FFL emergency relief -- from New York Times

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The New York Times News Service

December 12, 1995 Tuesday, BC cycle

International Section, page 4, Grozny Journal

 

 

 

 

"KRISHNAS CAST BREAD ON ROILING WATERS IN RUSSIA"

 

 

By Michael Specter

It is never hard to spot the relief workers spread among the desperate

people of this shattered city: they are the ones in the white Land Cruisers

with bold, colorful flags flying from the hoods. They wear Gore-Tex hiking

boots, carry satellite phones in their day packs, and usually report to

headquarters in Geneva, Paris, or Bonn.

Except, of course, for the crew based in Boarding School No. 1.

 

They mostly dress in pumpkin-colored balloon pants and wear sandals even in

the coldest weather. If they need to make a phone call, they stand in line

at a telephone point like everyone else. The men shave their heads and the

women keep theirs covered. They are up every morning by 3:30 to chant and

pray, and they have plenty to pray about with the heavy fighting that often

occurs in their neighborhood each night, the residue of a Russian

counterinsurgency campaign that began on Dec. 11, 1994.

 

There may be places in the world where simply seeing a bunch of Hare Krishna

members would make people turn tail and run. But Grozny isn't one of them.

 

Here, they have a reputation like the one Mother Teresa has in Calcutta:

it's not hard finding people to swear they are saints. In a city full of

lies, greed, and corruption, the Krishnas deliver the goods. Each day, they

serve more than 1,000 hot meals, as many as any organization in the city.

 

"Whatever they do, God helps them do it," said Raisa Malocheva, 72, who was

in Grozny every minute of the last year, when it has practically been

leveled. "They are the only people left in my life I can rely on." At least

two dozen people waiting for lunch applauded when she spoke.

 

There are no hard sells from the Krishna team in Grozny. It wouldn't do them

any good.

 

"These people have been through enough," said Viktor Makarov, a slight,

31-year-old Krishna member from St. Petersburg who has been living in Grozny

for six months. "They are destroyed. They hardly need us telling them to

look on the bright side."

 

Working in a makeshift kitchen with ingredients they drag around town in a

10-year-old discarded Russian ambulance, Krishna members serve simple

vegetarian meals and bake what some people consider the best bread in

Grozny.

 

"I know what Americans often think of us," Makarov said. "They think we are

some sort of annoying cult. But we are not. Our goals are all spiritual. If

people want to learn more about us, that is great. But usually they just

want food. And that's the reason we came here."

 

Unlike New York or Chicago, or even Moscow, where most of Russia's several

thousand Krishna members are based, this is not a city where they would feel

comfortable wandering the streets banging tambourines and dancing.

 

There are no temples here, or meetings to discuss the International Society

for Krishna Consciousness. There is just the rule that the members of the

sect must live by: no people within 10 miles of their residence should go

hungry.

 

The job is never easy. The school is in the eastern side of the city, and

fighting continues there each night. There are no windows and few doors in

the abandoned shell in which Grozny's entire cadre of 12 Krishna members

spend most days and nights. There is only enough electricity to power a few

dim light bulbs.

 

"At first I was in shock," said Shula Vasiny, 28, a former banker who said

she gave up her life of increasing success in St. Petersburg to find

something more spiritually meaningful.

 

"I would wake up at night and it was like I was in the forest in the middle

of a huge thunderstorm. There was lightning, and thunder. But there was

never any rain. You could see people shooting at each other. We learned to

stay down low. And everyone leaves us alone."

 

The building in which they work looks like most others around it: it is

blackened, badly shelled, and surrounded by debris. Inside, guests quickly

take off their shoes and breathe in the deep, rich - and totally incongruous

-smell of baking bread. There are seven ovens, which only work when power

permits, and many huge racks to cool the loaves.

 

For some reason, this place has become a "Russian" kitchen. Most of the

refugees in Grozny are ethnic Russians with nowhere else to go. The Krishnas

say they have no politics other than trying to please God and serve anyone

who asks, but they are all from St. Petersburg and most people who ask are

Russian.

 

The future has started to seem grim for the Hare Krishnas of Grozny. The

central administration has threatened to take their ambulance away. Without

it, they won't be able to buy flour. They haven't heard from their bosses in

Moscow for months. A local merchant recently demanded rent on the shelled,

hollow building they use to keep hundreds of people alive. And the war isn't

getting any friendlier.

 

"Every job has its ups and downs," said Makarov, whose sense of optimism

sometimes makes even his colleagues laugh. "I intend to be here when Grozny

is a city people want to live in again."

 

 

 

 

© The New York Times