‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, pointing your assault rifle at an unarmed man!’ he chided my opponent. Then he spoke to me: ‘Who are you? What do you want?’
‘I am a journalist,’ I repeated for the umpteenth time that day, as if it were a magic formula. ‘I’d like to interview your commander. It’s my job.’
‘Sure.’ He nodded. ‘Wait here, I’ll go and ask him.’ My unexpected ally went off, while the stocky soldier threw me a hostile glance and fired a long burst towards the empty balcony of a nearby five-storey building. In response to his superior’s disapproving stare, he said, ‘I saw something move up there!’ My new friend soon returned and told me to go with him to a kiosk that stood in the square. By a large crowd of soldiers there were two tanks with what I thought were Chechen flags on their turrets. These flags threw me somewhat. At the time I didn’t realize that the opposition flag consisted of red, white and red bars across a green background, while Chechnya’s official state flag had bars of white, red and white, also across a green background. To me the flags looked identical. The front part of the gun turrets had been painted white. It turned out white was the Armed Opposition’s identifying colour. A man in his mid-thirties sporting a luxuriant black moustache sat leaning against the kiosk. Barely responding to my greeting, he asked for my papers.
He looked at my ID. ‘But you’re one of Dudayev’s journalists! You’re not getting any interviews, now leave!’
‘No, it’s an independent newspaper,’ I protested. This was an outright lie, but there was nothing else for it.
‘Really? You’re sure about that?’ Upon hearing my affirmative answer, he consented. ‘OK then, fire away. What do you want to know?’
‘Could you start off by introducing yourself?’
‘Tolstoy-Yurt Militia Commander Idris!’ he barked, as though reporting to a superior officer.
‘What was your objective in entering the city, and when do you plan to withdraw your men?’
‘We aren’t budging until Dzhokhar leaves. Now that’s it!’ he snapped.
‘Do you think he will go?’ I continued.
‘He’ll have to. His people hate him.’
‘Which people?’
‘The entire Chechen nation. Except the mafia, whom he’s financing with the nation’s petro-dollars. He’s surrounded himself with mafiosi and thinks that the Chechen people are going to put up with it indefinitely!’
I wanted to probe: And why do you think the discontent of the Chechen people is so convenient to Russia? Why is this discontent being nurtured with Russian money and Russian tanks? But instead – my survival instinct must have kicked in – I asked a standard question: ‘In view of your profession, do you think war is the best way and the only way to help your beloved nation?’
‘That’s a question for the politicians. And indeed… If only Dzhokhar had listened…’
‘Listened to whom?’
Here he became ill at ease, but he answered all the same: ‘To us. We’re the Chechen people too, you know. Look, I’ve told you the interview’s over, but you keep asking questions! Ah, but maybe you’re one of Dzhokhar’s supporters?’ he then said, eyeing me suspiciously.
I’d bargained on arousing suspicion, accepting it as a hazard of the job. So I calmly replied, ‘I’m not on anyone’s side, neither his nor yours. My profession requires neutrality.’
‘Did you come here from the town centre?’ he asked, more mildly.
‘Yes.’
‘What’s been happening there?’
‘Two tanks were hit.’
‘We know about that… Did you see any other tanks?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many tanks? And how many men?’
‘I didn’t count them.’
‘What make were the tanks?’
‘Russian-issue military-industrial Mercedes!’ I quipped. ‘What makes do tanks come in?’ I hadn’t the foggiest notion of the different tank manufacturers and whether tanks even had makes. And despite the awkwardness of the situation, I was deeply affronted by his assumption that I’d willingly share information about their adversary if I’d had any. This was not yet my war, and I still hadn’t taken sides. I was trying to remain an impartial observer.
Again I provoked a heated response: ‘What, are you making fun of me?’ the commander asked, while someone grabbed me by the shoulder. But once again my new ally came to my aid. Apparently my naïvety had made an impression on him and, being a good-natured guy, he didn’t want to see me die needlessly. ‘Oh, he doesn’t know one tank from another,’ he intervened. ‘See those ones?’ he asked, pointing to the tanks in the square. ‘Now, did the tanks you saw have the same shape turret or a different one?’
I told him that the turrets were as alike as two peas, although to this day I have no idea whether they were, in fact, the same. I was simply interested in seeing how they would react.
They became nervous. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m certain.’
‘But they don’t have any T-76s, they’ve only got T-65s.’
‘Could it be Labazanov?[1] He has T-76s,’ someone suggested.
I couldn’t resist asking a question that in the circumstances was entirely unnecessary: ‘If Labazanov is over there, then what are you doing here? Go and seize the Presidential Palace.’
‘He isn’t a journalist! He’s an agent provocateur!’ a voice called over my head. Someone’s hand alighted on my shoulder and deeply hostile expressions came over the faces of the men around me, but again I was in luck. This time it was the commander who helped me. Probably because we had not yet learnt to spill the blood of our own civilians. A little later on, Chechens would start killing, and for much smaller misdemeanours, indeed just for the heck of it. At that time, though, the commander said, ‘Leave him alone! He’s not an agent provocateur. They’re all like that…’ He turned to me. ‘You’d better find yourself some place to shelter. We’re going to attack now, the fighting will start. No job, not even a journalist’s, is worth that kind of risk.’
I saw he was right. The infantry of the Armed Opposition was going in to attack. They were advancing by bounds, in straggling columns, just like in the movies. I took cover in a nearby building, along with the other civilians who found themselves there, some by chance, others by choice. Given the jumpy nerves of the Armed Opposition soldiers as they grilled me, their restless animosity, the excitability of their commander, as against the Chechen Army soldiers’ composure and faith in their cause, I felt almost certain that the latter would emerge victorious. In this combat sector, at any rate. But at that time, I did not take victory or defeat (or indeed the battle itself) too seriously; it all felt like one of those war games we used to play as kids at Pioneer camp. The opposition infantry going into attack, the intense gunfire breaking out closer to the city centre – it felt like we’d stumbled on to the set of some Soviet war film. Everyone here felt the same elated thrill and privilege to be witnessing this. It was as if even the soldiers (who were products of the same school of Soviet patriotism) could not quite comprehend that there was going to be a battle and people would die.
Yet just a couple of hours later – far too soon for those rallying to topple the ‘hated dictatorship’ – the Armed Opposition were forced into a retreat which quickly turned into a rout. The tanks pulled out of the square, taking a few random parting shots at the Presidential Palace. The fighters of the Provisional Council (as the opposition styled their political body) abandoned several dead comrades and withdrew from Press House, where they had set up headquarters, under pressure from the advancing Chechen special forces. Hot on the heels of the retreating opposition forces, the Chechen special forces and Presidential Guard were now securing the square. A middle-aged man who’d been hit by a stray bullet was being treated by a Chechen Army doctor. There were as yet no corpses or blood to be seen.
1
Ruslan Labazanov was a colonel in the Russian security services. Following a mass breakout which he organized from a detention facility in November 1991, he infiltrated Dudayev’s entourage. Labazanov was responsible for the deaths of a considerable number of innocent civilians. He styled himself as a ‘Chechen Robin Hood’. Later he openly switched sides, joining the opposition. His armed group was defeated by Chechen government forces in the summer of 1994. Labazanov was killed by his own bodyguard in the summer of 1996.