And now, observing the Chechen fighters’ grim determination to make Russia pay for this city ten times more dearly than during the New Year’s assault, you saw parallels with your state of mind on that occasion. Then you were faced with a choice between being arrested and disappearing for ever and trying to find your chance and grab it. As a last resort, you’d had the option of attacking the soldiers and dying before they could arrest you. Moved by your fear of a greater calamity, a greater anguish than the fear of death, you acted boldly and you won.
The resistance fighters holding the capital also faced a choice: withdraw from the city they’d regained with such vast losses and allow the enemy to occupy the small amount of remaining free land in their motherland, or fight and force the enemy to withdraw, or, if it came to it, make them pay dearly for the city. They chose the second option and they too were victorious. Among the General Staff of the Russian Army, prudence won out over ambition and they rescinded the ultimatum a couple of hours before the deadline. The Russian command had understood that the only men left in the city were the brave, and, as the song says, the courage of a doomed man is terrifying. Terrifying in its ferocious desire not to live, but to die. In battle against the enemy, like the ancient Vikings died. Here was the song’s hidden message.
17
And then? Then came life, with all its delights and monstrosities. The long, arduous return to life and to trust in people. The slow realization that the entire world is not your enemy and not everyone is a beast. The occasional, and thus all the more harrowing, dreams from that hell. There was the post-war euphoria, and the gradual sobering up. And work – this time as press attaché to the Minister for Industry in the Chechen government, where we would wait for months on end, along with many others, for our wages to be paid. Russia’s economic blockade had catastrophically widened the social rift between the small layer of rich people and the great swathes that made up the rest of the Chechen population. And against the backdrop of this artificially engineered slump in the economy of the region’s wealthiest republic, the now compliant Russian media, along with the agents among the local population working for the Russian secret service, did everything they could to stir up resentment against the democratically elected government. The incursion into neighbouring Dagestan by volunteers led by Shamil Basayev[36] to go to the aid of our ‘insurgent brothers’ became the official casus belli for the start of the Second Chechen War. But when the Russian politicians and military men speak about ‘the invasion of Dagestan by Basayev’s gang’, they knowingly lie. The entire staff of top-level Russian agents spent a long time working on luring Basayev into Dagestan. And eventually they succeeded. Among these agents were some fairly well-known people. It is for the historians to judge who prepared the Dagestan operation, how they did it and why. But here is one small episode by way of evidence. In May 2005, during a current-affairs programme on television, Russia’s former Prime Minister Sergey Stepashin said, ‘Our troops were pulled out of Botlikh[37] a month in advance, clearing the way for Basayev’s entry into Dagestan. Now that is something the Military Prosecutor should have looked into.’ He was referring to a period when Basayev was flatly refusing to go to Dagestan. It was only later that he agreed to it. The preparations for this war were laid a long time earlier, in the summer of 1995. That was when Moscow realized they had lost the first war. And at that point they decided to make preparations for revenge. Everything else – the apartments that were blown up, the terrorist incidents, the luring of Basayev to Dagestan – these were all merely stages on the journey towards the bigger goal. But a proper investigation into that, along with dates and names, is a job for the historians. This book does not attempt to chronicle the history.
III
Autumn Shot Dead
Towards evening, a peasant approached them carrying a heavy burden and he asked the way to the nearest town. The Sufi immediately stood up, took the load on to his back and walked with him part of the way to show him the path. Then he returned to the crossroads.
‘You spent all day sitting in meditation and never answered the people who came to you with questions or seeking your advice. Yet you helped that poor peasant. Was he a secret saint?’ the youth asked.
‘He was the only one truly searching for what he named as the object of his desire,’ the Sufi replied.
1
The most beautiful time of year in Chechnya is not spring. Despite the tumult of the greenery, the delirium of all the rivers and streams, the heady scent of the flowers, despite the cheery sun spilling out laughter, spring is not the most beautiful time of year. Spring has plenty of rain, vital for nurturing all this hectic, moisture-hungry life. The rivers and streams turn murky and turbulent from the abundant rain, and from the melted snow gushing down from the mountain tops. The clean, dewy, silvery air quivers and chimes; it sings a million different songs in a million voices and when you breathe in this resonant air, you inhale all of these songs. And they insistently, brazenly continue to resound within you, taking over your mind, spawning bold dreams and desires. In spring, life’s egotism comes to the fore. All life forms, from the smallest insect to a human being, from a slim blade of grass to the trees, the mighty giants of the forest; all are consumed by a thirst for life. All are absorbed in themselves. Busy clinging to this life, trying to prolong it through their offspring, their flowers, their labours. Only the snowy mountain peaks gaze upon all this crazy tumult with wise serenity. As if they knew that ephemeral spring, tipsy on sunshine, was frolicking like a young girl just for them, infusing nature with life just so that, during the long winter, to the sad songs of the blizzards, they could admire a different world, contemplative and unhurried, twinkling far below at their feet in a million fiery stars. Spring is too impetuous.
And summer is not the most beautiful time of year. Summer is too seductive and passionate. It harbours many sacred and sinful secrets. In the summertime, the soul is poised on a fine filament between heaven and hell. Summer is too emotional.
And it is not winter. Winter is a time of forlorn and wistful waiting for the playful young girl of spring. Winter is too serious.
The most beautiful time of year in Chechnya is autumn. Autumn heralds a brief period of harmony between life and death, between light and dark, between the mind and the soul. Autumn is a time of placidity, where every living thing cannot but help get a little closer to the God that created it. Rivers and streams become crystal clear, as if washed of the sins of men; the sky becomes deeper. Lakes become limpid blue and bottomless. They enshrine within their waters some sacred mystery. The sun does not laugh: it smiles. Warmly and sincerely, like a young mother smiling at her first-born son. The entire world arrays itself in gold and crimson. And the air isn’t intoxicating: it is honey-sweet. And the world doesn’t go wild with a million chiming songs. There is only the plaintive chirping of the wintering birds bidding goodbye to the summer and the sad honking of cranes flying in formation. And the rain does not pour down. No, it cries teardrops. Mournfully, quietly. It is silently crying for the immensely sad and beautiful autumn. And when the snow-capped mountains erupt in gold at dawn, they look like a fine queen preening herself and gazing into the polished shield of her beloved knight. Early autumn in Chechnya is warm, fertile and pure. No wonder the Chechens popularly call it ‘orphan’s summer’. Autumn is a sacred time of year for the Nakh. It is the time of year for concluding important business, for weddings and housewarming ceremonies, for forgiving your enemies and ending vendettas. Autumn is a time for making peace and helping each other. It is selflessly generous. It is magnanimous and sad. And this sadness holds the knowledge of the innermost mysteries of life and death.