Chechens Don’t Have Horns

by Sara Slye

The Gateway Journal’s European correspondent reports from Ingushetia, and finds tremendous hospitality amidst the terrible violence of the region. 

Over the winter holidays, I took a train to Nazran, Ingushetia. The only person I knew specifically to look for was the editor of the publication Chechen Society. He promised to let me read through his archives for a research project. I arrived alone at five o’clock on Sunday morning. An Ingush boy had me under his protection and hailed a cab to one of the only local hotels.

Sara Slye (in head scarf) with Ingush refugees

Monday morning, the editor was not yet in his office, so I sought out the Memorial - Human Rights Center. Memorial is the most reputable Russian human rights organization and the Nazran division currently collects information on massive violations in Ingushetia and Chechnya. 

A diminutive journalist greeted me when I arrived and we began a discussion. But we were interrupted by the arrival of two Italians on an informal “youth ambassador” mission. 

The Italians, members of the collectives “Terra del Fuoco” and “Acmos” were in need of an interpreter so I accompanied them via Vladikavkaz to Beslan. In Beslan we went to the charred remains of School number one. We walked across the gymnasium floor inches thick with rubble, glass, and the reek of flesh.

It was an odor not tangible, but all the same permeating - we felt the ghost of a thousand cameras. We climbed to a projector room where snipers perched and local boys recounted the events of September 1 to us. 

The graveyard was a lake of brilliant color, the headstones decorated with tables for grieving relatives to sit at. The toys of the children accompanied them and bottles of water were laid about - the men who held them hostage would not allow them to quench their thirst. There were still empty holes in the ground three months after the tragedy. Why was this, I wondered. The answer was almost too horrible to listen to - the bodies were buried improperly and must be exhumed. The bones had been mixed up. 

The vulgar events of Beslan are symptomatic of deeper atrocities. The Russo-Chechen war not only continues, but has reached levels of utter demonism. The Russian Federation claims that everything is returning to normal, but in reality neighboring regions are rapidly de-stabilizing. Few foreigners or Russians contest the official line because there is currently an information blockade in place. Locals live under an occupation of sadism worse than Stalin’s Great Terror. Larger tent camps are being shut down in Ingushetia because Putin’s boys want to show the world that refugees are happily return to a “free-at-last” Chechnya under Alkhanov and Kadyrov. Nothing could be further from the truth. 

We visited one of the remaining smaller camps of Chechen refugees. The people had no toilets, and were living in walls made of cardboard. There were not enough schools, so only a few children had a chance to get an education. One per family, and only if the family can somehow find a way to afford it. The kindergarteners in a tent classroom painted pictures with us, and we all played together. I made friends with two fifteen-year-old girls. They drew hearts and wrote that we are sisters. We exchanged rings. Mothers told us how they have all been forgotten. Sometimes people bring relief packages, but no one ever comes to listen to them. 

The next day we went to a camp of Ingush refugees. They have been living in make-shift houses since the territorial conflict between Ingushetia and Ossetia broke out in the early 1990’s. Can you believe the host family borrowed money from their relatives to buy a goat to honor our visit? The mother offered to adopt me after I thanked her in Ingush and gave her a hug. I cried. It was all too much. People just like you and me are being forced to exist in hideous circumstances. Yet, they retain pride and humanity. Would we?

After we returned to Nazran, the Italians left, and I intended to rent a hotel room. The editor of Chechen Society had presented me with two years worth of editions - his paper and several others. I thought it could be nice to sit and smoke and translate relevant articles. But, the diminutive Chechen journalist I’d met on my first visit and the ladies of Memorial wouldn’t have it. Caucasian hospitality is famous for a reason. Anyone who comes is a guest, and guests must be protected. 

Thus, I stayed six safe nights with the family of the journalist. They were from Samashki and their home had been destroyed twice already. The fields and forest around their town were mined so no one could walk about. The once well cared for land is now littered with trash because everyone is afraid to pick it up - they might lose a leg. All young men (12 and up) are in danger of arbitrary detention, torture and disappearance - women also. Children are not infrequently murdered. And it’s not the “terrorists” who do this. 

This family lives in a climate of destruction and repression worse than hell. Yet, they not only treated a guest with dignity and warmth, but also exuded a healthy sense of humor and independence. The five of us slept in a two-room whitewashed home. The lady kept fires stoked so no one was ever cold, and two little boys constantly ran about, full of mischief but still endearing. We ate chicken liver soup, salted fish, kofte and drank liters of tea. 

Yes, this family, who didn’t even know me until I randomly appeared, took it upon themselves to feed me, provide transportation, and offer accommodation. The sad part is that my host, sensitive to the media’s portrayal of all Chechens as evil terrorist murderers who kidnap brides-to-be, asked if I’d noticed anything strange about Chechens. 

“Do we have horns???”