“I am a National Socialist,” he declares.
“But why do you support Ukraine? After all, the extreme right is with Putin,” I ask in disbelief.
“Those people are imperialists. The right is very divided. I am a National Socialist and I want a strong, white, and European Ukraine.” The former FSB agent claims that only thanks to such a Ukraine will Putin’s regime be destroyed.
Dmytro Korchynsky, a leader of the Brotherhood, shares his views. That’s why he is doing all he can to ensure that the revolution that started in Ukraine reaches the very center—that is, Moscow. When during the Maidan protests the supporters of the Brotherhood wanted to attack the Presidential Administration building with a bulldozer, they were dubbed provocateurs and Korchynsky fled the country. Individual members of the Brotherhood participated in the Maidan, but they never revealed their party affiliation.
“I left my home on December 1 and I came back only in February,” says Dmytro Linko, one of the battalion’s soldiers.
The Brotherhood members are Russian Orthodox national anarchists. Their logo displays a labarum. It is a symbol of the Roman legions, thanks to which the emperor Constantine was supposed to conquer his enemies. The main slogan on their website says: “Down with democracy! Let freedom live.” Earlier they had the Unit of Jesus Christ, and now they are forming the first Christian Battalion of Saint Mary. The separatist units from the Russian Orthodox Army will have worthy opponents.
9. THE STORY OF A MISSILE
ON JULY 17, about 4:20 in the afternoon Ukrainian time, air traffic control lost contact with Malaysian Airlines flight number MH17. Soon afterwards video footage emerged on the Internet. It was shot in the town of Torez, thirty kilometers from the Ukrainian-Russian border. You can see a white trail in the sky and then a huge cloud of black smoke appearing on the horizon. There were 298 people aboard the Boeing 777, including eighty children. Nobody survived.
More or less at the same time the controllers lost contact with the airplane, separatists put out information on their websites and on Russian social media about their great success. They claimed to have shot down a Ukrainian An-26, a military transport aircraft. When it turned out that it was a civilian plane, the posts were immediately deleted.
The “prime minister” of the unrecognized Donetsk People’s Republic, Alexander Borodai, a Russian, instantly accused the Ukrainians of the attack. Using his Twitter account he stated that the “volunteers” didn’t have the proper equipment to shoot down a plane at ten thousand meters. The residents of Torez have a different view. They have seen a BUK missile system there with the capacity to down a plane. They recorded everything with videos and photos.
When the media announce the airplane was shot down, two Western journalists, their fixer, and I are in Artemivsk. In a split second we make the decision that next day we will go to Hrabove, which is the site of the plane debris. Traveling in the evening is not a good idea because you can easily be fired at. At night the conflict areas are completely dead.
Initially, we were flabbergasted by this horrific information.
“Let’s wait for confirmation,” said one of the journalists. We couldn’t believe that anyone would have had the idea of downing a civilian plane. But the information was quickly validated, although no one knew why it happened. The phones were ringing nonstop. In the restaurant where we get together, we were running around like crazy. We were sharing information, making phone calls, and preparing our reports.
We gathered after eight in the morning, so we could have some hotel breakfast. We anticipated a long day. We decided to go through Debaltseve. It is connected to Artemivsk by a highway. From there it is only a dozen kilometers to Hrabove, where the plane debris has been found. However, this route turned out to be impossible because separatists had blown up the bridge. We diverted from the main road and drove through some fields. We came across a checkpoint manned by militants. They looked as if they had never seen a journalist. They decided to search us.
“Where are you from?” I ask.
“From Russia,” answers one of them. But his manner is so slow and strange that I am not sure whether he really means he is from over there, or if he wishes Russia were over here. After a few questions the conversation falls apart. In the end, they let us go.
In Debaltseve we come across yet another checkpoint. We see a few people in uniform and with guns. They stop our car.
“Journalists? Documents!” says a man in a very stern voice. It doesn’t herald a pleasant conversation.
We have accreditations issued by the Donetsk People’s Republic. We show them immediately when he wants our passports.
“What is that?” he asks.
“The accreditation,” I respond.
“I’ve never heard of it.” He looks at the laminated piece of paper. It says that it was issued by the Donetsk People’s Republic. The document has all the necessary stamps and signatures.
“We can call the Press Secretary,” says the fixer when the separatist starts to sniff at it.
“I don’t know her.”
“We can call the Minister of Information.”
“I don’t know him, either.”
There is a short pause. We don’t know how to convince him that we have all the documents we need to continue our trip. Finally, he finds the answer.
“You have to stay here until I get permission from my commander. You are detained.”
He is not willing to answer any questions. He tells us to get in the car and to remain visible. We are not supposed to use our phones or talk. Simply, we have to sit there and wait.
Every now and then they look at us. I am sitting in the back, blocked out by the driver’s seat. Slowly, I pull out a phone from my pocket and send a text message to a friend in Kiev.
“If you don’t hear from me for a long time, that means that I have been arrested.” We spoke on the phone earlier, so he knows where we are, more or less.
After twenty minutes we are permitted to drive further.
“You can go. The ataman gave his consent,” says a separatist. “But pull over near the gas station and pick up some luggage,” he insists.
“What luggage?” one of the journalists asks, petrified.
“From the plane,” replies the militant.
Supposedly, the luggage was brought over by the local residents. The plane exploded in the air, so its fragments and everything else onboard were scattered across a wide area, as far as a dozen kilometers from where it happened.
“But what do we need these things for?”
“You can take them. We don’t want them.”
“What are we supposed to do with them? Shall we hand them over to someone?”
“We don’t know.”
“There might be a passport in one of the suitcases,” interrupts another militant, encouragingly.
We are not interested in the luggage contents, and we are not going to look inside. We are given a suitcase, a backpack, and a box. The fixer puts them into the trunk right away because he wants to drive off as soon as possible. Neither he nor we are going to discuss this. We have no idea what to do with them, either. In the end, we decide to return the luggage when we reach our destination. After all, there must be someone who will take care of them.
Further on, driving is very simple. We pass a few checkpoints, but the militants already know that they have to let journalists proceed. They glance at the Donetsk People’s Republic accreditation and off we go. They must have received an order from above to let journalists access the site.