I WRITE A few emails and spend about five minutes booking a one-way flight to Grozny on my cell phone. It’s strange, actually, in these risk-averse times, that it is so easy to buy a ticket to a place most governments advise people to avoid. No Are you sure? query by the vendor, no I have been informed of the risks box to tick. It’s easier to book a flight to Chechnya than it is to change your cell provider.
When the European media report on the region, it usually means no good. A couple of weeks previously, a bus full of foreign journalists and NGO members was ambushed in Chechnya and the passengers were beaten up. A few months before that, a branch of the human rights group Committee for the Prevention of Torture was the target of an arson attack and had to close its office in Grozny. A friend of a friend who had lived there told of a photographer working on a report that was critical of the government being burnt like a witch in the Middle Ages. Vladimir says he only knows what it was like there fifteen years ago and cannot gauge the situation today.
When, the next day, Murad[1] from Grozny replies in a brief email that I can stay at his place, I ask him by WhatsApp how dangerous he thinks my visit will be. His response? Four smileys crying with laughter. And a tip: “It would be good not to wear shorts. Have you got a suit?”
“I’ve got a black shirt.”
“Okay. You’re arriving at the end of Ramadan, it’s the best time to be here.”
Laughing smileys as a reply to a concerned query, from a stranger I only know from an internet profile. Right up to the moment of departure I am beset with doubts about whether this stage of my travels is a good idea.
What would a Russian do in my position? Maybe just stroke the snout of the dog at Revolution Square on the Moscow Metro. That’s supposed to bring good luck. I pat cold metal; the dog’s expression looks serious, but not without sympathy. Well then, nothing can go wrong now.
GROZNY
Population: 272,000
Federal District: North Caucasus
LIONS AND SKYSCRAPERS
THREE HOURS LATER I’m sitting on the plane. Most of the passengers are either women wearing headscarves or men with beards typical of the region—from ears to chin, but shaved above the upper lip. In the row in front of me, three girls are taking snapshots on their cell phones, holding their tickets aloft and flashing “V” signs. Their embroidered dresses and rings with precious stones look expensive; their facial features look more Asian than Russian. “We’re studying English in Moscow and are now going home to our families,” one of them explains. She just shrugs on being asked whether Grozny is dangerous, then gives me a few tips: “Always be polite. Don’t touch women. And whatever you do, don’t wear shorts.”
From the plane window, Chechnya seems surprisingly green (what was I expecting? A desert? Bomb craters?). A melody from Swan Lake plays during the landing. “Ground temperature is thirty-two Celsius, with clear skies,” says the stewardess. “Thank you for choosing UTair.”
The airport building is a flat-roofed concrete block with portraits of Putin to the left and Akhmad Kadyrov, father of the incumbent President Ramzan Kadyrov, to the right. Both portraits are one story high. Beyond them you can make out the golden minarets of a mosque in the airport forecourt.
On the outer wall there are two quotations from the older Kadyrov, who was blown up by assassins in 2004. “My weapon is Truth, every army is powerless against it” is one; “Deeds are the only proof of patriotism” the other. Beneath them, brass statues of wild, snarling lions guard the exit. Welcome to Chechnya.
Murad messages me that he is still in a meeting; I should take a taxi to the mosque and he will meet me there. I don’t need to ask which one he means. The “Heart of Chechnya” is the largest mosque in Russia, and in fact the taxi does stop in front of a heart. Opposite the parking lot a sculpture of large letters reading “I ♥ GROZNY” has been erected for souvenir photos.
I only know Grozny from the images I saw on TV during the war. Whole sections of the city that looked like Aleppo in Syria today; an apocalyptic atmosphere, with tanks among rubble and skeletons of houses.
Now I’m standing in front of a magnificent mosque with marble-coated walls. Not a speck of dust can be found on the polished stone floor in front; not a single leaf protrudes even a fraction of an inch from the precisely trimmed hedge. Just beyond, the skyscrapers of Grozny City tower above, the sight of them reminding me more of Abu Dhabi than a bomb site.
With billions of dollars from Moscow, the city was rebuilt after the war, with the planned Akhmat Tower as the new landmark. If you look at the plans for the proposed highest skyscraper in the country using a bit of imagination, it’s impossible to ignore its similarity to a gigantic penis. In gratitude for the financial support for such prestigious building projects, Putin’s Muslim governor, Kadyrov, and his black-uniformed militia, the Kadyrovtsy, ensure some degree of peace.
Peace, indeed. There’s hardly a sound to be heard, hardly anyone to be seen—just a few faithful with prayer caps wandering around in the inner courtyard of the mosque. I can’t quite grasp this place; I feel the looks directed at me. A foreigner with a backpack and a camera stands out. Tourists don’t usually come here.
A silver Toyota sedan stops in front of me. The rear windows are tinted; two men with short black hair and light checked shirts get out. They look serious and approach me quickly.
“Stephan?” asks one of them.
“Murad?” I reply, and we shake hands. The second man is his brother, Ruslan. I wish them well for the end of Ramadan and then climb into the back seat.
For the tour of the city I sit behind the tinted windows as if I were a spy. “The main street used to be called Victory Avenue; now, leading up to the mosque, it’s called ‘Putin Prospect,’ and after the mosque, ‘Kadyrov Prospect,’” explains Murad. Here, too, everything is clean, everything looks new. “And now we are passing the Memorial to the Three Idiots!” He points to a statue of three Bolshevik soldiers. Chechens believe that anyone who fought for the Communists must have been an idiot, hence the statue’s nickname.
Chechens don’t have happy memories of the Soviet times, especially because toward the end of World War II, hundreds of thousands of their people were deported. Nevertheless, the parallel street is still named after Rosa Luxemburg. Restaurants, on the other hand, indicate a new breed of heroes: not far from “Hollywood I” you will find the “HalAl Pacino Café.”
We stop and get out at a wasteland outside the city center. Here nothing is clean or renovated. Churned-up gray soil, rampant weeds, a couple of hollows in the ground, and the remains of walls. “This used to be a huge market,” says Murad. “Over there you could buy weapons. During the last war the whole area was bombed twice. The children’s hospital was also destroyed.” He talks without any visible signs of emotion, like a museum guide describing a nineteenth-century landscape painting. This probably isn’t the first time he’s taken visitors to this site. “Some member of the Kadyrov clan will start building here soon for sure, it’s a good location.”
For our evening meal we share a sixteen-inch pizza Mexicana at Spontinni, a smart Italian fast-food restaurant on Putin Prospect: bright cushions on wooden benches, English sayings in chalk on the blackboard (“Eat fresh, stay fresh”), a Disney cartoon running on a screen. “I hate Russia,” says Murad. “I mean the government, not the normal people.”