Chechnya - Chechnya, 1995: Front Row Seats

One can never lead a normal life as a war photographer. As soon as the words "hostilities have broken out in..." are heard on CNN, it is expected that there will be a flow of videotapes and photographs that cover and explain the conflict. Most journalists are dispatched in a hurry and get in-country before the borders are closed. Others must make their way in by whatever means necessary. DP is part of the latter.

The large networks and news gathering organizations pay extraordinary amounts of money not only to send in news teams but also to charter airplanes, couriers and even military planes to get their dispatches out of the country. Satellite telephones and transmitters make it easy to send reports now, but the units are expensive and heavy to pack.

When Russia sent its troops into Grozny, there were plenty of journalists and reporters. As the situation became embarrassing, the Russians began to simply round up and send journalists out of the country. Previously, Dudayev had expelled all Russian reporters because of their inflammatory articles. When the Russian and Western press began to highlight the Russian incompetence and division, the Russians rounded up the Western press. Unlike major conflicts where the press are carefully clothed, fed, housed and "spun" by briefings, press releases and carefully prepared interviews, Chechnya was the opposite. Russian troops couldn't care less if they shot at the glint of a camera lens or a sniper's telescopic sight. Mortars, bombs and shells dropped by the Russians cared even less.

We wanted to see for ourselves, so we sent in a correspondent to try to understand the situation firsthand. The story of just what it takes to get into a war zone like Chechnya will give you some idea of the new face of reporting war.

We made our preliminary arrangements before leaving Istanbul with the "Caucasus Peoples Federation," a group that was supporting Dudayev's fight in Chechnya, or Chechenstan as it is locally known. The plan was to allow us to go in with a group of "volunteers," or mercenaries, via Baku in Azerbaijan through Dagestan and then on to Grozny. Although they could provide some forms of transportation to the border, from Hasalyurt we would have to walk for about three days through the mountains in the middle of winter to reach Grozny. Although we were being sent in under the protection of the Chechen forces, there was no guarantee who would be in charge once we arrived.

We set off the day before Christmas with minimal survival gear: our cameras, a stove, some tins of fish and warm clothing. We fly to Baku, in Azerbaijan, to meet the people who will take us into Grozny. The "friends" turn out to be members of the Lezgi Mafia, one of the toughest groups in Russia and the Transcaucasus region. The Lezgi number about 1.5 million and live in the north of Azerbaijan and in south and central Dagestan. Our goal is to fly 1800 km east to Baku and then travel 400 km north along the Caspian Sea through Dagestan and then west 50 km over the border into Grozny.

These entrepreneurial bandits have decided that since things are heating up (and as they don't know the difference between DP and NBC), they will need a $5000 transportation fee. Now normally when you make a business transaction in any country, you have some basic understanding of the value of money, and the intentions and general cost of a service. When you are dealing with the Mafia in Azerbaijan, however, there is no guarantee that you will not end up a frozen cadaver with a slit throat two miles out of Baku.

Seeing how we have a plan "B," we have nothing to lose by negotiating this fee down to a paltry $1000 which included transportation, food, lodging but no cable TV.

Plan "B" was the official Russian tour of Chechnya. Most Westerners are not aware of Moscow's new entrepreneurial spirit. Journalists who are accepted can arrange a $4000 junket into Chechnya from Moscow via military transport. We opt for the lower-priced, more adventurous ground operator version via the locals.

We make our deal over tea and cigarettes, and, once accepted, we are as good as kinfolk with these tough characters. Although we are kissing cousins, we also agree to pay our fee once we are over the border in Hasalyurt. The man who is to take us there tells us we will have company. He is bringing in 10 mercenaries and volunteers from Iran, Uzbekistan and Tadjikistan who will be joining us 10 km short of the Azerbaijan-Dagestan border. Oh, he mentions casually, a load of antitank missiles as well. We don't ask him how much money this one trip will clear but it is obvious that war is good for business in these parts.

One of his men drives us two hours north to Quba in a Lada, complete with reflective tinted windows. The Mafia may have money, but they sure don't have taste. We stay at an old Russian farmhouse surrounded by apple orchards as far as the eye can see. Now abandoned, it was a way station and safe house for the Lezgi Mafia. In the courtyard are two tractors with the antitank rockets. The men are packing oranges, apples, flour and other agrarian items to camouflage the clearly labeled crates.

We are awakened early the next morning and set off north toward Qusar, a town about 25 km short of the Dagestan border. We are now traveling in three groups. The first group consists of two Lezgi, who would travel ahead of us to meet with the local officials, grease the border guards, and ensure our safe passage into Dagestan. Behind us come the volunteers, now happy farmers bringing in foodstuffs. The border is officially closed, but the guards just stare dispassionately at us and never bother to even wave us down or check our passports. We thought the mirrored windows were bad taste; now we know their function. Inside Dagestan, we stay in the car until we reach an old Lenin Pioneer Camp, a relic of the Russian regime, where primary and high school kids learned the ways of the revolution. It is the Soviet version of our Boy Scout camps.

That night we have a typical Azeri meal-smoked meat and smoked fish, washed down with homemade vodka strong enough to remove paint. Tonight will be cold, but the fire from the vodka will warm us up.

After our feast, we set off down a small side road that leads to the official checkpoint at the border. The cart track is used by the local farmers and is too bumpy to allow large trucks. There is little reason for a 24-hour border patrol, and, by "coincidence," there is no border patrol that night. As we travel along the gray Caspian sea into Derbent, we learn some unsettling news. Moscow has replaced the local police and border guards with special security team members known as "Omon." This is indeed a bad "omen." Security is tight because one of Dudayev's assistants has made a visit to Turkey and asked for the Turks to send assistance to Chechnya via Azerbaijan. The sudden heavy presence of the Russian military is to cut off any aid coming to the embattled capital of Grozny.

We are told this by a Lezgi mafia customs official. The fellow who holds this oxymoronic post advises us that in order for us to continue through Dagestan, we will need to become citizens of the Dagestan Autonomous Region.

That night, a man from the local police force brings two blank passports and we become Dagestanis for $300 each. It is a busy night as we fill out forms and complete the passports. Before dawn the next morning, it seems that our new status is to be rewarded. Our transport is a brand-new BMW bought (or stolen) in Germany. We leave our old passports behind as partial payment and to avoid being searched and arrested as spies. Dagestan is a war zone with a penalty of two years in jail for crossing the border illegally. The Russian soldiers are also empowered to detain and/or execute people whom they suspect as volunteers or spies.

I wonder who Sefail Musayev is, but I carry his passport thankfully. The fact that we cannot speak a word of Russian makes every border crossing a gut wrencher. The Russians are not in any mood for levity, but our Azeri driver/guide manages to chat and joke our way through a total of seven checkpoints. At each tense checkpoint my hair turns a little grayer, the lines on my face are etched deeper and I wonder what the hell I am doing here. When we reach the bustling city of Mohachkale (or Makhachkala), we finally can breathe. From here it is 170 km to the border of Chechnya. From this point on, our driver knows nothing of the conditions ahead.

We drive on in our beautiful new BMW, feeling like royalty, although we are the last people the Russians want in this area. We come to Kizlar, and our driver stops to talk with a Chechen contact family, who works as a link between the Chechen Mafia and the Lezgi. We ask about the Reuters journalists who are based in Hasalyurt. We have made an earlier deal to use their transmitter and satellite phone. The news is not good. The day before, the Russians severely bombed the Hasalyurt-Grozny road, knocking out a number of bridges. The journalists who were staying in the local sports stadium and using it as a base for their forays into Grozny were rounded up and sent back to Moscow.

After coming this far we have no way to send out our information and no one to take us across the border; all that lies ahead of us is a bombed-out wasteland.

After much discussion with the Chechen family, we learn there is one chance. If we can make it to Babayurt, another border town, we can try to contact a group of Chechen volunteers who are to cross the border soon. They mention that we will be safer in Chechnya, since the Russians are increasing their crackdown on foreigners and volunteers in Dagestan daily.

Kizlar is about 40 km north of Hasalyurt, and Babayurt is halfway in between. One of the refugees from Kizlar staying in the house offers to come with us to help us get into Chechnya and to ease our way past the checkpoints that await us. Our luck holds, because the Russians have concentrated their Omon special forces south of Hasalyurt and the checkpoints to the north are manned by local Dagestanis. We meet up with a group of 20-30 Chechen volunteers who are preparing to cross the border that night. We discuss the various ways into the country. Most agree that to try to walk over the mountains into Grozny is futile since the snow is now 4 to 5 meters deep. The 130-km trip will take at least a full week, with an excellent chance of being attacked by jets or helicopters during the day.

We decide to tag along with the heavily armed volunteers. We begin our trip in a convoy of cars and cross the empty border post. Around midnight, the drivers of the cars drop us off and return. We will continue on foot. We walk for six or seven hours, covering 20 km of frozen lowland impeded only by a slight snow cover. We let the main group of armed volunteers go on ahead of us. Our group was not armed, but if they meet up with the Russians, we are close enough to hear the sound of gunfire before we stumble into the same trap.

The cold is numbing, and we plod on through the night like zombies. The wind whips and slaps our faces, making icicles on my mustache. The moon is our only light. After a while, we come upon a dirt track that leads to the village ahead. The wind not only brings cold and pain; it now brings the sound of heavy gunfire, alternately fading and building. Our temperatures begin to rise, as we go through the fields leading down to the village. Rockets and automatic weapons crack and thump in the crystal-clear night. As we crunch our way down to the village, the light of the dull blue sky begins to rise like a curtain at the start of a movie. The sound of the Russian helicopters increases from a muted drumroll to a thunderous chorus.

My cold hands reach for my frozen cameras in anticipation. This is the play for which we have come, the drama to which we have fought so hard for admission. Now on with the show.