Is Journalism Worth Dying For__ Final Dispatches - Anna Politkovskaya [115]
We have a whip round among everybody standing nearby. The journalists are the first to dig deep, and the firemen. Somebody runs to the nearest shop to get juice. We find that the representatives of the state have no change available at this moment. That seems odd, but there is no time to think about it, only the realisation that we must move as quickly as possible before the hostage-takers change their minds.
The juice is brought back. Roman Shleinov (a colleague at Novaya gazeta) and I take two packs each in our arms and try to walk. On our right is an Interior Ministry officer, on our left an FSB officer. They are arguing. The one from the Interior Ministry has orders to allow us in since this is aid for the hostages and represents an opportunity to prolong contact with the outlaws as long as possible. The one from the FSB has orders not to let us through.
They quarrel. The rain pours down and we stand there like idiots in full view of all the snipers, just waiting, it seems to me, for someone to start shooting. Finally the FSB agent agrees: “Go on, then.”
We take one batch and then another. Darkness falls; the gunmen had told us to bring it before dark but a criminal amount of time passes before the state manages to come up with juice for the next batch.
The third time, they allow a group of male hostages out to meet us. I’m afraid to say anything to them in case the hostage-takers start shooting. I just say “Hello,” and they reply. They are allowed out in single file. A young man in evening dress and a white shirt passes me. Presumably he plays in the orchestra. He whispers tersely, “They have told us they will start killing us at ten this evening. Pass it on.”
The next time I just nod silently to him, making eye contact, to let him know I have told the relevant authorities. They are leading the hostages down the steps to meet us, perhaps intending to make a point of showing how well they are treating them. Picking up his crate of juice, my musician whispers on the way back, “Understood.”
The gunmen suddenly start becoming very nervous. They shout and pace up and down. A hostage calls from above, “Bring some disinfectant. We really need it. We did ask for it.” He is driven back. I ask permission to bring the disinfectant, but am met with a complete refusal.
“At least some food? Just a little? For the children? Please …”
“We are dying of hunger, let them die of hunger too. Go away.”
This day in history comes to an end, to be followed by the assault. Now I keep asking myself whether we did everything possible to help avoid those deaths. Was it a great victory to have 67 hostages killed (excluding those who died after they got to hospital)? Was I any help to anyone with my juice and my last-ditch efforts? I believe I was, but that we could have done more.
Too much is now behind us, and a great deal still lies ahead. The tragedy of Nord-Ost, for which there were of course reasons, will not be the end. From now on we will have to live in constant fear when our children or old people go out of the house. Will we ever see them again? It will be just the way people in Chechnya have been living these last years.
There are only two alternatives. The first is finally to recognise that the more excessive force we use there – the more blood, killings, abductions and humiliations – the more people there will be in Chechnya who want revenge at any price; the more recruits there will be to the ranks of those wishing to die in retaliation.
And since this war will be fought not on a battlefield but amongst us, involving completely innocent people – you and me, and all of us – we can be sure that there will be another Nord-Ost, and that nobody anywhere can feel safe, whether going out or staying in their own flat. A cornered fighter will devise ever more ingenious means of retribution.
The second option is fraught with difficulties, but is