The Ashes of Beslan

When I arrived in Beslan, two weeks had already passed since tragedy struck. I thought that by this time they would have already started to carry away the ruins of the school. But no - nothing had been touched. They had only carried away the bodies and collected the "fragments". The latter, to be honest, had by far not been done immediately A British journalist who had been at the same place only three days before me said that at that time you could still find small particles of human bodies.

Three hundred and twenty nine corpses had been registered in the morgues of North Ossetia, where 88 bodily fragments were also being kept.

The number of victims is colossal, and for the small town of Beslan - which boasts only 30,000 inhabitants -the number is nothing less than disastrous. There is not a single family that did not lose one of their relatives, or someone close.

Family ties are tighter in Northern Ossetia, and the conception of "family" is wider. In the horrific three days, it was precisely those families of the hostages -parents, uncles and aunts, cousins and grand cousins - who gathered around the school, in groups of sometimes up to twenty people.

Two steps away from School No 1 there is a side street, unoriginally called 'Shkolny' - the School Street. In this street, right next to the school itself, there is a small yard framed by two 5-storied-buildings From these buildings, 37 people lost their lives. In fact, 33 were buried, and four have yet to be found.

One of these 5-storied buildings was home to a man called Vladimir, aged 45, and his wife and daughter. Vladimir is a builder - a restorer and tiler. He himself had built this house and was given a one-room- apartment there.  He soon got married and took his wife Zina to the new apartment. At this time he was 34 years old, and his wife was not much younger, 32. She worked as a teacher in a kindergarten. Within a year, their daughter Madina was born. She was the only child. Their life was good, and easy; they never provoked scandals. They invited friends on holidays. To be honest, they did not have enough money. But they were the proud owners of a vegetable garden. There they toiled on Saturdays and Sundays and, all in all, made enough for a living.

Madina went to school - of course to School No.1, where else would she have gone? It was right next door, and the best school in town. In 2004 Vladimir and Zina had planned to rebuild - of course the apartment was somehow small for three people, but Madina had to go to this school for so much longer, which meant they had to stay where they were. And, anyway, it was very comfortable even if smallish.
 
Until everything ended. On the 1st of September Zina took Madina to school and Vladimir went to work. The next time he would see his wife and daughter would be on the 4th of September: in the morgue of Vladikavkaz. Their bodies were mutilated to such an extent that he only recognized Zina from a birthmark on her small finger, and Madina from her earring.

"Others who were sitting there say that my wife and daughter were together in the gymnastic hall. All the time together. And the little son of our relatives - he went to school for the first time this year - was saved together with the parents. They jumped out of the window. So before that the boy saw Madina, how she was lying on the floor, covered in blood. Then, when the roof caved in, Madina caught fire. And my wife with her. That day I searched for them here, in Beslan - in all the hospitals, in the morgue. But I didn't find them. The next day I went to Vladikavkaz - and found them there. They were lying in the morgue, directly in the first row. The head of my wife was almost punched into halves, there was no more face, and she had uncountable shell wounds. My daughter was shot in the head. One leg was torn off, the other hardly attached. And the face was burnt away. Absolutely unrecognizable. But I still identified her - from her earring. And, her hair as well ..."

Vladimir is standing next to the bed on which his daughter used to sleep. A pair of meticulously ironed black trousers, the last pair that Zina would iron, are laid out on the bed-spread. Next to the bed is a small table with photos of Madina -  when she was already 10, smiling broadly, and when she was just a baby, sitting on her mother's knees with an oddly solemn expression on her little face. The table is crowded with plates of fruits and sweets. This is an integral part of the grieving ritual in Ossetia, and the table will remain like this for the entire 40 days of mourning.

"Well, I made them a table - with fruits, sweets. When something spoils - I change it immediately. And people come, our neighbors. They sit, and pay homage to the dead. They stay for a long time, sometimes until 2 in the morning. And it is good that way, for I cannot sleep at all. Once everyone has left - I lay down on my daughter's bed. That way it is easier, as if I were closer to her. And only at dawn I sometimes fall asleep..."

Vladimir is thickset, dark-haired. His eyes are glassy in the face hidden behind a densely grown black beard (men do not shave in the period of grieving). Inside the apartment it is clean and very calm. There is a carpet on the floor, and another - on the wall. Smaller carpets also cover two chairs and a sofa near the wall. In a see-through sideboard stand the obligatory wine-glasses and small vases. The owner of the apartment takes some wine glasses, pours in some water, and asks to drink for the peace of the souls of the departed. Then he shows photos, slowly turning the pages of a well-worn family album. Madina is in almost all of them: with her mother, with relatives, with schoolmates. And sometimes with her father - only you can hardly recognize Vladimir in the relaxed, laughing man in these pictures. Turning the pages of the photo-album, which now contain all his life, he whispers: "This is her, this is her...And this is her... Here she is 4 years old. This is us in Vladikavkaz. And this - in a costume, at a dance competition. And this was New Year's day... Her last one"

He points his finger at the little girls who join Madina in the photos: we lost her, she was in her class, and her, and her we also lost, and she is in hospital in Rostov, maybe she will live, and this one was lucky, she was saved, not even hurt. Vladimir says that Madina always dreamed of going to the sea, but they couldn't save enough money. And then, in this very August, they got a discount-tour with the help of his employers, and he sent his daughter together with his wife to a resort for three days. This way, at least Madina had the chance to see the sea before she died.

Monotonously he describes the strange dream he had in the night from the 31st to the 1st: As if there was a river, in the middle of which he put a little wagon, and where he lived completely alone. When he woke up, he felt uneasy and could not forget about the dream. It was also completely impossible to wake Madina up that day: she was hiding under the blanket, saying that she did not want to go to school at all. Her father suddenly thought: maybe it really is better for her not to go anywhere, maybe he should take her and her mother to their relatives in the country. He had almost decided to do so, but then he thought - it's the 1st of September, there will be a big holiday in school, something interesting, and Madina herself will complain afterwards - and Papa didn't let me!

"I was at work when everything started. Suddenly I looked - and balloons were set free from the school. Colored balloons. Well, I thought, there are all these festivities in school, and the kids let go of their balloons. And that was when the shooting started. I ran along the angular house, where they had already killed one. And further - police. They were all shooting. And everyone was scared of going in. I was running, begged my neighbors - give me a gun! Now we must go in! And none of the children will be killed. The terrorists will not be quick enough, maybe only the grown-ups will suffer... They had mined the building on the first day. And this means, on the first day it would have been possible to save them. There were a lot of weapons - there are those who work as different kinds of security, and also the rifles of the hunters...If we had all together ... Yes, if we had simply immediately killed those three who were standing on the street and scorched into the air and forced the children into the building - if we had done like this, we could have saved all the children!"

Vladimir continues sorting the photos. He says something about those he couldn't save, about the power structures with which the republic is flooded, and who are not able to save the children. And then - what are they needed for? He speaks about regional powers, who are interested in nothing but money. About bandits, who are everywhere, from Moscow to Dagestan, and for whom laws do not exist. And whilst this is going on, our children and grandchildren will be dying, there will be another Beslan, and not only one. Then he suddenly becomes silent and, looking at the floor, not addressing anyone, says: "How I loved Madina! How I loved her! I would let her get away with everything. I never shouted at her. I even sometimes thought - this time I would have had to punish her. But I couldn't...As if I had known! I thanked God for our blessings every day, on every holiday, always. On the day when I was given the apartment, I brought home an icon. We all followed the divine rites. And on our table there were always three pieces of cake for the Lord. Now I sometimes do not even believe in God. I mean - there is a God. But how could he not save them? When nobody else could save them, why did God allow this to happen? They tell me 40 days will go by, and then a year will go by as well. And then marry immediately! You cannot live alone. But even if I marry, who will give me such a child? Where from? She was all I had..."

We leave Vladimir in the empty flat, together with the children's toys, markers, clothes, the new textbooks bought for the beginning of the school year; textbooks that Madina never opened. We stand around on the threshold for a long time, trying to find at least some words of comfort, any words. But what can you say to a person who has lost everything, to a person whose life ended within an hour?

Around the house there is a long shed. They had built it specially for the whole yard to celebrate the holiday together. But today a commemoration takes place there. The wooden tables are laden with food and drink. On the walls you can see traces from bullets - they were hit during the storm. One of the windows is broken. Unshaved men and women in black dresses are sitting around in groups; each of them lost someone close. They talk about the need to address a statement to Putin, only they don't really know what they want to say. Apart from the fact that their children were killed, the power structures are not good for anything, and around rules there is chaos. Then they send grants and humanitarian help to them, they'd do better to give them the money, and they would then have directed this money to the fight against terror. And they "would have found Basaev and Maskhadov for sure."

A young, dark-eyed woman - her name is Anetta, and this coquettish, easy-minded name does not at all match her stiffened look and exhausted face - falls in with a cry: "We don't need such a government! We are dying every day!! We die from hopelessness! I was there with a baby child, and with my daughter. They let me go with the baby, but my daughter died. And look there, her daughter died as well! And here, her son! We all... And the situation isn't going to calm down. Thought that they don't let bandits pass the posts, see?  Yes, they didn't pass the posts, they went on footpaths! The army didn't help. The special units didn't help! Then what do we need them for? And the police spent the whole first day compiling lists of hostages. And by evening, there was already a list of more than 1000 people. This list they gave to their staff. That means that they knew everything, but kept saying that we were 350. And the terrorists flew into a rage about that. Do you understand, after 24 hours, when we already were exhausted, but they still gave us water and didn't behave so cruelly towards the children then, they said: 'Your government doesn't do anything, they don't negotiate at all, and ignore our requirements. And that's why all of you now start a dry hunger-strike. Against the war in Chechnya, for them to retain their military forces from there, and to release our hostages in the prison of Vladikavkaz.' That's what they called those insurgents who were caught in Ingushetia after the armed raid in June."

Another woman, Rita, who lost her only daughter, 9-year-old Alla, in the school, goes along with Anette: "The officials lied. And they will keep lying. They claim that insurgents were not more than 30, and all hostages say it was about 45, not less. And also they lie about Arabs or some kind of blacks. But they will not fool us! We know, that there was only Ingushes, well, and some Chechens... but the majority - Ingushes. They are a nation of bandits. We need to pose the question straightly -do we need a nation like this?"

"Yes, this is all the Ingushes!," agrees Anetta. "And their former President, Aushev, he was on the side of the terrorists! You know how respectfully the insurgents were talking to him! Applauded him. Hugged him. And he was so full of self-esteem."

I am so struck by this words that cannot but interrupt the speaker: "You've just said that they let you and the baby go! That means that Aushev led you out together with other nursing mothers, right? It was him who reached the release of mothers with babies. Without him..."

Tears of anger flood Anetta's eyes: "Yes, he led me out! He! And I even thanked him then. I was ready to fall on my knees before him. Told him that I would pray for him! Now I cannot forgive myself for that! But at that time I didn't understand anything. Only afterwards others told me how the bandits were talking to him. When the former president enjoys authority at the bandits - to what does this testify? It was all his scenario! Now I understand..."

"The people never wanted Ingushes here" --says Mairbek, who had only now entered the shed. His wife and four elder children did not leave the school alive. Now there are only two toddlers left. "They attacked us already then, in 1992. And now all the same. Ossetia is the only Christian Republic in the Caucasus. And everybody crawls to us! What for? To blow us up?! They blew us up, do you hear me? And now they should all vanish from here. We don't need such neighbors! And our President Dzasokhov should drive off together with them. He didn't do anything to help us. Himself he didn't come here - didn't dare to. And Putin? What do we need him for, when he didn't save a single child?"

Another man from the group, Robert, energetically nods his head: "We don't want the Ingushes to live here. This is our land. And they are a sly people. My grandfather told me- 'Never walk in front of an Ingush!' Now they killed our children. Even children! The powers need to be harsh. And the special services need to work for us, not for themselves. But they didn't do anything. That means- we will fix it by ourselves. In my family five people were killed, and not a single body has been found. We cannot even bury them. Do you think we will forgive such a thing? No! When the 40 days of mourning have gone by, we shall see. Now, while grieving, we must not take up arms, not even talk loudly. But when the time comes, we will get together and decide what to do. All will get together, those whose relatives died, their relatives and everybody they know. And then we will fix that. Such a thing cannot be forgiven."

What can one answer to them? How can one argue? They, who have lost that which had the most importance to them - their families, their children. What opposition is there to their anger, aimed even at Ruslan Aushev, the only one who was able to do at least something, was able to save the most unprotected? What can counter this despair? You can tirelessly repeat that there were not only Ingushes, and not only Chechens, and that the nationality of terrorists is of no importance anyway, because they are–INHUMAN. And, of course, that is what I am trying to say. I am also trying to retell what I heard in the last few days in Ingushetia and in Chechnya, from women, men, youth, who are ready to destroy with their own hands the child-killers that crushed Beslan into a nightmare; understanding that they themselves are taken as involved in this atrocity. I talk. The people of Beslan listen. And shake their heads.

***

I was standing in the gymnastic hall of the school, which is in ruins, covered by flowers, fruits and chocolate bars held down by bottles of water vibrating from the hum of wasps lured by the sweets, and all of a sudden a thought entered my head: - if this nightmare was going to happen, it would have been better if it had happened in Moscow. And I became scared of my own thought. Moscow is my town, and on one's own town you cannot, must not, wish anything of this kind. But if this had all happened in Moscow, the wound would have healed more quickly, they would inevitably have started to compress its edges in the course of the days that passed by. In the huge, billion-people city the loss of several hundred people, even children, would not be less monstrous. A human life costs the same everywhere- it is invaluable. But the emptiness left by the persons lost would not have been that gaping, and the raging megacity sparkling with life would have taken its part.

I remember New York 10 days after the 11th of September - life went on. The destruction of a symbol of America, the twin-towers, was for the Americans first of all a horrible catastrophe, whose impact was felt with remarkable force. The people cried over the victims of the act of terrorism, cried over the destroyed city line of Manhattan, cried over their buried illusion of safety. But life did not become transfixed. It's weird rhythm only slowed down for a day. And after that, the city took its due.

In any case, the point is not only the colorfulness, the many people and the energy of New York. With all they did and all their attitude the New Yorkers showed: They didn't destroy us, we WILL live. Remember, but live. And live the way we lived before. We will go to work, take our children to school, won't look back. We will sit in cafes, go shopping, to restaurants, concerts and the cinema. Our victory over terror lies exactly in living on. Within 10 days of the destruction of the twin towers, the site of the act of terrorism resembled a huge building site. Technicians were working without a break. Feverish discussions were held about what was to be built here when they will have removed the blockades.

And the tiny Beslan keeps an open grave. Life has been paralyzed. People, or rather not people but phantoms, shadows of people, walk to the ruins of the school building. Here they lost their relatives and people close to them, here they lost their friends. And they could have died themselves. A 13-year-old girl in a school uniform writes on the wall with a bold-point pen: "Kristya, we will not forget you! We are with you, Kristya!!" When asked: "You lost your friend here?" - she answers in an almost inaudible whisper: "This could have been me ..."

They pass from one mutilated class room to another, touch heaps of children's schoolbooks, look at the last year's tests, underlined with red ink, thumb through textbooks, peer at cubes for first class-children with bright letters and figures, scattered among ruins. They cover the walls with graffiti:- "Death to the terrorists!"; "Here were beasts"; "We won't forget you!!"; "We won't forget Ingushes and Chechens!"; "We will not forgive this!"; "The ashes of Beslan knock on my heart!". They cannot distract themselves for a single second from this horror. They are scared, and they hate. And the school is morphed into a temple of hatred. Of a hatred directed first of all at the nearest neighbors, Chechens and Ingushes: "You think, why is it so quiet here? You think we have forgiven? Let 40 days pass and you will see... Come here on the 13th of October, and you will see it all ...".

And this is chilling. How terrified must people be, simple people in Ingushetia, who await the next day? And who are themselves in horror about what happened with the schoolchildren of Beslan. And who themselves cannot imagine the kind of beasts who dared to do it. But no one will believe...

How terrified must people be in Chechnya, who, in despair, holding their breath, followed the news from Beslan. And whom also nobody will believe. And to this unbearable pain and fear, is added an intolerable insult: "Now the whole world looks at Beslan, the whole world cries over the Ossetian schoolchildren. Then why all these years, when they were killing us and our children, we did not see anything but indifference?"