It's been two years since Zaira, now 15, went to school. She spends her days working--cooking, cleaning, lugging buckets of water up four dark flights of stairs. Half-destroyed by bombs and sniper fire, the apartment complex where her family lives has limited electricity and no running water.
"Look how hard she works!" Zaira's mother says to me. "She's not lazy like those Russian girls who only know how to file their nails." Her family jokes that I should help find a husband for Zaira in America. Zaira rolls her eyes like any respectable teenager, but she too is worried about her future. She tells me that a Chechen girl can be "stolen" by a young man looking to marry; some have been kidnapped after leaving their homes on errands. She assures me I won't be stolen; at 25, I am, by local standards, an old maid.
As a producer with NBC News in Moscow, I traveled to Grozny in January to report on the aftermath of the civil war between Russia and the Republic of Chechnya. Our crew was urged to hire armed guards to watch our apartment entrance while we slept. We also were instructed to be off the streets by dark. That gave me plenty of time to talk to Zaira, whose family was hosting us. But even with the government-imposed restrictions, I was able to see firsthand the results of 21 months of war.
It's fitting that Grozny, the capital of Chechnya, means "terrible" in Russian. The city is a haunting collection of twisted metal, burned-out buildings and mangy animals sifting through the rubble of homes long abandoned. Bleary-eyed presidential guards rest their Kalashnikov automatic weapons on the roofs of their Soviet cars, smoking Marlboros to fight off sleep. Fifteen floors above the street, a stark-white porcelain bathtub teeters over the ragged edge of a bomb-blackened apartment. Some telephone poles remain upright, but their torn cables dangle lifelessly. At night, there are faint flickers in the windows as those without electricity rely on candles.
Chechnya declared independence from Russia just as the Soviet Union was collapsing in December 1991. It was three years before Russia sent federal troops to the breakaway republic. An estimated 30,000 to 80,000 people, mostly civilians, died in the savage war that followed. Russia eventually lost to Chechnya's guerrilla army. But Moscow continues to assert that Chechnya is a member of the Russian Federation; Russian leaders maintain that the Khasavyurt peace accord put off an official decision on Chechnya's status until December 31, 2001. Still, Chechens defiantly insist they are independent from Russia.
Since the war ended, many Chechens have been angry and confused--and grasping for some sort of order in their lives. Islam may well become the cement that holds together a new society. Though the region began accepting Islam as early as the 16th century, a strict Muslim regime has never taken hold. That may be about to change. Glued to the crumbling walls of many buildings are posters heralding an Islamic future of stability, safety from crime and national identity. A majority of Chechens marked the holy month of Ramadan this year by fasting from sunrise to sunset and praying five times a day.
While Islam may address the Chechen people's spiritual needs, the religion's strict behavioral code is at odds with ingrained practices. Even during Ramadan, many Chechens risk 40 lashes from the militia in order to buy alcohol. In fact, this year's Ramadan seems less a traditional holiday than a test of the people's readiness to accept a more public Islam. Zaira doubts that a strict Islamic regime can prevail in Chechnya after so many years of secular Soviet rule and the influence of American and Russian television. She adds that she will refuse to wear a "paranja," or full veil. "My mother did not wear one, nor did my grandmother. It's just not a tradition here."
What is a tradition is to fight--and despite peace treaties and elections, the people remain on a war footing. One afternoon, we meet a small band of rebels policing a town gathering. The men stand in groups with rocket launchers and AK-47 assault rifles, talking and joking among themselves. Their commander, Usa Mynaeva, invites me to visit their headquarters the following morning.
Their base is in Alxan-Kala, 20 minutes outside Grozny along a highway lined with broken trees. About 30 guards, dressed in camouflage and wielding automatic weapons, have gathered for a morning meeting. They shout "Allahu Akhbar"--"God is great"--as they prepare to train younger recruits. Several of the guards are younger than 20; one boy who was cradling a Krasavchik (translation: "beauty") automatic rifle swore he was 15, but he looked 11.
Usa turns to me. "Would you like to see our prisoners?" I hesitate. I want to see them because that's my job, but my instinct is to get out of this awful camp. "Yes," I say.
At the far end of the muddy courtyard behind a Russian army truck, is a set of wood doors. Usa opens them onto a muddy staircase with seven steps leading down into a dank, cold cellar about 10-feet square. Two Russian soldiers, Dimitry Korosev, 20, and Alexei Lozhkin, 19, look at the ground when we enter. Dimitry is tall and thin; Alexei is stocky. Both are in civilian clothes. They are undernourished, with gray skin and brown-lidded eyes.
"We're waiting to exchange them for two of our fighters," Usa tells me. Though I'm not much older than they, the boys won't look me in the eyes.
They've been in captivity for seven months; Russia so far has refused to make a trade. We talk for a while, until Usa orders Dimitry to give his opinion of the war.
"All people should be free," Dimitry says, staring at his feet and almost whispering. "All people should live in their own land . . . and Russia should not have become involved in Chechnya's affairs." Dimitry glances over at Alexei; they both look miserable. We gather up our gear and drive away from the camp.
Back in Grozny, my crew takes to the streets to shoot some background footage. We come across an old Russian woman dressed in a ragged coat and hauling a white burlap bag over her shoulder. With our cameras rolling, Anna Vassilyevna points to the five-story building behind her; it is missing its entire middle section. She says there are still corpses inside, residents who hid in the basements during the bombing. She loudly tells us of a Russian neighbor who had been killed by "maradyoris"--thieves dressed up as militia--who commandeered the few habitable apartments left, especially the ones owned by Russians.
A small crowd soon assembles, drawn first by the TV camera and then by Anna's words. One Chechen woman begins arguing with the old woman as we film. When I later watch the footage, I see Anna moving in and out of the frame, interrupting our interview to defend herself from the mounting attacks. I ask our cameraman to stop filming, and then I try to escort the old woman away from the angry crowd. I'm ashamed for having played a role in the fight. But Anna doesn't shrink from the taunts, and soon bitter words are flying. "How dare you talk when your damned people killed my three children," the woman shouts at Anna. "How dare you come outside." Anna returns fire: "But we all suffered--look at me, they pulled the gold out of my teeth--an old woman, they killed my sons, too!"
I am almost in tears, and the Chechen woman is sobbing. Anna does not stop, not just for myself but for them. I have stepped into a well of pain and bitterness and unknowingly stirred it up. These are not armies fighting, but old women, neighbors. I eventually steer Anna Vassilyevna away from the crowd. She does not seem angry, but rather deeply disappointed--as if a large part of her life has been wasted or lost. As if it is too late to pull the shattered pieces of her life together.
Still shaken myself, I walk past a muddy kiosk where an enterprising Chechen is selling pirated cassette tapes. The Eagles' "Hotel California" blares from the boom box. I cannot speak for several hours, but no words would make a difference anyway. Perhaps if I were more experienced, I say to myself, I would be immune to the subjects that we film. But then I hope that I never am that experienced.
Eve Conant '93, works for NBC News in Moscow.
