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English Language Page Tanya Lokshina, Moscow Helsinki Group Seeing me off to the Chechen elections, my husband shrugged, humming the opening to one of our favorite songs, "Moses has immersed into the Jordan-river and nothing can stop him at this point.”He was more or less right. My friends tried actively to dissuade me, "It is dangerous, there are combatants, Kadyrov’s men, terrorist acts, what not! It is nothing but worthless risk!" Their arguments were resounding with pathos, then later, with fatigue. Finally, they also shrugged. “Risk” was not the strongest of their words, the heaviest by far was “worthless.” Why go to these elections, when there are no elections in fact? Why watch Akhmat-Hadji Kadyrov, elected by the Kremlin on behalf of the Chechen people, become a fully-fledged President of the republic? Why be a conscious spectator to this grotesque show? What was the answer to these questions? Probably, the following: Responsibility for this irreversible and senseless act lies with all of us — we are involved in it, regardless of our will. And probably this feeling of being part of what takes place in your country, in your state, does not allow you to close your eyes to that shameful performance or turn your back to it. Several people — our team — were certain of one thing: we must watch all of THIS and we must tell about it to others. The opportunity to witness the October 5 events will not make us feel less ashamed of what is happening in Chechnya. Yet, we will do whatever little something we can. We will watch the elections in all their attire of alleged democracy. Maybe, it will be more difficult this way for others to accept the official propaganda at its face value or — simply and conveniently —ignore what is happening. * * * On October 4, we left Nazran for Grozny. A total of six people from the Moscow Helsinki Group are going to Chechnya for the elections. We want to see different places, so as to create as full a picture of the situation as possible. Two persons from our small group have already reached the Shali district. Another two will spend the entire voting day in Grozny, try to visit all the polling stations in town, and talk to voters. And finally, another colleague and myself, we plan to spend the night on the 5th in Grozny and then go to a range of localities in the republic. Strangely enough, the journey to Grozny takes us only a little more than an hour. The Rostov—Baku highway is completely deserted. No military transport, no civil vehicles. Just two weeks previously, traveling along the same route, I was amazed at the lively traffic, watched military conveys pass by, wondered at the heavy APCs riding in the middle of the road and forcing tiny cars into the gutter. Today — silence, emptiness, calm. This graveyard serenity makes one feel slightly under. We enter Grozny. My abstract “feeling under” turns into undisguised anxiety. A couple of weeks ago, life was bursting forth in the ruined town. The streets were crowded, cars honked round the market square, cafes were packed with people, groups of youngsters were wandering in the streets. Now — a dead dessert, lit by an unexpectedly bright October sun. We stop at the square with a fountain. It is always crowded, which is why our local colleagues suggested we meet there. If either group gets delayed, the others would not be too obvious in the promenading crowd. Only there is no crowd today. In fact — there is no one else in the square but us. And we still have an hour to wait, the journey having been unexpectedly short. We seize the opportunity to take a walk in the streets. It is quiet and empty. Nothing but sun and dust. Our intentions to talk to passers-by, to ask what they think about the elections of the next day, vanish into thin air. There are no passers-by. There is no one to talk to. We walk in silence. The house walls are all covered in election posters. Compared to my visit two weeks ago, some progress is evident — one can see not only Kadyrov’s portraits, although his are naturally predominant, most impressive with their excellent polygraphy. Out of small portraits on black and white leaflets, the obstreperous Khanchukaev, who never uttered a meaningful phrase during the entire campaign, stares at us. With a winner’s gleam in their eyes, Saduev and Biybulatov look down from their portraits slapped on the fences. A few times, I notice the faces of Buraev and Bugaev, already familiar from my previous visit. But evidently, their posters are rare. I remember a story that a friend from Grozny, visiting Moscow on business just a couple of days ago, told me laughingly when she came by to see me as I was getting ready to leave for the Caucasus — apparently, the day she had set out for Moscow portraits of other candidates had appeared alongside the colorful posters of Kadyrov’s. Obviously, the Election Commission of the Chechen Republic decided to prepare the capital for the arrival of hordes of Western journalists and Moscow bosses. It is hot. My colleagues are dying for coffee. We come by a tiny summer café. A blue tent provides an escape from the sun. Synthetic velvet, white chairs. The woman behind the counter is visibly happy to have us — business is poor today. There are only two other customers besides us. We ask why it’s so empty, why the town is deserted. "What’s happened?" "Well, you know, the elections…" The woman brings thin sweet coffee with milk and ice cream with chocolate shavings in a misty thick glass. In the background — a small yard, spared by the war, looking very much like many a Moscow yard. Dusty, not yet yellow leaves on tallish trees, a simple children’s swing, two old women chatting animatedly at the threshold. It seems you are back in your childhood again and suddenly your heart grows warm and peaceful. It only takes to cast a glance to the left, however, to brush away the misplaced feeling of serenity. A huge hollow is gaping in the wall of the neighboring, utterly shattered building — this makes you suddenly remember where you are, who you are and why you came here. We chat with the woman at the café about how she is not planning to vote and nobody is planning to vote, because everything has been decided beforehand and “whatever we do, they’ll count the votes without us, in any way they want them.” Then, we get going, heading to the central market square in the hope of finding some people to talk to. However, the market is deserted as well. Many stands are empty. Behind the other sit subdued traders. A few customers pass by and then — you just wait. “Where are the people?” I asked an elderly woman. “What are you talking about — what people? Everybody left. It’s election time. You know yourself. They are afraid of terrorist acts. There were so many rumors, and they said it on TV and in the newspapers — it will be bad on the 5th of October. It is terrifying. I myself am leaving for Ingushetia first thing in the morning.” "So you are not coming to the market tomorrow?" "What are you talking about? There is no market tomorrow! They ordered it closed, to avoid anything happening here." "What about the voting?" "Why should I vote? Everything is clear, anyway. The President is elected already. But it was not us who elected him. Moscow elected him." We move along the stalls. Everywhere, traders say the same. People chose to leave. There is no sense in voting. What elections are we talking about, when there is nobody to choose between? These elections will not bring peace, either. There is nothing to hope for. In the late afternoon we take the car again to get to where we are supposed to spend the night. The place is in the suburbs. On the way there, we stop at a small street market to buy something to eat — for us and our hosts. This is the only way to thank them for taking us in. We talk to the people there. We hear again everything we were told in the town center. Our driver is getting nervous. "It’s seven already. We must get going. We won’t be there before dark. Hurry up, hurry up!" We grab our bags and jump into the car. Our hostess meets us at the door and smiles in welcome. “Come in, come in!” Yet, she avoids meeting our eyes. We rush to apologize for the trouble — we are quite many, the place is not big. The hostess retorts with the standard “guests are always welcome!” and instantly plunges into a hasty discussion in Chechen with our driver— a relative of hers. By her tone of voice I can see that something is not OK, we are not welcome here. It’s dark outside already and it’s sheer madness to ride to the other end of the town, where allegedly there is another place, where we could stay. I look questioningly at our driver, then — at the woman. She puts her hand on my shoulder and says in a hurried whisper: "You see, it’s dangerous here, very dangerous. You were seen in the street. What happens if suddenly they arrive to take you in during the night? They come to take in our people, let alone strangers. Not to speak of journalists. You are journalists, aren’t you! But I’ll give you something to eat. Then, I’ll take you to the Temporary Settlement Center— it’s right opposite us. There are guards there and everything. I’ll arrange for you to have a room. My nephew works as a guard there. There will be only one room for all of you, but you will be taken good care of. Otherwise, what shall we do, if anything happens? Please, excuse me, but it’s been very restless here the past month. Even yesterday they were shooting here the whole night… And there are all those people walking around..." I go to my companions, who are smoking to the side, and explain the situation. We have no choice at all. We better go to the Center, although the prospect of having the guards “take good care” of us is not exactly alluring. We cross the yard, walk a short distance and there we are at the Center. A new block of the dormitory-type residences. The toilet and several sinks are positioned outside — a few yards away from the entrance. Nearby — a couple of kiosks for bread, Coke, cigarettes, chocolates. On the horizon — the highlights of a burning sunset. Bats dive around, looking like tiny swallows from a distance. Our hostess hugs a youngish guard and pointing at us, tell him how things stand. My companions light cigarettes anew. I look around sheepishly and take a drag myself, carefully covering the cig with my hand. Women are not supposed to smoke here, all the more — in the street… The guard approaches us. A handsome young man in a black uniform and bullet-proof vest. Waving his rifle-gun, as normally he would wave his hand, he says hurriedly and softly: "Please, excuse me. She vouched for you. So I’ll trust you. But you need to show me some documents — I need to take down the data. Otherwise the others will not let you in. Everybody is afraid here. Such are the times. Security is tightened in the whole republic. For a whole month now we have been receiving signals and intelligence data — there are plans for terrorist acts. A couple of days ago eight people arrived at the neighboring hostel, in uniforms, with guns. Said they were a patrol. The guards — two guys I know, opened the door and the group beat them up, almost killed them. Took the guns and said they’ll be back and next time they’ll burn down the dormitory." "And who were they? Who came?" — asks a colleague of mine. “If anyone knew, they would not be coming again!” the guard retorts. "Let’s hurry up. I’ll take down the data from your documents and get you in the room. After 9 p.m. no one is allowed in or out. So — toilet, washing — you know…" "What? A curfew at the dormitory? So early?" "It’s only for now. This week. Before, the doors stayed opened until 10 —11 p.m. But in the current situation..." We climb the stairs to the third floor. We can hear voices, but there are few people in the halls, and seemingly, the dormitory is quite empty. "It’s not very packed, the dormitory, is it?” we ask the guard. "Why not?" He seems offended. "Some 700 people live here. All the rooms are taken." "It does not look like it." "Of course it doesn’t! What do you want? There are about 150 people here now. No more than that." "Where are the others?" "What do you mean — where? Left, went to stay with relatives — those who could go to Ingushetia did so, others went to the villages. To wait for the elections to pass." We settle in for the night. There are four bunks in our room and a small balcony. We go out there. Everyone is tired and somehow in low spirits. We stay there for an hour or so, watching the black star-studded southern sky. Only the dogs’ barking breaks the silence, as well as occasional gunfire and artillery. My colleagues, experienced in such matters, discuss with great interest the shooting’s source and whereabouts. I am reviewing our itineraries for the next day. We arrived to watch the Chechen elections. But the locals chose to leave, rather than stay for their own elections. There is no doubt whatever that elections will take place without them. Yet this is all so strange, ladies and gentlemen. And perhaps it should not be like that in this best of all possible worlds? Or you think it should? * * * Early in the morning on October 5 we are back in the center of Grozny. There are still no people in the streets. Everything is again deserted, quiet and anxious. Two people from our group take the car that is to drive them around the polling stations in Grozny. Myself and another colleague, we set out for the country — Samashky — Achkhoi-Martan — Valeryk — Gekhi — Urus-Martan — Argun — Tolstoy-Yurt. We move from one place to the other. We try to talk to the rare passers-by — they answer in mono-syllables, “Yes, I have voted,” and haste away. We visit polling stations. Everywhere the picture is the same. The rooms are impeccable. All the documents that are supposed to be displayed hang neatly on whitewashed walls. No campaign posters for any of the candidates. The heads of precinct election commissions — smiling women in colorful headgear, the idols of Soviet films of the 50-ies — welcome us courteously. We are shown everything, we are told everything. The polling booths are properly furnished. The voters’ lists look impeccable. We do encounter minor violations from time to time. Sometimes, two or three people go together into the booth. Or one person brings five passports for his whole family and tries to vote for all of them. But this is nothing particularly grave. Only voters are not at all numerous. No more than a couple of people at a polling station, whereas preliminary turnout figures are very high. "How come — you report that 29% of voters already cast their vote by 1.30 p.m., yet we see no activity at the polling station?" "What do you mean? You just came in the wrong time. Had you been here an hour ago, you would have seen! We were so hard put to cope. Now everybody went home. People have chores waiting them — the field, the vegetable gardens. In three hours or so, there will be crowds again. It’s just that you picked a wrong time for your visit." We stop in one village at 10.30, in another — at noon, and so we drove on till the evening. Every time was the “wrong time.” Everywhere the voters just went away and the next batch has not turned up yet. Our two colleagues who stayed in Grozny— they traveled throughout the city, did not miss a single polling station, and they had a similar experience. Desperate, the two of them stayed put at one of the polling stations for half an hour and counted all voters that came in. The count came up to FIVE people. Somehow, not convincing. Probably, again, their timing was wrong… The pair of us returned to Grozny in the evening, after driving about the whole day, depressed, hardly in the best of spirits. Everything was clear about the much proclaimed turnout. No doubts whatever. But how were we to prove it? Our less than cheerful thoughts hanged in the car lie a dark cloud — impenetrable. To break the oppressive silence I offer my “frontline” friend to bet on the turnout figures and election results. “Well, what would be your figures?” he joins in without enthusiasm. “86% turnout and 82% — for Kadyrov,” is my random shot. Next day, it turns out to be a shot in the bull’s eye. At the official press conference the Chairman of the Chechnya Election Commission, Abdul-Kerim Arsakhanov proudly announced that according to preliminary estimates (at 3 p.m. data was processed from 77% of the polling stations) the turnout figure stood at 85% and the uncontested leader in the elections was Akhmat-Hadji Kadyrov, for whom 81.6% of voters cast their vote. So this is the sort of performance put up by the Grozny stage-managers. In such cases, the famous Stanislavsky used to say, “I don’t believe it.” I can only repeat after the great man, “I don’t believe it.” Do you? Back |
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