by Genine Babakian
All was quiet at the Torzhkovsky Marketplace, where farmers come from the southern regions of the former Soviet Union to sell their produce. Only the boarded up windows and a few lingering splinters of glass give any indication of the previous week's pogrom against the merchants.
Outside, two old women, one of whom a witness to the violence, stood telling me about the incident.
"There were about 100 young men, some wearing masks," said the woman who calls herself Granny Lyuda. "They came storming into the market with knives and guns and tore the place apart." The youths, alleged to be members of the nationalist movement Pamyat, diced tomatoes, mashed potatoes, and pumped watermelons with bullets for several minutes. They disappeared quickly, leaving two dead, 15 wounded, and countless pounds of produce destroyed.
"Were you scared?" I asked Granny Lyuda. She was startled at first, but Lyuda soon realized she need not fear the attackers. "They told us (the Russian shoppers) not to be afraid - they would not hurt us. But they issued a warning to the Azeri merchants: This time we shoot your produce; next time we shoot you."
The event, which didn't receive more than 10 seconds of air time on the evening news, is just one indication of the growing ethnic tension that is spreading throughout Russia. While many new states of the former Soviet Union are engaged in bloody ethnic conflict, those living in Russia proper consider themselves lucky to have escaped the hostilities. Indeed, many Russians are fleeing the former republics for fear of reprisals against them, considering Russian territory a safe haven. But tensions among the nationalities still exist, as do stereotypes. And at a time when many are finding it nearly impossible to stretch their rubles enough to make ends meet, the "have-nots" are growing more suspicious of the "haves."
The "haves," more often than not, are from the southern Caucasus region - Armenia, Azerbaijan and Georgia. In the case of the Torzhkovsky Market, the Azeri merchants were the targets. Most of the farmers markets in Moscow and St. Petersburg are controlled by the Azeri mafia, who set the rules for the merchants who bring their produce from southern climates and sell it for prices beyond the reach of most Russians. A kilogram of tomatoes, for example, can cost up to half a monthly salary for someone living on a pension. Whether or not they are part of the mafia, the Azeri merchants, by associating with them and making a profit, are bandits in the Russians' eyes.
"Look at those two," Lyuda's friend Galya said, pointing to two Azeri men walking into the transient hotel behind the market. "Shameless. They don't believe in honest work. I worked in a factory all my life, and do you think that one of them would consider working alongside of me? No. It's beneath them. They would rather buy something cheap and turn around and sell it to us at outrageous prices. Disgusting," she says, spitting on the ground. "And I'll tell you another thing. They're the ones who commit all the crimes - robbery, murder, rape. None of our boys are involved in this," Galya added, as Lyuda nodded in agreement.
While Lyuda and Galya's reaction may be extreme, there are many who believe that "Kavkazkies" (people from the Caucasus) are responsible for most of the crime. In a recent Moscow newspaper article, for example, which described the bombing of a local police precinct, two suspects were reported as having been arrested on the scene. "Both suspects," the paper added in parentheses, "are NOT from the Caucasus."
"It's perfectly normal," said one seasoned journalist commenting on the article. "Everyone reading that piece is going to think they're from the Caucasus anyway. Criminal activity is associated with people from the south."
