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

It came as quite a shock for the defenders of the capital to find out how much moral support they enjoyed among the population. After so many days and nights besieged by our mortal enemies, we’d begun to forget that beyond our fiery encirclement there was a life to which we were connected and there were people who hadn’t forgotten us. We’d begun to forget there was a Chechen people, who identified with us and admired our glorious battle. Glorious not through its heroism, but glorious simply for being. And as for the stereotypical heroism where the hero sacrifices himself in the name of victory – whether that is in fact heroism at all is open to debate.

In the last days of January, plenty of snow was piling up in the city. This fluffy white heavenly grace concealed all traces of the fierce fighting. The snow fell in big soft flakes and the world became a wonderful fairy-tale blur. And no matter how much the Devil rejoiced in the war, filling every alley with the hum of shrapnel, lavishing blasts upon every courtyard and street, he was powerless against the snow. He could not take away the good spirits this clean, soft snow brought us. The most important thing in war is not the past, not the future, but the present moment. And if in the present something delightful is happening, even if it’s nothing exceptional, why not be happy? Teetering between life and death, you were always living in the present. Not glancing over your shoulder at the past or peering into the future. That made things easier.

But the snowfall doesn’t know and doesn’t care about what is easier for you. It simply jerks you out of your diabolical present and for a brief time leads you by the hand – like when you were a child and your mother led you back home from the streets after you’d become lost in play – to a distant, joyous past. This past is an illusion. What you so bombastically refer to as your past is in fact the life of some other guy, someone you thought of as yourself. But he is not you. You and he are two different people; as unalike as a crystal and a stone. He was a young romantic. You are a mature cynic. He trusts people. You do not trust even yourself. He loves to laugh and dream. You like to think and analyse. He is in love and sure of himself. You are lonely and doubt yourself. The only thing you have in common is your faith in God. But here too you’re not quite the same: he just believes unthinkingly, whereas you believe consciously.

Here he is in a beautiful park in the now ruined city. There is the same unearthly, fairy-tale snowfall. With him are two girls. One of them is his sweetheart. She’s no sylph, no queen, no angel. Just an ordinary girl. But with an extraordinary heart. Because she is in love. The thick snowfall turning the city ghostly, the empty park the city has offered up to you, the sweet, loving girl at your side are all making you deliriously happy. This happiness is enough to supply the whole world. You love the world because she is living in it. You want to make this world happy for her and you believe that you can. The three of you are throwing snowballs. For a long time, enraptured. At this moment there are no happier persons in the world than you.

Wait… Did that happen to you? Was that really you? No, it can’t have been you. It was that other guy, whom you persist in identifying as you. But does it matter? Surely he won’t mind if you return for a moment and become him? If you become, for an instant, as happy as he was back then? No, of course not. He’ll understand. After all, he is your reflection in the unshattered mirror of the past. Now he is gone. He’s dead. Or rather, you’re dead, and he is alive. And he will live as long as the planet spins around the wheel of time. Now the city is gone. It was killed, callously, cynically, and you took part in this murder. You contributed to the death of the city. Even though you were trying to defend it. These ruins today, for an instant, must be feeling happier, like you are, through becoming their reflection in the unshattered mirror of the past. And the park is gone: in its place lies a cemetery. The broken and scorched tree trunks have become gravestones for your fallen comrades. The ghosts of mothers mourning for their sons, raising their dark, dry branches to the white, snowy sky. And you’ll never be able to throw snowballs again in that park. You will never be the way you were. When you were little, you used to fight the children who went nesting. You felt the pain of the unhatched, unformed chicks and their parents. Whereas now you see pain, but cannot feel it. Not even your own. And if you cannot feel pain, you won’t be able to feel happiness.

On this strange, snowy, fiery night you hand over the city, along with the graves of your comrades, and your memories, to the wild barbarians and you leave. You leave for the mountains, along with the thousands of your comrades who are still alive. Just as over the centuries your ancestors escaped the countless enemy hordes. They left intending to return. And return they did. Perhaps it’s no coincidence that you are visited by memories today. The dying city foretells the cruel fate awaiting its ruins, which are to be blown up over and over again by the barbarians in a wild frenzy of fury, in vengeance for its rebelliousness, until the ruins become riddled with craters. It foretells your fate, and it bids goodbye to you, its defender and executioner. And in parting, as a sign of forgiveness, for a brief moment it whirls you into the past, it lets you glance into the unbroken mirror of the past. You are grateful and silently receive its forgiveness. But can you forgive yourself?

Over the white snow stretches a long chain of silent white ghosts leaving behind the blazing ruins. It is us in camouflage smocks. The unearthly snowfall has just stopped. Behind us is the ghost of the city, mourning for us. We are silent. Our silence is an answer to all the countless questions that we’ve asked ourselves and that anybody could ever ask. Our silence is more painful than the agony of torture. The narrow path across the minefield that our sappers had cleared has been mined again. And from the right the enemy are firing on us. They’re firing randomly, it’s true. But why are we silent, Commander, when we’re clutching weapons in our hands? Let us off the leash, Commander, and we’ll silence them. We’ll silence plenty of them for good. All their tanks and artillery, aircraft and hardware are powerless against us in the night. Night is for warriors whose spirit is stronger. Our enemy isn’t cowardly or weak. But we are angrier. We’ll fight with no regard for losses. Not for our country, not for freedom. Not for our religion, not for some lofty cause. We will fight for the silence. For our painful, bitter silence on this frosty, burning night! But we cannot reply. We cannot condemn to death our comrades who will break out tomorrow. And the day after.

You’re near the head of the column but not one of the first. It is the first men who blow up on the mines. You hear the explosions and see their bloodied bodies. A mine inflicts the most horrific of injuries. Many survivors of mines would be better off not surviving. But it is God who determines our life spans, just as He grants us life itself. Your video camera is in your rucksack. It doesn’t have a night-vision mode, and without that it is useless by night. You watch three young men run into the minefield, shouting, ‘In the name of God, we’ll clear a path for our brothers!’ But they don’t manage to clear a path. All three are blown up by mines after just ten paces. Dawn is breaking. Dawn is not our ally: we are knights of the dark. We won’t have time to reach the village and take control of it.

The commander of the Almaz unit asks his fighters, ‘Are you willing to engage the enemy to provide covering fire while your comrades enter the village?’ He asks, fully aware of what the answer will be. He could order them and the order would be carried out. But in this war, asking your men is not shameful: it is an honour. Having obtained their unconditional consent, he quickly deploys his unit, and they take up their fighting positions. You run with them towards the positions, pulling the camera out of the bag as you go. Now it is light and you can film. The enemy know that now they’ll be coming under fire from light machine guns, powerful flamethrowers and grenade launchers, their fire will be met with a storm of fire, and they cease their attack on the column. The enemy know all too well how adept their opponents are at shooting. And they have no desire to become their targets. While their comrades are covering them, the fighters take the village, but now some of them have to return to the city. They will break out with the rest of the fighters over the next two nights. Under still heavier fire. And once they’ve rejoined the first group, they will continue to cut through the enemy forces for many more nights.