Ingushetia is far less famous than its neighbour to the east. As such, it perfectly embodies that old adage that no news is good news. For while Chechnya was consumed by two violent conflagrations in the 1990s and early 2000s, Ingushetia opted for a more peaceful path. It certainly provides an interesting window into what Chechnya could have looked like on a different trajectory, given their similarities, which I will unpack in my next post.
It is by dint of this relative peace that the republic is, in a pleasant sense, a little dull. The capital of Magas, the youngest in Russia, is virtually uninhabited. It’s clean and modern but thoroughly soulless, like one of China’s famous ghost cities. It’s close enough to the wonderful Vladikavkaz, where you would be better off staying and using as a base for one or two day trips here. Venturing beyond the capital, however, reveals a different character altogether. The meandering mountain roads were spectacular in themselves and gave a much better sense of how most in the republic used to live. The most notable feature of the landscape is the stone watchtowers that punctuate it. Now uninhabited and weathered, they blend beautifully into the terrain, giving it a kind of timelessness. Any fans of Mulan could imagine these all being lit up to warn of an enemy invasion.
The historical highlight of Ingushetia was the Nine Towers memorial complex. This is a fascinating example of memory politics and pretty unique from my experience, for whereas monuments are normally erected or levelled, this one has actually evolved. The initial monument was to commemorate the forced expulsion of Ingush people from their homeland to central Asia in 1944, one of many notorious Stalinist population transfers. It was a horrific ordeal, with echoes of the Nazi death marches. Entire villages were ejected and forced to travel vast distances under appalling conditions, with those unable to make the journey killed on the spot. They were banished until 1957, when Khrushchev permitted their return. The same happened to the Chechens, a shared history of forced displacement I would encounter again heading east.
The memorial and museum were opened in 1997, on the fortieth anniversary marking their return. The nine towers represent the major Ingush clans, each bearing its own style, bound by barbed wire. In case the metaphor wasn’t clear, the museum below provides photographic and documentary evidence detailing the ethnic cleansing, accompanied by some emotive illustrations. That such latitude would be permitted in the twilight years of the Yeltsin presidency is perhaps not terribly surprising. Yet what I found really interesting is how this site has evolved since. In the Putin years, additional monuments have been erected around the tower that sing a very different tune altogether, for example commemorating Ingush contributions to the two World Wars and the Soviet-Afghan War. There is something quite Machiavellian to this: providing enough space for people to grieve a wound that predates Putin, but diluting it by surrounding that grief with monuments of collaboration and triumph – the effect being to cast the deportation as an anomaly in what is otherwise presented as a long and harmonious record of Russian-Ingush relations. A fascinating introduction to Putin’s politics in Russia’s Islamic lands that has teed me up nicely for Chechnya.
