I thought suddenly of one memorable childhood Halloween. I recalled that strange atmosphere of military might in our quiet residential Ottawa neighbourhood, which seemed devoid of threat and need for protection. The politics at home also constituted a fight over independence. French Canadian separatists in the province of Québec wanted to break away from Canada. Too young to understand politics, I just felt excited to receive candy from soldiers with guns who guarded houses on our Halloween route. A tank was parked in a field by our school. Soldiers in fatigues camped in the garden at one friend’s house because her father was a cabinet minister. Sometimes they smiled, but they always refused to play with us. We thought of this military presence as one big, exciting game. I did not fully understand the concept of death but remembered a joke told in the schoolyard about the murder that triggered the War Measures Act and the presence of all the soldiers who guarded government officials and diplomats. Separatists had kidnapped James Cross, a British diplomat, and Pierre Laporte, a Québécois politician. They killed Pierre Laporte but released James Cross.
“Why did Cross survive?
“Because he stood behind Laporte [the door].”
Even then I knew that joke should not be told.
Mostly, though, we played as close to all the military hardware as we were allowed to. We had no weapons but imitated the soldiers. We turned sticks into rifles. Here in Grozny some did the same. Men without guns armed themselves with planks of wood and canisters of gasoline. They helped blockade the entrance of one government building.
Our car turned into a side street. Vakha stopped. He pointed down the road. “Your hotel is just a little farther along,” he said. We thanked Vakha for his help and said goodbye. As we approached, we saw that a pair of unmanned machine guns mounted on tripods with bullet magazines hanging down from them flanked the hotel entrance.
I wished Vakha had invited us to stay the night. This place seemed braced for siege with the possibility of conflict now alarmingly real. As we entered the lobby, I wondered about this hotel, where loaded guns just stood around. I looked for soldiers who might own them but saw only the usual staff — a surly receptionist at the front desk, waiters who scurried past on their way to the restaurant. Were the waiters also combat soldiers? Would they man the machine guns if Russians attacked? I stifled my sense of dread. Stephen took the machine guns in stride; so would I.
We checked in. The telephone in our room worked, which was a huge relief. Sporadic gunfire echoed through the streets.
I slipped away to the reception desk and asked questions in private. I wanted assurance that no Russians were approaching Grozny. The receptionist, softened now, seemed ready to chat. I asked her about the gunfire.
“Don’t worry, it’s a celebration,” she said.
“Are you sure that’s not fighting?” I asked.
“No, there’s no one to fight, at least not yet.”
“So the Russian soldiers have withdrawn?” She nodded yes. Stephen and I had heard this as well and had actually seen some of the buses full of disarmed Russian soldiers leaving, but the state of emergency declared by Yelstin remained in effect and no one knew what would happen next.
“There are so many people out there with guns. Do you think there could still be conflict?” The receptionist shrugged her shoulders. She didn’t know.
I needed better information. I decided I would cross the square. Someone at the government buildings on the other side must know the current state of affairs.
I walked out the lobby, past the machine guns and stepped into the street. I could still hear the pop of occasional gunfire but saw no sign of fighting. My father had trained as a pilot during the Second World War. Even though he disliked violence, including hunting, he taught my brother, my sister and me how to shoot his rifle and pistol when we were children. He also taught us respect for weapons. He told us that bullets from guns fired in the air still kill when they fall back to land. In Grozny no one gave this much thought. I did not want to be anywhere nearby when a celebratory bullet came down.
I crossed the central square. It teemed with armed and unarmed people. A row of about twenty men kneeled on one strip of grass. It was desiccated and yellow, almost a carpet of straw. The men had spread their prayer mats on top and placed their boots in front of the mats, alongside their guns. They covered their heads, placed their hands on their thighs and prayed facing east. A pale blue sky stretched wide overhead. I had not heard a call to prayer, but perhaps I had just missed it. Such public prayer in Grozny must be a new development. Religion had been so furtive under Communism.
I reached government buildings on the far side of the square. Men stood in a line; most of them wore astrakhan hats. They blocked the main entrances. One held a green flag with a star and crescent. There was no sign of the Russian colours here. The men directed me to the information office upstairs. They parted and allowed me into the building.
I climbed the stairs and knocked on the information office door.
“Enter,” I heard a woman say. I opened the door and cheered up immediately. This could be any secretary’s office with two-tone walls, sparse furnishings and an enormous blue typewriter that spanned the width of the desk. This secretary, if that’s what she was, glowed with warmth and excitement. Part of that glow came from carefully applied rouge, lipstick and eyeliner, but most of it came from within. The only splash of colour in her outfit came from her bright headscarf. Otherwise she was all dressed in black. A fringe of light brown hair peeked out from under her scarf. What I noticed most was the Kalashnikov rifle that she cradled in her arms, the green canvas strap slung over her shoulder. I stood there fascinated by this secretary warrior.
“Susan,” I said by way of introduction. “I work for a British paper. May I ask you some questions?” She said that I could.
“Aren’t you afraid? Are you really ready to fight the Russians?” She said she was and that most people expected more Russian troops to arrive since Yeltsin’s declaration of emergency was still in place. But she also said that Russian leaders hadn’t sanctioned the use of force. Relieved to hear that last point, I made my second request. I wanted to interview the man in charge of the Chechen-Ingush Republic, General Dzhokar Dudayev. She gave me his number. Business over, our conversation drifted elsewhere.
“Is that your gun?” I asked.
“I borrowed it.”
“Are you a soldier?”
“No, but I know how to fight.” I told the secretary that my father had taught me to shoot but that I felt uncomfortable around guns.
“We’re used to them here. In school, we learned how to assemble a Kalashnikov from parts. Then we had to run up a hill and fire into sand,” she said. I told her that in our non-academic school courses we learned how to do handstands and bake macaroni and cheese. I did not stay long. As I left the secretary’s office, she shouted after me “Are you interviewing the hijackers?”
I returned and received contact details for one of the men who had recently hijacked an Aeroflot flight from Mineralnye Vody to Turkey. The hijackers had threatened to blow up the plane and all the passengers on board if Russia did not pull its troops back from Chechnya. The hijackers were back home in Grozny now. All the passengers had been set free.
The next day passed fairly uneventfully. Yeltsin’s declaration of emergency remained in force. Stephen and I wandered the streets. Men in the square brewed tea on the eternal flame. Officials in government offices still waited with their guns, ready to defend the Chechen-Ingush Republic. A man brandishing a sword burst into our hotel room. He said a Russian spy had been arrested and wanted us to interview him.