Is Journalism Worth Dying For?: Final Dispatches by Anna Politkovskaya, Arch Tait Page B
Authors: Anna Politkovskaya, Arch Tait
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special troops, Buvadi Dakhiev, was wounded in the head and died shortly afterwards. The causes of the battle are clear enough and have been much debated and publicised. I want instead to describe some aspects of Buvadi’s character which could not be written about while he was alive. It is more than a tribute to the memory of a man who on a number of occasions helped me in my work during the war, at times probably saving my life.
Buvadi was a special person, riven by contradictions and with a split personality. He used to remind me of the monument on Khrushchev’s grave in the Novodevichy Monastery cemetery in Moscow, half of which is pitch black, while the other is white as snow.
On the one hand he was an archetypal member of the security services, like so many others in Chechnya, an officer of the pro-Moscow Chechen militia; but he dated from well before the present times, when criminals and former resistance fighters have started running at Kadyrov’s beck and call. He was typical of those who opposed President Djohar Dudayev, and from 1995 dedicated himself to serving in the Chechen OMON special operations units, which marked him out as a wholeheartedly pro-Russian officer when Chechnya was only a part of Russia. For this he received medals and the Order of Courage, and was promoted to Lieutenant-Colonel. Buvadi refused to live in Chechnya while Maskhadov and Basayev were in power, and when the Second War began, he was in the foremost ranks of those opposing them.
At times the things he was involved in were extremely cruel. Let us not beat about the bush: those working in the Chechen OMON are not children in ragged trousers sharing sweets. The people who work there do so in order to shoot, and they shoot to kill before someone kills them. The units arrested people who were sometimes never seen again. They beat them, and worse.
My last meeting with Buvadi was in August in Grozny. He wouldn’t look me in the eye and bit grimly and guiltily into a watermelon. He was on edge and devoured the red fruit as if he was starving, doing his utmost to move the conversation away from a Chechen student who had been “swept” by his units and was thought to have been in their custody before simply disappearing. Now Alikhan Kuloyev’s mother, Aminat, an old-age pensioner, had joined the ranks of other mothers frantically searching Chechnya, and was begging anyone she met to at least put in a word with Buvadi. Perhaps he would tell her where her only son was.
I did put in a word, but Buvadi was saying nothing. He had nothing to say. There had been that student and now there wasn’t. Buvadi said, “He wasn’t guilty of anything.”
“Well, why hasn’t he been released?”
Buvadi said nothing, tearing at the melon’s skin.
On the other hand, Buvadi could just as often be kind as cruel, where many others were never kind. Everyone working in the Chechen security agencies can be divided into those who think before they kill, and those who long ago ceased to think. Buvadi did at least try to establish who he had in his sights, and that saved the lives of many, including some who would ordinarily have seemed doomed under the rules of the Chechen meat-grinder.
A few people in Chechnya knew that Buvadi tried to rescue the widows of commanders, women who were supposed to be slaughtered out of hand as “black widows,” likely future suicide bombers. How did he rescue them? After the widows were abducted, Buvadi would take them to his own home, which was completely against the rules.
And then what? They were in a kind of custody, a kind of quarantine. Buvadi would return home from work and talk to them for nights at a time. His house resembled a barracks, and Buvadi would hold women there for many weeks who, without any exaggeration, were potential suicide bombers. They were entirely ready for the job because, before they ended up with Buvadi, they had been trained by their husbands and their comrades in the handling of
Buvadi was a special person, riven by contradictions and with a split personality. He used to remind me of the monument on Khrushchev’s grave in the Novodevichy Monastery cemetery in Moscow, half of which is pitch black, while the other is white as snow.
On the one hand he was an archetypal member of the security services, like so many others in Chechnya, an officer of the pro-Moscow Chechen militia; but he dated from well before the present times, when criminals and former resistance fighters have started running at Kadyrov’s beck and call. He was typical of those who opposed President Djohar Dudayev, and from 1995 dedicated himself to serving in the Chechen OMON special operations units, which marked him out as a wholeheartedly pro-Russian officer when Chechnya was only a part of Russia. For this he received medals and the Order of Courage, and was promoted to Lieutenant-Colonel. Buvadi refused to live in Chechnya while Maskhadov and Basayev were in power, and when the Second War began, he was in the foremost ranks of those opposing them.
At times the things he was involved in were extremely cruel. Let us not beat about the bush: those working in the Chechen OMON are not children in ragged trousers sharing sweets. The people who work there do so in order to shoot, and they shoot to kill before someone kills them. The units arrested people who were sometimes never seen again. They beat them, and worse.
My last meeting with Buvadi was in August in Grozny. He wouldn’t look me in the eye and bit grimly and guiltily into a watermelon. He was on edge and devoured the red fruit as if he was starving, doing his utmost to move the conversation away from a Chechen student who had been “swept” by his units and was thought to have been in their custody before simply disappearing. Now Alikhan Kuloyev’s mother, Aminat, an old-age pensioner, had joined the ranks of other mothers frantically searching Chechnya, and was begging anyone she met to at least put in a word with Buvadi. Perhaps he would tell her where her only son was.
I did put in a word, but Buvadi was saying nothing. He had nothing to say. There had been that student and now there wasn’t. Buvadi said, “He wasn’t guilty of anything.”
“Well, why hasn’t he been released?”
Buvadi said nothing, tearing at the melon’s skin.
On the other hand, Buvadi could just as often be kind as cruel, where many others were never kind. Everyone working in the Chechen security agencies can be divided into those who think before they kill, and those who long ago ceased to think. Buvadi did at least try to establish who he had in his sights, and that saved the lives of many, including some who would ordinarily have seemed doomed under the rules of the Chechen meat-grinder.
A few people in Chechnya knew that Buvadi tried to rescue the widows of commanders, women who were supposed to be slaughtered out of hand as “black widows,” likely future suicide bombers. How did he rescue them? After the widows were abducted, Buvadi would take them to his own home, which was completely against the rules.
And then what? They were in a kind of custody, a kind of quarantine. Buvadi would return home from work and talk to them for nights at a time. His house resembled a barracks, and Buvadi would hold women there for many weeks who, without any exaggeration, were potential suicide bombers. They were entirely ready for the job because, before they ended up with Buvadi, they had been trained by their husbands and their comrades in the handling of
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