I don't want to hear

Ksenia Leonova spent almost a month in Grozny, collecting material there for several publications. Her tasks included finding people who were ready to tell her about the most taboo in the country of Ramzan the theme (the monologue of Chechen gay written by her will appear on Colta . Ru next week). But there was something that was not placed in any materials: the experience of the republic, seen by the eyes of a visitor. This text is dedicated to this experience, the particular, nervous, with difficulty.

I stand at the window in Grozny, in my kitchen, with a cigarette. The entire window is sealed with foil, and only in one place, at one sash, it leaves. I smoke by the window. At home, in a rented apartment, without a scarf and only now, late at night, I enjoy the freedom to be myself. And suddenly I see how a person sticks out of the window opposite, something blinks in his hands. The window opposite is not two meters, but fifty from mine. The man, on the contrary, judging by the silhouette - a man, takes me off on a mobile. And he wants me to know that. He wants me, like all the girls here, to smoke under the windowsill, embarrassed and fearing shame. I slowly stew the butt and go to the floor, under the windowsill. I don’t know what shame I am afraid of, I don’t get married here, not to look for relatives here, my local friends all know that I smoke. But fear is spinning in this city in the air at any time of the year, like a poplar fluff in June in Moscow, it penetrates through ears and eyes, clogs into his nostrils, sticks to clothes, swirls along the floor, catching up on the street, he gradually penetrates and captures everything, and my hands tremble. I try not to notice this and go to bed.

I wake up at six in the morning from my own scream and I understand that it is time to bring down. I’m trying to calm down: my head is under cold water - there is no hot on my conspiratorial apartment, I climb into the bed - there is no other furniture, I turn on the cartoon, then another, then I can’t stand it in the fourth and call a taxi to Makhachkala. Let in Dagestan, where even traffic cops are in body armor, but only away from Chechnya. I collect things, remembering how I brought me here.

* * *

I went on vacation in Somalia, passed exams for a 40-meter diving with immersion on the sunken ships and decided to move to Chechnya. Some people love hotter. “Yes, you are a fool, what are you doing? Take a scarf, ”the human rights activist handed over to my friends shouted into my phone while my train was touching, Grozny. I just grinned. No, however, somehow I had to hang out with the Bedouins for a month in the Arabian desert (women in the curds without the right to leave the house), to wheeleers for a couple of weeks (locals so foodles that they asked for an autograph) and visiting Palestinian refugees in a livan (a ten-year-old-erect from the rising sun). I knew all the nuances of behavior in Islamic countries - up to the point that you can’t greet the boys by the hand, otherwise they will have to be washed before prayer.

Fear is spinning in this city in the air at any time of the year, it penetrates through the ears and eyes, clogs into the nostrils, sticks to clothes.

“And the heroes? Do you understand that you can substitute people? " - the human rights activist did not let up. Yes, I understood. I understood that nothing threatens Moscow journalists in Chechnya in Chechnya. I understood that she was threatening the heroes of my materials. Therefore, I decided to live in a conspiratorial apartment rented through tenth hands, call from a SIM card registered on the left dude from the newly purchased phone, not to store information on the computer and not use the wi-fay. The standard set of rules for investigative journalism, nothing like that.

I was sure that I calculated all the risks, so much so that, contrary to the screams of friends, I bought a ticket not on a plane, but for reserved seats. And I did not see anything that they scared me: there was not a single moccasin, not a single Mikey Nokhcho, not a single child cried, no one had a fight. The only aunt that listened to music was not in headphones was Russian-dostrakhan. I was patronized, fed and entertained by talking about breeding rams (do you know that they multiply faster than pigs?).

On the second night, I could not sleep. I went out with two conductions to an empty platform, we discussed how to cook chicken. One of them, without changing the culinary intonation, suddenly began to tell that she was in Grozny in the war, that a fragment flew into the house, fell into the head of the granddaughter and that she "could not stop brains." On these words, the second conductor silently turned around and left. And, I admit, at this moment her departure hit me much more than the story of the brains.

* * *

The phone calls. A taxi will be in half an hour. The phone is again. And this is not a taxi driver. This is my new friend Fatima, whom I have never seen in my life and whom one of the common friends gave my phone. She calls every day and says that she is preparing for dinner for her husband and his relatives, by whom and how they managed to call her in a day, and every day she is tormented, whether her husband will leave after dinner to her mistress or not. She is about 25, she has three children, and she has no one else to share with, because for seven years since marriage she has not been released from home. I can’t stop her, because I don’t know when she can speak out and who she can speak out. I put on a speakerphone and continue to gather. I put on a black skirt on the floor and a bright shirt, which I did not dare to wear during these three weeks. Thinking for a second, I still hide my shirt under a black jacket.

Nowhere in the world, the Toyota brand does not hate as much as in Chechnya.

- Yes, Fatima, you should not consider yourself inexpressible, and you are not to blame for anything. You are a good mistress, if you contain such a house. Are you sure that no one hears our conversation? And then you will take your mobile again. Yes, Fatima, if you divorce, then the children will remain with your husband, and you will definitely not get a higher education, your relatives will be locked at home. I don't know what to do, Fatima. I don't know.

* * *

I well remember the first day. My Wish - List included a manicure (there is no sage who knows life better than a manicure), an expensive cafe (there is no place better to find out what the elite of a provincial city looks like) and shopping (I will not lie that this is a way to find heroes for a note).

I did not go - I sailed along Putin Avenue in a black, elegantly thrown a scarf and a long free skirt over my shoulder, I was an example of respectableness. The most modesty. In a damn blue stocking compared to Chechen, which closed on ten -centimeter stilettos in long, but tight, skirts, so narrow that they strove to gather with caterpillar folds on their hips, in beautiful bright scarves, or even without them; They walked with proudly raised chins! Such an irresistible self -confidence came from them that I immediately threw off the scarf.

Someone immediately coughed behind me. "Girl, can you meet you?" - in front of me stood a two -meter firing in the gray riot police without identification marks, with a machine gun at the opposite and brazenly smiled. I quickly armed myself with modesty and friendliness - I looked in and at the same time smiled: I needed time to calculate the situation. I fluttered. It is clear that he is under performance. But it is not written on my forehead that I am a journalist and intends to look for dissenters in the formidable. It is clear that we are in the Islamic city, and it is not customary to get acquainted with the girls on the street, so they demonstrate disrespect. So, he already realized that I was not local.

In Tehran, where the morals of morals are operating - Basij, this situation would mean: baby, go change clothes. There was no basket in the formidable, but there were Prokadyrovsky youth movements, which a year and a half ago shot from paintball balls not in Islamic dressed girls. But here without a scarf half a dead man. What is the matter? And then I realized with horror that, in addition to shawls, all the clothes on the Chechen are black, and on me - beige. And that in Grozny a different color of clothing is already dissent, a kind of challenge. So I don’t have on my forehead, in my clothes it was written in large letters: "I am a Muscovite, looking for dissenters, for example, gays." It was worth it to rent a conspiratorial apartment without hot water for this, yes. I pushed past a machine gunner who dug up and shouted something in Chechen, and rushed to the nearest clothing store behind black skirts.

I flew into a small empty bench with an inconspicuous sign and arrogant saleswomen. With snobbery, which distinguishes all those who appeared on a shopping in the province of Muscovites (they say, I can afford everything!), I gained things without even looking at the price tags. Imagine my surprise already in the booth when it turned out that the skirts and dresses cost 100 thousand rubles! Some of them are written: Cristian Dior (that's how). Apparently, the current housewives of the life of Grozny rarely read Vogue .

I had to go to the sage in a beauty salon. The manicure laughed for a long time: “All normal people buy skirts in the bazaar for five hundred rubles!” This is the stratification of society, I thought, no skirts for a hundred bucks, no middle class, I was in the top ten regional centers and I have not met this anywhere. “Such shops,” my sage did not let up, “they are for these, on“ Camry ”.” "For whom?!" - “For those who go to Toyota Camry , ”the manicure clarified and shook her head in the vague direction, never daring to utter the word“ Kadyrovites ”aloud. Those who cannot be called. Who travels to the Toyota civilian Camry . Who can, as it was with my acquaintance, without introducing himself and showing crusts, stop the adult man on the street and repent him for a later walk along the street or convict in drunkenness. I think nowhere in the world of the Toyota brand is not hated as much as in Chechnya. In vain, they are proud of sales here.

Then the fourth began to tell how he pointed to the youngsters.

I left my sage enlightened and hungry and went to the nearest cafe. Rather, she looked. Some men sat at the tables, all of them turned their heads in my direction at once. They may give me eat, but if I smoke, the Cold War will begin. Out of curiosity, I went around the five more establishments, somewhere I even met the girls-they drove together. In the last, fifth cafe, empty tables and a couple in love were found, cooing in the corner. "Do you smoke?" I asked with hope. The waitress shook her head. Already leaving, I noticed a cigarette in the hands of the guy and mentally wished these sexists smoking daughters.

* * *

When a taxi drives away from home, a “star named Sun” is heard in the car. Joyful, I throw off a black jacket and begin to sing along in full voice. We are in traffic, and suddenly I understand that the windows in a taxi are open and drivers of two cars standing next to us (one of them Toyota Camry ) disapprovingly shake me. Fear wakes up somewhere at the navel and instantly selected to the throat, intercepts the voice, and I shut up.

* * *

I wanted to bring notes from Chechnya for different publications on the most taboo topics - about gays, Islamic violence against women and killing sorcerers . Usually journalists go to Chechnya with a Fixer - a human rights activist who helps to find heroes for notes, opening everywhere the doors with their own name. But on my topics, human rights activists work little. In addition, I wanted to figure out everything on my own, and I had time for this. So the plan was this: to come, to hang out a week and a half, to deal with everything, to make friends with everyone, and then, thanks to their own connections, to quickly find heroes for notes.

And I must say that in the first party days, Grozny was just the best city on earth. Women on the streets, not as an example of Moscow, exchanged smiles. The taxi drivers did not try to rob. The neighbors regularly offered to feed, wash, warm. In the grocery shop, a discount was made as a visiting one.

I fried with local hipsters. They hid dissolution, that is, their bright T -shirts and orange nail polish, under black sweaters and gloves. They took me to rehearsals of underground jazz concerts, which were called underground not because they were forbidden, but simply because it was so more fun.

I was even asked to hold a semi -legal seminar for senior students in one of the universities. The conditional theme sounded like this: "Treatment." Ten girls came to the seminar, all as one in long black skirts and the same shawls - so they were forced to dress the leadership of the university. Of course, I could not resist the question of whether they like it. And instead of an answer, eight out of ten stood in silence and, as if on command, unbuttoned long skirts - they were on Velcro. And under them - multi -colored mini.

Eight girls laughed amicably and squinted at the remaining two, who quietly lurked in the corner. They were in hijabs - in two scarves, one of which covered his hair, and the second - neck. This meant that they were religious and pray five times a day. I pulled the girls into the conversation, and they surprised me - it turns out that my parents for a long time forbade them to wear hijabs, said that this was an Arab tradition, that it was not accepted in Chechnya. And they all, except these two, dreamed of leaving Chechnya to Moscow and asked me as there. I told them for a long time about the metropolitan “religious”, about the dislike of Muscovites to the Chechens and dreamed of asking if they remembered how the Russians were cut between the wars in Chechnya. But she never decided. I already realized that it is impossible to ask about the war here.

* * *

The taxi driver scrolls a “star named Sun” six times. A column of federal Baterers arises on an empty highway, cars overtake them with a great speed on the oncoming lane, and my taxi driver suddenly integrates into the column. The oncoming lane is already free, and we are still going in a column. I understand that something is happening, but I don’t understand what, and I'm afraid to ask. When we finally overtake the Bather, the taxi driver smiles relaxedly. “From the 90s until recently, it was impossible to integrate into the column, it was impossible to go to Bether, even if he is alone. If you were not inferior to Bether, they could drop you. The news was filled with messages about the inverted buses and those who died because of this, ”the taxi driver smiles, but his eyes are harsh, they seem to say now-now I am the master of his roads.

* * *

Do you know what struck me in Chechnya the most? Most of all these new buildings, walking along the streets of Depardieu, Instagram Kadyrov and what else they write about there. When someone began to tell me about the war in the company of friends, the rest, without saying a word, picked up phones, went to pour tea, just left, explaining nothing. Everyone, absolutely everyone, had an unexplored war in their souls, which they could no longer listen to and that is why they had no one else to tell, except for a visiting girl. They lived in their beautiful renovated houses, wore hipster T -shirts under black sweaters, but under T -shirts, inside, everything was in full swing and exploded. And after each such story, a particle of fear that the narrator experienced remained inside me.

In the end, I even realized why for journalists and human rights activists who worked for a long time in Chechnya, sometimes these hysterical notes slip in their voice and notes. Do you know what? Yes, they just squeeze all this horror like this.

My roof moved five days later, when others began to trust me more or less and believe their secrets. The bell rang when I burst into tears for an interview for the first time in ten years. The woman with whom we spoke inserted the story at all on the topic. I won’t know the mind: why did she tell me this? One of those stories about which the “Caucasian knot” trumpets: as a group of young people prayed, and they were all taken away in an unknown direction. Nothing like that, I read dozens of materials on the affairs of the abducted, my Moscow editors generally said in chorus that the topic of abduction in Chechnya was beaten and they did not want such a note. But I burst into tears.

And that was only the beginning. Every day he brought new confession. People spoke and spoke. They could not stop, and I could not stop them, because I did not know when and to whom else they could tell all this.

A friend who fell in love with a married man complained that her relatives did not allow her to go to her second wife.

And the other friend, the first wife, complained that her husband brought a second wife into the house, without even warning her, the first, about her wedding.

The 40-year-old widow, the mother of three children, complained that her mother-in-law makes her come home no later than eight in the evening.

Another 40-year-old complained that she hid for 20 years so carefully from her neighbors that her husband regularly knocks her teeth, that when she decided to divorce him, no one believed her.

The human rights activist did not complain about anything, she simply refused to work with me, finding that I wrote notes about gays.

Gays refused to give me an interview, because they were even afraid to admit to themselves that they were gays.

Men also pronounced. One told how his sister became pregnant and he put her far beyond the borders of the republic, telling everyone, even his father that he killed her. How else was she to save?

Another told that he hears his wife cry at night due to the fact that her whole family was destroyed, and does not know how to talk to her. I imagined: she cries, and he lies, turning away to the wall with open eyes, and does not dare to open his mouth.

Третий рассказывал, как после первой чеченской по череде пулевых отверстий на домах находил массовые захоронения — просто начинал копать под стенами. Ну и как трупы вынимал и их потом увозили черт знает куда без объяснений. И что он при этом чувствовал (бессилие и злобу).

«У них разрешение стрелять без предупреждения. Прошу, не надо».

Четвертый, потягивая водку без закуски, хвастался, как избил свою 15-летнюю сестру за то, что та вышла из дома без разрешения. В целом его можно понять: если девочка с кем-нибудь загуляет, ему придется ее убить. А он ее любит, не хочет убивать, поэтому бьет.

Но потом этот четвертый стал рассказывать, как присовывает малолеткам. То есть трахает их, не лишая девственности. Иногда, правда, случаются ошибки. И малолетки все-таки лишаются девственности. Когда я спросила, нет ли у малолеток старших братьев, воцарилась пятиминутная тишина. Он не знал, что ответить. И просто отшутился.

Пятый рассказывал, как его брата во время второй чеченской пытали федералы — засовывали бутылку с колючей проволокой в… в общем, еще полстраницы текста я стерла.

Потому что дело не в том, куда засунули бутылку. А в том, что про это никто не готов слушать. Я недаром стерла полстраницы. Я сама, буду честна, часто перелистываю статьи о Чечне. И так ясно, что там кошмар, зачем грузить себя.

Психологи не слушают чеченцев, потому что их в республике мало, а программ по отправке туда специалистов извне нет совсем. "It's horrible! — возмущался знакомый психолог в Грозном. — После Беслана с заложниками работало очень много психологов, в Крымск после наводнения отправилось множество волонтеров. А у нас целая республика пережила ад, и никто не готов про это говорить».

Чеченцы не слушают друг друга, потому что у каждого из них свои воспоминания, свои ужасы войны. А меж тем там взрыв бытового насилия. А меж тем там никогда не убивали лишившихся до свадьбы невинности девочек так много, как сейчас. А меж тем там до сих пор мужчины, когда не знают, как им жить дальше, уходят в горы к тем, кого по телевизору называют террористами. Думаете, дело только в исламской пропаганде, как твердят по тому же телевизору? Да просто насилие порождает насилие. Про это написаны километры социологических исследований.

Слышите эти истеричные нотки в моем голосе?

* * *

Мы приближаемся к границе. Несемся на полной скорости, и ветер свободы врывается через открытое окно. И вмиг затихает. Мы попадаем в пробку. Трассу, соединяющую две республики, перегородили ради кортежа Кадырова, объясняет таксист. Я достаю планшет, чтобы снять видео, но таксист останавливает: «У них разрешение стрелять без предупреждения. Прошу, не надо». Мимо по встречке проносятся машины — одна тачка раз в пять секунд на скорости не меньше двухсот километров в час. 47 машин — черных «Камри» и джипов и еще с десяток полицейских мигалок в качестве сопровождения. Всего через час я наконец в Дагестане.

* * *

В Чечне меня мучил один и тот же кошмар. К нам в вагон поезда Москва — Грозный вламываются солдаты и грубо пытаются увезти куда-то 70-летнего старика-чеченца, ехавшего с нами. Мужчины бессильно стоят, опустив лица, — они ничего не могут поделать, у солдат автоматы, — а женщины беспомощно плачут. А я пытаюсь понять — должна ли я говорить, что я журналист, поможет это или навредит старику? Из ночи в ночь три недели я просыпалась из-за раздиравших меня сомнений в холодном поту. Пока, добравшись до Махачкалы, не придумала ответ. Я поставила на паузу картинку, которая не давала мне покоя. А потом в деталях представила себе каждого, кто ехал в моем вагоне, — старика с тростью, солдат, среди которых в моем сне были и чеченцы, и федералы, женщин из села, игравших в телефоны, даже подонка из тамбура, предложившего мне провести с ним ночь, — и поговорила с каждым из них. Прямо во сне. И там же, во сне, я поняла, что никто из них не заметил, что война бушует только в их головах, что уже мирное время, что режим ненавидят не только в Грозном, но и в Москве, что коррупция не только в Чечне, но и во всей России, где люди давно уже учатся заявлять вслух о своих правах. И когда я мысленно нажала на кнопку PLAY , солдаты убрали автоматы и достали протоколы о задержании. Женщины перестали униженно плакать и стали возмущенно кричать. А мужчины начали ссылаться на статьи закона.

Вот такие сны снятся тебе в Чечне.

Давайте дадим чеченцам рассказать о том, что у них происходит. Мне правда кажется, что это поможет.