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English Language Page Tanya Lokshina, Moscow Helsinki Group Only a couple of weeks after the “first President of the Chechen Republic” was elected by his people, all in accordance with the Chechen Constitution and the Law “On the Election of the President of the Chechen Republic” approved by the March referendum, Akhmat-Hadji Kadyrov was speaking in Geneva, at the hearings on Russia of the UN Human Rights Committee. In his very emotional speech, the former mufti repeatedly underscored that it was the Chechen people of all peoples who made their ultimate choice having returned Chechnya to the Russian Federation, and having elected Akhmat-Hadji himself President. And he, being President “will stop at nothing” for the sake of the Chechen people. In conclusion he uttered an ambiguous phrase, “We are Russian citizens. And I will uphold … the rights of the Chechen Republic.” The promise of the newly elected leader to stop at nothing and his multiple reminders that Chechnya is the region of the Russian Federation were permanently on my mind. Two months and two days after the Kadyrov’s elections, Chechens as well as other citizens of Russia were supposed to take part in the federal parliamentary elections. Will this subject of the Russian Federation join in with the other 88 in one ecstatic motion? Will crowds of Chechens rush to polling stations to vote for Putin’s creation, the “United Russia” party? Or they will get the “United Russia” imposed upon them, which was the case with Akhmat-Hadji Kadyrov on October 5, 2003? And again —deserted streets, empty polling stations, abandoned market places, not a single car on the roads? I am not a very emotional person but the October election impressions shall be with me forever — such things are never forgotten. And it is not only the elections that matter. Two months is a sufficient lapse of time for the former Acting President to display his presidential abilities. What’s going to change within these two months? What Kadyrov’s eagerness to stop at nothing will be translated into? And what will be the reaction to all that on the part of the people exhausted by the war? * * * I heard a lot in Chechnya on the eve of October 5. About the inevitability of a mass riot inevitable if Kremlin imposed the hated Kadyrov on the republic. And about the equally inevitable enhanced activity of the combatants. And about the consolidation of all anti-Kadyrov forces. And at the same time — about depleted resources and forces of the combatants. About the inevitability of population’s massive exodus. About the impossibility to live with such a “president” or counter him… Both scenarios appeared to be equally feasible. Apprehension dominated the tense atmosphere prior to the October elections. “Something-is-going-to happen-something-is-going-to-happen…” was the message flashing in people’s eyes… October 4 and 5 saw a lot of shooting which started right after the sunset. During the night the shooting turned into a continuous roar. Rare and short pauses even caused some uneasiness. “Let-Kadyrov-die-a-President-something-will-happen-it-cannot-fail-to-happen-in-a-little-while…” The time was passing but nothing of that kind was happening. The wave of violence did not ebb away but it was not mounting either. News reports were featuring the same roadside explosions, clashes between “federals” and combatants, combatants against “federals,” combatants against Kadyrov’s personal guard, murders of Chechen policemen by “unidentified gunmen wearing camouflage uniforms,” killings of common people by “unidentified people wearing camouflage” and not wearing camouflage, people vanishing into thin air. Generally speaking — routine reports as usual. Kadyrov was making speeches. He was demanding earliest withdrawal of the federal forces. He was making promises. He promised compensations. He promised to rebuild the republic. He promised to investigate all the crimes committed since the early 90th. He promised to do away with the combatants. He promised the New Year without Basaev. But the federal forces remained where they had been. Compensation payments were suspended rather than accelerated. And this became a target for Moscow audits. Crimes still await investigation. One-legged Basaev was still hobbling at large. From time to time, our colleges from Chechnya would give me a call. To a trite question, “What’s happening down there?” I would get “Nothing special, everything is as usual.” I’d say, “How come —nothing has changed?! It just cannot be the case!.” “Come to Chechnya and you will see.” O.K. I’ll be there for the parliamentary elections. For sure.” * * * The familiar check-point “Kavkaz-1,” early morning of December 6. I noticed some changes right here, on the Chechen border, on the eve of the parliamentary elections. The slogan “Glory to Russia — Russian National Unity,” a bit blurred from autumn rains, is now complemented by a fancy-looking new one, “Any Road Shall Succumb to One Who Travels Hand in Hand with United Russia!” I bumped into problems from the very onset. It must be very early morning that made my face very obviously suggest that I am not the one to go hand in hand with the United Russia… Journalist’s credentials from the Presidential Administration, a nice-looking duly stamped little laminated card with a Russian flag on it, which had literally saved myself and a few colleagues from the law enforcement people during Kadyrov’s elections, unexpectedly triggers enhanced vigilance on the part of guards: “So, you are a correspondent, aren’t you? Correspondents must have be accompanied by personal security guards.” “I am my own personal guard.” “That's not the way.” “O.K. In that case, my driver is my guard.” “Journalists’ guards must be either police or FSB.” While I was monotonously explaining that I hadn’t been warned and that as far as I know hiring police or federal security personnel as private bodyguards hadn’t quite become a common practice, and no official press-tour with proper guards, as in October, was now available in any case, a stoutly built, plain looking, short bulge-eyed woman wearing odd blue-gray uniform got out of the booth. Her heavy eyelid make-up matched her uniform perfectly. The woman was watching me suspiciously. She came up very closely to and also started explaining that correspondents could not get through. Absolutely no way. “It’s for your security, by the way.” “No need, thank you. I can take care of myself.” The scene lasted for about twenty minutes and it was only the great power of being a nuisance that got the upper hand in my case. “Please, let me through, it is not a big deal,” — I was singing like a fouled street-organ, — “If you don’t, I will get through anyway. It is not my first visit. There are other roads to Chechnya. You better let me in right now or else I will explain to the whole of Russia that the ‘Kavkaz-1’ personnel disrespect freedom of speech and persecute journalists.” Not that I managed to impress them with such trivial warnings… For the past four years, the “Kavkaz-1” had gained such a reputation that my humble threats appeared to be a negligible contribution to it. Guards themselves had gotten used to this reputation. I doubt it very much that I managed to touch their hearts either — they just got sick and tired of me, and that’s that. “All right then. We shall make an exñeption for you. Go ahead.” With a sigh of relief I got into the car. While passing through the check-point I asked the driver, “What is this woman all about? There were no female officers at the ‘Kavkaz’ before.” “Apparently you haven’t been here awhile.” “Two months.” “I see… Women appeared at check-points about a months ago. To search girls passing through check-points. They are afraid of female terrorists.” And people are saying nothing’s changed… But possibly those are trifles. * * * We are entering Grozny. The driver turns on the radio. We learn that a special operation was carried out to reveal criminals among the local law enforcement (the so-called “were-wolves in police uniform”). 5,000 employees of various law-enforcement agencies were inspected. The inspection exposed 250 people who used “amateur” IDs (“amateur” probably being a local euphemism for a forged ID, though I am not sure…) Most unfortunately, no bandits were disclosed. After that the radio reports that Kadyrov presented a five-year plan to rebuild Grozny which will result in renovated Grozny and newly-built neighborhoods. (“In four years there will be a garden-city here,” as a famous Russian revolutionary poet once promised… Well, in five years… but who’s counting?). The road is well-known. I am looking from left to right. Same despicable ruins as two months before. Maybe they patched something, maybe they put a couple of new bricks somewhere?. I had an illusion that Kadyrov as President — for the sake of self-promotion and propriety — would busy himself with renovation of Grozny. To talk about establishing peaceful life while the capital remains in ruins… is kind of queer. Illusions get dashed within minutes — not a piece of flesh appeared on the city’s carcass…They may have been developing the five-year plan during the two months, but they never got down to real work… Apart from rebuilding houses there is such a thing as those notorious compensations for the lost housing and property. 300,000 and 50,000 roubles respectively. 14 billion roubles were allocated for the purpose from the federal budget. So far about 27 millions have reached Chechnya. Kadyrov, who had met with Putin shortly before October 5 in Sochi, provided sound explanation to the “Elder Brother” that he had issued orders that “nothing should be stolen.” On the eve of Kadyrov’s elections first compensations started to be paid. Of course, with 30% or 50% kickback to appropriate bureaucrats. But a theft is a theft, and a bribe is something different. People are used to paying for favors. They are happy to get at least something. Rough but effective pre-election move. But right after the October elections those payments stopped. What’s the hurry? The people had been waiting for a long time and they will wait some more . For, say another five years. Indeed, a five-year period is the best term. We are so used to it… * * * Now off to Shatoi. It is a long way. The road is definitely not what you’d call flat, and in some places it is reduced to nothing. In the past, while in Chechnya, I had seen mountains only from afar. Now I am overwhelmed by their surreal beauty which no language could express. A breathtaking abyss, ancient towers on steep slopes… It’s stunning. Makes one forget right away about the steep bumpy road, inevitable APCs at the edges, huge helicopters diving at us, countless soldiers. We keep on moving, higher and higher. I can see nothing but the mountains. Reality catches up with me only at the approaches to Shatoi. Namely, at the Tambov check-point. I am regaining my conscience and my voice, “Good God! What’s that?!” It is just a check-point manned by Tambov police. Something is out of the ordinary here. Not the structure itself — which is normal, but the glorious guards. No, they did not rush at passing vehicles. Nor did they shoot or threaten anyone. Nor were they hampering movement. They did nothing that we saw at the “Kavkaz-1.” They didn't even demand money. If they had been doing that the situation would have been quite ordinary. Everything is simple and clear in that respect. Everybody knows that at such-and-such check-point they charge ten roubles a person, 50 roubles per vehicle. Insurgents if they show up have to pay in hard currency. But Basaev should keep clear of the place —unless he’s ready to go bankrupt… Tambov guys, on the contrary were extremely complacent. Because they were drunk as monkeys. So loaded, in fact, that Homo Erectus was too much a word to describe them. They could hardly stand, let alone walk. Soldiers is hardly the word either. What language could adequately picture four men wearing dirty camouflage pants and underwear tops with bulging expressionless eyes who fulfill their patriotic duty in the mountains? One is still carrying his rifle under his arm, other rifles are dropped on the ground. “Good God!” My companion comments from the back seat: “They are not ‘God,’ they are the celebrated defenders of the Motherland. Anyway, these guys are meek, they do not bully anyone. I wish all the check-point were like that!. There is a commandant Bondarenko here in Shatoi. He really drinks like a fish. When drunk he often closes down the check-point. In September a wild bore was blown to pieces by a mine. Bondarenko’s drunk response was to shut down the check-point for three days. And it was — either walk or wait for a miracle.” A welcoming greeting hangs over the check-point,“Tambov Police Wishes You a Happy Jorney.” And further down the road there is a sign “The distance to Tambov is 1781 km.” O.K., fellows, you’d better walk home through the forest all those kilometers. This Tambov wolf is no friend of the Chechen wolf… but he is no obstacle either…” * * * Having returned to Grozny from Shatoi we learned that the day before two village administration heads had disappeared in the Vedeno district. And today, while we were admiring the beauty of the mountains two young men were arrested in the village of Duba-Yurt. One of them had been amnestied before… And Grozny is watching operation “Retaliation” — for the past few days whole neighborhoods have been surrounded, people get stopped for ID-checks. It is a search for combatants. And for people who have any connections with them. That means they can grab anyone at random. Special attention is given to young women. * * * On December 7 we left home at eight in the morning to pay visits at candidates' headquarters and polling stations. After the recent presidential elections, it is a routine procedure in my case. Everything looks different today. Two months ago, Grozny appeared to be a desert — no people, no vehicles. You could feel the tense silence. The city’s inhabitants being certain that October 5 would for sure bring some trouble, left the city. I wouldn’t say that today the city is full of life, but it is absolutely different from what it was like in silent October. You can see normal lazy Sunday activity. Market places and shops are open. There are vehicles in the streets. “Do you see these three cars without license plates?,” my companion is pointing at the passing cars. “If there are no license plates it means these are Kadyrov’s guards. Here they are again — overtaking everybody. And another two cars… They are so many!” Fences, poles, houses, ruins are decorated with election propaganda. There are two parties which are visibly presented: “United Russia” (who doubted that!), and , to a lesser extent — People's Party. Their candidates are a little wealthier. Here is “Maigov — our Deputy,” and “Khazbulatov — our Deputy.” And Musaev, and Elmurzaev… But the dominant figure is of course Akhmar Zavgaev, brother of the notorious Zavgaev — Chechnya’s ruler of the past, and Kadyrov’s absolute favorite. By the way, Zavgaev’s posters in terms of printing quality are as good as Kadyrov’s during the presidential elections. That indicates immediately — he is a serious person. Vote for him! Zavgaev’s “weightiness” is even more vividly demonstrated by billboards featuring Kadyrov and Zavgaev together. There is no doubt whatsoever that he will be a winner among a single mandate candidates. * * * Khazbulatov, all doom and gloom, is found in his own headquarters building. He is explaining to me in a very aggressive way that he is not going to talk to us because he knows the electoral law better than I do, and there is no point to think him a blockhead. He will not say a word. The law prohibits that. I am about to find out what he means but he is already expatiating on ubiquitous administrative resource. He is raging about the information received from reliable sources regarding false ballots to be thrown in favor of Zavgaev. Of course nobody knows where and how many, but it will happen for sure. You call that news… I hastily say goodbye and shake hands with Bekhan Khazbulatov wishing him good luck with a broad smile on my face. But we both realize that he hasn’t a chance. From Khazbulatov we move on to Maigov who until recently was Alsan Maskhadov's representative in Moscow. On the eve of the parliamentary elections Maigov went to see Kadyrov trying to curry his favors, demonstrating his loyalty, but it won’t help him win a parliamentary seat. At least not this time around. Maigov himself was not in but his chief of staff, Ibragim UmarHadjiev, is an adequate person to talk to. He tells us that there are rumors that extra ballot boxes full of ballots in favor of Zavgaev are ready. He says that in Grozny and in the Urus-Martan district administration heads indoctrinated their subordinates to vote for Zavgaev if they want to keep their jobs. And the population election moods have been far from optimistic from the very onset. When asked about the elections outcome, people shrug, “Very much the same as the presidential elections. Nothing depends on us. There is no point in voting…” That is why Maigov’s team has been boosting voters’ activity rather than promoting their own candidate. But in any case the turnout will not exceed 50%… “ That is to say, Starye Atagi, Urus-Martan, Duba-Urt and other hardest hit villages will be more active, but on the whole — not more than 50%.” Here, the chief of staff’s smooth speech stops and his eyes become nostalgically vacant, “You know in 1997 it was very cold, people were freezing but spent hours in lines to the polling stations. There had been nothing like that even when Lenin died.” We move on. Next on the list is Musaev. His headquarters are located next door to the “Three Fools,” that is Peoples’ Friendship Square. There used to be a monument to fighters for revolution — three proud commissars were kind of growing from the concrete wall. A Slav in the center with a Chechen and an Ingush at his sides. A structure typical of a Soviet consumer art. In Kharkov, Ukraine, for instance there is a huge rock with five revolutionaries along the perimeter. Kharkov inhabitants , taking into account the building nearby, say, “the five are carrying a refrigerator from a pawn shop.” Grozny wits also invented several nicknames for the monument which officially symbolizes friendship of peoples. Those names were far politically correct. To the common Russian “One Gikalo and Two Jackals, Vainakh brothers responded with, “ Two Mountain Eagles Are Carrying a Drunken Ukrainian.” In such a context, the common “Three Fools” indeed symbolizes friendship of peoples at its best. During the first war, one of the commissars lost half of his head. During the second one, a bomb demolished half of the monument. So today, looking at the wreck standing in the middle of the square, it is hard to trace back this odd name… There is a check-point near the “Thee Fools.” A tipsy police captain, Mikhail by name, have had a couple of shots of hard liquor “to celebrate the elections.” He fulfilled his civic duty and “immediately had a drink.” And according to Mikhail, all the employees of the law enforcement agencies also voted. It was an order. For the “United Russia” and Zavgaev. We said goodbye to the talkative captain and headed for the Alaudi Musaev’s headquarters. He is not in but his staff is singing the same song about the administrative resource, absence of ballot delivery acts at some voting places, about inspection lists with the signatures of observers being absent in the ballot boxes, etc. The Staropromyslovsky district is coming under most severe criticism. Maigov’s people, by the way also spoke badly of it. Indeed it appears to be Zavgaev’s domain. Then, we talk to candidate Gersolt Elmurzaev. He says he wishes people in Chechnya had more opportunities to express their opinions. He maintains that the population lacks interest towards the elections — they do not believe the results could be fair. Elmurzaev and his team have been trying to convince people to come out and vote. He also estimates that the turnout will not exceed 50%. “Another one promoting election participation,” my companion shrugs her shoulders when we are leaving the headquarters, — “But what’s the need? Our ‘United Russia’ falcon Yamadaev offered very efficient propaganda. He was yelling on TV the other day, ‘Everybody must go to polling stations! Everybody must vote! There are only two parties. One is United, and I am behind it. The other is Al-Quaida!’” “Tell me. Yamadaev is an inveterate bandit, right?” “Quite so.” Our eyes linger on yet another propaganda slogan across the street, “Those who Like Order and Dignified Life — Vote for ‘United Russia’ with all your Hearts!” “Not just vote, but vote with all your heart? O.K., let's take a look at the polling stations, I wonder how that’s done.” * * * The polling station visit is brightened up by absolutely gorgeous weather. For three day running it has been +8 C, shining blue sky, warm spring sun. If it weren't for very long nights I would never believe it is December. We visit six polling stations one after the other. There are some people there, but not many. Though more than in October. One can see half a dozen voters or so at a time. All the election commission heads complain of a low turnout. By 11.00 a.m. it has averaged about 10%. What a shame! But they add that morning is not the best time. There’ll many more people in the evening. We know the story by heart. At the Kadyrov elections, wherever we went in the morning we had to buy that the main flux would be in the afternoon. In the afternoon we were having the story about people coming to the station in the evening, and in the evening we were told that most of the voters had shown up in the morning… On the other hand, some of the conversations are interesting enough to mention. At one of the voting places, Larisa, chair of the election commission, a school teacher of course, complains in earnest that 470 military servicemen are registered with the constituency: “And the military let us down a bit. During the presidential elections they did let us down — they actually openly stated that they refuse to vote! There must be somebody to teach them to behave!” This, indubitably, has been the oddest complaint against the military I have ever heard in Chechnya. It has taken me some effort to keep an impartial expression on my face, but I ask: “The situation with the military is clear, but what’s up with the laypeople? They do not let you down, do they?” “Well, people are angry… You know how we keep on voting. we were voting in Mach, in October, we are voting today, but life is not getting any better. We did not have jobs before and we don’t have jobs now. But people will come and vote. Because there is some little hope left. And besides, voting doesn’t hurt… Life has become calmer as compared to October. People aren’t so suspicious of elections as they were before, they are not so scared. This weekend much fewer people left the city as compared with the previous elections…” “And what was October turnout?” “Well, I don't remember. About 90%.” “But you said that a lot of people had left the city at that time!” “Well, it doesn't matter… Today we will have some 80%. Many people support their candidates rigorously. Take Akhmat Zagaev. When I hear his name it triggers my nostalgia. We associate everything with him, with his last name, that is, our wonderful past, sweet recollections. Beautiful city… Kind people…No war, no hatred…I am sorry, I have to work. If you wish you may talk to observers. Here is Ludmila, she is from the ‘United Russia’ party.” Ludmila is smiling shyly, touches her silk headscarf. “Ludmila, is your party popular in Chechnya?” “‘United Russia’ enjoys a lot of support. No other party has such support. ‘United Russia’ sends people to hospitals for treatment, supports families, sends pilgrims to Mecca. Donates money to build mosques. Frants Klintsevich, party leader has been here since 2001. He is well-known. He helps common people, he visits villages even in the mountains. And Yamadaev is number two in the party. He is really big here, you know.” From the Staropromyslovsky district we move on to the Lenin district. On the way I make a note of new optimistic slogans: ‘Voting for United Russia Is Voting for Chechnya Revival!,” “United Russia Means Unity of Words and Actions!,” the latter resembling Privy Office, secret denunciations, “being guided by the sovereign’s words and actions…” And all of a sudden a bright graffiti on a half-ruined wall: “No to Lies and Mud! Yes to Truth and Honesty!” Huge multi-colored sharply angled letters painfully scratch one’s heart. * * * At another polling station only about a hundred people have voted by noon with 1800 registered voters. Aset Isaevna, chairperson of the election commission, principle of the school that’s housing the polling station sounds quite concerned because of the poor turnout: “1,500 people came here to vote at the presidential elections back in October. Today, God willing, 500–600 will show up. The houses are empty, people have left. You see, the day before yesterday, some terrible mop-up operations were conducted. If it hadn’t been for the mop-up people would have come for sure. I convened a parents’ meeting this week in school, and all the parents of my pupils maintained that they must vote. And all of a sudden such a terrible thing!” Aset looks about 50 years of age. Tired face. Huge black circles under her eyes. Curly hair escapes from under the headscarf, she tucks it back in nervously. “But on the whole, you shouldn’t misunderstand me. ‘United Russia’ is very popular here. Because it is closer to Putin. Putin and the Parliament are together. A lot of people in Chechnya rely on Putin today — they hope to get compensations, to see Chechnya rebuilt. They hope he will do something to make their life easier. If it is not him, who else?” Aset suddenly steps up close to me and starts whispering hurriedly and emotionally: “You know how tired we all are! It is impossible to live this way! And for so many years! You have come here and you stayed overnight, right? Don’t even try to tell me you weren’t scared? And that’s how we feel every night… I can’t sleep at all. I am so afraid for my son… Where is the end of this?” I wish I could answer the question… I squeeze her hand and talk platitudes. I tell her that I understand everything but cannot change it. And that there are other people in Russia who also realize it, who feel ashamed and try to do something but fail… “Do you come here often?” asks Aset suddenly. “Not in the past, but this year it’s my third visit…” “Please, come again. And bring others with you. Those who are not afraid. If more people see what our life’s like…But in fact, you’d better not, it is such a risk to bring people here…But you should return by all means. You’ve already done it a few times anyway. Thank you!” “What for?” “For not being afraid. For not being indifferent.” I am so ashamed at this point that my one and only wish is to become invisible. I rush out. Kids are running around a barren. Not very far from the school there is a big building, temporary lodging center. Two young girls are filling their buckets with water at a water supply hydrant. They talk to each other giggling. A dormitory of the Chechen-Ingush State University used to be where the TLS building’s now. In December 1999, Basaev turned it into a stronghold. The school which I have just left was occupied by Hattab. And federal tanks were approaching from across the road… * * * That's it. I’ve had enough of the Grozny polling stations. Time to go to the country. But before we move on it makes sense to talk to people in the streets. Such attempts fail in the villages— there is no hiding there, people are scared… But inhabitants of Grozny, according to my past experiences, don’t mind having a chat. “Well, I don't think people will tell you anything on the street.” — my local colleague says. “Why not? In October I was talking to some random people in Grozny. No problem. And back in September…” “That was a different time. But today people became sort of reticent and reserved. Well, let’s go to a market place. If we want to find someone chatty, that is the place.” We are walking the market place. I make a few desperate attempts to start a conversation. No dice. Everybody smiles politely and turns away. In October I heard a flow of jokes about the election of the President who had already been elected, curses to Kadyrov, rhetoric questions as to whether there is a nice country to go to if enough money was pooled to buy plywood, and make a helicopter… My colleague is trying to play a mediator. She comes up to people explaining in the Chechen language that I am a Moscow journalist wishing to speak to people about the elections and life in general, no names will be mentioned, everything is absolutely safe. She gets monosyllabic answers from people who immediately turn away. Only one woman says in a very low voice over the counter, and without looking me in the eye, “You want to hear about elections? We had elections in 1997. People got up at dawn to line up to vote. I was waiting for 7 hours myself. My feet numb from cold but I kept on waiting in line… And now… There is nothing to speak about. And what kind of life we live — you can see for yourself. You’d better go…” “Sorry,” my escort is apologizing for her fellow-Chechens. “Times are bad now. Everybody is afraid to say something wrong — what if someone overhears?... Those mop-up operations in the city... Special operations, I mean, at lest that’s what they call them now but there is no difference. Not long ago a French journalist came here, an acquaintance of mine. She couldn’t believe her eyes! People had changed so much! But they have nothing to hope for now, that’s why they keep mum…” On the counter nearby — a heap of cassettes of different colors. A dashing song resounds in the air, “At dawn a company of soldiers moves on… I believe in the goodness of your soul, my sergeant!..” People in this city do not believe in anything now. How many years shall it take, what should happen to make these people regain some trust?.. * * * Now we are going to the village of Varandy. There isn’t much traffic. A ruined house surrounded with a tin fence catches our attention. On the fence, there is an inscription painted in white, “This is my house. Everything is going to be all right! Sveta.” And a smiling face is drawn next to the optimistic message. Where is this Sveta-girl now? Can she still hope for everything to be all right? * * * Varandy feels very cosy. The village is small. There are only 387 voters. Near the polling station there is a flower bed surrounded by a little fence made of big artillery projectiles. Young guards, smiling shyly, ask if I could be photographed with them. “We rarely have guests from afar. But when people come we always take photos — them and us together. We’ll make extra copies of the pictures to give to you when you come back.” Of course I agree. Why would I offend these people? We stand at the edge of the precipice. The guys ask me to remove my headscarf “so that everyone understands you really are from Moscow.” Four young men wearing invariable camouflage uniforms and holding on to their assault rifles. I am in the center. The fifth guy is taking a picture. Then, he joins our little group and passes the camera on to one of his mates. The procedure is repeated five times so that each of them is in the frame. So we end up with five pictures. Then they thank me politely and ceremonially show me to the voting place. “It is only 3 p.m. but 82% have already voted. By the evening, the turnout will be 100%!” the head of the election commission, Birlant by name, happily reports. “It is always like that here. No problem. These are my third elections.” There is a whole range of glaring calendars with Kadyrov portrait on them on Birlant’s desk under the desktop glass. Noticing what I am looking at Birlant proudly explains: “That's what is left after the presidential elections. What to have one?” “No, thank you. I already have a few. October leftovers as well. Do tell me which party is the most popular among villagers. Varandy being so small, you probably know everything about the electoral preferences of your fellow-residents.” “What do you mean ‘which party’?! ‘United Russia’! It is the only party! The one and only! ‘United Russia’ means ‘together with the President!’ And if we are together with the President — then everything will be O.K.” Someone taps me on the shoulder. A little crowd has gathered behind my back. They take me to the corner of the room: “She is not telling the truth. We have more than one party. The other one is the People's Party. All of us voted for it.” “Why did you vote for this particular party?” “Well, because it is for the people.” A little investigation indicates that none of the four active supporters of the People's Party I am talking to have any idea who’s on the party’s list. Nor are they aware of the party’s program. I ask them if they are aware that General Troshin, so well-known in Chechnya, is one of the top-three in the People's Party. My inquiry meets complete lack of understanding. They just keep on saying that if the party’s name is “People’s Party” that means it is for the people and everyone must vote for it. * * * Having said goodbye to the hospitable Varandy we make up our minds, while it is not yet dark, to drive even higher. In this other village (I will not disclose the name) there are 770 voters. 400 have allegedly voted by the time of our arrival. The precinct is hosted by the local school. A large room with huge windows, bright with afternoon sun. On the wall there is a huge poster from the October election times with Kadyrov smiling on the background of high mountains. There is also Putin’s office-type portrait in a nice frame on the same wall. We are greeted by the election commission chair who is naturally the school’s principal, Sveta. She is a nice-looking, fair-haired girl. Pretty face with fine features. A shiny mink coat thrown over the shoulders. Sveta greets me so happily as if I am her next of kin: “Oh, you are a journalist, aren’t you? Come in please! We are almost colleagues! I am a philologist myself. It is so nice to welcome you here! We have so few guests!” She bombards me questions about Moscow, what’s on at the theaters, concerts and exhibitions. I feel sorry for Sveta who is bored to death in this village, literally in the middle of nowhere. Forgetting that I am pressed for time, I am trying to quench her cultural thirst. Two old men come up to the desk with their bulletins asking where they are supposed to put tick-marks. Sveta blushes, jumps to her feet, takes the old men to the booth explaining something to them. Then, she returns to me. “I am sorry. You know how old people are. They don’t know the first thing about voting. The lists are so long… So many options to choose from… How can this be explained to them?.. It is the case in all the villages, not only here. Old people just can’t understand what is required of them. They come to polling stations demanding that someone explain it to them what and where to tick-mark the bulletins. Generally speaking, nearly everybody votes for the ‘United Russia.’ It is so popular because there are no other parties. A year ago, the ‘United Russia’ was the only party in Chechnya. No other parties. Not a single one. To be frank, I hate this ‘United Russia.’ But everybody, especially young guys, join the party. There is nothing else they can do. They should move around somehow. At check-points, a ‘United Russia’ party membership card serves as a badge which gets you through. If they are detained in the course of some special operation they show their party cards, and that sets them free. And sometimes party activists get some money from the ‘United Russia.’ That’s why everybody seeks membership.” Sveta keeps on chattering but red flashes start to pulse before my eyes. I understand about money, about Klintsevich and Yamadaev, and about doles to mullahs, and about everything else… But party cards used as passes at check-points… This simply didn’t occur to me. A loyalty certificate reminiscent of denazification in post-war Germany, but reversed… This is beyond cynicism, beyond good and bad… If you are for the “United Russia” — you are cleared to survive. The rest are doomed to extinction… What does the “Kavkaz-1” slogan say? “Any Road Shall Succumb to One Who Travels Hand in Hand with United Russia!” Apparently, it means what it says. What they overlooked was to mention the fact that if you are not traveling hand in hand with “United Russia” you are bound to come to harm. But this seems to go without saying. Only strangers like me may not guess. Insiders know that. Each and every person in Chechnya must be well aware of it. So far only in Chechnya. But it is only the beginning. Soon the whole of Russia will face it. It will creep all over the country like many other things. Like uncontrolled arbitrary rule of law enforcement agencies which is immune to any punishment. Soon each of us will have to have a “United Russia” membership card carried close the “heart” which you have to listen to when electing the “United Russia.” “Oh, here is my father!” Sveta stands up hurriedly. “He is the head of the local administration. He must have learned that you are here, so he is coming to talk to you.. Please, do not tell him what I have told you about the United Russia. He is a member of the party and its big wheel. His is trying to make me join in, but I refuse, I just hate this ‘United Russia.’” Sveta takes me to her father and makes the introductions. The hale old man shakes my hand with a vengeance and starts a speech. It seems as if he is speaking at a rally: “I am Said-Emin, the village administration head. The whole village and myself stand together with the United Party. I am a party member and this whole village…” “Excuse me,” I interrupt him cautiously, “What kind of a party is this United Party? You must have meant the ‘United Russia?’” “We have only one party — the United one. We are tired of Zhirinovkys, Zyuganovs and the likes. The United Party is the party of the President. The party which must come to power. The fights against oligarchs and werewolves in police uniform — we need all that. People that left the village in 1991 haven’t all returned from the forests, but the law will rein here as well! Chechnya is still in the process of making but soon the time will come. We, as well as the whole of Russia, are tired of old parties and we trust no one. We support the United Party!” The speaker is swinging his arm as if he is slashing at an enemy with a sword. I am a bit chilly though the room is well heated… “In 1999 I was advancing shoulder-to-shoulder with General Shamanov and General Troshev. On February 7 of 2000, together with the Russian Army I led my people out of the village and brought them back by the end of the month. Since 1999, the village hasn’t had a single person killed or disappeared!” “Haven't you had any mop-up operations here in all this time?” “We’ve had plenty. But I was at the helm myself and didn’t let them grab our people. I negotiated and got issues resolved. I even managed to save some people from Duba-Yurt, Chiri-Yurt, Starye Atagi who had been detained and beaten up. Our village is located right at the wolf’s gate. The Russian Army was stationed here. And I celebrated General Verbitsky’s birthday with him. I was an honored guest at his table. Being a remote village, we lack attention. But in 2000 we managed to get connected to water, gas and power supply lines. I was personally involved in that sitting on top of a tank. I spent the whole war on a tank. I am everything here. After the October elections, the President presented me with a Volga car because the whole village voted unanimously. And today we’ll be voting unanimously. It cannot be any other way.” The merited Mayor is dragging me to the window and I have an ample chance to admire his shining brand new Volga which apparently substituted for his combat tank. “And here are my letters of award for the elections, for the referendum. The President appreciates me. Take a look!” Indeed, how could I miss them! On the wall, rights under the ceremonial portraits of the royal twins — Putin and Kadyrov — there are two fancy letters of award, one for exemplary organization of the referendum, and the other for equally wonderful organization of the October presidential election. “What do you expect of the new President whom you were supporting so ardently at the elections?" “We expect that the new President will have the Russian troops pull out and return to barracks. Rights after the referendum I started saying to the soldiers, ‘I have conducted the referendum. I am a Russian Federation citizen. But you continue the outrage. You have no right to do it!’ Besides, we are looking forward to compensation payments. So far only two persons from the village have been paid. Houses should also be rebuilt…” “Kadyrov immediately after his election started demanding the federal forces’ withdrawal. He promised that the troops would pull out very shortly. But the troops remain where they were. He also promised that compensations would be paid speedily and honestly. But today compensation payments are suspended. Aren't people tired of waiting?” “We believe that Kadyrov will deliver on his promise. Hope dies last…” states Said-Emin optimistically and cordially invites me for a dinner at his house. I am referring to the late hour, the need to go back to Grozny, politely decline his offer to stay overnight. I notice disappointment in Sveta’s eyes. The girl wanted to talk about Moscow theatrical and book novelties till late at night. I still feel sorry for her but not to the extent of accepting the Mayor’s hospitality. It was not easy to escape but escape I did with Putin and Kadyrov looking at me venomously from the wall. I ask the driver to pull up just after we have left the village and passed the bridge. We linger on the bridge for about five minutes absorbing the mountains, the rushing stream underneath colored pink by the sunset, the crystal cold air. I regain my steady breath. Life goes on. By about 7 p.m. we are back in Grozny. Thanks God, the electricity is not out tonight. Angry and tired we drop down in front of the TV-set. A smiling hostess of Chechnya news chatters happily: “Today, on December 7, the air has been warmed by the sun as if reflecting festive moods of the voters. Most of the people hope that their party and their candidate will be elected to the State Duma and they will be upholding their own rights there with dignity!” Sometimes a slip of the tongue may be so full of meaning!.. We are already aware that the “United Russia” and Zavgaev won in Chechnya. Which implies that Kadyrov is the real winner again. They are all the same. Nobody doubted this. (Later we came to know exact figures: 79.9% voted for the “United Russia,” and 50.7% -for Zavgaev with the turnout of 88%). When the population on paper is several hundred thousand more than in reality, it goes without saying that the turnout is overstated. But people did vote. They were cornered. They had no hope. Voting can’t hurt you. If you don’t vote… who knows… In addition we learn that at the federal parliamentary elections no democratic party made its way to the State Duma. And that Russians supported not only the “United Russia,” but also Zhirinovsky with his LDPR and Rogozin with his “Rodina” (Motherland) block.. ‘United Russia’ and fascists. Together with the President. Nice combo. Any discussion would be pointless at this point. My college shrugs and goes to the kitchen to fix us dinner. On her way out of the room she puts on old Soviet film on the video. It is “The Captive of the Caucasus” which a few generations of people unanimously adore. Five minutes later I watch with utter fascination as a Russian friend of mine and a Chechen, my colleague’s husband, laugh at simple adventure of the protagonist, a dear young and awkward Russian student, in the kind and safe Caucasus. Maybe, this simple and kind motion picture continues to inspire people with never-ending admiration because of its nostalgic unreality?.. The night is tranquil. There is practically no shooting. Last night we heard very little shooting too. What a contrast to those few night I had spent in Grozny in October. * * * Next morning the weather suddenly changes. Ice-cold drizzle envelops the city. Passing by the House of the Government, we see a crowd of women. We get out of the car to have a look. They are mothers and wives of those who disappeared. They are waiting to see Kadyrov. They have been gathering here for several months on end, every Monday and Wednesday. It is Monday today. They are promised that Kadyrov will receive them at some point... And hope is known to die last. We also learn from them that the mothers of two young men who had disappeared on the eve of the elections in Duba-Yurt erected a barricade with the help of their relatives, blocking the bridge not very far from the village. They pledge to stay put till they get their sons back. I have several hours before the departure, so we’ve got the time to go and talk to the protesters. But when we reach the place there is no one there. Only the barricade made of boards and old tires still blocks the far end of the bridge, and a little fire is still smoldering. The picketers may have just left the place. Maybe not for long. Over the barricade we see a thin white banner. “Return our sons!” scream the red letters on the thin faded cloth. I come onto the bridge to take a couple of pictures. A bus is approaching the bridge from the highway. It is overcrowded. The bus pulls up at the bridge. It cannot go any further. People, mostly women with small babies and heavy bags, get off the bus and walk with heads lowered down the bridge shivering in the piercing December wind. They are not dismantling the barricade, though two men could easily do it in five minutes. But they look at it frowningly and mutter something disapproving in respect of those who have erected this obstacle on their path. The mothers of the disappeared blocked the road out of sheer desperation and helplessness. Today their own neighbors scorn them because they suffer as a result of this helplessness and desperation. Though it is impossible to condemn the people who drag their feet on slippery slopes slouching to hide from the wind. There is nothing left but the feeling of shame and pity. * * * A Chechen taxi. I am going back to Ingushetia. Actually, this is a “taxi” in name only. In fact, it functions as a mini-bus with a bit of additional comfort, in other words a car for four passengers. A hundred roubles per person, and in an hour and a half you are in Nazran. The radio is on full swing, and the crowded car resounds with obnoxious pop music. Two girls sharing the back seat with me are discussing something in Chechen with great animation, and munching on popcorn. Soon I will know this road inside out. But from time to time some new things emerge. Here is a rusty piece of tin attached to a tree with a crooked inscription in print, “ Are you still fighting? In that case we are coming. Special Task Force.” In another 500 meters down the road, there is a flashy propaganda banner, “Peace, Order, Good and Strength — That’s What ‘United Russia’ Is.” I know that in the past two months a lot has changed. The war is over. But instead, something sticky, troubled, criminal and dark has creeped in. This something, this swamp-like substance, no matter how strange it might seem, is more scary than the war itself. A war has an end, it implies negotiations, settlement. But this swamp, which devours, everything has no end. It may last for ever. And that is really frightening. * * * Nazran. Ingushetia. A small cozy kitchen. Five a clock tea (well, it’s more like seven o’clock, but who cares). I am sharing the “United Party” anecdotes with a bunch of Chechen friends. The guys are roaring with laughter. “Everytime you go in, you return with some crazy stories. Though anything is possible. Remember this mop-up operation in Serzhen-Yurt in 2001? The feds take 500 roubles per head and off you go, right? Males only, of course, say from 15 to 55 years of age. But if a man is bearded or wears dirty pants, suspicious that is, they charge a thousand, otherwise they take the man away and that’s the end of him. So, an old woman, dirt poor, managed to borrow from her neighbors 500 roubles and paid for her grandson. By that time she had lost all her sons — only the grandson survived. But despite the bribe the feds decided to pay her a house visit. Just in case — maybe they thought somebody else was there, or wanted to find something worth confiscating. But the house was literally empty. So they counted 200 roubles and gave the money back to her saying, ‘Do you think we are some kind of looters or what!’” Laughter sets the table shaking. Some tea spills on the table cloth. “No need for you to wipe the table. You are a guest. Just listen here. During the first war hostilities reached, Gekhi — that’s my village — a lot of people got killed… and kids…All hell was breaking loose, and I was running around looking for my young son but couldn’t find him anywhere. All of a sudden a neighbor says to me, “The dead had been taken to Urus-Martan in a truck. Your son was there. I saw him. Don’t look for him.” At first I did not believe her. Then, I came back to the house. Nobody there but near the doorway I noticed my son’s boots. I realized that it was the end of him. But he returned home the next day! Yes, they had loaded him on the truck together with the corpses, but he had come to. And he walked back home. That’s it. Only his hand had been shot through. And there I am seeing him and screaming, ‘Couldn’t you put your boots on?!’” Laughter fills the kitchen. It spills through the open window outside. Our hilarity is catches up with the children who are playing in the yard. It is so infectious that soon everybody in the yard is laughing. Well, should they cry, or what? * * * “Magas” airport. Ingushetia. Waiting hall. I am dragging a bag full of papers my colleagues and other people asked me to pass over in Moscow to some important and not so important officials. I am already accustomed to this heavy feeling — yes, I will hand them over. And even accompany them with adequate cover letters. And I will make sure that each document reaches the addressee. But all down the drain, no dice. I feel routinely ashamed and this routine quality of the emotion makes it more difficult to bear. I am mortified because I left, escaped once again. But what about those who live in that situation every day? What right do you have to leave when your friends are staying? When anyone is staying? A traditional thirty minute delay. The bar counter. I put my bag by the high stool. “Oh, I remember you. Fifty grams of vodka mixed with orange juice, right? You come here often. Do you like Nazran?” * * * On the plane, a guy sitting next to me tries to start a conversation. At first, I only mutter something politely without raising my eyes from the book that I am reading. But in some twenty minutes I cannot resist his talkativeness. A smiling thin young man of about twenty five with the most biblical name, Adam, is going to Moscow for a two-week leave. He is from Grozny where he works in the Chechen police force. When he landed the job “life became easier.” Though some time ago he had to “join the party.” “Which party?” I ask, hardly able to feign innocence? “What do you mean ‘which party’? We have only one —the United.” “You mean the ‘United Russia,’ don't you? And what’s this ‘I had to?’ What did you have to do it for?” “Don't you know? Don't you know that the party membership card gets you anywhere They let you pass as if you are their best friend.” “Wait a minute, you are policeman, right? They must let you pass without any problem.” “Come on! How could you compare! This morning there has been a kilometer long line at the “Kavkaz” check-point. But the moment I waved my membership card they almost carried me through.” “You mean to say that a ‘United Russia’ membership card works better than a police ID?” “A hundred times better. And what’s more — if you are a party member they cannot fire you.” “You mean?..” “I mean exactly what I said. It won’t fly unless the party sanctions it. In the fall three pals of mine were kicked out. They wrote a complaint and filed it with the Party Leader. Tough luck, he was away at the time. But when he came back after a month he showed them who was the boss! ‘Who damn it, allowed you to fire my people?! I should expel them first, then you may show your powers! But unless I sanction it, keep low profiles and don’t even budge!’” “So? Did they take them back?” “That is not the word to describe it! They got a month pay for the time they were idle!” “Well , that's a real Leader! But who is this real Leader of the ‘United Russia’ — Klintsevich or Yamadaev?” “Yamadaev, of course!” — all of a sudden a glint of suspicion appears in the eye of this friendly, talkative neighbor of mine. — “How do you know?” “I don't know. I am just asking a question.” It must be noted that my rather impressive knowledge of the newest Chechen realities, including such specific thing as how bad power supply had been in his native district of Grozny for the past week, did not bother the guy whatsoever. On the contrary, he seemed very excited with it. But now he starts mumbling something about how sleepy he feels after a night on duty. He says, “Sorry,” turns to the window and closes his eyes. * * * Moscow. “Vnukovo” aiport. For those getting in from the Caucasus the arrival procedure is as strict as for foreign guests. Even more severe, in fact. Passport control is not enough. Get your baggage X-rayed and walk through a metal detector. Thank God, my colleagues sent a taxi to pick me up and the driver patiently endured the long wait. On my way to downtown Moscow, I am practically glued to the cell phone, monotonously calling all those whom I promised to call first thing upon arrival. “Yes, I am fine. Just fine. All the rest is pretty disgusting.” I am reluctant to say another word but one friend or another manages to make me utter a few complete sentences. The driver perks up with apparent interest. “You must be a journalist, aren’t you?” “Something like that. Why?” “You see, I am trying to understand what this ‘United Russia’ is all about. They won the elections. But I just don’t understand what they are. And no one can explain. Maybe you will?” “Why not! I have just learned this myself and I'll be glad to tell you. ‘Peace, Order, Good and Strength — That’s What ‘United Russia Is!’ An exhaustive explanation, don’t you think?” 1 Some names of people and localities have been changed. Back |
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