It is quiet around the Lukodrome. A guard calmly makes his rounds in the blistering heat around the colorful sports temple devoted entirely to archery, a national sport in Buryatia. A large letter Z is affixed to the wall next to the entrance, a symbol for Russia’s “special military operation” against Ukraine. Since the start of hostilities, the sports hall in a suburb of Ulan-Ude has served as a funeral home for killed Russian soldiers.
Among them is 26-year-old Alexei Leontjev, who was buried here yesterday. He died on June 10 ‘while carrying out his military task’. Tomorrow is the funeral of another six or seven servicemen, including 25-year-old Bair Gasanov, who leaves behind a wife and son. In January, he left for Belarus to participate in a military exercise and then ended up in Ukraine. Sergeant Ivan Temnikov (39) also finds his final resting place from the Lukodrome. He was killed on June 16.
only way out
‘The biographies of many killed soldiers are very similar,’ says local journalist Karina Pronina. ‘Such a person is usually born in a village, has finished school there and usually learned a technical profession or completed the agricultural academy. He was then drafted into the army. Some immediately sign a contract, others try to get a job as civilians and eventually return to the army. There is often simply no other work.’
She tells about Amgalan Tudupov, who as a gym teacher earned 7,000 rubles a month, converted more than 100 euros. He had to support his own family and the children from his first marriage. In fact, the army was his only way out, because there he received around 50,000 rubles per month. He was killed in action on March 12, aged 34.
Buryatia is one of the poorest regions of Russia. The Siberian republic is sandwiched between Lake Baikal and Mongolia, about four thousand kilometers east of Moscow. The area is almost the size of Germany, but only has a million inhabitants. About half live in the rapidly expanding capital Ulan-Ude. If you have the opportunity, you can travel from here to other Siberian cities such as Irkutsk or Novosibirsk, or even further to Moscow or St. Petersburg. Many Buryats work shifts on the Siberian oil fields, others seek refuge in South Korea.
strong patriotism
Pronina and her colleagues are keeping a close eye on how many Buryat soldiers have died in Ukraine on their government-blocked news site. Publication of that data is prohibited in Russia, but the journalists are determined to continue as long as possible. ‘We have of course consulted for a long time, also with lawyers, about the possible consequences. A police report, a court hearing, a fine. But of course we will continue to do so as long as it is possible. Because this is important, this is a time document.’
The counter is now at around two hundred. The share of killed soldiers from Buryatia, just like other poor regions such as Dagestan and Kalmykia, is disproportionately large. ‘That’s shocking, of course,’ says Pronina. ‘During the war in Afghanistan 26 people from Buryatia died and that war lasted ten years. Now, after a few months, there are already two hundred boys who simply aren’t there anymore.’
She continues to be genuinely surprised that this large number of coffins from Ukraine has not sparked a public discussion. The narrative of state television, combined with the desire to discover at least some sense in the untimely death of a loved one, proves too strong. “Nobody here has the slightest doubt that their dead relative was a hero who defended his country. People are convinced that it is terrible in Ukraine, that there are Nazis in power and that their relatives in the army are heroes who protect Russia and also ordinary Ukrainians. And that sentiment, that level of patriotism, is getting stronger.’
‘Buryan fist’
In Ulan-Ude there is no escaping it. The references in the streets to the Russian ‘operation’ in Ukraine are omnipresent. The plinth of the gigantic Leninkop in the central Soviet Square is adorned with a huge letter V, another symbol of the Russian ‘operation’. On a building on the square are patriotic slogans that also include the letters Z and V, with the hashtag ‘we will not abandon our people’. In a kiosk nearby, pins are sold with the same letters, which you constantly encounter on passenger cars and buses. And a hundred meters from the square is a large billboard with a photo of a tough soldier and the call to sign a contract with the army. “That’s a good thing,” it reads in big letters.
The head of Buryatia, Alexei Tsydenov, meaningfully calls the million inhabitants of his republic “our Buryat fist.” The local authorities are doing everything they can to fan the patriotic fire, often comparing the conflict in Ukraine to the Great Patriotic War, as World War II is called in Russia.
As Russia (like Ukraine and Belarus) commemorates the German invasion of 1941 on June 22, Tsydenov visits the Victory Park in Ulan-Ude to place a lit candle at the capital’s war memorial. “Hitler’s troops and the full industrial potential of Europe were against us then,” he argues during the ceremony, when the sounds of well-known Soviet war songs and the Russian national anthem have died down. In Ukraine, he says, “Fascism has blossomed and now threatens Russia. And Russia, as in the years of the Great Patriotic War, is fighting with the united strength of Europe.’
Hardly any counter-sound
Zhambal-Zyamso Zhanayev uses similar rhetoric. He leads the Buryat branch of the veterans’ organization Fighting Brotherhood, of which more than a hundred members have now left for the front as volunteers. “To save the motherland,” Zhanayev says after the ceremony. “Everyone understands that only together can we face such a strong adversary as NATO.” Russia’s “special military operation” in Ukraine is “almost a real war,” he said. ‘If we lose that war, we will lose our motherland. The special military operation can be compared to the Great Patriotic War.’
There are hardly any dissenting voices in Buryatia. In a quiet place along the river Oeda someone has hastily chalked a slogan on a wall. “Murder and destruction, is that what you wanted?” it reads. And: ‘War does not lead to peace.’ But it is a rare expression of protest, which is only noticed by a few passers-by.
“On March 6, there was a small demonstration here in the square, there weren’t many people,” says Anna Zuyeva, who previously worked at local television but left because she refused to tell lies on camera. She and her immediate environment are shocked by the violence against Ukraine, but her elderly parents believe the official report. ‘They have lived most of their lives in the Soviet Union. Of course they are used to watching television, they consider it a reliable source of information. They actually believe that there are Nazis in Ukraine. That’s a tragedy. At first I argued about that, but I understand that’s not the right way. They have listened to that blatant propaganda every day for 22 years. They are not guilty, because they lack the necessary routine to look for information elsewhere.’
‘Clear lies’
Yet Zuyeva does not believe that the ‘special operation’ here really has as broad support as the authorities would have you believe. The fear of persecution silences many. A handful of Buryat residents have been prosecuted since early March for “discrediting” the Russian armed forces after they publicly or on social media expressed dissatisfaction with Russia’s conduct in Ukraine.
Among them is Sergei Levitsky, until this spring the celebrated artistic director of the Russian Drama Theater in Ulan-Ude. On his own Telegram page, he expressed shock at the large number of Buryat soldiers killed in Ukraine and demanded an end to the ‘operation’. It did not go unnoticed. Levitski, who had just become a father, was twice fined hefty, was fired from the theater and the Cultural Institute where he taught. He lost all his income in one fell swoop.
“Our government has done irreparable damage,” Levitski said in court in early June. ‘Sure, you can pass laws against dissenters, which has happened, and I am now being prosecuted based on one of those new laws. And yes, you can silence someone with that. But you cannot take away someone’s inner conviction. You cannot force a sane person to believe in outright lies and absurdities.’
Yellow-blue headscarf
Blogger Lilia Donskaya has already been fined twice for the same offence, though the first time she only nodded in agreement when a local activist urged a bus driver to remove a prominent letter Z from his bus. The driver called the police and shortly afterwards Donskaja also received a police report. Both fines already cost her a total of 80,000 rubles, a small fortune in the poor republic. ‘And that’s only because I expressed my indignation about the war, about people dying, children. And here, meanwhile, car rallies and concerts are being organized in support of the ‘special operation’. Why?’
Donskaja says she certainly doesn’t intend to mince her words. That is also why she is demonstratively wearing a yellow-blue headscarf in the colors of the Ukrainian flag. “They can lock me up or beat me up in a porch somewhere, but I don’t care. I survived the 1990s when I was in the business dealing with bandits, thieves, corrupt police. And then I wasn’t afraid either.’