The work of truth

A young photographer turns up at my home. He is just back from Lapland, Norway, Finland, ect. Very nice photos, but he wants to talk about something else with me: He travelled through Chechnya. And he starts narrating.Aged 25, the young man has already been everywhere, or almost everywhere. He has been around with only a small backpack and a Leica, melting into the crowd. He knows how things are, the kinds of life that are possible.

He has never been welcomed with such friendship, intelligence and tranquillity than by Chechen people. An insane war has come over them, the inordinate force of the Eltsinian state apparatus is being rushed at them: the fierce foolishness with its sophisticated weaponry. Their houses smashed open, their villages burnt down, their children crushed. They face this like yet another hardship which will not change anything to the course of their destiny. And they fight.

The small French reporter pays them an incongruous visit: in return, they show him the laws of hospitality. That is what we can call a nation. A nation, a civilisation. This gives rise to several reflections. A nation should never be mistaken for its leaders. A serious examination of the relationship between them is necessary. Chechen mafia is not Chechen nation. We hope that the difference is as big as the difference between Turkish people and their facist government.

Afterwards: Leaving is difficult for a penniless young man, but only difficult. Travelling is difficult for a young foreigner, but only difficult. To come back is a great hardship. Ask astronauts, mystic people, sportsmen, lovers, revolutionaries: The impossible return. His name is Tibo.

Michel Butel 1995