Anger grows in Crimea as Russian missiles target tourist beaches

Long, grey beard. We have tired, swollen eyes. We meet Isa Akayev (real name Nariman Bilialov) in Warsaw. The "Crimea" battalion he commands has just returned for rotation from the front in the Kharkiv region.

- Earlier, we were in Avdiivka, before that in Bakhmut, and before that in Kherson. The battalion reports to military intelligence, so our task is reconnaissance, diversion, and storm actions. They send us where the heaviest fighting occurs, and the infantry needs support – says Akayev.

Akayev will use his free time to meet with his family, who left for Turkey after the start of the Russian invasion.

- I had many reasons not to go and fight: age (59 years), illnesses (diabetes), and children (eleven). Any one of these alone would have been enough to avoid mobilization. But one argument outweighed everything. The Russians forced successive generations of Crimean Tatars to wander. My grandparents were deported. I returned to Crimea, built a house, but my children grew up in a foreign country. History has come full circle again. This must end. Step by step, we will reach Crimea.

Tatiana Kolesnychenko, Wirtualna Polska: Russia shells Ukraine every day, killing civilians, but until now, all of Ukraine's strikes on targets in Crimea have not caused casualties among the local population. It wasn't until the end of June that missile fragments fell on a beach in Sevastopol, killing five people and wounding 150. There was no air raid siren, and even if there had been, no shelters were nearby. What do they say about this in Crimea?

Isa Akayev: Let me clarify. It is now known that the missile that fell on the beach was from Russian air defence. For some reason, instead of destroying our missile, it went off course and fell on the beach, killing civilians.

First, the people who were on the beach then were not locals. I lived in Crimea for 30 years, and please believe me, no one has time to sunbathe by the sea during the season. These were holidaymakers, Russians who came on holiday. They are convinced that the war is far away in Ukraine and that it is not concerning them.

So it's no wonder they are angry. They saw that the authorities didn't care about their safety, and the weapon, which they often describe as "analogous niet" (from Russian—unique—ed.), is, like everything in their country, big talk with no substance.

I don't know if they realised what you're talking about, but they certainly heard on TV that it was an American missile. And now they have increasingly begun to place military equipment in tourist-frequented areas. This puts Ukraine in a dilemma: consider civilian casualties or give up attacks?

Not necessarily. The missiles we use to attack targets in Crimea and Russia are modern and precise. They have a GPS constantly connected to a satellite so we can adjust their flight at any time. I know; the missile we fired that day hit the target.

However, the Russians do not value their people. We spent the entire winter in Bakhmut. Behind the building we were defending, there were about twenty bodies of their soldiers. Not once in four months did they try to retrieve them.

Another typical example on the front is shelling their people. A fight ensues, and the Russians can't withstand the pressure. They retreat, and their artillery flies in. Between the trenches, it is 50-100 metres. They kill both ours and theirs. For them, it doesn't matter. The end justifies the means. So if they treat their own like this, how would they treat us? We are nothing to them.

Let's go back to the missile attack. You said they were holidaymakers. What are the sentiments among the locals?

Those waiting for the liberation of Crimea say they fry chebureki (a traditional dish of large fried dumplings filled with meat) when something explodes in Crimea. Others feel somewhat stuck.

In the first years after the annexation, there were more tourists in Crimea, and local budgets were swelled with money. Some residents of Crimea fell for it, and when they woke up, it was too late. Under Ukraine, they could say what they wanted, and now they are afraid to think. In Russia, they are hated because as long as money flowed to Crimea, other regions didn't receive any at all. On the other hand, people fear Ukraine because they now see that Russia may not necessarily protect them.

So, in the last two years, euphoria has gradually turned into confusion, fear, and, for some, disappointment with Russia because none of the grand promises were fulfilled. It was naive to expect anything at all. For Russia, Crimea is a symbol of their imperialism. For centuries, they erased the indigenous peoples from its history. The deportation of the Crimean Tatars in 1944 was the last act.

You were already born in Uzbekistan. Who in the family maintained the traditions?

My grandmother, my mother's mother, told most of the stories. She was an educated woman; she studied in Turkey. She always said that we are Crimean Tatars and Muslims, and the Russians are our enemies. She chased me away when I befriended Russian children. One day, I came home from school, bursting with pride. I became a pioneer! I had a red tie. Grandma got angry and said: Take it off! You are not a dog to wear a collar.

I didn't understand at the time; I was still a child. Now, in hindsight, I know I didn't lose my roots only because of her.

What did she tell you about the deportation?

She remembered that day very well. It was early in the morning, around 3 a.m. NKVD officers kicked the door in and barged into the house. They gave them less than 10 minutes to get dressed and gather essentials. My mother was barely two years old then. Then, everyone was herded into cattle cars. They travelled for three weeks, thousands of kilometres from home.

When they reached Uzbekistan, they had to walk 40 kilometres in the heat to get to their residence. It was a large barrack, something similar to what was in German death camps.

According to various estimates, between 40 and 50 percent of Crimean Tatars died during the transport and in the first years of exile.

My uncle told me they would sometimes spend the night at the cemetery. Hunger, disease, and back-breaking work wore people down. My uncle and others dug so many graves during the day that they didn't have the strength to go home.

Those who survived became apathetic. First, when they were driven from their homes, they thought everyone would be shot. Then, for years, they believed they would be allowed to return to those homes. They adapted to this temporariness. My grandfather was a realist. In the 1920s, he was dekulakized and sent to slave labour. He knew they faced the same fate after the deportation.

At first, it was very hard because, for a day's work in the field, my grandfather and his two eldest sons received a flatbread, each made of sorghum (grain, which was then used as cattle feed - ed.). So, they had three flatbreads a day for a nine-person family. Then, my grandfather secured a piece of land, built a house, and planted an orchard and a garden. Others wondered why he did this, but he knew they wouldn't return home.

After Stalin's death, things got a little easier. But until the 1970s, the Crimean Tatars were not allowed to leave the deportation territories. Many lived in barracks the whole time.

Did your grandmother miss Crimea?

Very much. She only spoke Crimean Tatar. She talked about summers in Crimea. She said it smells of ripe pears and the sea, and it sounds like cicadas. And the sand, when it gets boiling, becomes like powder that slips between your toes. She loved Crimea and missed it very much.

At that time, I couldn't even imagine that history would repeat itself, and I would tell my children about Crimea the same way. Perhaps it is human nature to appreciate your homeland only when you lose it. For me, 2014 was a turning point. I didn't want to leave Crimea, condemning my children to what I went through, but we had no choice. That's when I realised how much I love our culture and tradition.

When did you first go to Crimea?

In 1979, when I was 14 years old. I went to Eupatoria to the Young Lenin sanatorium. That's when I first saw the Crimean Khan's Palace in Bakhchisarai, Sevastopol, and the mosque in Eupatoria.

On the one hand, I was delighted, but on the other, I felt ashamed of my origin for the first time. During one of the tours, the guide presented the Crimean Tatars as savages, parasites who constantly looted Russia, so it had no choice but to occupy Crimea. Not a word about deportation, starvation, repression, or the fact that the Slavic population appeared here each time we, the indigenous people, were massacred.

They wanted to erase all traces of us. They changed 80 percent of the names from Tatar to Russian. Not a single cemetery remained. Only five architectural monuments of the Crimean Tatars are left in all of Crimea. They destroyed everything. In the 70 years since the deportation, our language and culture practically did not develop. They were replaced by everything Russian.

Do you speak Crimean Tatar?

At a fundamental level. Only as much as I remember from my grandmother. In childhood, I spoke only Crimean Tatar with her, and when I went to school, it turned out that I didn't speak Russian at all. They put me in a Uzbek class, and my mother was devastated. She cried because she knew that without knowing Russian, I had no future. Finally, her teacher friend took pity on me and practised with me. Then my grandmother died, and gradually, the Russian language replaced Tatar at home.

My parents didn't remember the deportation; they were too young, but they carried the trauma and fear all their lives. Their way of living was to adapt and not stick out. My mother was panicked when I started participating in the Crimean Tatar national movement.

That was in the 80s?

Yes, just after I returned from the army. As a representative of an unreliable nation, I did not end up in a combat unit but the so-called construction battalion. Theoretically, This battalion should have dealt with constructing military facilities and fortifications. Instead, we built holiday resorts for the communist elite.

At that time, glasnost was beginning to be talked about in the Soviet Union, and we were talking about returning home. My mother was terrified, begging me to stay away. She said: They will never give us Crimea; blood will be shed.

And what did you do?

I returned to Crimea in the 90s. I had a romantic vision: I'd find a job and get a place in a hostel, as it was everywhere in the USSR. And then, slowly, slowly, I'll save up for a plot of land and build a house. I had just graduated from a construction institute, so I had higher education and the highest qualifications as a high-altitude assembler. I went to a building materials factory. They were happy and said they would hire me immediately.

But?

But I pulled out my documents, and the charm disappeared. The director told me they were ordered not to hire Tatars returning to Crimea. I had to get registration first. The lady at the counter said that without documents from the local draft office, she wouldn't give me registration. So I went to the recruitment office, and they said we wouldn't issue documents without proof of employment. And the circle closed again.

We were all in the same situation then. A lot of educated people because their parents tore their veins out so they would finish college and have a better life. But in Crimea, there was no work for us. Everyone managed as best they could. I knew a woman who taught English, German, and French at the University of Samarkand. When she returned to Crimea, she fried and sold chebureki in the bazaar.

I managed to get a job illegally in a quarry as a loader. And that was only thanks to the fact that the quarry director was a Crimean Greek who understood what we were going through.

Did you visit your grandparents' former estate?

Yes, my uncles took me there. It's near Simferopol, the village used to be called Mamasha, and now Orlovka. There used to be a large house a few kilometres from the beach. After the deportation and confiscation of the estate, it was made into a public library. Then, when talks about the return of property began in the 90s, someone demolished the building. But the orchard was left. My grandfather planted tons of pear trees with his hands, which my grandmother spoke of with such desperate nostalgia. Now, it is someone's private property.

Many Crimean Tatars still have property ownership documents, which would now be worth a fortune. But even long after the fall of the Soviet Union, when Crimea was already part of Ukraine, the new authorities also did not want to hear about the return of property.

There has never been Ukrainian authority in Crimea. The autonomy of the peninsula allowed local officials to live in Ukraine but consider themselves part of Russia. They and the new influx of people brought in to replace the deported Crimean Tatars always believed that the attachment to Ukraine was a mistake that would one day be corrected. So, a negative message about us continuously flowed to Kyiv, and local authorities did everything their way.

Kyiv also was not very eager to recognise the Crimean Tatars. I remember the 2000s very well and how television constantly showed materials portraying the Tatars as bandits who engage in so-called "self-seizure" of land in Crimea.

At that time, we called it "self-return," or the independent return of our lands. We always assumed that we should only take lands for which the authorities would not fight to the death. So we waited until they harvested and then carried out the seizure. Someone was always there, regardless of rain, snow, or heat. Then, we divided the field into plots and started building. That's how entire settlements of Crimean Tatars were built.

I have fond memories of those times. The situation was extreme, but we were very united. We all helped each other, living one dream—to rebuild our nation.

But then came 2014, and some Crimean Tatars went out to protest against the annexation. Some were beaten, kidnapped, and killed, but others began to collaborate with the occupiers.

People relaxed too much. I always said that we must not assimilate to Russians. We will never be the same, and we will lose respect for ourselves by rejecting our roots. Once every year on 18 May (the day of deportation), Simferopol would empty because it knew we would protest in the city centre. People were a bit afraid of our anger.

Then came when we built houses and started businesses, and our lives began to settle. And then it suddenly turned out that some Crimean Tatars were once again succumbing to Russian imperialism. They imitated them, and some even started justifying deportation. Then, when we went out to demonstrate, people looked at us like troublemakers who didn't know what they wanted. And again, history came full circle. Our great-grandfathers starved to death in the 1920s because of collectivisation. Grandparents died in exile in Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan, and my children and I had to flee from persecution. Each generation experienced harm from the Russians. But I believe this will end.

I dream of a day when I return to my three-room apartment in downtown Simferopol and tell the FSB officers living there: you have 24 hours to leave.

Did they inform you somehow that they were occupying your apartment?

No. We left in a hurry, at the last minute. I only managed to pack my wife, seven children, and a few things for the road into the car. All their toys, clothes, and my library, which I collected my whole life—everything was left in the apartment.

Over time, the Russians found out that I fought against them, and their law allows for complete confiscation of property in such cases—apartments, houses, and businesses. So, after two years, they came in, took the doors off, and put in new ones. They surrounded the whole district with a wall and checkpoints because the Security Service of Ukraine headquarters was nearby, which became an FSB office.

Before the Ukrainian counteroffensive last year, many optimistic forecasts of the liberation of Crimea were made. Meanwhile, Ukrainian troops haven't even broken through the Russian defence lines in Zaporizhzhia. Now, the liberation of Crimea seems even more unrealistic.

Many factors contributed to this. First, there was a lack of weapons, and the Russians were prepared for our attack. Now, assessing the situation soberly, I think we won't liberate Crimea for another two years.

What should happen during that time?

First of all, we need to tighten sanctions, depriving Russia of the ability to buy components necessary for missile production and other weapons—and secondly, aviation. We need to regain control of the sky; having fighter jets will also allow us to attack Russian military infrastructure more precisely. This is a war of attrition, and we must persevere and weaken Russia.