Archivi tag: RUssia

Beyond Extradition: How Russia Hunts Chechen Exiles Across Europe and Central Asia

The Kremlin’s campaign against the Chechen diaspora did not end with the wars. It simply crossed international borders.

When people think about political repression, they often imagine arrests, prisons, or torture carried out inside an authoritarian state. Far less visible is what happens after dissidents escape.

For thousands of Chechens who fled Russia over the last two decades, exile has never meant safety. Instead, many have discovered that Moscow’s reach extends well beyond its own territory. Through extradition requests, international police cooperation, administrative deportations, surveillance, intimidation of relatives, and—in the most extreme cases—assassinations, Russia has developed a system designed to ensure that its critics remain vulnerable wherever they seek refuge.

The objective is not merely to bring individuals back to Russia. It is to convince every member of the Chechen diaspora that nowhere is truly beyond the Kremlin’s reach.

The recent case of Mansur Movlaev in Kazakhstan illustrates how this system continues to operate.


Mansur Movlaev

A Legal Request—or Political Persecution?

Officially, Russia rarely describes its targets as political opponents. Instead, extradition requests are almost always framed as ordinary criminal cases involving terrorism, extremism, illegal weapons possession, organized crime, fraud, or other criminal offences. This legal framing is not accidental. If a request appears to concern common crime rather than political persecution, foreign prosecutors and courts are more likely to treat it as a routine matter of judicial cooperation.

Once such a request reaches another country, local authorities may arrest the individual while extradition proceedings begin. Depending on the legal system involved, the refugee may spend weeks or months in detention before the courts determine whether the request is compatible with international human rights obligations. For the individual concerned, the punishment often begins long before any final judicial decision.


The Principle That Should Prevent Extradition

International law contains a fundamental safeguard known as the principle of non-refoulement. Article 3 of the European Convention on Human Rights and Article 3 of the United Nations Convention Against Torture prohibit states from transferring any individual to a country where they face a real risk of torture, inhuman treatment, enforced disappearance, or grossly unfair judicial proceedings. This prohibition is absolute.

Unlike many other rights, it cannot be suspended for reasons of national security or political convenience. Because of this principle, European courts have repeatedly refused to extradite Chechen refugees when credible evidence indicated that they would face persecution upon their return to Russia or, more specifically, to Chechnya. These rulings reflect decades of documented abuses, including torture, arbitrary detention, enforced disappearances, and extrajudicial killings committed by Russian and Chechen security forces.


Why Do Extradition Attempts Continue?

Despite these legal protections, Russian requests continue to appear across Europe and Central Asia. This apparent contradiction has several explanations.

First, authorities frequently evaluate Russian requests as ordinary criminal matters rather than as instruments of political persecution. Unless the political nature of the charges is clearly demonstrated, prosecutors may initially consider the request legally valid.

Second, not every case reaches the stage of a formal extradition judgment. Administrative deportation procedures, immigration measures, or public-order legislation may expose refugees to removal through alternative legal channels.

Finally, security concerns have increasingly influenced migration policy throughout Europe. Since many Russian requests invoke allegations of terrorism or extremism, authorities may initially prioritize public security over the broader political context in which these accusations arise.

The result is a legal environment in which refugees often bear the burden of proving that apparently ordinary criminal charges are, in reality, politically motivated.


Kazakhstan: The Weakest Link

The contrast between the European Union and Kazakhstan is particularly striking. While European judicial systems generally apply stronger human rights safeguards, Kazakhstan remains deeply integrated into the post-Soviet legal and security framework. Judicial cooperation with Russia is extensive, security services maintain close working relationships and Asylum protections are comparatively weaker. As a result, Russian requests can rapidly lead to detention before effective international protection mechanisms become available.

The detention of Chechen refugee Mansur Movlaev demonstrates these vulnerabilities. According to information provided by his legal representatives and international human rights organisations, Movlaev was arrested in Almaty following a Russian extradition request and remained in custody while extradition proceedings advanced. His transfer was ultimately suspended only after international intervention, including emergency measures before United Nations human rights mechanisms. His case illustrates how international protection often arrives only after a refugee has already entered the extradition process.


Zelimkhan Khangoshvili, murdered in Berlin in 2019

When Courts Say No

Perhaps the most revealing aspect of Russia’s strategy is what happens when extradition fails. For many authoritarian governments, an unsuccessful extradition marks the end of the matter. For Russia—and particularly for Ramzan Kadyrov’s security apparatus—it frequently marks the beginning of another phase. Chechen dissidents living abroad have repeatedly become targets of surveillance, intimidation, attacks, or assassination attempts.

The murder of Zelimkhan Khangoshvili in Berlin in 2019 remains the clearest example. German judges concluded that the assassination had been organised by Russian state authorities.

Tumso Abdurakhmanov, one of the best-known critics of Ramzan Kadyrov, survived an attempted murder in Sweden after facing legal pressure and deportation proceedings.

German courts have also convicted individuals involved in a conspiracy to assassinate another prominent Kadyrov opponent, Mokhmad Abdurakhmanov.

These cases suggest that failed extradition does not necessarily end the campaign against a political opponent. Instead, the methods simply change.


Families Become Hostages

Pressure is rarely limited to the exile alone. Human rights organisations have repeatedly documented intimidation directed against relatives who remain inside Chechnya. Family members may be questioned by security services, threatened, dismissed from employment, publicly humiliated, or forced to denounce their relatives abroad. This strategy transforms exile into a continuing form of psychological pressure. Even when dissidents themselves remain physically safe in Europe, they know that those they left behind may become targets.


Beyond Extradition: Transnational Repression

Taken individually, extradition requests, deportation proceedings, surveillance, assassination attempts, and family intimidation may appear unrelated. Viewed together, however, they reveal a coherent strategy. Researchers increasingly describe this phenomenon as transnational repression—the effort by authoritarian governments to silence political opponents beyond their own borders. Russia’s campaign against the Chechen diaspora represents one of the clearest examples of this practice.

Extradition requests serve not only to recover individuals but also to identify opponents, disrupt diaspora networks, impose financial and psychological costs, and demonstrate the state’s global reach. Even unsuccessful extradition requests can achieve these objectives. A refugee who spends months in detention, pays substantial legal expenses, loses employment, or fears for relatives back home has already experienced part of the intended punishment.


Conclusion

The question is no longer whether Chechen dissidents face risks inside Russia. International courts, human rights organisations, and independent investigations have documented those dangers for years. The more urgent question is whether democratic states fully recognise the broader strategy behind Russian extradition requests.

Each case should not be viewed as an isolated criminal file. Rather, it should be understood within a wider campaign of transnational repression designed to extend authoritarian control beyond national borders. Protecting refugees therefore requires more than refusing unlawful extraditions. It also requires recognising the political logic that lies behind them.

For many Chechen exiles, the greatest threat is not simply being returned to Russia. It is living with the knowledge that, wherever they go, Russia may already be waiting.

The Crimean Tatars and the Long Shadow of Exile

Remembering the Sürgünlik, 82 Years Later

On May 18, Crimean Tatars around the world commemorated the eighty-second anniversary of one of the darkest chapters in their history: the mass deportation of the entire Crimean Tatar people by the Soviet regime in 1944.

For many readers, the story may sound familiar. The Chechens, Ingush, Karachays, Balkars, Kalmyks and several other peoples of the Soviet Union suffered similar fates under Joseph Stalin. Entire nations were accused of collective collaboration with Nazi Germany and punished without trial, without distinction, and without mercy.

Today we remember the Crimean Tatars.

A Nation Condemned

In the spring of 1944, as Soviet forces retook Crimea from German occupation, Stalin’s government accused the Crimean Tatars of collaborating with the enemy. While some individuals had indeed served in German-controlled formations—as happened among virtually every population under occupation—the Soviet leadership chose to punish an entire people for the actions of a minority.

On May 11, 1944, Stalin signed State Defense Committee Resolution No. 5859. The decree ordered the complete removal of the Crimean Tatars from their homeland.

At dawn on May 18, thousands of NKVD troops descended upon towns and villages across Crimea. Families were awakened, given only minutes to gather their belongings, and forced onto trucks headed for railway stations.

Within three days, the operation was complete.

More than 190,000 Crimean Tatars had been deported.

The Journey Into Exile

The deportees were packed into overcrowded cattle wagons and transported thousands of kilometers eastward, primarily to Uzbekistan and other regions of Central Asia.

The journey lasted days or even weeks. Food was scarce, water was limited, and sanitary conditions were almost nonexistent. Many elderly people and children died before reaching their destinations.

Those who survived found themselves living under the harsh regime of “special settlements,” effectively a form of internal exile. Their movements were restricted, their communities were monitored by Soviet security services, and they were subjected to forced labor and severe discrimination.

Historians continue to debate the exact number of deaths caused by the deportation and its aftermath. Soviet records indicate that at least 27,000 Crimean Tatars died by the end of 1945. Other estimates place the death toll considerably higher.

Whatever the precise figure, the human cost was catastrophic.

Memorial of the Deportation of Crimean Tatars, in Sundak

Erasing Crimea’s Indigenous People

The deportation was not merely the removal of a population. It was an attempt to erase a nation from its homeland.

Following the deportation, the Crimean Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic was abolished. Hundreds of Crimean Tatar place names were changed. Mosques, cemeteries, and cultural sites were neglected, destroyed, or repurposed.

Even the very term “Crimean Tatar” largely disappeared from official Soviet language.

The goal was clear: to transform Crimea into a land without Crimean Tatars.

Decades of Resistance

Unlike many deported populations, the Crimean Tatars were not allowed to return home after Stalin’s death.

Although restrictions on their exile were formally lifted in 1956, the Soviet authorities continued to deny them the right to return collectively to Crimea.

For decades, Crimean Tatar activists organized one of the most remarkable civil rights movements in Soviet history. Through petitions, protests, and international advocacy, they kept alive the memory of their homeland and demanded justice.

Only during the final years of the Soviet Union did large-scale return become possible.

Beginning in the late 1980s, hundreds of thousands of Crimean Tatars slowly made their way back to Crimea.

Memory and the Present

The deportation remains central to Crimean Tatar identity.

Every year on May 18, known among Crimean Tatars as the Day of Remembrance of the Victims of the Sürgünlik (“Exile”), communities gather to honor those who died and those who endured decades of displacement.

For many Crimean Tatars, the memory of 1944 is not simply a historical tragedy. It is a living experience passed from grandparents to children and grandchildren.

Following Russia’s annexation of Crimea in 2014, many Crimean Tatars have expressed fears that their community once again faces political pressure, cultural marginalization, and restrictions on its representative institutions.

As a result, the events of May 1944 continue to resonate far beyond the history books.

Why It Matters

For Chechens, the story of the Crimean Tatars is more than an episode of Soviet history. It is part of a shared experience.

The deportations of 1944 were built upon the same principle: collective guilt. Entire peoples were condemned not for what they had done, but for who they were.

Remembering the Crimean Tatars means remembering all the nations that suffered under this policy—and recognizing the resilience of those who survived.

Eighty-two years later, the voices of the exiled have not been silenced.

And neither has their memory.

Kazakhstan Must Not Send Mansur Movlaev Back to Chechnya

Chechen activist remains at risk despite UN intervention

A new human rights case is drawing international attention to the ongoing persecution of critics of the Chechen authorities.

Mansur Movlaev, a Russian citizen of Chechen origin, has been held in extradition detention in Kazakhstan since May 2025 after being arrested in Almaty at the request of the Russian Federation. Although Kazakh authorities initially acknowledged his application for asylum and later suspended his extradition following intervention by the United Nations Human Rights Committee, Movlaev remains behind bars and continues to face the possibility of being transferred to Russia.

For human rights defenders, the stakes could not be higher.

A history of persecution

According to his lawyers and multiple human rights organizations, Movlaev has long been targeted because of his criticism of the Chechen authorities.

His supporters argue that a previous criminal conviction on drug-related charges was politically motivated. Following his early release in 2022, Movlaev reportedly disappeared into the hands of Chechen security forces and was detained in an unofficial facility where he was subjected to torture. He later managed to escape and eventually fled through Kyrgyzstan before reaching Kazakhstan.

These allegations fit a pattern that has been documented for years by international organizations, including Human Rights Watch, Amnesty International, the Council of Europe and the European Court of Human Rights.

Arrest in Kazakhstan

On 13 May 2025, Kazakh authorities arrested Movlaev in Almaty based on an international request originating from Chechnya.

Initially, Kazakhstan’s Prosecutor General’s Office stated that the Russian request concerned extortion charges. Later reports suggested that Russian authorities were also linking Movlaev to alleged extremist activities.

The exact content of the Russian case remains unclear because neither the full indictment nor the complete extradition file has been made public.

On 21 May 2025, Movlaev formally applied for asylum in Kazakhstan and received official asylum-seeker documentation. Under Kazakh law, this should have protected him from removal while his claim was under consideration.

Nevertheless, at the end of January 2026, Kazakhstan’s Prosecutor General approved his extradition to Russia after his refugee application had been rejected.

United Nations intervention

The case took a dramatic turn on 23 February 2026.

After receiving an individual complaint from Movlaev’s legal team, the United Nations Human Rights Committee requested interim measures and instructed Kazakhstan not to extradite him until the case could be examined.

The following day, Kazakhstan’s Supreme Court suspended the extradition order.

While this prevented his immediate transfer, it did not secure his release. In May 2026, Kazakh courts extended his extradition detention until at least July.

Reports of family reprisals

Human rights advocates are particularly concerned by reports concerning Movlaev’s relatives in Chechnya.

Several media outlets and activists have alleged that members of his family have been abducted, tortured, or forcibly disappeared in recent years. Although some of these claims cannot yet be independently verified, they are consistent with a broader pattern of collective punishment repeatedly documented in Chechnya.

International organizations have long reported cases in which family members of government critics have faced intimidation, detention, destruction of property, and physical violence.

Why extradition would be dangerous

The central issue is not simply whether criminal charges exist against Movlaev.

International law prohibits extradition whenever there are substantial grounds for believing that a person faces torture, enforced disappearance, political persecution, or other serious human rights violations after return.

Kazakhstan is a party to the 1951 Refugee Convention, the UN Convention Against Torture, and the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights. Under these obligations, authorities must not return an individual to a place where there is a real risk of torture or persecution.

The documented record of abuses in Chechnya—including torture, secret detention facilities, fabricated criminal cases, collective punishment, and enforced disappearances—makes such concerns impossible to dismiss.

A test for Kazakhstan

The case of Mansur Movlaev has become more than a single extradition dispute.

It is now a test of Kazakhstan’s commitment to its international obligations and to the principle of non-refoulement—the cornerstone of international refugee and human rights law.

As long as credible evidence suggests that Movlaev could face torture, disappearance, or death if returned to Chechnya, any forced transfer would raise serious legal and moral questions.

The international community should continue monitoring the case closely.

For Mansur Movlaev, the difference between protection and extradition may ultimately be a matter of life and death.

“Ukraine as a Frontier of Western Civilization.” A report by Prime Minister of the Chechen Republic of Ichkeria Akhmed Zakayev at the ABN Conference in Toronto

Ladies and gentlemen!

Thank you for the opportunity to speak on this important and highly relevant topic.

When we speak about Ukraine today, we often call it the front line of European security. This is true. Ukraine is defending not only its cities, its borders, and its people. It is also defending the security architecture of Europe. However, I would like to offer a broader definition: today Ukraine is not only the front line of European security — Ukraine has become the frontier of Western civilization itself.

By “Western civilization,” I mean a system of principles: national sovereignty, the rule of law, freedom of speech, human dignity, and the right of nations to decide their own future. These are exactly the principles that Russia is trying to destroy. The war against Ukraine is not simply a territorial conflict. It is not only a dispute over borders, and not merely a war between two states. It is a clash between two political ideas. On one side is the belief that every nation, regardless of its size, has the right to exist as a sovereign political community. On the other side is the imperial belief that great powers have the right to dominate their neighbors, erase their identity, choose their alliances, and decide their historical destiny. This is why Ukraine matters far beyond Ukraine itself.

Russia invaded Ukraine not because Ukraine posed a military threat to Moscow. Ukraine threatened the Russian imperial model simply by existing as an independent, democratic, and Europe-oriented state. For the Kremlin, a democratic Ukraine is dangerous not because it is hostile, but because it is an example. It shows that the post-Soviet space is not doomed to authoritarianism. It shows that societies once ruled from Moscow can choose a different path. This is the real threat that Ukraine represents to the Russian imperial system. That is why Moscow’s war is directed not only against Ukrainian territory — it is directed against Ukrainian statehood and political identity.

Ukraine was often described as a space “between” Russia and Europe. But this very language was part of the problem. Ukraine is not a geopolitical corridor, not a gray zone, and not a bargaining chip in someone else’s security agreement. Ukraine is a nation. Ukraine is a state. And it is precisely for this choice that Ukraine is paying the highest price today.

The Russian imperial model is based on a special understanding of power. In this model, power is not limited by law, society is subordinate to the state, and neighboring peoples are seen not as equal partners but as material for geopolitical expansion. Such a system cannot tolerate democratic institutions near its borders, especially when these institutions exist in a country that the empire still imagines as part of itself.

Wherever Russian power arrives, free elections disappear. Independent courts disappear. Free media disappear. Local self-government disappears. Civil society disappears. Academic freedom disappears. Language and culture become subject to imperial narratives. Therefore, by defending itself, Ukraine is defending far more than territory. It is defending the principle that institutions are more important than force, that law is more important than violence, and that the citizen is more important than empire.

The question today is not only whether Ukraine can survive. The question is whether democratic states are capable of defending the principles on which their own legitimacy is built. If borders can be changed by force, if nuclear blackmail can paralyze political will, if a large authoritarian state can destroy a neighboring democracy, then this crisis is not only Ukrainian — it is a crisis of the entire international order.

For decades, the West spoke about democracy, sovereignty, human rights, and the rule of law. And here I would like to return to the events of the 1990s. At that time, the Chechens accepted all these declarations as sincere and, in accordance with the basic principles and norms of international law, restored their statehood. However, when Russia carried out military aggression against the young independent state, Western countries in practice sided with the aggressor.

The First Russian-Chechen War was compared by international military experts to the Second World War because of its destruction and brutality. After a short break, the Second Russian-Chechen War began, and its consequences continue to this day.

As a result of these two wars, according to official data from the occupation administration, more than 300,000 people in Chechnya were killed, including around 42,000 children between the ages of one and twelve. Today, the entire Chechen people live under a brutal occupation regime led by a Chechen quisling.

Chechens, like Ukrainians, ask a very simple question: were all those declarations by Western politicians about the inviolability of borders and the right of nations to self-determination real values, or were they merely political slogans of the Cold War period?

Today, Ukraine is forcing the democratic world to answer this question not with speeches, but with policy. This is why support for Ukraine should not be seen as charity. It is a form of strategic self-defense. Canada, the United States, the European Union, and other democratic states support Ukraine not only because Ukraine became the victim of aggression. They support Ukraine because the future security of the democratic world is being decided there.

The cost of supporting Ukraine is high. But the cost of Ukraine’s defeat would be far higher.

The defeat of Ukraine would not bring stability. It would create a more dangerous Europe, a weakened NATO, a discredited European Union, stronger authoritarian regimes, and a clear message to every revisionist power in the world: aggression works. By contrast, a successful Ukraine would send the opposite message: imperial war can be resisted, democratic societies can survive, and a post-imperial future is possible.

This point is especially important in the broader context of our discussion about the regional and global consequences of Russian imperial decline.

The weakening of Russia does not automatically mean the arrival of peace. We must not be naive here. Empires in decline often become even more aggressive. They try to compensate for internal decay with external violence. They turn demographic crisis, economic stagnation, and political fear into militarized nationalism. Therefore, Russia’s internal instability may transform into dangerous external behavior.

We already see this logic: the militarization of society, the suppression of dissent, forced mobilization, imperial propaganda, nuclear threats, and the use of instability as a weapon. A state that cannot offer its citizens a positive future instead offers them imperial revenge. An empire in decline does not become harmless — on the contrary, it can become extremely dangerous, especially when it still possesses military power, nuclear weapons, intelligence networks, and propaganda tools.

Therefore, the West needs a strategy that is both firm and wise.

Democratic states must stop viewing Russian imperialism as a temporary deviation or simply as Putin’s personal project. Of course, leadership matters. But the problem is much deeper than one individual. It is historical, ideological, and imperial in nature.

The West must abandon the illusion that stability can be bought at the cost of the sovereignty of nations located next to Russia. This logic has failed many times. Every concession made at the expense of Chechnya, Ukraine, Georgia, Moldova, and other vulnerable states did not satisfy imperial ambition — it only encouraged it.

Canada, the United States, and the European Union must see Ukraine not as a peripheral issue, but as a central pillar of democratic security. Military aid, economic support, sanctions, reconstruction planning, and legal accountability are all strategic responses to the imperial challenge.

Democratic states must listen more carefully to peoples who have direct historical experience with Russian imperial rule: Ukrainians, Poles, Georgians, Crimean Tatars, Chechens, and others. These societies often understood the nature of the threat earlier than many Western capitals. Their historical memory is not emotional exaggeration — it is a form of political knowledge.

This also raises the question of Russian opposition figures living in exile. Dialogue with them may be useful. It is important to speak with people who oppose the regime. However, policymakers should be careful not to confuse opposition to Putin with a full rejection of imperial thinking. Not every anti-Putin voice is necessarily post-imperial. Some may oppose the current regime while still keeping colonial views about Ukraine, the Caucasus, Central Asia, and other peoples once dominated by Moscow.

Therefore, the main question should not only be: “Are you against Putin?” The deeper question should be: “Do you recognize the full sovereignty, political subjecthood, and historical dignity of the peoples once ruled by Russia?” Without such recognition, there can be no genuine post-imperial future.

Thus, Ukraine’s struggle is also a struggle for a new political language. It forces us to move beyond old categories such as “spheres of influence,” “great power compromise,” and “buffer zones.” These categories are not neutral. Very often they reproduce imperial thinking under the language of political realism. True realism today requires recognizing that the imperial idea itself creates war.

Security in Europe will not be restored by giving Russia veto power over the freedom of its neighbors. It will only be restored when the imperial principle itself is defeated — politically, militarily, intellectually, and morally.

Ukraine stands at the center of this process. Ukraine has shown that democratic identity is not weakness. It has shown that civic patriotism can be stronger than imperial nationalism. It has shown that institutions, even under attack, can mobilize society. It has shown that freedom is not an abstract value but a living political force.

In this sense, Ukraine has reminded the West of something the West itself had begun to forget: democracy is not only procedure. It is not only elections, bureaucracy, or legal norms. Democracy is also a civilization of responsibility. It requires citizens willing to defend institutions. It requires states willing to defend principles. It requires alliances capable of understanding that peace without justice is only a pause before the next aggression.

That is why the Ukrainian lesson is not only military. It is civilizational.

Ukraine teaches us that freedom survives only when it is defended. Sovereignty survives only when it is respected. Institutions survive only when people are willing to protect them. And democratic civilization survives only when it understands the nature of those who seek to destroy it.

Allow me to end with the following thought.

Ukraine defends the West not because it is a passive outpost of Western power. Ukraine defends the West because Ukrainians chose the political principles that define the West at its best. They defend the idea that free nations have the right to exist. They defend the idea that democracy is not a privilege reserved for old and wealthy states. They defend the idea that empire has no moral right to decide the fate of other peoples.

That is why Ukraine is not only the front line of European security. Ukraine is the frontier between law and force, between citizenship and empire, between democratic institutions and imperial domination.

And if the democratic world clearly understands this, support for Ukraine will no longer be seen as a burden. It will be understood for what it truly is: the defense of the political meaning of Western civilization itself.

Thank you for your attention.

Ukrainian Intelligence Claims Infiltration of Akhmat Unit

The Main Directorate of Intelligence of the Ministry of Defence of Ukraine (GUR) has announced what it describes as a successful infiltration of a unit belonging to the Akhmat forces, one of the formations associated with Chechen leader Ramzan Kadyrov.

According to statements released by Ukrainian intelligence and reported by several media outlets, an undercover operative was able to gain access to the unit and provide information that contributed to Ukrainian military operations. Ukrainian officials have also suggested that the operation led to significant losses among Russian forces.

At present, the details of the alleged infiltration remain limited. Ukrainian authorities have not disclosed the identity of the operative, the duration of the mission, or the exact role played within the Akhmat formation. Independent verification of the operation has not been made publicly available.

If confirmed, the case would represent one of the most significant intelligence penetrations of Kadyrov-linked forces since the beginning of Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine.

The Akhmat units, named after former Chechen pro – russian leader Akhmat Kadyrov, have played a visible role in Russian military operations in Ukraine. While often portrayed by Russian media as elite formations, they have also faced criticism regarding their battlefield performance and have been the subject of repeated allegations concerning internal rivalries, discipline issues, and defections.

Such factors may increase the vulnerability of military formations to intelligence penetration, although no independent evidence has yet emerged to confirm the specific claims made by the GUR.

The announcement comes amid continued fighting along several sectors of the front and reflects the growing importance of intelligence operations in the ongoing conflict. As with many wartime claims, a full assessment of the operation may only become possible after additional evidence becomes available.

For now, the reported infiltration should be regarded as a claim made by Ukrainian military intelligence, albeit one that appears plausible in light of the broader context of the war and previous reports of tensions within pro-Kadyrov formations.

Starye Atagi, December 2001: When “Normalization” Meant Fear and Disappearances

An examination of eyewitness testimonies from one of the darkest periods of the Second Russo-Chechen War.


A Village Under Occupation

At the end of 2001, Russian authorities repeatedly claimed that the situation in Chechnya was improving. Official statements spoke of “stabilization,” “normalization,” and the restoration of constitutional order throughout the republic.

For many residents of the Chechen Republic of Ichkeria, however, reality looked very different. One of the most revealing accounts from this period comes from the village of Starye Atagi, southwest of Grozny. Between late December 2001 and early January 2002, local residents described a climate of fear marked by military raids, arbitrary detentions, extortion, disappearances, and constant harassment by Russian federal forces. Their testimonies provide a rare glimpse into everyday life during one of the most difficult phases of the war.


A Village Already Scarred by War

By the end of 2001, Starye Atagi had already endured years of military operations. Since the beginning of the Second Russo-Chechen War, the village had repeatedly been subjected to raids, searches, and so-called “counter-terrorist operations” conducted by Russian forces.

Residents had previously appealed to international organizations, describing a pattern of punitive sweeps that had affected dozens of local families. Many villagers reported losing relatives during these operations, while others continued searching for family members who had disappeared after being detained by Russian troops.

Far from experiencing the promised normalization, the population found itself living under a permanent state of uncertainty.


The December Raids

According to testimonies collected at the time, between 26 and 30 December 2001 Russian troops carried out a series of operations in the village. Residents alleged that soldiers entered homes, conducted arbitrary document inspections, demanded money from civilians, and confiscated property under various pretexts. Witnesses described scenes of intimidation and humiliation affecting numerous families throughout the village.

Among the incidents reported was the case of a young mother who was allegedly forced to hand over money after soldiers questioned her personal documents and family status. While individual details remain difficult to verify more than two decades later, the broader pattern described by witnesses corresponds closely to practices documented elsewhere in Chechnya during the same period.


Arbitrary Detentions and Ransom Payments

The most serious allegations concerned the detention of dozens of local residents. According to villagers, Russian forces detained more than forty men during the operation, including elderly civilians and members of several well-known local families. Detainees were reportedly accused of assisting the fighters of the Chechen Republic of Ichkeria, although no formal charges were presented.

Witnesses claimed that many of those arrested were subjected to beatings and ill-treatment before being released. Families reportedly secured the release of relatives only after paying sums ranging from 2,000 to 5,000 rubles. Such allegations were not unusual during this stage of the conflict. Throughout the early 2000s, numerous human-rights organizations documented cases in which detainees were released only after relatives paid money to members of military or security structures.

For civilians living in villages such as Starye Atagi, the greatest burden was often uncertainty. Men of military age lived with the constant risk of detention. Families feared nighttime raids. Mothers worried that sons, husbands, or fathers could disappear without explanation and never return. The absence of legal safeguards meant that ordinary civilians often had no effective mechanism through which to challenge abuses or seek information about detained relatives. As a result, fear became a permanent feature of daily life.

February 2000 – Russian soldiers inspect Chechen men standing along a wall in the prison of the Chechen village of Chernokozovo. 

A Pattern Seen Across the Chechen Republic of Ichkeria

The events reported in Starye Atagi were not isolated. Throughout the Second Russo-Chechen War, villages and towns across the Chechen Republic of Ichkeria experienced similar operations. International human-rights organizations repeatedly documented allegations of enforced disappearances, arbitrary detention, torture, extrajudicial executions, and collective punishment carried out during security sweeps.

Russian authorities maintained that these operations were necessary to combat the armed forces of the Chechen Republic of Ichkeria and their supporters. Human-rights advocates, however, consistently argued that civilians were frequently subjected to abuses that violated both Russian law and international humanitarian norms.

The experiences of Starye Atagi therefore form part of a much broader historical pattern that affected thousands of Chechen families during the conflict.


Preserving Historical Memory

More than twenty years later, testimonies from villages such as Starye Atagi remain an essential part of the historical record. They preserve voices that were rarely heard beyond the borders of Chechnya and document the experiences of civilians caught between the struggle for the independence of the Chechen Republic of Ichkeria and the overwhelming military power of the Russian Federation.

Whether examined by historians, researchers, journalists, or future generations, these accounts serve as a reminder that behind official statements and military reports stood real communities struggling to survive under extraordinary circumstances. Remembering their stories is not only a matter of historical accuracy.

It is also a matter of justice.


This article is based on testimonies published in January 2002 and on the broader body of documentation concerning human-rights violations committed during the Second Russo-Chechen War.

Land, Sovereignty, and the Unfinished Question of Privatization in Chechnya

The Chechen Republic of Ichkeria from Soviet Collapse to Postwar Re-Bureaucratization

Introduction

The question of land privatization in Chechnya cannot be understood as a merely technical issue of post-Soviet economic transition. In the Chechen case, land was never simply an asset to be registered, transferred, leased, or sold. It was a national patrimony, a source of historical memory, a foundation of communal identity, a battlefield of state-building, and, after 1994, one of the many casualties of war.

Between 1991 and 1999, the Chechen Republic of Ichkeria did not develop a liberal land market comparable to that emerging in the Russian Federation. Nor did it complete a coherent agrarian reform. The available evidence instead points to a more complex and internally contradictory model: a sovereignty-first economic doctrine, constitutionally open to private property in general, but deeply reluctant to commodify land, natural resources, or strategic assets.

This article argues that the failure of land privatization in independent Chechnya was not merely the result of administrative weakness or wartime destruction. Those factors were decisive, but they came later. At the origin of the process stood a political choice. Dzhokhar Dudayev and much of the independence leadership regarded rapid privatization, especially of land and strategic resources, as a danger to national survival. In their view, privatization risked opening the republic to speculation, corruption, external penetration, and the fragmentation of national wealth before the Chechen state had consolidated its sovereignty.

The result was an unfinished land regime: neither Soviet collectivism, nor Russian-style privatization, nor a fully restored customary order. It was a hybrid system, suspended between national patrimony, emergency administration, communal expectation, and the collapse of state capacity.


1. Historical Background: Land, Deportation, and the Moral Economy of Return

Chechen attitudes toward land were shaped long before the fall of the Soviet Union. Traditional Vainakh society was organized through family, teip, and tukkhum structures, in which land was tied to lineage, locality, honor, and collective survival. Customary law, or adat, regulated property disputes alongside social obligations and communal authority. In the mountain and foothill regions, the idea of land as a purely alienable commodity had only limited roots.

The Soviet period transformed these relations through collectivization. Beginning in the late 1920s, private and communal forms of landholding were absorbed into collective and state farms. For Chechens, collectivization was not experienced simply as modernization. It was remembered as another episode in the long history of imperial interference with the native relationship to land.

The trauma of the 1944 deportation deepened this perception. When Chechens and Ingush were exiled to Central Asia, their republic was dissolved, their villages emptied, and their homes and lands redistributed. Upon return after 1957, many found themselves effectively “immigrants in their own homes.” Housing, farmland, and administrative control had passed into other hands. The struggle for land was therefore inseparable from the struggle to recover historical dignity.

This memory mattered in 1991. The national movement did not approach land as a neutral sector of economic reform. Land was part of the historical body of the nation.


2. The Soviet Inheritance and the Structural Crisis of Agriculture

By the late Soviet period, Checheno-Ingushetia had a distorted economic structure. Oil, refining, and petrochemical industries dominated the economy, while agriculture remained weak, dependent, and undercapitalized. The countryside was largely Chechen, while Russians were disproportionately represented in industry, administration, and urban employment.

The agricultural sector was especially fragile. It had long depended on Soviet subsidies, controlled prices, access to fuel, machinery, and lubricants, and centralized procurement systems. Once the Soviet framework collapsed, the sector faced a structural crisis. Agricultural enterprises accumulated enormous debts; much of this debt was not accidental but systemic, arising from dependence on fuel, lubricants, and state support.

In principle, three policies could have addressed the crisis: agrarian reform, land privatization, and the elimination of subsidies. But this was exactly the path Dudayev opposed. This point is essential. The Chechen leadership was not unaware of the agricultural problem. On the contrary, the problem was known and discussed. The state simply refused to resolve it through the Russian-style market solution.

This refusal distinguished Ichkeria from the Russian Federation. In Russia, land reform and privatization were part of a broader project of economic liberalization. In Chechnya, the leadership feared that liberalization without consolidated sovereignty would produce not freedom, but predation.


3. Sovereignty Before Privatization

The earliest Chechen political texts placed land and natural resources within a national-patrimonial framework. The sovereignty discourse of 1990–1991 described land, subsoil, airspace, water, and natural resources as the property of the people. This formula did not exclude private economic activity, but it subordinated it to the collective ownership of the nation.

The 1992 Constitution of the Chechen Republic introduced a more differentiated property regime. It recognized private and state property, and it guaranteed economic freedoms. Yet it continued to define land and natural resources in their natural state as the patrimony of the people, to be granted for possession and use according to law. This was not a straightforward constitutionalization of private land ownership.

The distinction is crucial. Private property could exist. Enterprise could exist. Trade could exist. But land and strategic resources were not simply objects for unrestricted market circulation.

This made the Chechen model fundamentally different from the Russian one. The question was not whether Chechnya would have a market economy. It was whether the national territory itself could be turned into a market before the state had secured its independence.


4. Dudayev’s Anti-Privatization Position

The strongest new evidence from the broader research archive concerns Dudayev’s position. He did not merely delay privatization. He opposed it as a political danger. Dudayev and many others feared that privatization would allow “small profiteers” to parcel out national wealth for private advantage, leaving the country in poverty. This interpretation helps explain why the Chechen leadership resisted the liberal reform path even when economic conditions were deteriorating.

Dudayev’s position was not irrational in context. Chechnya’s economy was heavily concentrated around oil and refining. Other sectors, especially agriculture, required investment that the state did not possess. If privatization had been implemented quickly, it could have produced the same oligarchic dynamics seen in Russia, but in a much smaller and more vulnerable republic.

There was also a geopolitical concern. A weak, unrecognized Chechen state could not guarantee that privatized land, infrastructure, or industrial assets would remain under genuinely national control. Privatization could become a mechanism for Russian economic re-penetration. Thus, Dudayev’s anti-privatization stance must be understood as part of a broader doctrine: sovereignty first, market later.


5. Institutional Ambiguity: The State Committee on Privatization and Its Liquidation

The documentary record shows that the Chechen authorities dismantled or reorganized the institutional machinery that could have implemented classical privatization. In February 1992, the State Committee on Privatization and Antimonopoly Policy was liquidated, and its documentation was transferred to the Ministry of Economy and Finance.

This does not mean that no private economic activity existed. On the contrary, the early 1990s saw an explosion of informal trade, private initiative, smuggling, and local appropriation. But it does mean that the state moved away from a standardized privatization apparatus.

This point changes the interpretation of Ichkeria’s economic history. The issue was not simply that the Chechen state was too weak to conduct privatization. It was also that the leadership did not want to reproduce the Russian privatization model.

The result was a paradox: the formal privatization process was blocked, but informal appropriation flourished.


6. Agriculture: The Unresolved Core of Land Reform

The agricultural sector reveals the contradiction most clearly. Soviet collective and state farms were no longer functioning efficiently, but they were not replaced by a coherent private land system. Subsidies continued in one form or another. Debts mounted. Productivity fell. Machinery deteriorated. Fuel shortages worsened.

The population increasingly retreated from Grozny and other urban centers toward villages and rural networks, where land could provide subsistence. But the collapse of the collective farm system did not automatically produce orderly land ownership. Instead, it opened the way to looting, local redistribution, customary claims, and semi-formal occupation.

In some northern plains districts, mechanized agriculture survived in reduced form. Elsewhere, the decline of state farms created a vacuum filled by family networks and local power.

This is where the Chechen land question becomes especially difficult to classify. The republic did not maintain the Soviet system intact. But neither did it create a legal market in agricultural land. The countryside moved toward de facto decentralization without de jure privatization.


7. The Role of Customary Law

Customary law did not replace state law, but it became increasingly important as state capacity weakened. The collapse of collective farms and the absence of a clear privatization regime allowed local communities to rely on familiar mechanisms of allocation, mediation, and legitimacy.

This did not necessarily mean a romantic return to an ancient order. Customary structures could stabilize disputes, but they could also reinforce local hierarchies, clan influence, and unequal access. Still, they offered a form of social regulation where formal institutions were absent or contested.

The independence period therefore produced a layered land regime:

  1. constitutional patrimony of the people;
  2. state administration of strategic resources;
  3. partial or informal private use;
  4. customary allocation and recognition;
  5. growing coercion by armed actors.

No single model prevailed.


8. Oil, Land, and Strategic Control

Although the article focuses on land privatization, Chechnya’s land question cannot be separated from oil. Oil wells, pipelines, refineries, storage areas, and transport corridors were all territorial assets. Control over them was control over the fiscal basis of the state.

Since late 1991, Dudayev placed oil exports under direct presidential authorization. This was part of the same logic that shaped his position on land: strategic resources had to remain under national control. In practice, however, the government struggled to enforce this control. Theft from pipelines, illegal withdrawals, looting of tankers, and collusion by guards became endemic.

The Dudayev government responded by centralizing production and distribution. One major refining facility, the Lenin Refinery, became the core of production, while other plants were closed. Storage and distribution were also centralized in a guarded zone near Grozny’s Zavodskoy district. This produced some short-term success: theft reportedly decreased, and the state regained access to revenue.

But centralization also had political costs. The opposition accused Dudayev of treating oil as a personal asset and using strategic resources to strengthen presidential power. Whether or not the accusations of personal enrichment were justified, the political effect was real: economic sovereignty became inseparable from accusations of authoritarianism.

This dynamic helps explain land policy as well. If land and resources were too important to privatize, they also became too important to leave outside presidential control.


9. Parliament, Presidency, and the Political Economy of State-Building

The land question was embedded in a broader institutional conflict between the presidency and parliament. Dudayev sought to centralize authority in order to defend independence and prevent Russian penetration. Parliamentary critics accused him of violating constitutional procedures, duplicating institutions, appointing loyalists, and replacing elected local authority with presidential structures.

This conflict mattered for land administration. A functioning land reform would have required stable institutions, local authorities, cadastral bodies, courts, and enforcement mechanisms. Instead, the state was torn between competing centers of power.

Dudayev also dismantled parts of the old Soviet administrative system and replaced them with prefectures. Parliament objected, since the Constitution provided for elected regional governors. The executive justified centralization as necessary for state survival. The legislature saw it as authoritarian drift.

In such a context, land privatization was almost impossible. The legal question “who owns the land?” could not be answered while the political question “who represents the state?” remained unresolved.


10. The State Commission for Land Resources and Management

One important institutional detail is the existence of a State Commission for Land Resources and Management. During the Russian-backed Hadjiev administration in 1995, Ibragim Dzhandarov was listed as chairman of this commission, and the source notes that he had held the same post under Dudayev.

This is a significant clue. It shows that the land question was not absent from the state apparatus. There was a dedicated institutional structure responsible for land resources and territorial management. Yet the available evidence suggests that this institution did not succeed in creating a stable land regime.

Its continuity from the Dudayev period into the Hadjiev government is also revealing. Moscow-backed authorities did not simply invent land administration from scratch. They reused personnel and structures inherited from the independence period. This suggests that despite political rupture, administrative continuity existed at least in fragments.

However, under wartime occupation, such institutions could hardly operate as neutral organs of land governance. They functioned within competing claims: Ichkerian legality, Russian federal authority, collaborationist administration, military occupation, and local survival economies.


11. War and the Collapse of Property Order

The First Russo-Chechen War transformed the land question. From December 1994 onward, land reform ceased to be a policy problem and became part of wartime survival.

Russian bombardment destroyed cities, villages, archives, infrastructure, and administrative continuity. Grozny, the center of bureaucracy and record-keeping, was devastated. Property claims became difficult or impossible to verify. Many people fled, leaving houses, plots, documents, and livestock behind.

The destruction of records had long-term consequences. Even where ownership or use rights had existed, they were often no longer documentary. Claims survived through memory, witnesses, family networks, or force.

The war also militarized property relations. Vehicles, buildings, fuel, and other assets were requisitioned for the war effort. Dudayev’s orders included the expropriation of vehicles that had once belonged to the government but had been privatized in the early 1990s. This demonstrates that even the private property that had emerged before the war remained vulnerable to emergency state claims.

In wartime Ichkeria, property became conditional upon survival.


12. Occupation, Collaborationist Administration, and Land Governance

The Russian-backed Hadjiev government attempted to reconstruct civilian authority in occupied areas. Its cabinet included figures from the old Soviet nomenklatura, anti-Dudayev opposition, and former Dudayev officials. It also included a chairman of the State Commission for Land Resources and Management.

This government was politically weak and widely discredited, but it reveals Moscow’s preferred model: not immediate liberalization, but administrative restoration under Russian control. Oil infrastructure, reconstruction funds, housing, and land administration were all tied to the attempt to build a loyal Chechen authority within the Russian state.

However, corruption, looting, military impunity, and black-market activity undermined this effort. Reconstruction resources were misappropriated. Warehouses were looted. Oil infrastructure was exploited by both official and unofficial actors. Land governance could not be separated from the broader breakdown of legality.

Thus, by 1995–1996, Chechnya contained overlapping property regimes:

  • Dudayev’s wartime Ichkerian authority;
  • Russian military occupation;
  • Hadjiev’s collaborationist administration;
  • local customary control;
  • black-market appropriation;
  • armed requisition.

The land question had become fragmented beyond institutional control.


13. Interwar Ichkeria, 1996–1999: Victory Without Reconstruction

The Khasavyurt Accords ended the First Russo-Chechen War but did not create the conditions for stable land reform. Ichkeria regained de facto independence, but the state was exhausted. Institutions were weak, the economy shattered, armed groups powerful, and international recognition absent.

The Maskhadov government inherited an impossible problem: how to rebuild a country without money, secure borders, functioning courts, reliable archives, or a monopoly of force.

Land privatization under such conditions would have required an administrative capacity the state did not possess. It would also have risked igniting disputes among displaced families, returning refugees, armed commanders, local elites, and communities whose prewar claims had been destroyed or transformed by war.

The interwar state therefore failed to settle the land question. It could not restore Soviet collectivism, could not implement liberal privatization, and could not fully regulate customary or armed control.

This was not merely policy failure. It was the consequence of attempting state reconstruction in the ruins of a war fought against a vastly superior power.


14. Interpretation: Why Chechnya Did Not Privatize Land

The evidence supports five main conclusions.

First, independent Chechnya did not follow the Russian privatization model because its leadership did not trust that model. Dudayev saw privatization as a mechanism through which national wealth could be captured by profiteers, criminal groups, or external interests.

Second, land privatization was discussed as a possible solution to agricultural collapse, but it was rejected. This means the absence of land reform was not simply accidental.

Third, Chechnya’s constitutional framework recognized private property but preserved land and natural resources as the patrimony of the people. This created a hybrid doctrine: private economic activity without full commodification of the national territory.

Fourth, institutional conflict between the presidency and parliament, followed by war, made coherent reform impossible. Even if political will had existed, the administrative machinery was too unstable.

Fifth, after 1994, war transformed land from an economic problem into a survival problem. Displacement, destruction, requisition, looting, and the loss of records destroyed the practical basis for orderly privatization.


Conclusion

The history of land privatization in Chechnya is the history of an unfinished state.

In the early 1990s, the Chechen Republic of Ichkeria stood at the intersection of three possible futures. It could have followed Russia into rapid privatization. It could have preserved a modified Soviet system. Or it could have built a distinct national model rooted in popular ownership, limited private property, and strategic state control.

Dudayev chose the third path, but he never had the time, institutions, recognition, or peace necessary to make it work.

The result was not a coherent alternative economy, but an unresolved hybrid. Land remained symbolically national, administratively contested, socially communal, economically underproductive, and increasingly vulnerable to informal seizure. Agriculture collapsed under debt and subsidy dependence. Oil was centralized but also looted. State institutions multiplied but weakened. Parliament and presidency clashed. Then war destroyed the remaining foundations of legality.

The central conclusion is therefore precise: the Chechen Republic of Ichkeria did not fail to privatize land simply because it lacked capacity. It also refused to privatize land in the Russian sense because its leadership feared that privatization would destroy the very sovereignty independence was meant to secure.

After 1999, Russian rule restored legal bureaucracy but not genuine property security. Land ceased to be the patrimony of a self-proclaimed nation and became part of an authoritarian system of administrative control, reconstruction patronage, and political dependency.

The land question in Chechnya was never merely about property.

It was about sovereignty, memory, survival, and the right of a people to decide whether its land could be sold before its state had even been allowed to exist.

Biographies: Olkhazar Abdulkarimov – From Ichkeria to Kadyrov, following the river of oil

There are very little information about him in the press, and we were unable to find a personal photo of him. All we know about him is that he was born in 1954, that he graduated from Voronezh State University with a degree in law, and that, according to our sources, he is still alive.

Before Chechnya’s independence, Abdulkharimov worked as a law enforcement officer in the Chechen-Ingush Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic.​ During the period between 1991 and 1994, he had the opportunity to establish himself in the oil business, acquiring skills and contacts that earned him the government’s interest.

It is not known what his political position was with respect to the issue of Chechen independence, and whether or not he participated (and if so in what form) in the defense of the country during the First Russo-Chechen War. It is known, however, that after the withdrawal of Russian troops from the country, he moved closer to government positions, beginning a notable political rise.

Institutional roles

Presidential Advisor for Oil Production (since 1996): After the end of the First Chechen War and the election of Aslan Maskhadov, Abdulkharimov was appointed Presidential Advisor for Oil Production, taking on a key role in managing the country’s energy resources.

Minister of Oil Production and Energy (03/07/1998 – 10/10/1998): During this short period, he headed the ministry responsible for energy policies, in a context of reconstruction and political instability.

First Deputy Chairman of the Cabinet of Ministers with responsibility for oil production (since 10/10/1998): Subsequently, he was promoted to First Deputy Chairman of the Cabinet of Ministers, maintaining responsibility for oil production.

Director of the State Enterprise “ChechenTEK” (since September 1998): He took over the management of ChechenTEK, the state enterprise responsible for the management of the oil sector, at a time when Chechnya was trying to consolidate its economy.

Member of the collaborationist government

After the conquest of Chechnya by the Russian army and the installation of the collaborationist government of Ramzan Kadyrov, Abdulkharimov was appointed Minister of Industry and Energy, by nomination of Kadyrov himself, replacing Amadi Temishev.

Temishev had repeatedly criticized the policy of “plunder” carried out by the Russian state oil company, Rosneft, complaining about the systematic violation of the contractual agreements signed in 2002 between the company and the collaborationist government, at the time led by Akhmat Kadyrov, Ramzan’s father, the disinterest of the Russian administration in the economic and environmental fate of the Republic, and the lack of investment in the restoration of Chechen industrial infrastructure. His last public interview, dated October 11, 2006, was an explicit indictment of Moscow. It is not surprising, therefore, that in April 2007 Ramzan Kadyrov (newly elected President of the Chechen Republic by decree of Vladimir Putin) decided to remove him from government, replacing him with a figure supposedly less cumbersome and more “available” towards the Russian imperial center.

First Russian – Chechen War: a Preview from “Freedom or Death” Volume II

The following is a preview of the second volume of “Freedom or Death!” just released in English. The passage deals with Russian and Chechen preparations in the days immediately preceding the outbreak of war.

Zero Hour

In 1994, Russian-backed forces in Chechnya opposing Dzhokhar Dudayev led the failed November Assault, and it was a moment of realization for everyone.[1] President Yeltsin now clearly understood he needed to do more than covertly support groups inside Chechnya. He had to officially intervene to prevent the small, historically rebellious mountain republic from seceding. The Chechen opposition’s Provisional Council itself desperately appealed to him to send troops against the Dudayevites.[2] Meanwhile, General Dudayev was hopeful for peace negotiations but took seriously the threat of Russia fully invading.

For Yeltsin and Defense Minister Pavel Grachev, victory was not an achievable objective but a ripening fact. A “small victorious war” promised to raise the administration’s ratings against the increasing popularity of nationalist parties.[3] They ignored, or pretended to ignore, the deplorable state of their military and underestimated their enemy’s determination. Meanwhile the Chechens were preparing to resist the invasion.[4] Dudayev entrusted command of the regular forces to Colonel Aslan Maskhadov,[5] who inherited ragtag units rather than an army from his former colleague Viskhan Shakhabov.[6] Throughout 1994, he attempted to structure it partly according to army reforms enacted in 1992 and based on pre-existing forces, which were comprised of veterans from wars in Afghanistan and Abkhazia. Some units were combat-ready by the beginning of December. Among such forces was the Presidential Guard commanded by Abu Arsanukaev, and its Spetnatz unit under Apti Takhaev. Next was Shamil Basayev’s Reconnaissance and Sabotage Battalion, which was composed mostly of veterans of Abkhazia. Then came Ruslan Gelayev’s Special Borz (“Wolf”) Regiment, which included a battalion led by Umalt Dashayev. Adding also the Shali Armored Regiment and other minor units, there was a nucleus of 1,500 troops joined by 1,000 men from the Ministry of the Interior and the National Security Service (police officials, riot police and state intelligence services). Maskhadov added some volunteer territorial militia battalions, such as the so-called “Islamic Regiment” under Islam Halimov and the Naursk Battalion[7] with Major Apti Batalov.[8]  Thanks to their contribution and the many other bands of volunteers who rushed to Grozny’s defense, Chechen Headquarters relied on 5,000 men at the start of Russia’s invasion. Several more formations followed Dudayev’s general mobilization proclamation on 4 December.[9] The Chechens understood however, that regardless of how they prepared they could only temporarily hold the enemy at the gates. Chechnya lacked the numbers, arms, and organization to take on enemy armored brigades directly.[10] Russia had even preemptively destroyed the modest air force on 1 December.

Russia’s initial approach to the invasion reflected its narrow aim to eliminate the leadership rather than destroy Chechnya. The average Russian solider, struggling to pin it on a map, cared even less about Chechnya. The government narrowed its invasion partly to avoid a humanitarian crisis since the wary West was watching with a hand on the money tap keeping Russia afloat. 

Whatever way the Russians intended to attack, the Chechens were preparing to fight and die all the same. Their plan was “to last.” They wanted to resist as long as possible and hopefully expose the Kremlin to domestic public opinion, which was still struggling with trauma from the Soviet-Afghan War. Equally important was the opinion of the West, whose conditional loans kept Russia’s economy from sinking.[11] The Chechens organized their defense in three phases. They planned to first trap the Russians inside Grozny, a “concrete forest,” and ensnarl their overwhelming armor. To entice the Russians, the Chechens yielded the defensive line to the north to create the illusion they had abandoned the capital. This line along a strip of hills running north of Grozny on the so-called Terek Ridge hinged to the west by the villages Dolinskyand Pervomaisk. It ended in the east at the height of the village Petropavlovskaya on the left bank of the Sunzha. After crossing the line and penetrating the capital, the Russians would encounter Chechnya’s best forces eagerly waiting to recreate the success they had against the anti-Dudayevites back in 26 November. This was ideally going to force Yeltsin to negotiate with Dudayev, but with far more realistic expectations, the Chechens planned to retreat south to the main centers of Achkhoy-Martan, Shatoy, Vedeno, and Nozhay Yurt.

  Maskhadov divided the territory into six military districts called “Fronts” and entrusted them to his best men.[12] The loyal former police captain Vakha Arsanov held the Terek Ridge Line. Ruslan Gelayev was charged with the South-Western Front, a quadrilateral defined by the villages Assinovskaya, Novy-Sharoy, Achkhoy-Martan, and Bamut. Dudayev’s twenty-eight-year-old son-in-law Salman Raduyevcommanded the North-Eastern Front centering on the city Gudermes. CommanderRuslan Alikhadziyev[13] of the newly appointed Shali Armored Regimentled the southern front, with its main centers being Shatoyand Shali. Turpal Atgeriyev, a twenty-six-year-old veteran of the Abkhaz War and one of Raduyev’s most trusted men led the South-Eastern Front, centering on Nozhay Yurt. Finally, Shamil Basayev held Grozny. Unfortunately, the government lacked a comprehensive plan to protect the population,[14] and the situation was especially dire in Grozny. Unlike their Chechen neighbors there, the many ethnic Russian residents did not have relatives and friends in the countryside to flee to.

 The Russian Headquarters was busily gathering nineteen thousand fresh conscripts from the most diverse branches. Collectively baptized the “Joint Group of the United Forces,”[15] it also included five thousand soldiers from the Interior Ministry to comb the rear for enemies. The army was divided into the West, East, and North groups.[16] West Group started off from Vladikavkaz, North Ossetia to penetrate in three columns, taking up a position at the height of Novy-Sharoy behind the Chechen Terek RidgeLine. From Klizyar, Dagestan, East Group was to reach Tolstoy-Yurt along the Terek River. Finally, North Group in Mozdok, North Ossetia would cross the pro-Russian occupied plains of northern Chechnya to link up with East Group north of Grozny. With one hundred kilometers to the objectives, the operation had a schedule of a couple days. The high command of the Russian military prepared to issue an ultimatum to the leadership and offer amnesty to Chechen troops who surrendered.[17] Afterwards, artillery would clear the way for tanks to finally crush the rest of Dudayev’s “little rebellion”.

 However, the commander of the Russian operation Colonel General Eduard Vorobyov refused to lead the plan,[18] dismissing it as “madness”and a dishonor to send the military against citizens Russian considered its own.[19] Grachev promptly dismissed and investigated him, and instead tapped the unquestioning General Anatoly Kvashnin. Vorobyov’s forced resignation quickly led to the replacement of the Military Command of the Caucasus, further disrupting the chain of command which, on the eve of the invasion, was completely “purged.”

There were also important fringes of Parliament, including in the majority, opposed to military intervention. Yegor Gaidar, one of Yeltsin’s closest allies and chairman of the pro-government Democratic Choice of Russia Party,[20] spoke out and brought others from his faction with him.[21] Galina Starovoytova from the Democratic Russia Party was also opposed. Many moderates remained ambivalent though: the newly established center-left Yabloko Party saw heated internal debate between skeptics and those that supported the invasion “in principle” if not in execution.[22] On the right, nationalist movements beat the war drums, particularly Vadim Zhirinovsky’s Liberal Democratic Party. Opponents argued that using the military was unconstitutional without the government declaring a state of emergency and imposing martial law. According to Article 102 of the Constitution, the president had to consult Parliament to issue the provision, which would likely have been rejected. Supporters of military action, on the other hand, pointed to Articles 80 and 86 as support for Yeltsin’s right to lead the military and his duty to “safeguard the sovereignty” and “integrity of the state.”[23] A public debate could perhaps have steered tanks away from the Caucasus, especially as concerned newspapers all over the world began to cover the matter.[24] But the die was cast, and Yelstin was moving his pieces towards Chechnya.


[1] For more on the November Assault and the events preceding the outbreak of the First Russo-Chechen War, see Volume I of this work.

[2] In a conversation with the author, Ilyas Akhmadov recalled a telegram from the Provisional Council explicitly requesting Yeltsin to intervene. It was signed by Umar Avturkhanov and arrived in Moscow in the first days of December 1994.

[3] One analysis of the beginning of Yeltsin’s political shift: “With the controversial decision to use force to stop the secession of a small ‘province’ of his empire, Yeltsin himself also crossed a political ‘Rubicon,’ from which it will be difficult to go back: that of the alliance with the democratic forces that had supported him from the dissolution of the USSR in 1991 to the bloody battle against the rebel parliament in ’93. . . . After the victory of nationalists and communists in the legislative elections of December ’93, Yeltsin assumed new positions in foreign policy and in the management of economic reforms, thus trying to pander to the opposition, regain popular consent, and maintain power at the next electoral appointments, the legislative ones in a year, the presidential elections in a year and a half.” (Enrico Franceschini, “A Peace Party in Moscow,” La Repubblica, December 19, 1994).

[4] Chechen Foreign Minister Shamsouddin Youssef responded to news of Russia’s likely invasion by demanding Russia to recognize Chechnya’s independence. Otherwise, the Chechens would “fight, and bring war in the Russian Federation.” On the same day, Aslan Maskhadov added that Moscow risked fighting a “new Afghanistan.” First Name Last Name, “Title,” La Repubblica, May 12, 1994. 

[5]Aslan Alievich Maskhadov, introduced in Volume I of this work, was born in Shakai, Kazakh Soviet Socialist Republic, and returned to Chechnya with his family in 1957. He enrolled at the Artillery School of Tbilisi in 1972, then perfected himself at the High School of Kalinin Artillery in Leningrad. After his service in Hungary, he transferred to Vilnius and witnessed the Lithuanian independence uprisings. After resigning in 1992, he returned to Chechnya again and entered Dudayev’s service. In November 1993, he replaced Viskhan Sakhabov as chief of the general staff, first on an interim basis, then permanently beginning in March 1994. For a comprehensive biography written by his son Anzor, see Frihetskjemperen: Min far, Tsjetsjenias president.

[6] As Musa Temishev shared in a conversation with the author, Viskhan Shakhabov (extensively discussed in Volume I of this work) could not organize the nascent Chechen armed forces as a result of frictions with President Dudayev that arose between 1992 and 1993. Their disagreements on the methods of acquisition and use of Soviet arsenals paralyzed the Ministry of Defense, which was never officially established, leading to Shakhabov’s resignation.

[7] To be precise, Aslan Maskhadov christened the unit “Naursk Battalion” only in January 1995, during a live television broadcast on the presidential channel. The nom de guerre was a eulogy to Batalov’s units who had fought during the siege of Grozny. According to the commander, the regiment was still a “people’s militia”until the Battle for Grozny: “There were no cadres, there were no officers, there were only groups of people from different villages, commanded by people elected by them, totally on a voluntary basis. People came and went, and no one could order anything from them.”To read more about Apti Batalov and the Naursk Battalion, see the series of articles The General of Naur: Memoirs of Apti Batalov at www.ichkeria.net.

[8] Apti Batalov Aldamovich, born in Kyrgyzstan on October 19, 1956, returned to Chechnya and graduated from the Petroleum Institute of Grozny as a civil engineer. After entering the police force, he served as part of the Ishcherskaya Militia in the Naursk district, becoming its commander on June 20 1994. According to our conversations, until early August he served under District Military Commander Duta Muzaev, Dudayev’s son-in-law. After Muzaev’s return to Gronzy, Batalov became of head of the military administration of the Naursk and Nadterechny districts on September 16, 1994. He was tasked with organizing their defense against raids by the pro-Russia armed opposition.

[9] On 4 December, President Dudayev proclaimed a total mobilization of reservists. All male citizens between the ages of 15 and 60 were summoned, too many to realistically arm and train for the regular forces. Most were sent back to their villages of origin with the task of setting up self-defense militias using light weapons or resorting to hunting weapons.

Regarding the composition and nature of these militias, Ilyas Akhmadov recalled in a conversation with the author in 2022: “During the war there were many local volunteer groups consisting of five or six people, sometimes related to each other. It was very important to find a band that you knew. If you were with someone from your village, street, block, or family, you had a 90% guarantee that they wouldn’t leave your body if killed or injured. If they didn’t know you, they didn’t want you. This was mutually understandable to all: If something happened they would not be able to find the relatives, and for us it was very important to be returned to our families.”

[10] To learn more about the ChRI Air Force and its eventual destruction by Russia, see the in-depth study Green Wolf Stars: the ChRI Air Force on the website www.ichkria.net and consult Volume I of this work.

[11] United States Congress opened debates on 11 December 1994, on financially leveraging Russia to discourage war. Senators John McCain and Joseph Lieberan asked for aid to be reevaluated. Their colleague Alfonse D’Amato, argued on 3 January, that this could “send the wrong signal,”although he felt it necessary to express US displeasure at the civilian losses caused by the invasion.

[12] To view the Chechen defense plan, see thematic map A.

[13] Ruslan Alikhadzhiev was born in 1961 in Shali. After completing his military service with the rank of Sergeant, he returned to Chechnya in 1992. He took command of the Shali Armored Regiment in the autumn of 1994, replacing Isa Dalkhaev. At the outbreak of hostilities he organized the recruitment of militia in the Shali district (the “Shali Regiment”).

[14] Anatol Lieven’s first-hand account: “A government plan to feed the population and evacuate the children if the Russians started a siege? I don’t know of any such thing, but if President Dudayev said so, of course it is true,” an official told me in early December 1994, sitting in his deserted office in the municipal offices of the central district of Grozny, . . . “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. We Chechens are such strong people, we will be able to feed ourselves no matter what happens. Is it my responsibility? What do you mean by this? I’m here in my office, right? Don’t you think I will fight to the death to defend my country?” With that he let out a gasp, blowing a breath of vodka in our direction, and with wet fingers lifted a piece of greyish meat from a glass jar on his knees, and fed it to his cat.” Anatol Lieven, Chechnya: Tombstone of Russian Power (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998), 34.

[15] The unpreparedness of the federal forces was well known to the military commands, and to the Minister of Defense himself. A few days before the start of the military campaign, Grachev read a top secret directive (No. D-0010) which described “unpreparedness for action of fighting.” Stazys Knezys and Romana Sedlickas, The War in Chechnya, (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 1999).

The assessment report drawn up by the office of the North Caucasus Military Region was similar: “Most of the officers are not only unfamiliar with the required combat readiness requirements set out in the control documents, but also do not know how to recognize their personal duties, or what they should do in times of peace or war. Watch officers and units, in most formations inspected, are poorly trained to take practical actions in response to combat commands. The instructions and other control documents are prepared in gross violation of the requirements of the General Staff.” Knezys and Sedlickas,  War in Chechnya.

[16] To view the Russian invasion plan, see thematic map B.

[17] The Duma approved a resolution to this effect 13 December 1994.

[18] Grachev’s plan was entirely based on the assumption that a massive deployment of forces would disperse the separatists: “Grachev’s plan and timetable reflect expectations of limited resistance. Little intelligence used and bad planning were to blame… The planning also ignored the experience of loyalist Chechen forces [i.e. thread . Russians] who had attempted to storm Grozny in August , October and November 1994. If that experience had been studied, the Russian command would have been aware of the dangers that faced tank columns in Grozny.”Olga Oliker, Russia’s Chechen wars 1994-2000: Lessons from Urban Combat (Santa Monica: RAND, 2001) 11-12.  

[19] As Eduard Vorobjev said in an interview with journalist Vitaly Moiseev: “I was shocked by the situation, the units that arrived were completely unprepared, the commanders did not know their subordinates, many of the fighters did not have the necessary professional skills. I turned to the Chief of the General Staff: ‘If you think that a change of command will change the situation for the better, then you are wrong. It’s not about the commander, it’s about the adventurous approach. . . . Approaching me, the Minister of Defense said ‘I am disappointed in you, Colonel General, and I think you should submit your letter of resignation.’ I replied ‘I have it.’… It was not easy for me, a person who served in the armed forces for 38 years, who constantly answered ‘Yes!’ I was faced with a choice: to make a deal with my conscience and deal with completely unprepared people, to conduct an operation not planned by me, or to leave the armed forces, which meant the end of my military career.… It seems to me that Grachev underestimated the moral and psychological state of the Chechens, which had reached fanaticism. The operation was designed to intimidate: they thought that Dudayev would get scared when he saw hundreds of units and thousands of soldiers, and surrender to the victor’s mercy. Indeed, the Chechen side clearly knew where our troops were, what they were doing—information was spreading in all directions.”

[20] To the press Gaidar declared: “I appeal to Yeltsin not to allow a military escalation in Chechnya. The intervention was a tragic mistake. Taking Grozny will cost huge human losses. It will worsen the internal political situation in Russia, it will be a blow to the integrity of the nation, to our democratic achievements, to everything we have achieved in recent years.” Franceschini, “A Peace Party in Moscow.” 

[21] Deputy of Democratic Choice Dimitrij Golkogonov’s response to “Why are you against the invasion?”: “Because my party, Choice of Russia, led by the ex-Prime Minister Gajdar, is against violence, against the use of force to solve political problems. In Chechnya there is a leader, Dudayev, who does not want to lose power, thanks to whom he has enriched himself and his friends with the trade of oil. Independence has nothing to do with it. But to attack Dudayev is to make a criminal a popular hero. . . . A negotiation had to be opened. If Yeltsin had invited the Chechens to Moscow, they would have come running.” Enrico Franceschini, “‘Yeltsin Made Wrong Move in Invading But Remains Leader of Russia,’” La Repubblica, December 15, 1994.

[22] Vladimir Lukin, former ambassador to the United States and prominent member of Yabloko, in his January 24, 1995 speech in the Nezavisimaya Gazeta wrote: “The executive branch has shown itself and society that it can act independently, regardless of and in spite of political pressures . . . In an ideal world, the preposterous and dangerous idea that the military should not be used for internal conflicts should be driven out of the heads of our armed forces. . . . Using the army inside the country in extreme situations, when threats to the state appear, is the norm in democratic states. Nezavisimaya Gazeta.

[23] For careful study of this topic see Stuart Goldman and Jim Nichol, Russian Conflict in Chechnya and Implications for the United States (DC: Congressional Research Service, 1995).See also Victoria A. Malko, The Chechen Wars: Responses in Russia and the United States(Lambert Academic Publishing, 2015).  

[24]  An example from an Italian newspaper: “In the end, like a mountain annoyed by a daredevil mouse, Yeltsin ordered the direct intervention of his troops. Moscow claims that Chechnya is part of Russia, therefore it is its right to occupy it to restore order. For the moment, Western public opinion seems aligned with this position, considering yesterday’s events as an “internal matter” for Russia: for which there are no international complaints, unlike what happened with the invasion of Afghanistan. But if we look at the substance of the Russian military expedition in Chechnya, some resemblance to the Soviet invasion fifteen years ago emerges. . . . The fact remains that Yeltsin does not hesitate to use tanks when he sees that other means (negotiation, economic pressure, support for the local opposition) do not produce results. The propensity to resolve political crises militarily, as a year ago in the tug of war with the rebel Parliament, is a hallmark of his presidency. The future will tell whether Russia needed a “strongman” to become a civilized and democratic nation”. Enrico Franceschini,“Moscow Fears the Kabul Syndrome,” La Repubblica, December 12, 1994.

Past, present and future – Francesco Benedetti Interviews Inal Sharip (Part 2)

Let’s go back to 1999. When Russia invaded Chechnya for the second time, where were you? Were you still studying?

At that time I was working in Moscow, at the Central Documentary Film Studio. I was making documentaries. When the war started, I returned to Chechnya to make a film about the war. It was my most dangerous experience, because the aggression was in full swing, they were ready to destroy the entire Chechen people. When Russian troops saw journalists, human rights activists or documentary filmmakers, they hated them and put up all sorts of obstacles, because they were telling the whole world about the atrocities that the Russians were committing in Chechnya. And when the Russian military found out that I was a Chechen, they were ready to shoot me. Several times I was a millimeter away from death. After finishing work on the film, the film was selected at a film festival in North Carolina (USA). In 2000, I left for the USA, where my film received high reviews in the professional community. After that, I began negotiations with American producers about working on a documentary series about the centuries-long struggle of the Chechen people for independence: from Sheikh Mansur to the present day.

What was the American public’s involvement with what was happening in Chechnya?

Ordinary people knew little about Chechnya. They heard something about the war, but knew nothing specific. Journalists and human rights activists knew well. Most Americans are not interested in what is happening outside the United States. According to statistics, only a few percent of voters care about the presidential candidate’s pre-election position on U.S. foreign policy.

In the rhetoric of the current regime of Ramzan Kadyrov I have often heard references to the fact that the independence that was regained then cost the Chechens so much, that even talking about it today is to be considered synonymous with “extremism”. In your opinion, how much did all this weigh in strengthening the Chechens’ support for Kadyrov?          

The question of how the values associated with independence and loss influence the support for Ramzan Kadyrov’s regime in Chechnya leads us to deeper reflections on human ideals and motivations. The phrase indicating that independence “cost” the Chechen people too much and that preserving this memory has become synonymous with “extremism” touches upon complex issues of identity and self-awareness. For peoples who have endured wars and trauma, collective ideals are often intertwined with historical memory, built on suffering and struggle. For many Chechens, the memory of war and independence is not merely a historical fact but a part of their identity that legitimizes their sense of community and belonging. However, this perception can become a tool of power when fear and loss are employed to validate authority.

This raises a philosophical question: Do individuals truly hold higher ideals for which they are willing to sacrifice everything, including their lives? In the past, values such as honor, dignity, and justice served as catalysts for revolutions and social changes. In the 18th and 19th centuries, such ideals inspired people to make selfless acts. Yet in the modern world, filled with logic of consumerism and individualism, these ideals may appear indifferent. Nonetheless, those ideals have not disappeared; rather, they have transformed. When facing crises or difficulties, individuals unconsciously seek not only justifications for their actions but also profound values that could support them in those moments. For some, this may be family; for others, freedom; and for some, belonging to their nation and its history. However, under an authoritarian regime like Kadyrov’s, such searches are permeated by fear. The ability to openly defend ideals born from suffering can lead to repression, making individuals more inclined towards conformity.

Thus, Kadyrov’s support can be viewed as a product of psychological defense, built before external threats. This does not always indicate ideological support for the ruler; rather, it is a strategic adaptation driven by the desire for survival. Society needs to protect itself from challenges, and at times, supporting an established authority becomes a means of preserving identity and collective memory. Therefore, while the era of high ideals may give way to more pragmatic considerations, the very idea of self-sacrifice and the search for meaning in life remains an inseparable part of human existence. Ultimately, the answer to the question of what drives a person regarding higher ideals largely depends on personal choice, background, and existing context. In this sense, support for Kadyrov is not merely support for a regime, but a complex and multifaceted process where fear, memory, and the search for identity converge.

A splendid reflection, which brings us to another question: can all those who collaborate with Kadyrov be considered “traitors”?

Thank you for your question. This is indeed a very complex issue that touches upon moral and ethical considerations regarding collaboration with a regime. Historical experience shows that different contexts and eras have led to various responses to such situations. During World War II, for example, those who collaborated with the occupiers were often executed immediately. In contrast, in the Baltic countries—Latvia, Estonia, and Lithuania—after over 50 years of occupation, there were no mass executions in 1991. This was largely because a new generation had grown up without knowing life outside the Soviet Union, highlighting how sensitive the topic of survival under occupation is.

Your reflections on who exactly can be considered a “Kadyrovite” are indeed critical. It is essential to emphasize that we cannot label ordinary people, who are forced to survive in difficult conditions and have no connection to the crimes committed by Kadyrov’s gang, as “Kadyrovites.” On the contrary, they are victims of this regime, subjected to the abuses of Kadyrov and his associates. In my view, those who have committed crimes should primarily be held accountable. It is especially important to bring religious leaders who justify Kadyrov’s actions to justice, as their influence on the minds and souls of people can be far more destructive than that of the perpetrators themselves. This is a multifaceted issue, and addressing it requires careful consideration of numerous factors.

In your answer you specifically mentioned “religious leaders”. How are Islamic clergy supporting Kadyrov’s regime?

In various countries, the relationship between the state and the clergy can vary: they either work closely together or, as in the case of Russia, the state uses religious institutions to advance its interests. In Russia, government agencies deploy their agents into the religious sphere, helping them build careers within spiritual organizations. These state representatives are legitimized in religious circles, while the clergy, in turn, serves the interests of the state. This practice is widespread globally, although there may be exceptions. The first official Muslim organization in Russia was established by the decree of Catherine the Great in 1788. The position of the Mufti, the head of Russian Muslims, was created, and the candidate had to be approved by the emperor after being elected by the Muslim community. In the decree, it was explicitly stated that this organization was established in the interest of the Russian state. Since then, little has changed: just as the state controlled the religious life of its citizens in the past, it continues to do so today.

Before the 1917 revolution, Russian intelligence services infiltrated their agents into religious institutions, and after the revolution, the Soviet government created its own educational institutions—Orthodox seminaries and Islamic madrasas—where future preachers, often intelligence officers, were trained. It was impossible to receive a religious education in the Soviet Union without KGB approval. Those who believe Russia has lost its grip in this area are mistaken. In fact, Russia has expanded its influence: for example, graduates of the Islamic faculty at the University of Damascus in Syria are under the control of Russian intelligence, particularly the GRU. It’s no secret that the GRU has a base in Syria, and it’s no surprise that several dozen graduates of this university work within Ramzan Kadyrov’s circle, justifying his actions both in Chechnya and in Ukraine from a religious perspective. Undoubtedly, this situation needs to change, and the Islamic world is in dire need of reforms. However, those who benefit from the current state of affairs will fiercely defend it. A striking example is the case of Saudi journalist Jamal Khashoggi, who was forced to flee due to threats to his life for his political views. He was brutally murdered and dismembered at the Saudi consulate in Turkey when he came to obtain a new passport. His last tweet was deeply symbolic: “The Islamic world is in great need of democratic reforms.”

So, if the Islamic clergy is all, more or less, infiltrated or managed by the secret services, does this mean that Islam cannot be a unifying force in the movement for the independence of the North Caucasus? And if so, what force, in your opinion, can be a unifying element?

There’s no need to invent a new unifying idea for the peoples of the North Caucasus in their struggle for independence. That idea has long existed and remains clear. Just as 100 years ago, when the Confederation of the Peoples of the Caucasus, the Mountain Republic, was created, today the peoples of the North Caucasus simply want to live freely on their own land, in accordance with their traditions and culture. It is the national liberation movement of different peoples that unites them in this struggle, just as it did a century ago. This deeply rooted desire for self-determination and the preservation of their identity continues to be the strongest unifying force. The fight for freedom and sovereignty has always been the common thread binding the diverse peoples of the region. The historical past of the struggle against occupation, repression, and genocide by the Russian Empire is indeed a key unifying factor for the peoples of the Caucasus. This past is connected to numerous tragic events and struggles for survival, creating a common platform for the recognition of themselves as oppressed peoples.

Common Experience of Oppression: All the peoples of the Caucasus have faced similar confrontations with imperial power, fostering a sense of solidarity. Memories of brutal repression, genocide, and occupation deepen the understanding of a shared fate and suffering.

Identity and Memory: Preserving the historical memory of the struggle against colonial oppression strengthens the identity of each people. In this context, shared history becomes the foundation for recognizing their rights and striving for freedom.

Culture and Language: Common cultural elements, folklore, and language also serve as connecting links. These aspects often bring a sense of unity to the fight for justice and independence.Historical memory serves as motivation for consolidating efforts to protect rights and freedoms.

Thus, the shared historical experience of fighting against oppression becomes a solid basis for forming a united front among the peoples of the Caucasus, allowing them to focus on common goals without sacrificing the interests of one people to the detriment of another.

Every project for the birth of a new state needs its own intrinsic “usefulness” for those governments that, from the outside, should give it legitimacy with their recognition. In this sense, what “usefulness” do you see for a Confederation of the peoples of the Northern Caucasus?

The answer to the question about the purpose of establishing a government in exile for the Confederation of the North Caucasus starts with recognizing the limitations of the independent Chechen Republic of Ichkeria. It is a small territory that cannot play a significant role in shaping global geopolitics. In today’s world, if you are not part of a larger force shaping the future geopolitical landscape, it is nearly impossible to change existing borders in a way that would grant independence to the Chechen people. The Chechen Republic lacks access to the Black Sea and does not occupy any strategically important transport corridors, which is why our struggle for independence did not fall within the interests of major geopolitical players. However, our struggle has been subject to political manipulation. For example, Saudi Arabia tried to leverage the Chechen issue for its own interests, offering Putin a deal to resolve the Chechen independence question in exchange for Russian withdrawal from Syria. This demonstrates how external powers can exploit national movements for their own agendas.

But when we talk about the creation of the Confederation of the North Caucasus, the geopolitical calculus changes dramatically. Such a state becomes highly attractive because it addresses several key geopolitical problems that have emerged during the war in Ukraine. If the Confederation of the North Caucasus is formed, Russia would lose access to the Black Sea, which directly aligns with Ukraine’s interests. Without its naval base in the Black Sea, Russia would no longer pose a constant maritime threat to Ukraine. Europe and the U.S. are also interested in this outcome, as they do not wish to see the total collapse of Russia, which could lead to China’s expansion into the Far East and further strengthen its influence. The West is also concerned about the potential chaos that could arise from Russia’s breakup, especially given that Russia is the largest country in the world, covering more than 10% of the world’s land area. Furthermore, there is fear over Russia’s nuclear facilities and, most critically, the risk that nuclear materials could fall into the hands of third-party states or terrorist organizations.

The creation of the Confederation of the North Caucasus would address several of these challenges at once. By losing access to the Black Sea, Russia would be reduced from a global power to a regional one, which is something the entire world is interested in. A regional Russia would be forced to focus on containing China and managing its nuclear arsenal. Without nuclear weapons, Russia would not be able to effectively counter China’s influence. Additionally, Ukraine would no longer face the threat of Russia’s naval base in the Black Sea, and Turkey would emerge as the dominant power in the region. In this way, the establishment of the Confederation of the North Caucasus aligns with the interests of multiple countries, including the U.S., Europe, Ukraine, and Turkey, all of whom share a vested interest in transforming Russia from a global to a regional power. This shift is crucial for maintaining stability and ensuring a balanced global order.

Could a confederation of the North Caucasus also be an opportunity for Russia?

The separation of the North Caucasus from Russia can indeed be seen as an opportunity for a new Russia. This scenario could facilitate the necessary transformation of the country towards a democratic state, which is urgently needed. Moreover, the separation of the Caucasus could increase the rating of those Russian politicians who manage to implement such a course. Given the growing anti-Caucasian sentiments in society, the separation of the region might be perceived as a populist step, allowing them to garner support among a segment of Russian citizens dissatisfied with the current situation.

Couldn’t an independent Caucasus easily become a client state of Türkiye?

Turkey is certainly an important player in the region with whom we will establish partnership relations, but at this stage other NATO countries are also helping us in the implementation of this project. Naturally, in the future we hope to become part of NATO, and with the partners who will help in the implementation of this project, we will have allied relations.