Taken hostage in South Ossetia

Giga Chikhladze 6/22/04

Irakly Chikhladze

Editor's Note: As tensions between Georgia and Russia over the breakaway republic of South Ossetia escalate, two EurasiaNet photojournalists ventured into the territory on June 12 to survey conditions there. Taken hostage by a South Ossetian militia group, their experience illustrates the challenges in hand for bringing stability to this conflict-scarred region.

"Hey you! Stop!"

Men in Russian army uniforms and civilian clothes, armed with automatic rifles, leapt out of the bushes on either side of the rusted rails of the abandoned Tbilisi-Tskhinvali rail line.

They took away almost all our things, and, pushing us with their gun butts, led us back toward Tskhinvali, the South Ossetian capital. "Are you Georgian?" one of the fighters asked us along the way. "Yes," we answered. "That's bad," he said. "That's bad for you."

We had known that journalists from Tbilisi had little chance of reaching Tskhinvali, even more so if they hadn't received prior approval for their trip from the relevant Georgian and Ossetian authorities. But we knew that any request for authorization would fail completely. So we had decided to take the risk.

On that day, our first stop in South Ossetia had been the Ergneti market, not far from Tskhinvali, and once famous for its contraband goods from Russia. The market is the size of three soccer fields, but, after Georgian troops began an anti-smuggling operation here last month, it has been largely deserted. Empty stalls and mountains of trash are all that remains.

Pushing on, we reached Tskhinvali after a few kilometers and could see a large number of military personnel checking cars at the town's entrance. Rather than risk the checkpoint, we opted for an alternative route via the village of Ergneti. Though several armed men saw us walking along the shore of the river Liakhvi en route to Tskhinvali, we were only stopped once. And then, upon hearing that we had not been stopped any other post, the South Ossetian fighter simply let us walk on.

In Tskhinvali, however, we did not escape notice. A group of youngsters, asking us for cigarettes, was a bit surprised when we offered them a Georgian brand. In the courtyard of a local church that we photographed, an old woman quickly made the sign of the cross as she looked at us. No one else was there, but later, a local KGB officer would ask us about this visit.

As we got ready to take a photo of a gigantic billboard of Russian President Vladimir Putin at the crossroads of Stalin St. and Lenin St., a lame old man who was selling cigarettes out of a box on the sidewalk, hurriedly came up to us. "Don't do it, son, don't take a picture. They can arrest you," he said and indicated a nearby parked jeep that contained a bored looking fellow in civilian dress with an automatic rifle. "Right now, they're very much on edge."

The tension in the region can be felt. On the way to Tskhinvali, we had chatted in a mini-bus with Alan, a South Ossetian resident, who said that he had sent his family to relatives for safety to the Russian city of Vladikavkaz. According to him, many local residents are trying to leave Tskhinvali.

After strolling around the town, we decided to continue to the Georgian village of Nikozi. With no public transportation available, we decided to walk. Little did we know that instead of 40 minutes, our trip would take an entire day.

Nikozi marks the end point for Georgian repairs on the Tskhinvali-Tbilisi railway. The Ossetian side has forbidden the repair of the three remaining kilometers to Tskhinvali. The railway has turned to rust and blackberry bushes grow between the rails. Georgian and Ossetian soldiers watch each other from either side of the track.

The South Ossetian fighters who took us captive here led us to the third floor of a semi-destroyed four-story building on the outskirts of Tskhivali. The apartment was an observation post and occasionally one of the fighters would go to the window to observe the surrounding area with army binoculars for snipers.

During our interrogation, we were asked why we had come to South Ossetia and for what publication, what we had photographed, who we knew in Tskhinvali and with whom we had spoken. The fighters asked us to show our identity cards, our authorization to travel to Tskhinvali and to take pictures. We had none of this.

Throughout our ordeal, we were never mistreated, though we were told we would face torture or a firing squad if we were discovered to be spies. Our lack of a car or video camera cast doubts on our identity as journalists. Strange as it may be, though, many of those who came into the room offered to shake hands with us. We were called hostages, but we were also offered tea. One of the fighters jokingly told us that "You'll probably live."

Our most unpleasant moment came when we left the building and were taken under escort to the side of a factory in ruins. Our guards took us up to the factory wall and ordered us to stop. After awhile, three armed men appeared and a heated discussion ensued with members of our fighter group. We were then taken further away and interrogated again at a South Ossetian militia post – it would be the first of many interrogations by South Ossetian security and military personnel.

Local Ossetians in Russian army uniforms milled around at the post, sporting new Kalashnikovs, knives and pistols. As we were taken from post to post, Russian peacekeepers' jeeps, trucks and armored personnel carriers passed us by several times, but the Russian officers paid no attention to us.

One Ossetian officer complained to us that, recently, increasing numbers of unidentified men with automatic rifles have turned up throughout South Ossetia. They do not appear to be answerable to anyone.

"There's a very tense situation here now. All it would take is for some idiot to start shooting and again people will die," he said.

But not everyone shares his sense of caution. The fighters who took us hostage repeated several times that help from the north would come and that, when it did, it would not be difficult for them "to take care of the Georgian army."

Many of the Ossetians with whom we talked, however, said that they would not oppose rejoining Georgia if their territory could be a republic within a federation. Residents of this unrecognized republic, however, get very irritated when Georgian politicians refer to South Ossetia as the Tskhinvali region or Samachablo. "We're not a region. We're a republic," they said.

Nonetheless, the display of cautious goodwill by our captors only went so far. Much of our film was ruined during one camera inspection, and we lost our cell phones and money stashed in a notebook. According to the KGB officer who then made up our escort, the theft of our phones was the work of the fighters who had originally arrested us. He stressed that he was not responsible. "This is not a group under our control," he said. "You're lucky they handed you over."

Finally, after several hours of arrest, our adventure ended. After a cell phone conversation with an unknown party, the KGB officer drove us to a bend in the road leading to Tbilisi beyond which, he said, should be a Georgian checkpoint. "If it turns out not to be that way, then excuse me, you have your work and we have ours."

And, wishing us good luck, he returned to Tskhinvali.

Only upon our return to Tbilisi did we realize the distress our arrest had caused. As it turned out, after our arrest, the fighters had started to call the numbers stored in our cell phones. Their conversations ran along similar lines: "You're Ossetian? No? We've captured Giga and Irakly Chichladze here in Tskhinvali and we're deciding what to do with them – whether to cut their heads off or to drown them in the river. But maybe we'll just shoot them."

Alarmed, our friends and family went into action, alerting the media, the government, members of parliament, mission offices for the United Nations and the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe and various non-governmental organizations. In the end, the Liberty Institute and the youth organization Kmara! played the largest role, we were told, in securing our release.

But our experience had still not ended. The day after our release, we heard again from South Ossetia. It was the KGB officer who had let us go home. Our cell phones' memory cards had been found and would be sent to Tbilisi. Their theft, the officer said, was not his fault.

Editor's Note: Giga and Irakly Chikhladze are freelance photographers based in Tbilisi.

Posted August 23, 2004 © Eurasianet