Terrorist attacks in Moscow, 2000-2004, by galvinmp
From MemoryArchive
Who: Michael Galvin What: Terrorist attacks When: August 2000-February 2004 Where: Moscow, RussiaDuring my first trip to Moscow at the age of 17, I stayed with my professor of violin in her large 3 bedroom flat at Metro Yugo-Zapadnaya (“Southwest”). Her apartment became the very definition to me of all things post-Soviet—from the unfinished wooden floors installed, as I later found out, in most apartments throughout the city, to the radiation detector in the kitchen that we would use to check fruits and vegetables (especially mushrooms) for contamination. During this first short visit we spoke mostly French, although neither of us actually spoke the language, aided by a very few Russian words that I knew, a few in English that she knew, all-the-while using our very best Italian musical terms, to discuss all things: from my childhood in America to accounts of her musical achievements, run-ins with Soviet composers Shostakovich, Prokofiev, Khachaturian and Schnittke, and her trip as a young woman to the Mausoleum
As I was only 17, could barely read the Cyrillic alphabet, and understood little to no Russian, she would not allow me out of the apartment by myself. Some days she would bring me to the Conservatory (named after Tchaikovsky) in the city center, and I would listen to her lessons, marveling at the virtuosity and powerful sound that her students all shared. Other days she would walk me to places like Red Square and to the Arbat pedestrian street and tourist trap. On days when she taught from her apartment, and students would wait for their lessons three at a time for hours, she would send me out to sightsee with a student who had already finished her lesson. One of these days was August 8, 2000.
The student Masha and I were to go exploring Moscow, and I was so happy to be out of the apartment where I knew I could smoke a cigarette and find my first taste of Russian vodka. Masha briefly spoke with my professor, Zorius Usmanovna Shikhmurzaeva, and they agreed we would go to Pushkin Square on Tverskaya Ulitsa, and that we would return around 6. Talking as we descended the 16 floors in a small elevator which smelled strongly of urine, we changed plans and decided to go to the Park of Culture named after Maxim Gorky (“Gorky Park”).
We spent the afternoon on amusement park rides, smoking cigarettes, drinking vodka, and eating shashlyki (kebobs of sorts) with salad made of cucumber, dill, onion and tomato. We lost track of time while chatting in paddleboats on the small man-made lake within the park. We returned to my professor’s apartment around 9:00 pm, and were met by the very worried sight of her waiting outside the door to her apartment, inside the black metal grated cage that separates all four front doors on her landing from the elevators and stairwell.
She quickly hugged me all-the-while whispering “Slava bogu” (“thank God”), as she began yelling at Masha by my side. While we were out, a bomb had exploded at Pushkin Square, an habitually crowded underpass teeming with small stores and kiosks. Two men had asked to pay for their purchases with dollars, and when the saleswoman refused, they asked her where they could find a money exchange office. She pointed them in the right direction, so as not to miss out on a sale, and asked them to leave their luggage with her, which exploded as soon as they were safely out of the underpass.
My teacher had thought we were headed for Pushkin Square, and when we did not return on time, began listening to the unconfirmed reports on the news which included an American casualty, and worried for hours. The whole time, we were relaxing in the park oblivious to the fact that something so terrible had occured.
Two years later, as a full-time Russian speaking student of hers in Moscow, I passed by the site of the August 8, 2000 attack almost everyday on my way to or from the Conservatory. The site is marked with a white marble plaque embellished with gold lettering under which there are constantly fresh flowers. A few months after beginning my full-time studies at the Conservatory, almost 50 Chechen rebels seized the theatre at Dubrovka in Moscow, on October 23, 2002, during a performance of a musical I had been hoping to see, “Nord Ost.” Of the nearly 800 people taken hostage, thankfully I didn’t know anyone.
The evening this occurred, some friends and I had been planning on going to the club “Central Station-2” which had recently opened in the Dubrovka complex. The club’s predecessor “Central Station,” located in an entirely different part of Moscow, had been a favorite of mine from the previous few summers I had spent in Moscow, and I was excited to finally visit the new club. Again oblivious to what was happening in the city, we could barely even exit the metro station, as policemen, military officers, press, and crowds of people flocked to the flashing lights surrounding the theatre.
The siege lasted three days, and horribly the majority of those killed, died from complications related to the secret gas the Russian authorities pumped into the theatre. The terrorists all fell immediately and silently, as did the majority of the audience, but the terrorists were also shot at point blank range through the head. Friends told me later that Russian authorities actually used the club “Central Station-2” as their point of entry for the secret gas into the theatre. The club never reopened in this location.
Later on that school year, on July 5, 2003, I watched on TV from my own soviet-style Moscow apartment as newscasters first reported on a blast at a rock music festival near Tushino, on the outskirts of Moscow. Two “shakhidi” or women suicide bombers killed themselves and 15 others. I quickly called all my friends to be sure that they had not been there, or known anyone planning on going to the festival. I was again lucky.
Soon after, a dear friend told me a story about how “shakhidi” are recruited in Chechnya. These women are generally extremely poor, and typically have many, many children. Chechen rebel groups threaten their lives, or the lives of their children, saying their family will suffer deaths and the survivors will still be poor, or they offer the women an alternative... they can train to be suicide bombers, in which case the rebels will award their survivors financially: a win-win situation. I felt sorry for the suicide bombers for a brief moment.
The following year, now a student of Russian language at the Moscow State University, I was shocked to find my Russian language professor very worried about me when, in the great tradition of most Russian students, I stopped attending my classes in the dead of winter, simply because I could not be bothered to brave the cold. He tracked me down at home. Apparently, the previous year one of his American students had been in the theatre at Dubrovka when it was taken hostage. He had stopped attending classes just as abruptly as I had. After apologizing, I thanked him for his concern, and promised to return to class.
Soon thereafter, another suicide bomber blew herself up on Deccember 9, 2003, outside the Hotel “National” (which is somehow related to Le Meridien Hotels and Resorts). This hotel is located in the very center of Moscow, on the corner of Tverskaya Ulitsa and Okhotnii Ryd streets. Later that evening, a bustling scene was visible from Manezh square across the street, at the entrance to the shopping center also named, “Okhotnii Ryd.” Standing there on the street in the sub-zero weather, the atmosphere had a strange sense of serenity and stillness in the air. The glass facade of the National Hotel had shattered, and television crews still crowded the area on the corner adjacent to where the attack had occurred. Russian friends of mine studying in the Journalist Faculty of the University (this building is located less than 2 blocks down Okhotnii Ryad from the hotel) told me that they had heard the explosion clearly from their classroom, and that other classmates of theirs had actually been en route from the University to the metro, and felt the shock and subsequent vibrating of the attack. At least five people died in this attack.
I started to feel safest in Moscow immediately following such events. I quickly developed a visual prejudice against Chechen looking persons, this also included some ethnic Georgians and Caucasians, as it is hard to pinpoint exactly what a Chechen looks like. I soon too developed a dislike for some of the other languages of the former Soviet Union, as I associated these completely unfamiliar languages with Chechens, and thus with suicide bombers. This growing fear paralleled my experiences in the US following the attacks on September 11, 2001. Although I never developed any long-lasting prejudices, for a long while I paid close attention to Arab travelers in airport waiting areas and on flights. Now too, when in Russia I cannot dispel these preconceived fears, be them real or imagined.
On several occasions while riding on the Moscow metro system, I have been completely convinced that the person across from me was a suicide bomber, and the package between her legs, a bomb. I have in many such situations exited the metro car as soon as possible, and walked the rest of the way home, too scared at that point to use other forms of public transport. I wonder what those poor women would think if they knew I thought them to be suicide bombers?
Upon returning to the states in January 2004, I soon learned that these fears were not totally unfounded. On February 6, 2004, a bomb exploded aboard a Moscow metro car en route from Station Avtozavodskaya to the Paveletskaya station, during the morning rush hour. I received the news on the way to a World Politics class, and spent most of the morning on the phone calling friends in Moscow, and then their relatives in other Russian cities to tell them they were ok (somehow it is still cheaper for me to call from the US, than to call within Russia from Moscow).
Since the subway bombing in February 2004, to date (September 21, 2005), I have visited Moscow five times. During each visit I have difficulty at times riding, or remaining on, the metro, but in general I am no more scared being in Moscow than anywhere else in the world. I love it there, although I have been present for so many of the recent terrorist attacks.
