough, the satrap system kept functioning. As a result, most population in the semi-feudal regions of the Soviet South lead the life of sweat and toil, but the richest part of the southerners used to travel to Moscow and Leningrad, and to dazzle everyone with their thick wallets and unbelievably deep pockets. Much like the New Russians are embarrassing Europe these days. Hence the myth about the Soviet southerners being rich...

According to the official Soviet ideology inherited from Stalin's epoch, the Russian people collectively were the “Senior Brother” of the other people, which were labeled as its “Junior Brothers.” An interesting nuance of the real life in the Soviet Asia and Caucasus is that the major landowners and black-market businessmen, as well as most of the (utterly corrupted) local Party elite were representatives of the local tribal aristocracy and, generally, of the local nations. As a result, the ethnic Slavs and other people of non-local origin were, typically, concentrated in the poorest strata of the society in such provinces. They were workers, engineers, teachers, small-time governmental officials, but never big-time shots or, Heaven forbid, underground businessmen. The latter was reserved strictly for the locals who knew the way around and, most important, were interconnected by tribal links and the Omerta. The social texture of the Soviet South will forever remain a puzzle for the Ivy League and Oxbridge cognoscentii...

How did this social mechanism work in Grozny? Well, in a pretty standard manner. When so ever it came to work at a factory or in a foundry, that sort of jobs was left for the “Senior Brother.” However, the profitable jobs (the ones that had something to do with goods distribution of steeling deficit raw materials) were by default reserved for the locals. “Simply because they had connections.” The local Party bosses had their families, clans and tribes; and one’s loyalty to his clan has always been the most important thing in the South. Suppose, some local guy gets through protection of his relative Party boss, a good profitable position that gives him an opportunity for some illegal business. This guy has a wife, and she has numerous relatives. Hence, it will be a matter of honor for the guy to do his very best, to help all those relatives to get employed in a similar manner at the same place. And so forth...

Involvement in illegal economics may once a while lead people to jail. But never for too long for the local judges and prosecutors alike, know the rules of the game, and their positions are merely a camouflage for their extortion business. To put it bluntly, they all took bribes, bribes that were presented as gifts, either to them or to someone else in their clan. Sometimes it was not about “gifts” and “cash”, but about “special” relations between clans and families. As a rule, everything was eventually settled in a peaceful way. This rule, as any, had exceptions. 

Those exceptions, though, reflected not the ability of the system to punish corruption, but contradictions between the tribal and political clans. People who came from traditional, especially Moslem societies know what I mean. One may be the most honest man in the world, but he will never have guts to challenge the laws of tribal solidarity.

Of course, many of the local nations worked on the farms and plants, but only at positions where they could get some extra profit. In addition to that, they acquired the habit to litter with money. Why should one save that what is earned so easily?

Especially at resorts, Ministries, because of that the Caucasus has received a fame as a prosperous rich area. This fame has been fortified by different auditors and commissions from the Capital (Moscow). The guests are traditionally honored in the Caucasus, but not all, just exceptional ones-like bosses. Not only are they treated to many delicacies, but also given expensive gifts. Exactly after such an honorable hospitality, a famous “Human Rights Activist” - Sergey Kovalyov – had fallen in love with his future supporters.

As for us, we didn’t rub shoulders with top dogs or “younger brothers” so we earned our living, which was extremely meager. By the way, our pay was far too smaller than the one in Russia and even far less than in Moscow. We had to shop at black markets, but in Moscow they could shop at the stores with stable prices. That’s why whenever we had a vacation, we didn’t think about going to the seaside, we thought about clothes and shoes we need to buy for a stable price and went to Moscow for shopping. We lived from hand to mouth, borrowing the money all the time. Some people were a little luckier than others, but the time was flying and the life went on and everybody knew what to expect in the future.

I still remember the general hilarity which was caused by Gorbachev. It was like a mass psychosis. Everybody felt as if they were newly born! I wish these hilarious people had a vision into the nearest future, about 2 years ahead. What has he done, what kind of “nationalistic” porridge has he cooked? It will take a long time to manage this hopeless mess. Possibly with his coming to power I developed a gift of future vision, frankly, I call it intuition. To my great pity, almost all of my predictions had been carried out, some of them even in a more horrible way than I wanted.

I was “lucky” with my car, but there was no choice. With each coming day the economic situation worsened. Agriculture, light industry, chemical industry was almost dead. Only gas and oil industries were still working. If on the mainland the people didn’t suffer from delayed pay crisis, in Chechnya we experienced great difficulties because of stopped payments. It looked like something was going to happen. I needed to hurry. As a result of a long search, I managed to find a car, which I could afford. The deal was 6,000 rubles. I paid with my gold ring (my mother’s gift during the “stagnation” period, - 500 rubles), a state bond (valued at 2,500 rubles) plus 3,000 rubles in cash, which was borrowed from my wife’s student. My wife had to pay back by teaching her student privately for almost 6 months. As a result, we because the owners of a cute white body (ZAZ - 968M) with a set of wheels, disintegrated dashboard and a six-year-old engine. Thanks to the fact that the car stayed in a shack there was no rust, but the hens living in the same shack seemed to like it because there was lots of feathers and straw in it.

The car was towed to the garage of one of my friends in a plant region and I started the restoration. I didn’t have any previous car mechanic experience; only sometimes I had to deal with car problems. Also, I didn’t have blueprints, so having started from scratch, step by step; I managed to reanimate the car in 1 month. The easiest part was the electric part; there I had a lot of experience. As a result, all hardware was restored thanks to the help of my friends, the specialists. I lacked many things to finish the job successfully, but our people would never fail. It’s no problem if you stopped by a neighbor’s garage and asked for advice. Car owners - were like one family, but I was just a beginner, so why not share their experiences with me? Frankly speaking, I had to stay in the garage rather late, sometimes well over midnight, and sometimes I even stayed there overnight. The day when the car started to “cough” for the first time was the happiest day for me, so I decided to finish early. It was 9 or 10 pm. It used to take 15 min. to reach the tram stop, up to the “Central” stop. Then up to “Grozneftyanaya”, and 20 min. more up to “12th Trust” stop where my apartment was. I used the same route many times but the only thing I didn’t think about was safety at such a late hour. But, here I need to stop and explain something.

For many years, beginning with the ‘80s, the city dwellers didn’t have a wish to go outside when it was getting dark. We lived in the Chechen-Ingush republic, where the law and the power were only on paper, and taking into consideration some specific features of native people, it was not safe (putting it mildly) to go outside at night. Chechens have always hated the people of another faith, and after Gorbachov has successfully destroyed the country and every nationality has started a fight for independence, the dream of ousting the “aggressors” had become more real.

Well, some people acted in a civilized way, some only started to talk about it, but Chechens had their own way of solving this problem. Even during the so-called “stagnation” period our republic topped the list of criminals in the country. Almost every Chechen teenager carried a knife and never hesitated to use it. Robberies, violence, and fights were so common, that nobody cared much about them. Only sometimes, when the prey was a top dog or some boss, for an example, the leading actress of one company touring in our drama theater. Chechens managed to kidnap her right after the show and the parts of her mutilated body were found in the local river the next day. Besides, the laws were indifferent to such situations. The explanation like “not blooded Caucasians” was very handy, and it was not allowed to upset “the young brother”. But if by chance Russian guys beat Chechens, in this case the law would ask a question, “How did they dare!”

Some people moved out of the republic, some came. Those who were leaving weren’t numerous. Some people including me, started to understand that a thunderstorm was coming. To say that it came out of the blue would be wrong. In our city we had a TV program schedule, which was printed on a flyer, and on the backside of that flyer they printed intercity apartments exchange. First, those ads occupied only a quarter of a page, but then there were many of them. I analyzed their quantity and meaning attentively.

The number of people moving out of the republic was the same, but the number of people willing to move to the republic was increasing. Chechens were willing to move to the republic. Very soon the moving ads started to occupy the whole flyer. I knew perfectly well what it meant. I tried to discuss it with my parents, acquaintances and friends. But all of them didn’t take the situation seriously. They used to say that it was natural that Chechens and Ingushes wanted to live in their own republic because everybody wanted to be independent. Not once did I talk with my wife, she was all for moving out, but… Everything depended on our parents.

Unfortunately, we couldn’t just flee and dump our parents. But they didn’t want to move out. They laughed at my forecasts. They used to calm me down by saying that Chechens would soon change for the better, they would get their cherished independence and everything would go well. They use to tell me: - “Well, Just think, how will they do without our hands, because technology is not their field? Russian hands are needed everywhere. How can they handle refineries!”

Well, my parents were not that old. They didn’t need constant care and were ready to start any moment, if it came to that (as it actually happened). But, as for my wife’s parents, the problem was far more serious. Her father could walk slowly to the nearest store (40 min.) using a cane, although the distance was about 300 m. As for her mother, she could hardly move. That’s why we had to shop for groceries for them, visit pharmacies and do some house chores almost every evening. That’s why they didn’t want to leave their long-occupied place. Though, they had a wonderful chance because their son (my wife’s brother) was a top dog in Vladivostok and worked as a Professor at the University there. But, unfortunately, he didn’t have any desire to see his parents, well, and they also didn’t want to move. Frankly, taking into consideration the changes for the worst, we managed to own a car even though it was very hard. As it proved later, the car did save our lives not once.

Usually I came home from my garage after midnight. At that time it was not that dangerous. Everybody had a chance to party and come back home. I was happy at that time but I didn’t think that I picked the wrong time for coming back home. I got on a street car and took a seat behind the driver starting to think about my car and what else I could do for it. There were some elderly people on the tram sitting here and there. A group of young Chechens got on the street car at the next stop and became rowdy. I understood that if they paid attention at me, I wouldn’t be in for it, but my stop was rather near. Unfortunately, my hopes were in vain. The voices came nearer and sounded meaner, more aggressive and squealed.

According to the number of their voices, there were four of them, “I thought”. So, to hope for a “gentleman” style fight was stupid. Not without reason, 200 years ago the Chechens were given the nickname – “jackals”. In addition, they had knives. If I tried to resist, they would cut my throat anyway, but in that case my wife is under threat, because they would never calm down unless they revenged upon the family of their prey that dared to resist. Only one thing remained - to grit my teeth and try to stay calm.

- Well, you, kike, it’s not Moscow here!

The blow to my face came from the side! My glasses got broken, the blood poured into the eye. Blows and blows, and more blows… I couldn’t think of anything, only ringing in the ears, only one thought kept on piercing my mind – “don’t move and don’t fall”. Then there was a stop and the voices disappeared.

I tried to revise the damages. A piece of glass was above my eye - I took it out. Got up, looked around, one eye could still see. Same elderly people, they all looked down, to the floor. I understood them and didn’t accuse. Only one old lady - Chechen lady - not far from me started to lament.

- Vakh, vakh! What have they done to you? These hooligans?

I couldn’t suppress my tears any more and they poured from my eyes. I cried because of lack of retaliation, lack of fighting back and holding myself back in order not to fight. Shame and hatred to myself filled my heart?

- Why were you silent? They are YOUR grandchildren. They MUST obey when you talk. And now you feel sorry for me? Remember!!! When you, your children and grandchildren will be obliterated like mad dogs, remember me! Remember your silence!

The street car stopped and I got out. I didn’t remember how I reached my apartment.

1991…

Life is becoming harder and harder every day. No authority. Well, lots of people in police uniforms were on the streets, but the republic was full of anarchy. Who did they serve and protect - remained unknown. On the streets there were lots of armed Chechens in civilian and military clothes. Pay and pension pays were delayed for a few months and were not paid in full. The delays became longer and longer. 

A new high-rise KGB headquarters building was seized and robbed. I was told about the details of that seizure by one of our friends, a KGB major, which worked in that building. One weekend there were only 2 officers on duty in the building. They were in the hallway. When the crowd started to bang on the locked doors, one of the officers – a Russian – headed to the door to talk to the crowd. His partner - a Chechen - shot him in the back several times. After that he unlocked the door and let the crowd in. Robbery and vandalism started. The bandits seized a thousand uniforms and armament for Special Forces. But, they seized not only this. They also stole everything they could, even pens and paper. The things they couldn’t carry were smashed on the spot. A unique telephone system was in the building. Only 5 or 6 kinds of such a system were produced in Russia and the cost was terrific. The equipment was crushed and shot.

Later, some Russian technicians from the Central Security Department were “invited” as specialists to restore the equipment, at least partially. They told me as their former colleague what they saw there. The whole building looked like a huge public restroom. Dingy, shabby walls, urine and excrements everywhere. It was impossible to look at the equipment without shudder. Torn out cables and wires, crashed bulbs and indicators, scattered parts of equipment. There was no word about any restoration.

But even if it were possible to restore some parts, the technicians didn’t have any desire to talk about it. They knew perfectly well that it would be the job done for the enemy.

Whatever general conviction could be about everybody working for money, the people started to wake up. Not everything can be bought or sold.

The seizure was successful, Moscow preferred not to pay attention and the Chechens were glad they were not punished. Only some people knew about that in our city because nobody took any interest in such departments and their fate. So much more anxiety was caused by the outrageous kidnapping of the State University Rector Viktor, Kan-Kalik.  

The purpose of the kidnapping was rather clear in spite of the followed official explanations. The Chechens sent a message for the people to understand whom the real master in the Republic was and what would happen to those who didn’t understand that. The process of ousting all of the unfaithful from leading positions was under way. 

Among our acquaintances, there were people of different classes, including directors of plants and CEOs. We heard from them that the Chechens advised them to quit their jobs. But nobody took it seriously. The kidnapping was bold and outrageous. In broad daylight, Chechens in civilian clothes entered Rector’s cabinet, grabbed him, forced him into a car and drove away. The witness didn’t say a word. After a few months of official search a burned corpse was allegedly found somewhere, but we will never know the truth. Only one thing was real - his death was horrible because, he became human prey in beastly hands.

Every day we went to work, discussed current events and all that time we had a feeling that it was a dream. What was happening seemed unreal. It looked like everything was just going on it’s own way but something sinister was above the head. Shootings were not rare. The shops didn’t have groceries. We could shop only at the market. The prices were skyrocketing and there was no money. To withdraw the money which one saved for years in the bank was impossible. At night the city was solitary and quiet.

Somewhere, in the still of the night, gunshots could be heard. Who fought against whom was unclear. Some people who owned orchards dared to go there, only during daytime but often useless. Somebody had already gathered the harvest and the security was reluctant to explain. But, what could an elderly security man do against armed robbers? The only thing he could do was to sit quietly in his cabin and prey they didn’t kill him.

My father called me at my job place.

- You were right. Look for somebody who wants to buy our apartment urgently. Your mother and I want to leave.

- Ready?

- Yes. It’s terrible. Don’t want to talk about it on the phone. Come quickly.

My parents’ apartment was downtown on Partizanskaya St., opposite the Republic’s Art Foundation. From their 4^th floor, they witnessed the scene, which soon became an ordinary sight in many parts of the city. A few Russians were passing by the Republic’s Art Foundation Building. A car “Volga” passed by and then stopped. Some armed Chechens got out of the car and shot down the poor guys with their automatic guns. Then slowly got into the car and drove away. After this horrible scene, which was witnessed by my parents, they understood at last what “independent Ichkeria” meant. Both of my parents went through war, fought against fascists during WWII, but this scene shocked them with its senseless cruelty.

We had many acquaintances among Chechens but to pick out a reliable buyer was really hard in order not to pay their life’s savings for that. But, anyway in a week the problem was solved. One of our acquaintances, a University Professor, an intellectual guy of our age was glad to have such an opportunity. His relatives were coming from Russia and the apartment price, which went drastically down due to a great outflow of the population, was just good for him. A few days before the sale of the apartment, my father asked me to move his car – “Zhiguli-5” to the relatives in Prokhladnoe. He was not a good driver and the car mileage was ridiculous. 

So, he wouldn’t make it. This trip was a very risky one, to put it mildly, because many drivers were killed even for used cars. There were many accidents like this, they killed not only unfaithful but also the people of their faith, and in our case my father’s car was almost brand new and made for export. But there was no way out. My father didn’t want to part with the car; it was his favorite toy and joy, which he was able to buy with his honest work. He used to drive the car when he went fishing or visiting his relatives, the rest of the time he used to polish and admire it.

It didn’t take a long time for me to get ready for the trip. I put 2 jerry cans of gasoline into the trunk because of gasoline shortages, an old fish net for camouflage, some fishing accessories and 2 bottles of ‘Vodka’ into the glove compartment. Of course, I took ‘Vodka’ not for drinking, but it served as a form of currency, which could be used at any time. In the morning I went into the garage, made the sign of the cross for myself, although I was not baptized yet at that time and left. The most terrible and risky part was to cross our own border.

I reached the post between the Chechen-Ingush Republic and Osetia at 10 am. I tried to reach there not too early, in order not to attract extra attention. I drove up to the post slowly, fortunately, there wasn’t any traffic. Who could drive under such circumstances and not be shot?

I was not so lucky. There was a fire not far from the post and some people were sitting around eating shashlik. One man got up and headed in my direction, staggering without making a sign for me to stop. However, he pulled a machine carbine gun from behind and another large-caliber machine-gun was beside the people, sitting around the fire. Of course, if I revved up quickly, then in a few seconds I could be one, two hundred meters away from this place, and he wouldn’t be able to shoot, his reaction was impaired, but the position of the machine-gun was much better and it could shoot rather far, but my car could move only along this straight road. I had to put on the brakes and smile. I got out of the car and the “dzhigit” with his swollen, unshaven face, didn’t even didn’t look at me.

- What’s there in the trunk?

He saw the jerry cans.

- Wine?

- No. There’s gasoline. I’m going fishing; there are no gas stations there. But I have some ‘Vodka’. There’s no fishing without ‘Vodka’?

Only at that moment he looked at me, but I didn’t know whether he saw me because his glance was blank.

- ’Vodka’ is good. We’ve run out of it.

I immediately gave him both bottles from the glove compartment. He grabbed them and turning away from me said, - “On your way back get some wine.”

Trying not to hurry, I got into the car, started it and slowly pulled away. I revved up slowly at first, then faster and faster. There was no time to look straight ahead, the road was empty, only in the rearview mirror I could watch what was happening behind, if anybody went to the machine-gun from the fire. A few kilometers which separated the posts of Chechnya and Osetia I drove like crazy, momentarily, though those were the longest seconds of my life. When I looked away from the mirror, I saw Osetian post ahead, concrete blocks across the road, bumps and roadside “hedgehogs”. I started to put on brakes but the speed was too fast and the car bumped and rocked like crazy. Twenty, thirty meters more and I felt as if I were riding a huge vibrator. I could hardly hold the steering wheel. At last, the car jerked and stopped. “I made it”!

From the post I could see a group of people in police uniforms running to me loading their guns. I hurriedly got out of the car and raised my hands. The senior of them, an Osset, looked at my car’s license plate, then at my face and said, questionably.

- Russian? From Chechnya?

It remained only to nod. The guns were lowered down.

- Do you need help?

- No. I’d like to examine the car. It got it.

The Osset smiled.

- I’m not going to give you a speeding ticket, though you raced like hell. Was it scary?

I shrugged my shoulders. How can I admit that it was so scary?

- It’s OK. Don’t worry. Go now. That’s all right; you’re not the first from there.

They treated me to a cigarette and only then I saw my hands trembling. I finished smoking, examined the car, looked under its bottom, and pulled some parts, which I could reach. It looked like everything was OK. Good strong cars were produced in our country! Tried to start it. Started, but only from the second try. Listened carefully, the sound was clear. I forgot to show my ID, so I reached into my pocket to find it. The Osset smiled again.

- You don’t need to. Everything is clear with you. Are you coming back?

- I’m moving the car. Then I’ll come back. My wife is staying there.

He nodded his head understandingly.

- Well… You know better. Good luck!

- Thanks.

I waved to the gunmen and got into the car. Squeezed between the blocks and the post and slowly drove away. When I was passing by the next post, nobody stopped me; they only looked carefully at me. Probably, they were informed about me. During that day I crossed 5 or 6 republican borders, intentionally trying to make a circle. Why? I didn’t know, just in case. In Prokhladnoye, I parked the car into my relatives’ garage, left the car keys and car ownership with them and took the train back to Grozny the same evening.

In a few days I put all our parents’ possessions into a container and took a train the same day. It was very problematic to buy the train tickets. I had to pay extra money for the tickets but we had to leave immediately. The hunt for people selling their apartments was under way. Only naive people could stay in the city after their apartments were sold. And very often such people had night visitors. After the night visitors’ departure one could rarely stay alive. We tried to avoid stupid risks. My parents asked me to accompany them to Ryazan where their relatives lived. We reached Ryazan without problems, though I tried not to get out of our compartment very often. In Ryazan our relatives met us. When we got out of the train on to an empty platform, a very strange feeling seized us. We rode in the car along the city streets; answered questions but the feelings of unreality didn’t leave us. And only when we sat down at the dinner table, did we understand what the matter was. Nowhere did we see crowds of armed people, or, the armed people in civic clothes or in camouflage. We haven’t got used to ordinary, peaceful life. Of course, we didn’t have a war, but the city was on the front line. We were scared of the silence without shootings.   We couldn’t get used to it.

My mother asked me.

- Maybe you will stay?? Won’t go back??

- Mom, Irene is still there.

- Yes. I see…

And suddenly she started crying.

- Why do you need all this? We fought at the fronts against fascists and for our country. Why do you need to die! What for!

It was very hard to calm her down…

In a day, early in the morning I went back. I asked them not to see me off. I got up when it was still dark outside, got dressed and left. I didn’t have any luggage, only a train ticket and some money.

I haven’t seen my mother alive since then. And now I can’t even visit her grave…

1992…

The morning was on the frosty side.

Through a snow-drift I dug my way to the gate of my garage. This is how I used to call the shed where I kept my car, little rusty four-wheeled monster well up in years. Having got inside, I started the complex process of bringing this piece of hardware to life. I never managed to make a real little jewel out of this car. Sometimes in my dreams it came to me in the image of Lego vehicle composed of huge amount of simple parts. Those parts embarrassed me by their vast amount and infinite variety amidst which I was losing my way, much like a child who is eager to assemble the toy but gets desperately lost in the overwhelming complexity of a too advanced Lego set...

To put it bluntly, I am not too good with machinery. It is not that hard to turn the car on in the summer time, but the winter is a pain. I used to start out with stretching out a long cable and plugging it into a self-made socket attached to a stone pillar that propped up the shaky roof of the garage. Blessed be my Dad, for on his leaving the town for good he presented to me this shed with a lump of machine parts and metal garbage in it. Well, he wasn't that great in machinery either; he rather was a sort of wanna-be, one who pretended to be familiar with all these devices, gadgets and fixtures. He felt himself comfortable in the company of these grease-smelling steely things. After he left the town, bequeathing to me his treasures, I benefitted much from his strange devotion. Many a time and oft his weird collection saved my car and, therefore, me and my family. The most valuable acquisition was, of course, the jump-up kit, item without which my life would be simply impossible. It took me seconds to attach the wires, and then the real "fun" followed: after twenty minutes of laboring on the ignition system, pushing on the gas pedal and alike toil the car eventually gave out several specific sounds in which I gladly recognised the approaching triumph: the engine was on and working. It spared me for the next round of physical work: clearing the passage to the gate.

The garage, my priceless posession, was located in a remote district called Microrayon. The garage was a well done separate structure with a two-room basement underneath. Good shed, really. Sadly, it was too far from home. One could, of course, cover that distance by the city train that used to go from Microrayon to the Factory, but it was a risky gamble. The zone between these two areas was one to keep away from. It was though impossible to avoid such trips completely for it happened from time to time that my car needed repair. And it happened all too often, every third or fourth day. On such days I simply moved to my garage together with my car. If lucky enough to finish the work in the day time, I drove away to leave the car overnight at an open parking lot near the Factory. The lot was within some fifteen minute walk from home and that was splendid: the shorter the distance, the less dangerous the stroll. Last, and by no means least, the guards working at the lot were ethnic Chechens. My wishful mind kept telling me that there my car would be safer.  A crow will not peck out an eye of another crow... I convinced myself in this. I had to. For the car was my and my family's means of survival.

Back to business. After having cleared the way to the gate, I drove out to my first destination that morning, the dairy store located on the nearby boulevard. By a certain hour a cistern should be delivered. That day it took me only an hour of standing in the line. When the cistern appeared, the line was already about 150 - 200 people long, but since I had come much earlier, I was among the first that day. And I did get some milk that day, and then I brought it to my mother-in-law. It was not every day that the milk was delivered, but on the other hand it still was quite a luck that it was at all delivered from time to time. Whether that milk deserved the name or not, is another part of the story. When the jar got emptied, it did not need to be rinsed. It was clean like after having water in it.

The School used to be my next destination. Every day I gave my wife a ride to our district school where she worked as a teacher. This was my dear school, High School number 41 where I studied years ago. Back then the school was newly built, and my class was the first to graduate from it. Later my wife became a teacher in it. She could, of course, commute by bus but it was a bit too dangerous. So I gave her a ride. After that ride my working day was to begin. I was give-a-ride guy, a self-styled "cab" driver. On the one hand, I had merely a Zaporozhets, mini car that in the everyday conversational speech goes under the nickname of Zapor (which in Russian means: constipation). This ugly car is not that handy for the job: one cannot earn out of it as many roubles as from a  middle-size Lada or Moskvich cars. On the other hand, giving people rides on a Lada or Moskvich had more danger in it: those days it was only some stupid ethnic Russians in Grozny city who went out unarmed. Hence, the worse the car, the safer the business. Well, it did of course happen that even crappy Zapors got hijacked, their owners left alive or dead. Nevertheless, with a Zapor the risk was less. I convinced myself in this. I had to. But I still knew the perils. I knew them, but there was no way out, for the salaries were not paied in the town of Grozny that year. All the money flows entering the "Republic" went directly to its "President", Chechen-born retired Soviet general Dudaev. Some of that money was then paid to the "President's Guards", some were funnelled to unknown directions. Those were the directions whence huge amount of weapons was arriving every day into the "Republic". Weaponry trade flourished. A rich menu of arms was at sale in farmers' markets. Then the street traders started selling them in the street near the bank. Everything was available, from daggers through mortars. And, needless to say, cartridges, mines, whatever other ammunition. Strong was my desire but thin was my wallet. Imagine: 60 roubles for one machine-gun cartridge, - wasn't it outrageous? Only a Brave and Proud Chechen Tribesman could afford this. Besides, it was not at all obvious that the street traders would agree to sell it to me, because it was inappropriate for the ethnic Russian trash to carry arms. In Chechnya weaponry is cherished much more than in the American Wild West: while for a Texan macho his gun is currency of self-esteem, for a Chechen tribesman his gun is a sacred artifact of his faith. Not of the official faith explained in Quaran, but of that clandestine unpronounced faith which gets passed from ancestors to their offsprings through blood and mothers' milk. In Caucases, and in Chechnya in particular, making a gunshot has always been not merely an act of assault or defence, but a sacred rite which must always be fulfilled with a prayer. Or, perhaps shooting itself is already a prayer: after all, everyone in that country knows that Allah helps the strongest and the bravest, no matter what particular act of heroism they perform - defend their village, rob a bank, hijack an airplane, or hunt a boar. Verily, carrying arms was a privelidge of a Real Chechen Guy. Ethnic Slavs were scum of the earth: after all, they were not even Moslems. They were wicked aliens subject to oppression and, from time to time, for a funny manhunt. Literally. So they did not deserve holding a weapon.

After the Orwellian "expression of people's free will and enthusiasm" a Chechen-born retired Soviet general Dudaev and his clansmen took power in the "Republic".

Dudaev stroke a deal with the Kremlin and assured it that he would become Yeltsin's agent in Chechnya. The Russian military were ordered to leave the province and to hand their arms and ammunition to its new self-established "government". And the military did it. It was the order... Together with the armory, Yeltsin "presented" us all to his then protege Dudaev. This is how we, non-Chechens, became aliens in this land. We became aliens to Chechens who conveniently labelled us as "occupants" and thus explained to themselves the numerous acts of spontaneous "requisitions" and "expropriations" of our property and often lives. We became aliens to our own Government which regarded us as subjects of the remote province of a legal status yet to be determined. That legal status was far not the sole issue in question. Other unanswered questions stood open. For example: what was our guilt?. After all, we had simply worked for all our life for the Country that we used to know under the name of the Soviet Union. Possibly, there was something wrong in this, but it had never been an issue of choice for any of us. (After all, the Chechen "President" Dudaev used to be a general of the Soviet Army in charge of a division of nuclear air bombers; and most of his aides used to be Communist officials and pillars of the old regime.) Perhaps, our guilt was that our ancestors paid a high toll to the death in battles for that land. The recentmost was the military campaign of year 1942 of our Lord, when elite German divisions crushed through Caucasian mountains, thirsty for the Caspian oil. Against the impossible odds and at the highest of prices, our grandfathers stopped them here. This was one of the most dramatic pages of the World War II, page carefully torn out from the official history for the sake of political correctness. The politically correct history cannot tolerate the fact that in the Caucasus the Soviets had to fight two simultaneous battles, one against the assaulting German divisions manned with Tirol mountaineers, another against Chechen gangs. When Germans ceased the strategic hights of the Caucasus and it became evident that within days they would get through to the precious oilfields, the Chechens started a revolt. Not for the sake of high treason, but in the name of Allah, of course. But Allah refused to accept their martirdom. Instead, he helped out Russians who managed through an increadible effort and despite uncountable losses to turn the tide: the Germans were driven out, and the Chechen rebellion was quelled. Later Stalin (who himself hailed from the nearby Georgia on the opposite slope of the mountains and whose mentality did  not differ much from that of his Chechen neighbors) took his bloody vengeance upon the rebellious tribes. Massive deportation of Chechens to Kazakhstan ordered by Stalin in 1945 failed to go as planned: an epidemy stroke and decimated the deported people. I do not know if Stalin cared much about turn of events. I am not sure if his barbarianism aimed towards barbarians was justified. The idea of collective punishment belongs to the Old Testament and is incompatible with the New One. The only thing I know for sure is that the Slavic,  Armenian, Jewish and other non-Chechen population of that area should not be saddled with any historical responsibility for Stalin's misdeads. Not by our hands those were carried out. (The deportation was organised and orchestrated by the Home Security Minister, comrade Beria who too had originally came from Georgia, and who too knew and followed the laws of the Caucasus.) On the other hand, it were our fathers who brought crafts and industry to this once barren land of shepards and hunters. They erected schools and a university. And committed an awful sacrilidge by admitting there women to sit and study in the classes with men. And they presented the Chechen people with an alphabet. As it always happens under totalitarian rule though all these presents were handed to the intended beneficiaries without asking for their consent. So when time came, we realised that for too many local people the rule of gun and dagger, the clan allegiance and the law of bloody vendetta were far more dear than alphabet and schools. Especially when vendetta meant profit.

Each and every evening of that eventful year, I met with my friends when we returned from our give-a-ride shifts, or from whatever other work. I deliberately use words "shift" and "work" avoiding the term "job". There were no jobs in the "Republic" in the proper sense of the word. Some oil refineries kept functioning but they were controlled by the local warlords and their clans. Some schools and even hospitals kept working but no employee was getting a salary.

So, every evening I met with my friends to exchange news and rumors. Even though the city had in its better times population around 470 thousand, it seemed that everyone knew or had heard of everyone. Or, at least, had common friends or neighbours. Or worked at the same factory. Our conversations typically started with a certain topic and ended with it:

- Do you happen to know that fellow? The one who used to work at the  nearby shop.

- Yup. His name rings a bell. Why?

- Yesterday a gang broke into his house... They cut the throats of his whole family and his children. And "expropriated" their apartment, of course.

- By the way, did you know that other family next block?

- Yup. That I already know. All gone. Throats cut... Some Chechen villagers are living in their house now.

When an individual or a family were simply asassinated, it was trivial and elevated no interest. More often families were exterminated with cruelty unusual for the modern society: still alive people were fleeced or sliced in pieces, children were raped and then thrown out of the window.

That was chilling. Chilling and, once again, very unusual. In the first weeks of the "Chechen People's Republic of Ichkeria" many preferred not to believe in such stories. But the sacred traditions of tribal society were getting more and more devotees, and the so profitable "people's resistance to nonbelievers and occupants" was rapidly gaining momentum.

Soon no one refused to believe such news, because these news were no longer unusual. They became our everyday reality. People eventually get used to everything. The death was deprived of its aura of fear and became our good neighbor. It was accompanying each of us through the entire daytime. It moved even closer in the night and its embrace became unbearable in the early morning hours when shots and visceral groans were heared in the dark streets of our erstwhile cosy town.

Anyhow, the life was going on. Everyone had to earn his everyday bread. When I said that there were no paid jobs in town, I certainly exaggerated: there existed a major employer, one always in search of working force. That employer never asked for resume or reference letters, but paid damn well and gave benefits in the form of one's and one's family's relative security. The name of that generous employer was "President's Guards" Corp. I knew even some ethnic Russians who eventually submitted to the demands of life and enlisted there. Well-fed, they went around the city with rifles and were regularly getting their high salaries. You see, in this world each individual has a price of his own.

I mean not the salary that we get in green or by cheque from the payroll department. I am talking about that other price which every man establishes himself for his own priceless self. Every individual, thus, wares his selfmade pricetag visible only to our Maker and to his angels and possibly to some rare people who can read other people's hearts and minds. Those Russian-born folks who joined the "Guards" established their price with the highest of precision: 30 silver coins and no cents.

I can’t say that I was always lucky but sometimes I managed to earn for gas, 100 gr. of sausage and a few eggs. Then it was a real feast for us. Half of the sausage went to our black cat Teddy. Actually, he used to eat only bread, sometimes for a better taste we put some marrow spread on it. Maybe some people remember that kind of spread, which used to be sold in ½ litre jars and which nobody liked to buy? It appeared to be a real delicacy at that time! I wish we could understand that during peaceful time. More often we used to survive on potatoes which also were expensive. Very often there were the days when we used to boil one potato and divide it into 3 parts: for breakfast, lunch and dinner. We always shared it with Teddy. Bread was a real savior. No, they were not those wonderful fragrant loaves we used to buy. They were grayish bricks with a terrible rotten smell inside. But the crust was still edible. When it was fresh, it was OK to eat. That was great. One could eat as much as one wished. To buy bread was really extremely problematic. The line was huge near the central bakery long before bread was delivered there. When  it was delivered, the first to buy it were Chechens elbowing and jolting the crowd with swears and shrieks. Then the ones who were stronger followed, and at last such people like us. I don’t know how the Winter Palace was stormed, but the siege of our central bakery was probably even more outrageous. Of course, not all the population suffered from malnutrition like our family. We were simply unlucky. As for my mother-in-law’s neighbors, it was hard to believe that the power had changed. They used to have a fully stuffed fridge with sausages, meat, bacon and caviar. Probably, I would have been in a clover if my mother-in-law were a jewelry store owner. But then I would have been unlucky with my wife, because one cannot have all the luck of the world. Well, it’s better to have a good wife, all the troubles can be overcome together.

Sometimes it was hard to earn enough money for gas, but even in that case to fill in the car was problematic. Not every gas station had gas, and even when it had, the line of numerous cars was seen from the distance. Of course, “djigits” wanted to be the first, very often threatened with guns but all the drivers knew that if there was no gas for the car, there would be no bread on the table. That was why they had to be patient. Once a furious “djigit” left the gas station in his BMW and fired from the car window at the cars waiting for gas in the line. But luckily nobody was injured. He immediately drove away because he understood that the people in that line were also on the verge of fury. I also heard that rather often the incidents like that one used to end fatally.

I used to give a ride to my wife when she finished her classes at school. Also, warned her about danger outside the school limits, told her that she was supposed to wait for me unless I come, however long it would have taken never to go home alone. There were some strange disappearances of Russian girls and women when they disappeared without a trace after having been pulled forcefully into the cars. My wife witnessed an incident when one of her students became an easy prey to a young Chechen drug addict who was pulling her screaming into his black Mercedez. Thanks to an old Chechen man who was passing by and witnessed the scene, the girl was saved. The next day the girl didn’t show up in school and we learned later that  her family moved out of the city. Generally, the number of students had  decreased dramatically. The school Principal Mr. Gelman hired two armed soldiers to protect his school and his car which was parked at school premises. Mainly chechen students studied at school but their parents had to give them rides because  it was not safe even for them. By the end of classes the school premises looked like a big parking lot where the cars used to park on flower beds and sidewalks. The passability of my “armoured” vehicle was of a great advantage. I used to find the best spot closest to the school gate. The owners of BMWs, AUDIs and Mercedezes didn’t take it personally, they knew that that car gave rides to the teacher. So, they were patient.

The fact that my wife was a highly qualified professional of teaching English and was very popular with the students also helped us during that period of hunger. The children of Chechen and Ingush elite were going to study at Universities of England. Many of them were going to leave for the Emirates. The Chechen intelligentsia anticipated a big change for the worse – the revival of savegery with the coming of Dudaev to power – and was not going to go back to the dark ravines where their ancestors lived before. Many Chechen families were going to leave. That’s why private tutoring from time to time helped us to survive. We also opened English courses for  emmigrants which was also a little help although people were not comfortable with money. Sometimes we could afford meat. Of course, it was difficult to be called meat because there were more bones and cartilage, but still it was good for us. The meat lines at the market were the same as the bread lines in our central bakery. And if the salesman didn’t like the buyer, the buyer didn’t get anything. We used to eat nutrias (coypu). Do you happen to know such an animal like a water rat? It was very delicious and nutritious.

In May we experienced death in the family. My father-in-law died. He used to be reticent and tacit lately. He worried a lot about our future but understood he couldn’t change the situation, so endured all the hardships with dignity, he was a true Cossack. Of course, he had reasons to worry. The money which he’d been saving all his life to provide for his old age was impossible to withdraw from the bank account. The banks stopped working. Being a serious, intelligent person he could see perfectly well what was going around. He knew that my wife and I risked our lives if we stayed there, but he failed to persuade my mother-in-law to leave the city. Her selfishness was beyong any limits. Not once had he asked us to dump them and leave the city but we could not do that. Frankly, as for me, I could do that but my wife couldn’t, she was a perfect daughter. At the end of March there was a letter from their son, a Professor. In that letter, he tried to explain that he was unable to accept any of his relatives and he didn’t have enough space in his apartment. He even included a drawing of his apartment with all the furniture and beds as if trying to prove what he had explained. The letter finished with the words: “Don’t come even if you’re threatened with guns!” For a few days my father-in-law was reticent and then suddenly – a stroke. We managed to reach some of our friends, the doctors to help. Somehow or other we found some medicine for IV. My wife did IV for herself. Almost wholly paralyzed, he tried to point to the bookcase with his eyes. My wife and I searched it all over, showed him everything what was there, but he never nodded. So, we never managed to find something he was thinking about. In spite of all our efforts and necessary medication he couldn’t make it. He died in 9 days. Our friend, a wonderful experienced doctor said he hadn’t had any chances but he remained alive only because of our care and the treatment.

Funeral problems were possibly the hardest at that time, which was full of problems and unexpected events. Thanks to my car I managed to arrange everything alone but as a rule two or three people were involved in funeral problems. There was no wood to make a casket from and there was no fabric. With the use of some “incentives” (like `Vodka`) I managed to get in touch with some fellows from the funeral office and they found some wet wood for a casket somewhere. The bed sheets were used as a lining for a casket. Death crtificate, the grave spot at the cemetery, I don’t remember what else, but everything was organized and done. Not many people came to the funerals because many have already left the city, but those who came paid the last tribute to a distinguished man.

My wife and I had to move to their apartment. We sold our bachelor apartment and all the furniture for peanuts (40,000 roubles) to the real estate agent. That amount was so ridiculous that it was hardly enough to pay for the funerals. Also, we had to sell some gold rings and a watch and  had to borrow some money to pay off in full for the funerals.

Our life (if that could be called a life!) went its way. Going to bed, we never knew if we could wake up alive. There was a real “apartment hunt” in the city for more and more “djigits” were coming from the mountains; everyone wanted to live in a big city and own a nice apartment and nobody wanted to pay for it,  they just wanted to get it for free, throwing the tenants out by force.

My mother-in-law’s apartment was in the downtown, right across from the Central Post Office, and it was a nice one.

Anarchy was flourishing. Before going to bed, I used to check my shortgun which was made my friend from a two-barrel 28 calibre rifle and put it closer to my hand. If it was calm outside, we couldn’t sleep because the silence frightened us. But when the sporadic shooting was heard from time to time, we could fall asleep. Frankly, for some time my wife and I used to argue about the kinds of weapons used in shootings. My wife made an excellent progress in distinguishing the kinds of weapons used in shootings in sprite of their variety. She even used to oversmart me in that! Our night sleep reminded us one of the animals in the woods when they sleep but remain vigilant at the same time.

One bright sunny afternoon I ran across a poster on one of the doors of our big apartment complex. It said “Republican Cossacks Society”. I was intrigued. Actually, I started to understand that I didn’t want to die for nothing. Of course, I knew that we all were mortal, but I wanted to give away my life for as higher price as possible. That’s why I started to arm myself a little depending on the circumstances. At least, I always used to carry a dagger and a shortgun in a self-made holster under my jacket. Two cartridges in the barrels are for two chechens, it was not hard to part with life if you were taking somebody else for a company with you. Some of my Chechen friends started to respect me more for carrying a gun. “Djigits” used to be brave when their enemy was not armed. In my case, they called me “a man’s man”. What was strange for me and what I couldn’t understand was how they knew I was carrying a gun. Well, maybe sometimes the sheath was seen from under my jacket. As for the “Republican Cossacks Society”, I wanted to join it. Started to talk to some friends but came to a sad conclusion: everybody was reluctant to fight. The long years of Soviet era were not wasted. Only one of my friends, the one who helped me with a shortgun, sided with me. He also used to be “always ready”.

I remembered that my ancestors were Cossacks, dignified, independent people and I became ashamed. My ancestors used to fight even without any guns. In the besieged Cossack villages there were no prisoners, because they fought heroically till the last soldier died. The oldest and the youngest fought equally selflessly. And what about us?! No words… My mother being a young girl of 17 went to the WWII, defended my city Grozny, and what about me??? The enemy was in the city killing people and we all were playing a civilized game. Maybe it was called a cowardice? Maybe the Cossacks would act differently?

I came up to some floor of the building. There was a big empty meeting room and rows of chairs. In the corner, there was a table and a man was browsing through some papers. I greeted him and introduced myself. The man seemed to be glad to see me there, shook my hand and asked how he could help me. I decided not to beat around the bush and asked him straight about the real action which Cossacks could take in such a situation. The man looked disappointed and started to explain to me that it was not their concern, that there was a government to deal with the problem. And at that time we all needed to concentrate on Ataman election campaign which was very important for that time. I understood immediately that all my hopes were in vain. I even didn’t want to finish the conversation. Went out onto the street, looked around: the sun was shining brightly, the weather was awesome, just live and be happy!

Well, OK, I’ll try to…

1993…

I settled down eventually. Last fall I understood that the way out should be found from the existing situation and staying in Grozny was useless. Anyway, we would be killed. One of my acquaintances advised me to look for a job somewhere around Zagorsk, Moscow region at one of the health resorts there. I went there to look around and succeeded. The Director understood all the profits from hiring me as an electrician inspite of my being from another town. I also worked as a driver, a stoker and a  security – all at the same time and all for one salary, but I discussed some very important points with the Director. Every month right after my pay I used to buy a roundtrip train ticket leaving some money for food for myself and also bought groceries for my wife and  my mother-in-law at our canteen. Of course, it wasn’t to much but my backpack was almost full and for my folks it was really a big deal. As for me, I used to survive on canned tuna and bread, sometimes I was treated to some food by the canteen cook, and some friends  also used to invite me over to dinner. As a matter of fact, I was absent from my job for about a week but the Director didn’t say a word for he was a good  and a compassionate person and understood my problem.

It was terribly hard for me to leave my wife and to go to another city to work. It took rather a long time for me to decide on it, but there was no choice. I had to risk. As for my risk, it was minimal, but to know that you were safe and your wife was there… I wouldn’t wish it even to my enemy. Of course, before my departure I did everything I could about her safety. I taught her how to use a shortgun, made her understand the inevitable: if somebody broke in, to shoot immediately. When I tested my shortgun, I was satisfied how it could easily shoot through a 1.5” thick rail and the bullet even ran through the next one in the middle. That’s why I knew that if to shoot from the apartment, it would easily shoot through the door and into the person who was behind it. Also, I took into consideration the “psychological” factor in “dzigits”: if the shooting came from an apartment, they would unlikely come inside. I also trained my wife how to fight inside the apartment,  where to position herself safely in the pier if the granade would be thrown through the window. Well, and at last, if in case they would succeed in getting through,  to use one’s own grenade. One of our chechen friends bought a grenade by my request at the local market though he knew perfectly well  whom it would be targeted at. I asked him to buy exactly that kind of granade because I knew it’s effect very well and considered to use it only as the last means in order not be captured and not to die alone. It was ridiculous that all my life I used to give flowers to girls but I had to give a weapon to my own wife and train her how kill enemies and herself…

 Now I was almost 100% sure in my wife’s safety in the apartment and our chechen neighbors also suspected that there might be a surprise, so only some accidental bandits could have tried. But the main danger was the street. Because my wife had to walk to her job inspite of my ban. There are two kinds of kinky people: they are teachers and doctors, for them their serving duties are above common sense. Because of this I was very nervous at my job and all my thoughts were there, with my wife. That’s why I counted the days before I could go there. Of course, the trains were not the same as they used to be in peaceful time. Every trip was a gamble. On the route from Moscow to Rostov everything was more or less calm, but from Rostov  the uncertainty ruled. Robberies and murders on the trains were rather common. The armed bandits never gave it a second thought, just because they were stronger and more powerful. There was no protection, the police were not interested in anything. The conductors on the trains preferred to stay in their compartments and never got out except of locking or unlocking the doors at some stations. Rocks and bullets were frequent through the windows, that’s why it was desirable to keep the blinds down. Actually, there were lots of troubles, practically every trip was dangerous, but I was lucky, even the fragments of a bullet broken window glass didn’t hurt me too much.

At home I used to get behind the wheel to earn some money. With every coming day it became more and more dangerous. More drivers used to be killed and more cars hijacked. Some chechens “give-a-ride guys” just like me also became easy prey. One day I peeked into the window of my neighbor’s car (his name was Movlady) and didn’t see his usual grenade which used to be on the passenger’s seat. I was worried because it might have fallen somewhere behind the seat and could explode. Movlady was a good guy and didn’t rub shoulders with chechen bandits who only robbed and killed. I decided to stay for a while waiting for him.

At last he showed up. I asked what happened and advised to search the car carefully. He  laughed and said that he’d traded it for a “Makarov” gun. I was very surprised and asked him how he had managed it, because the grenade price was 5.000 roubles, and the “Makarov” gun price was 60.000 roubles. His story was full of humor and jokes. It turned out that he used to keep the grenade just  between his legs while driving for the passenger not to see it but in case of emergency it could be easily reached.

At nightime he was stopped by some chechens,  there were three of them. They asked to take them to the bus terminal. When they started to come closer to the bus terminal, he was asked to turn to a small, isolated street away from the bus terminal which led to a cemetery. The driver refused to drive there and explained that if they wanted to go there, they could just take a walk. One of the passengers pulled out his gun, loaded it and pointed to the driver and they all started to laugh nagging him by saying that he was too cowardly for a chechen. He had to pull out the pin of his grenade. The look of their eyes  changed immediately, there was fear there. Now it was the driver’s turn to laugh, because in case he let it go, there would be no survivors inside the car. Of course, the bandits said it was a joke, that they would pay and leave, but he said that it was his turn to make a joke. He agreed to let them go after searching their pockets and confiscating the weaponry and wallets they had. As a result, he had a gun, 2 daggers and the wallets but without money and IDs, having mentioned that his relatives would find them, just in case, but he kept the gun. By saying that he got into the car and left but he couldn’t find the pin inside the car for the light inside was rather poor. So, he didn’t want to risk. Having noticed a ditch away from the road, he dropped the grenade there. That was the way how the trade in took place. As for me, I highly evaluated his method of self defense and some time later even used it, not once. Luckly, I didn’t have to pull out the pin. But I can’t say I was lucky all the time.

One day I was giving a ride to my friend in a microregion (a remote part of the city).I pulled over a small street market to drop him off and was supposed to wait for him to finish his business. Suddenly I noticed an elderly “jackal” in civilian clothes unsteadily heading to my direction. It was absolutely clear that there was nothing good to expect of such an encounter. I looked around carefully, it seemed like nobody paid attention to me. Loaded my shortgun just in case and put it between the seats. He came up to my car.

- You, kike! Take me to the sixth Microregion.

 I started to talk with him as if he were a mental patient trying not to anger him.

 - You see, pal. I’ve run out of gas and have enough  only to reach my garage. So,  I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.By the way, I’m not a kike, I’m a Cossack, if you want to know.

 - I told you, kike, if you don’t  take me there, I’ll drop a grenade into your f…g car and you’ll die!

I tried to look at him more attentively, maybe he was saying the truth, maybe in one of his big pockets he had a grenade or maybe it was simply a threat, he just had an apple there. Anyway, it didn’t look like a gun. How on earth could I know?! Well, of course, it would be hard to escape from “Zapor”, that was true. One more time I looked around. Nobody was seemed to watch us. That was good. I put my shortgun into a vertical position with the barrels to the car door and pointed it directly to his stomach.

- You really need to know the difference between kikes and Cossacks. And now you go away from my car facing me and even don’t try to move aside. Mind, I shoot perfectly well.

 He sobbered up very quickly and his face became pale.

 - Yeah… You are not  a  kike, OK. But I’ll catch you one day and…

I started the car with my left hand and slowly drove away. Twenty, thirty meters more driving with a shortgun out of the car door. It was very inconvenient to drive and to hold the gun at the same time but I was lucky to escape. Looking into the rear view window, I saw him standing motionlessly.

Thanks God. It was my lucky day.

In March I stated categorically to my mother-in-law: either we sell our apartment and leave, or I take my wife by force to Zagorsk. I told her if  she liked to stay and get killed  it was  her choice, but we didn’t want to get killed there. She understood how serious I was inspite of her whining. I also warned her not to influence my wife’s decision, not to get on her nerves, it was all too hard for my wife. Enough is enough. Walking on the street was a gamble, you never knew where you could get shot. Public transportation started to die, too. The glass windows of the streetcars were broken, in some spots there were bullet holes. To reach the local market, the only source of groceries, was a risky gamble, too. Of course, at first sight everything around looked almost peaceful, but the stootings could start at any moment because there were more armed men on the streets than unarmed ones, and moreover, there were enough drug addicts among the armed ones. I called my boss in Zagorsk, explained the situation and got his approval for my delay.

It was extremely hard to find a buyer. Everything depended on the safety. But after a month of intensive search we found one among our half-acquaintances. I tried to tell him how I hated surprises and how I always tried to be “ready”, he seemed to have understood. We agreed that he would pay us on the day of our departure and in return he would get all the papers because our apartment was already privatized on my wife’s name and all the necessary papers were ready. I charged a security deposit and started to get ready for the depatrure. The main problem was the container but to find it  was next to impossible. As for my mother-in-law, she didn’t want to part with her stuff, so I had to solve the problem. Using some of my friends’ leads and money, I managed to find a small container  but the price for it was exorbitant. To load all the belongings into it  was really very hard for all my friends were already gone. Somehow of other, I managed to ask some young guys who still stayed there to help me load the container. Of course, I had to pay for the job done. Train tickets also appeared to be a big problem. But we managed it. On the day of our departure, the buyer came over and paid us only half of the money we agreed on. Taking into consideration the security deposit I charged him,  I got only half of the money. He started to complain that all his money was in some kind of business venture and that he didn’t have cash. I understood that that was all we could get from him and nothing more we could ask about.

So it happened. We agreed that we would hand him over the papers in return for his money in Moscow. One more problem – our family cat Teddy. We couldn’t neuter him in time although we searched for a qualified vet for a long time. His mating became really a big problem and we understood that it would be impossible to take him and my disabled mother-in-law on a train to Moscow.One of our acquaintances who owned a nearby small house agreed to foster him. We used to pay visits there seeing him, often bringing over some of his favorite snacks. In two weeks he had changed a lot, got used to outdoor life and activities and didn’t seem to recognize us. He also was a part of our life and however regretful it could have been, we had to part with him forever.

The container arrived and we almost started to load it when my mother-in-law became hysterical. She refused to leave without the remaining money, she just wanted to get paid in full. I finally lost my temper. All the day I had my hands full with managing our departure, and her stupid trick seemed to take the wind out of my sails. I understood I was at the end of my rope, but couldn’t help it. Having pulled out my gun, I yelled at her like crazy threatening to kill her. My fury was beyong my control. Thanks to my wife she stopped me at that moment seizing my arm. My mother-in-law got dumb with fear and immediately stopped her hysteria. After that everything went smoothly. My helpers were loading the container with all the stuff which my mother-in-law wanted to take, but as it appeared later almost all that stuff was rubbish we threw away later in Zagorsk. We hoped that the container would reach its destination safely, yes, we had to hope. We didn’t have any choice at that time. Some pieces of furniture were left and we had to call some of our acquaintances to come over and take them if they needed. The mother-in-law started to haggle with the buyers, she wanted to get as much money as she could. But as for me, I would have donated an those pieces of furniture to people who needed them because I knew people didn’t have almost any money. Inspite of my protests and interference, she managed to make some money, but I don’t think it really made her richer.

At night, the car which ordered our buyer arrived and we went to the railway station. Our compartment appeared to be occupied by some passengers, so the buyer and myself had to settle  down that problem. Of course, he was interested in our departure as soon as possible. At last, we got into our compartment, locked the door and departed. Our Grozny life period had finished luckily. We knew that we were leaving our native land forever, the land where we lived most part of our lives, the land where our relatives and friends were burried.

When we arrived in Moscow the next day it was reported in the news that chechen tanks started to storm Grozny and several buildings were destroyed. With the money we had, we didn’t manage to buy even a bachelor apartment, thanks God I was entitled to an apartment at my job place – the health resort. And our life went on…  

EPILOGUE

What happened later?

The fate of refugees in their own country is one of the millions. Wandering in Moscow Region, forceful emmigration and the “farewell” of Eltsin’s regime as the deprivation of Russian citizenship… Some years later – Canadian citizenship for which a high price of Western “democracy” had been paid, and eventually life and work in Korea where I wrote this story.

(November, 2000)