Mikail Eldin - The Sky Wept Fire - My Life as a Chechen Freedom Fighter

‘I’m a journalist. The guide is a guy I went to school with. He knew I was a journalist but he didn’t realize I was armed. This morning I had a tip-off from someone that a delegate in the talks with the Russians had arrived at Chechen military headquarters, and so I was making my way there. I needed to interview him. It’s my job. I’d left some weapons hidden in the forest, and when my guide saw that I was arming myself, he wanted to turn back. But I talked him into going a hundred metres further with me. Of course, I’m not on a salary, but there’s a war going on. And it’s my duty as a journalist to witness this tragedy at least, so I can write about it later. Yes, I think war is a tragedy. And I dream of it ending. It doesn’t matter how, just so long as the killing stops. Why was I armed? Well, you can’t work with them unless you’re armed. They take the attitude that a man wandering around the positions without a weapon must be an enemy agent. I paid two hundred roubles for the RPG launcher out of my savings, and the hand grenades were a present from some rebels. No, I haven’t killed anybody. I haven’t fired at anybody. I’ve never been arrested. I served in the Soviet Army, then I studied at the Chechen State University. Before the war I never wrote about politics. I wrote only about culture and sometimes I wrote on science.’

They aren’t happy with your answers. They suggest that you tell them the truth. You object: ‘I’ve told you the truth. If you don’t believe me, you can check with all the Russian, Chechen and foreign accredited journalists who are working here. They all know me.’

‘Of course we believe that part of your story. You look too sophisticated to be a rebel. But we also know that you’ve lied to us. Now that is not in your interest. You’ll tell us the truth anyway, in the end. Everyone always does. But it’s in your interest to tell it sooner. Do you hear, your friend wants to tell you something’ – you hear your friend scream. ‘He’d certainly advise you to tell the truth.’

‘I have told the truth…’

‘No! Not the whole truth. You haven’t said anything about the number of rebels, the weapons they’ve got… You haven’t given us the names of the rebels or their commanders.’ As you discover later, your comrade’s interrogation is following a different track. ‘You haven’t shown us the location of their headquarters and bases. You haven’t told us who your notes on the sabotage attacks of a certain mid-ranking field commander were intended for and where you got them. It’s a report with your findings meant for Dudayev or Maskhadov. Isn’t it? And you’re not a journalist at all. You’re using your journalist ID as a cover. Who are you?’

‘I got that information officially, as a journalist. And they’re forever shifting their bases and headquarters about. As for names, no one thought to introduce themselves by name to me as I’m a journalist. They all have call signs, but I can’t remember them. And I don’t know the first thing about weaponry. I’m a civilian. And for my army service I was based at headquarters.’

‘OK. You’re under stress and we realize there’s a lot you’ve forgotten. But we’re here to help you remember it all. And the quicker you remember, the better for you. Now go and have a chat with our friend!’ Once again you are led off for a ‘chat’, as blows from rifle butts are lavished upon you.

They run and slam your head against a pillar repeatedly, then they stomp on your wounded, bleeding foot. Dizzied from the blows to your head, you slump down in the guards’ arms – but they won’t let you fall to the ground yet, and dragging you further, they beat you even harder. Despite the many blows to your head, for some reason you’ve not passed out. Very soon you will desperately want to pass out, but you won’t lose consciousness even for a second. They will not let you. They are experts. The guards hand you over.

Electricity is a blessing. It supplies mankind with heat and light, with communications; it has uses in medicine. Of course, if you are not careful, it can hurt you, kill you even, but these are accidents, and accidents happen in the course of day-to-day life. But it turns out electricity has one more application. It can be used for the methodical infliction of pain: for torture. You are no longer being roughed up any old how, with random blows from rifle butts and boots. No. You are being tortured. And the difference between the two is phenomenal. Beating is beating. It has no system: any old person can do it, using any old thing, in any old place. The soldiers beating you are unleashing all their fury, their dread of death, their sleep terrors and nightmares. They are blaming you personally for their grim, tented existence, for the cold and the hunger. To them the one person guilty of all their woes is you. And in any case, you are the enemy. All their hatred centres solely on you – because you are right here in front of them. They beat you because they’re afraid; of you, of combat, of death. They punch and kick with fervour. The beatings in this place often result in disability and death and nearly always leave a permanent mark on your health. But the torture… Here everything is done slowly and meticulously; they strike each spot only for a matter of minutes, so the body cannot get used to the pain. The torture almost never leaves long-term outward marks. The torturer’s task is not to cripple but to beat out of the victim the maximum possible information. And in the process, delivering the maximum degree of pain with the minimum possible consequences. No emotions are involved. That is if you’re being tortured not by the sadistic OMON paramilitaries but by professionals. There are no feelings. There is only the cold calculation of professionals. Everything has been worked out down to the finest detail, and everything is done with a purpose. They are acting on a broad front here, working on body and mind simultaneously, trying to get through to you that you’re nothing. There is nobody, nothing that can help you. Only you can help yourself, by giving them the truth. You need to take pity on yourself, and then your overlords will give the order for you to be pardoned; they’ll let you eat and drink. They’ll even arrange for your release. But you feel that they are lying. They cannot do anything. They are just torturers. They laugh… They sing an old pop song, ‘Call Me Up’, [28] This song is from the 1981 Soviet film Karnaval. as they wind the handle of an old-style telephone set. But this isn’t sadism. It is their job. An ordinary job, which they do with skill and to their utmost ability. The longer and faster they wind the handle, the higher the voltage and stronger the current shooting through you. Naked wires are attached to your fingers and toes. To enhance the effect you are constantly doused with water. The current rips through your body like a thousand red-hot needles. Your body arches… You lie face down the whole time. The current is increased. The voltage is so high that your thumb nails are burning. But right now, of course, you’re not aware of that. They continue to wind the handle, cheerfully singing, ‘Call me up, oh, call me. For the love of God, call me…’ You realize that they won’t stop unless you scream. You let out a scream. This is the only torture to wrest a scream out of you. You’re screaming more from impotent rage than from the pain. They stop. Only to start again five seconds later… They won’t kill you until they believe that you have nothing left to tell them. Your task is to convince them of this as fast as you can. To do that you need to stick to your initial story, grit your teeth and not let a wrong word slip out.

Now somebody is feeling for a point along your spine. He pounds it with his rifle butt until you start gasping for air. Later you will need a long time in treatment for the slipped discs. One of them starts slicing off your ear, but he is stopped by someone else. Then your almost half-severed ear is kicked by someone in heavy army boots. You say nothing. When they stub out cigarettes on your naked body, it feels like a holiday. The pain from the cigarettes is so trivial after everything else that you rest. You rest and implore God: ‘Either send me the Angel of Death or grant me the strength to bear this torture.’ For the moment He grants you the strength. Of all your emotions, only two remain: hatred and fury. Hatred for your enemies and fury towards yourself. It does not even enter your head to feel self-pity. You are too furious over your mistake to feel sorry for yourself. You have nobody to blame. Nobody told you to take that track; quite the reverse, they tried to talk you out of it. You not only went, but you were even lulled into complacency, badly misreading the situation. And for the moment this anger is giving you the strength to endure the pain and humiliation. They know that the moment you start feeling sorry for yourself, you’ll crack. That’s why they keep on urging you: ‘Come on, have pity on yourself. Surely a young guy like you wants to live? Think about your loved ones, your mother, they’re all waiting for you, they love you. So why don’t you take pity on yourself? Just tell us everything and the torture will stop. No one will lay a finger on you, and before you know it you’ll be on your way home. You’re a smart guy; why shield those gangsters who are trying to ruin our shared country? You’re a sophisticated man, just look at that clean-shaven chin, now how on earth did you end up with those rebels?’ From time to time they pause the torture and take you back to be interrogated. They ask you the same questions and you give them the same answers; then they start up the torture again. And so it goes on for hour after hour. They are getting tired. So it seems torturers do get tired, just like peasants at their honest labours. You lie in your position, face down. You are tremendously thirsty. It feels as if a drop of water could make you strong enough for a whole new life, like in the fairy tale. There is a damp strip hanging down from the blindfold on your eyes. You catch it with your lips and suck on it. With enormous pleasure. Its liquid is salty, but that doesn’t worry you. It is moisture, after all. Someone speaks above your head: ‘He’s sucking from that rag all soaked in blood and water.’ And the immediate command: ‘Tuck in the strip! Let him die of thirst!’