For us, living in the central Russian plains, Chechnya and Dagestan are all the same. But the fundamental difference in the structure of these republics lies precisely in the fact that Chechnya is practically mono-ethnic, while Dagestan is multi-ethnic—a "Dagestani nation" simply does not exist in nature. That's why, when Nadyr Khachilaev and his supporters occupied the State Council building in Makhachkala, he was not seriously supported by anyone for one reason: no influential national ethnic group stood behind him. Slogans about fighting government corruption were clearly not enough to bring thousands of people onto the streets.

(In our geographical cretinism, only Americans surpass us. I won't forget how in New York, a university professor spent a long time trying to persuade me to stop bombing South Africa. "What?" I couldn't understand him at all. "Well, that Chechnya.")

This is an attempt to answer the first naive question. Now, to the second.

Do we see ourselves in the mirror of the Chechen war?

No.

I remember, and how could one forget, all my trips there, to Chechnya. Not once did I hear from any Chechen: "Thank your army for being here." Only one thing: "Please leave, leave." From their leaders to their semi-literate grandfathers.

But in Dagestan, I never once heard: why are your soldiers here, your helicopters, your special forces?

"An aggression has been committed against us. We await help from the federal center," M. Magomedov convinced me. Well, he's the Chairman of the State Council... The militants who penetrated Dagestan are not needed by anyone here, except for a few hundred Wahhabist supporters. They penetrated here by force. They want to establish their own order here, just as the Kremlin wants to in Chechnya, even if these orders are unacceptable to those who live here. That's why even Nadyr Khachilaev, the main opponent of today's official Makhachkala, doesn't urge his supporters to help Khattab and Basayev, although, as I know, he is on excellent terms with both of them.

And one more circumstance.

As soon as news broke of Khattab's militants attacking Dagestan, talk immediately began, including from official Moscow, about Chechnya and Chechen militants.

In Makhachkala, I saw Yevgeny Baranov and Viktor Shvagerius, TV-6 correspondents (with whom we had recently worked in Yugoslavia), who had just returned from the combat zone. According to them, the composition of the militants was very international: mercenaries from Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, Sudan. Naturally, there were also Chechens, but they were mostly hired as commanders with combat experience. And the main force of the Wahhabist movement was residents of Dagestan, primarily youth trained in Wahhabist camps.

And I remembered how, the day before, Ainudin Asadulaev, an FSB colonel who had recently retired, recounted with bitterness that as early as '92 he had warned both Makhachkala and Moscow about how and what Dagestani youth were being taught in Saudi Arabia, Jordan, and Malaysia.

"Well, it seems they learned..."

There was no reaction to his information.

"We always fight not with the stick, but with the shadow of the stick," Rasul Gamzatov told me.

Yes, he is a wise man. The mansions of Dagestani nobility are under heavy guard. "Here is the house of the vice-premier, here is the house of the minister, here is the house of the mayor," my fellow traveler explains to me. Once, just two years ago, a high-ranking Dagestani official almost arranged a special tour of the city for me under the tourist slogan: "Forward to investments!" Then, apparently, his courage failed him... or perhaps he simply ran out of time?

I remembered the terrible poverty in the villages where battles are now taking place: once I flew there by helicopter.

I learned that all the loud stories about combating corruption in Dagestan, proclaimed half a year ago, gradually faded into obscurity. At least, no one in the city doubts this.

And—the second assignment. Just a day ago, these were still living people. And now their bodies were carelessly dumped in the destroyed booth of a gas station on the outskirts of Karamakhi village, whose existence few knew about before the start of yet another Caucasian war.

I suddenly felt that I was starting to get used to such sights (which trip to war was this for me? Fifth? Tenth? If I could have imagined such a thing in my youth—I would have rather not become a journalist!).