Bending the Truth

Bending the Truth

by Michael Bobick
TRANSITIONS ONLINE
28 October 2010

A newly translated account of life in a Transdniestrian town tramples the line between nonfiction and salacious yarn.

Siberian Education: A Shocking Exposé of an Extraordinary Criminal Underworld, by Nicolai Lilin, translated by Jonathan Hunt. Canongate Books, 2010.

BENDER, Moldova | Outsized allegations of crime and weapons trafficking have plagued Transdniester throughout its short history.

A European Parliament delegation to Moldova designated Transdniester a “black hole” in 2002, but even before that, the region was linked in the Western mind to organized crime and the smuggling of arms, humans, cigarettes, and assorted contraband

Perhaps we should say not only in the Western mind anymore.

In Siberian Education, Nicolai Lilin, one of Transdniester’s own, declares his project to chronicle the world of the underground in the town of Bender, which sits on the border between the breakaway region and Moldova proper. In a recent interview with the French online magazine Mediapart, he said, “They [Transdniestrian officials] sell drugs, they sell weapons, they traffic prostitutes. … They work with pedophilia societies in Europe. It’s a dangerous situation inside. If you talk about it, you die. It’s impossible to live inside of this state because it’s a criminal state. I’m talking about it here in Europe because I prefer that Europeans know what happens, because Transdniester is not far away, it’s very near.”


Nicolai Lilin





The work is ostensibly a memoir of his youth among the urkas, Siberian criminals – not an ethnic group, as Lilin claims – who came to Transdniester in the 1930s. The author creates the character of Kolima to represent himself and includes a disclaimer that “certain episodes are imaginative recreation.” Readers who know Transdniester, and Bender, are likely to think that true of more than “certain episodes.”

Originally skilled robbers even before the Russians settled Siberia, the urkas were, according to Lilin, deported to Transdniester by Stalin in the 1930s at the height of the purges. History tells another story, however, since from 1918 until 1940 Bender was not part of the Soviet Union, but part of Romania.

After World War II, Transdniester attracted people from around the Soviet Union, of which it was now a part, to work in the region’s busy factories. And far from being a haven for the Soviet Union’s criminals, the region drew servicemen who sought to retire in one of the more temperate regions of the union. The descendants of these settlers today populate the region and remain the core constituents of the Transdniestrian state.

Lilin sets his tale in Bender’s Low River district, not that that matters much, given how stripped of context and chronology the book is. An impoverished region of Europe’s poorest country, Transdniester is fertile ground for social commentary, much like London was for Charles Dickens and New York was for Brett Easton Ellis. But this is not that commentary.

Instead, Siberian Education feels like a compendium of the dark fantasies that Westerners have about Transdniester as a place where people are left to fend for themselves or establish their own law. The reader is led to believe that the laws of the Siberian urkas are but one set of these surrogate forms of authority that exist in the black hole of Europe. It is a laughable portrayal.

For one, Lilin reverses the fortunes of Bender and Tiraspol, positing the quiet, clean Bender as a hive of criminality while Tiraspol, filled with workers and soldiers, is the place where people kept out of crime:

Tiraspol is the capital of Transdniester; it is about 20 kilometers away, on the opposite side of the river. It is a much larger town than ours, and very different. The people of Tiraspol kept out of crime; there were a lot of munitions factories, military barracks, and various offices, so the inhabitants were all workers or soldiers. We had a very bad relationship with the kids of that town; we called them ‘mamas’ boys,’ ‘billy goats,’ and ‘ball-less wonders.’

Bender, on the other hand, is the home of legendary criminals like Plum, the son of a scientist and a literature professor from Moscow State University. After his parents were arrested as enemies of the people in the 1930s, Plum found himself in the notorious gulag of Vorkuta. After the deaths of his father, mother, and sister, Plum was left to fend for himself. He ingratiated himself with the old, established criminal kingpins in the gulag and eventually became their executioner, practicing his trade both in prison and on the outside. A prolific killer of police officers, Plum had amassed a death toll of 12,000. In the book the collection of bloody badges inspires awe in Kolima. To amass such a death toll, Plum would have had to have killed one police officer a day for nearly 33 years. "He remembered everything about each man with total precision," carefully noting their names and the details of their deaths in a notebook, Lilin/Kolima tells us.


A banner celebrates 'All Our Victories' from 65 years ago in World War II to the conflict 20 years ago that won Transdniester its breakaway status.

But while the book purports to be a “shocking expose” of a criminal underworld, it avoids discussion of the very real criminal rackets operating in Transdniester in the 1990s. Crime in Transdniester is not a forbidden topic. Residents speak freely about the likhie devianostye, the crazy 1990s, and readily describe the spectacular shootouts and assassinations that occurred as power and authority was consolidated.

Nor does the book give away much about its protagonist. The reader gets only the faintest outline of the author through his violent exploits and subsequent confinement in juvenile detention facilities. During one of the more revealing episodes, a criminal named Rope asks if Kolima is indeed the famous “writer,” slang for someone skilled at using a knife. Kolima, it turns out, is also a “stinger,” skilled at tattooing (the book jacket says that Lilin works as a tattooist). The book’s sadistic violence and torture and obsession with sex (the last third of the book is devoted to avenging the rape of a local girl) clearly marks it as chernukha, a genre known for its naturalistic depictions of bodily functions, sexuality, and sadistic violence set amid a backdrop of poverty, broken families, and cynicism.

‘NO FUTURE HERE’

Most residents of Bender would not recognize the city portrayed by Lilin. Despite the destruction of much of the city in 1992, today Bender remains cleaner and more orderly than Tiraspol.

Visitors to the region come expecting to find Beirut or the Soviet Union, but end up with a wallet lightened by a hefty “registration fee” and stories to tell. Those adventurous enough to spend some time in Transdniester find a provincial region with the same social and economic problems that exist across the former Soviet Union.

Sasha, a native of Bender in his mid-20s, took me on a late-afternoon stroll one cold September day. As we made our way past the local House of Culture (located on the street where Lilin is said to have lived), we walked to the riverbank, with its Soviet monuments and neat promenade. Looking downriver, Sasha gestured toward the sunken ships, the abandoned barges, and the decrepit port that dominated our view. "There’s no future here, nothing will ever change," he said glumly. A massive banner hangs on the abandoned port and explicitly connects the 65th anniversary of the Great Patriotic War with Transdniester’s 20th anniversary, celebrated on 2 September: “All Our Victories!”

The prison that plays a central role in the book still stands, a short walk from the Low River neighborhood. A large structure shrouded by trees, the prison has a reputation for being Transdniester’s finest, a place where the moneyed do their time. Punishments, like much else in Transdniester, are negotiable.

A few hundred meters from the prison is a neighborhood called the “local Rublevka,” a reference to the prestigious residential area west of Moscow. This is where, according to locals, police officers and civil servants built their houses. As we walked past these houses, Sasha said they were far beyond the means of most residents, whose monthly salaries average between $75 and $150. I was reminded of what a friend once told me about the Transdniestrian conflict – that it would never be solved, since there were no incentives to change. Moldova uses Transdniester as a scapegoat for its lack of development, and Transdniester blames Moldova for any problems in the region.

Lilin is no exception, having forsaken his criminal upbringing in favor of a successful literary career in which he peddles Westerners their own deepest, darkest fears about Transdniester and Russia. Astutely aware of the region's outsized reputation, Lilin has found a literary niche, a captive audience uninterested in the facts.

It’s been a profitable angle: a film version of the book is set to appear in 2011. In the Mediapart interview, Lilin said that he is wanted in Transdniester for defamation. The seasoned criminal, born and raised as a true urka, is now the literary outlaw, wanted not for robbery or murder but for literary crimes. Let's hope that Lilin saved some of his hard-earned money to ensure a favorable outcome should he ever face trial in his homeland.

Story and homepage photo by Michael Bobick, a doctoral candidate in cultural anthropology at Cornell University who is writing a dissertation based on field research conducted in Transdniester.

In Transdniester, One Company Is a Law Unto Itself

Twenty years after breaking away from Moldova, Transdniester remains unrecognized and largely forgotten. One local company has profited hugely from this largely self-imposed isolation.

by Michael Bobick 30 September 2010

TIRASPOL, Transdniester | Ludmila Pavlovna vividly remembers exactly when and why she participated in the strike campaigns that led to Transdniester's disengagement from Moldova. In the waning days of the Soviet Union, the idea was not to create their own republic but to preserve the Soviet Union. It was Moldova, not Transdniester, that wanted to secede from the Soviet Union: Transdniestrians voted in a referendum to preserve it.



Twenty years later, Pavlovna, a pensioner living in Tiraspol, remains convinced that life in Tiraspol, the capital of the unrecognized republic, is better than life in Moldova. Gasoline, natural gas, utilities, rents, and bread are all cheaper than in Moldova. More importantly, pensions are higher. For pensioners on a fixed income (approximately 140,000 of Transdniester's 400,000 to 500,000 residents are pensioners) every kopeck counts.



The 2nd of September marked 20 years since the region declared its independence. Originally the region’s political disengagement was a reaction to Moldovan nationalism, which threatened the cohesion of the region’s largely multiethnic population. In August 1989 Moldova passed a language law that made Moldovan the sole official language of the republic. These early assertions of cultural and linguistic rights were viewed from industrialized, Russian-speaking Transdniester as the first steps in an eventual unification with Romania. Gradually, through a series of referendums, Transdniestrians voted first to create a separate Soviet republic, and then in March 1991, they voted in favor of preserving the Soviet Union, according to then-Soviet officials, although the unionwide referendum was officially shunned by Chisinau.



Since the brief civil war in 1992, the Pridnestrovian Moldavian Republic has taken on many of the attributes of a state, having its own currency, military, police, state symbols, borders, and passports. Despite its de facto sovereignty, the republic lacks international recognition.



Allegations and rumors of smuggling and contraband have plagued the region since its armed conflict with Moldova ended in 1992. But while outside opinion of Transdniester is often condensed into fear of organized crime and Russian influence, its development, particularly the local contours of privatization and capital consolidation, remains largely unexplored.



Following the civil war, the informal economy initially proved to be a resource to many in the region. From the earliest shuttle traders who bought cheap goods, alcohol, and cigarettes in Odessa for resale, to the bustling trade in scrap metal, Transdniester’s economy has run principally on the basis of the goods that pass over the porous border with Ukraine and how authorities control subsequent economic activity. Imports include the raw materials needed for local enterprises, consumer goods to be resold locally and beyond, and high-value imports (devoid of customs stamps) like alcohol and cigarettes. The region's exports include finished goods, locally produced spirits, food products, and re-exported goods.



The isolationist policies of the Tiraspol authorities have allowed a few companies to monopolize what profitable economic outlets exist. Above all, the Sheriff holding company has forged an unchallenged monopoly. The links between business and politics in Sheriff are, paradoxically, clear yet opaque. Whenever the subject comes up in conversation, Transdniestrian residents take for granted that Sheriff has prospered from its close connections with politics. It is widely believed that Sheriff purchased assets in privatization auctions for a pittance and that the company pays little to no taxes on either profits or imports.



Sheriff store



Sheriff also provides charity, giving pensioners a 7 percent discount on the first thousand Transdniestrian rubles they spend in Sheriff stores per month (the maximum discount comes out to $7 per month, at the current exchange rate). It is not uncommon to see pensioners standing in line, discount cards in hand, waiting to purchase a single loaf of bread.



Sheriff was formed as a limited liability company in 1993 by Viktor Gushan and Ilya Kazmaly, two former special forces officers. It functions as a holding company, employing nearly 3,000 workers in its own companies and another 12,000 in its holding companies. It releases no public financial statements, and reliable information about the company is rare. Sheriff’s website portrays the group’s astronomical success as the result of hard work and innovation not its near monopoly on retail and wholesale trade.



Pavlovna shops at Sheriff because, she says, there is no other way. While more expensive than other stores, the local Sheriff store is more conveniently located for her. The pensioner discount keeps her returning each month. For $7 per month, Sheriff ensures that pensioners spend the majority of their pensions at their supermarkets. Discounts are not limited to pensioners. If customers use the Raduga (Rainbow) card – offered through Sheriff’s Agroprombank – they receive a 3 percent discount. Employees of Sheriff-owned companies can choose to receive their pay on their Raduga card. Sheriff is the modern day-equivalent of the truck system or company store of the 18th and 19th century that kept workers in debt, only it offers not debt but an array of choices and goods unavailable elsewhere.



Sheriff’s pristine supermarkets and shelves are full of imported Western-style products, some of questionable provenance. On more than one occasion in Sheriff I noticed Marlboro cigarettes marked duty-free North Africa as well as other “duty-free” cigarettes from the Philippines, Dubai, the UAE, and beyond. Sheriff’s expanded consumer offerings are appreciated by many Transdniestrians. Sergei Vasilievich, another pensioner, said he felt like a civilized person shopping in Sheriff, not having to ask the salesperson for each item he wanted to inspect as in the old Soviet-era shops. Of course, there are drawbacks. Prices often are higher and products sometimes inferior. Pavlovna insists that the sugar sold in Sheriff is simply not as sweet as Ukrainian, Moldovan, or Russian sugar.



Despite Vladimir Putin allegedly calling Transdniester "the Republic of Sheriff," and the company's deep roots with local leaders, Sheriff should be seen more as a symptom of Transdniester's unresolved status than as a cause. Any discussion of economics and politics in the region will eventually lead to the subject of Sheriff. In the 1990s, the company began taking over the booming cigarette business, long a favorite of smugglers in Europe. Gradually Sheriff took over any other informal business that generated significant income (liquor, frozen chicken legs, gasoline, etc.), often using the violent “gangster capitalism” tactics prevalent throughout the post-Soviet region in the 1990s to do so, allegedly racking up dozens of economically motivated killings along the way.



Formed by police officers, the company was essentially untouchable. Who actually stands behind Sheriff remains a mystery; Gushan and Kazmaly are well-known figures, but it is unclear whether they exercise control or are straw men.



The number of businesses controlled by Sheriff is large and covers a wide variety of industries. Sheriff has a network of supermarkets, automobile service stations, construction firms, and Moldova’s most successful football club. Sheriff Tiraspol plays its games in a massive training complex with two full-sized stadiums, five training fields, an indoor arena, a football academy, and housing for FC Sheriff players. It is the only FIFA certified stadium in Moldova, which ironically forces the Moldovan national team to play its games in the Transdniestrian capital. Further, in addition, it owns the only telephone, mobile phone, and Internet service provider. Other businesses that Sheriff has interests in (directly or indirectly) include textiles, broadcast and cable television, auto sales, publishing, distilling (Tiraspol’s famous KVINT cognac), food producers, second-hand clothing, and advertising. The odds are that any given factory or building site you pass here is owned by Sheriff.



It should be noted that the region's most valuable assets, including the MMZ steel factory, two power plants, and the electricity grid, remain in Russian hands.



Things are changing in Transdniester, as Russia no longer unconditionally supports the regime. Until a few months ago, pensioners received additional Russian “humanitarian aid” each month in the form of pension supplements to the tune of $15 a month. Each month, the pension coupon clearly specified how much of the payment came from the Transdniestrian budget and how much from Russia. Moldova views these pension supplements as tacit support for separatism, a charge denied by politicians in Transdniester. More recently, Russia has suspended its aid payments until their distribution methods could be refined and an independent audit conducted. Meanwhile, President Igor Smirnov has been forced to pay the supplements with natural gas utility fees – these utility receipts have traditionally been used by the authorities for discretionary spending (the money is deposited in a bank connected to the president’s younger son, Oleg), notwithstanding the fact that the region’s debt to Gazprom for unpaid bills and penalties is well over $2 billion.



Living in Transdniester has other benefits. Consumers pay cheaper rates for electricity, gas, and communal services utilities in Transdniester. Such discrepancies further differentiate the local, majority Russian-speaking population from Moldova. The economic differentiation is a very real complement to the linguistic differentiation that contributed to the dispute. Cheap natural gas indirectly subsidizes industries like bread making, while the porous border and large informal economy keep Sheriff supermarkets stocked with cheap foodstuffs.



On Sheriff's website, the company boasts that it eliminates the middleman, like Wal-Mart, and works directly with producers, thus offering lower prices. While this may be true, the fact that Moldovan goods are taxed at 100 percent in Transdniester helps the company further stifle competition with Moldovan products, while its monopoly on wholesale in the republic eliminates competition from would-be small businesses. Sheriff's distribution system affords a unique view of how the economy of an unrecognized country works. The Transdniestrian customs committee is run by the president's elder son, Vladimir, and the railroad is alleged to be controlled from within the executive branch. From the time goods cross the border until they arrive at Sheriff stores, the company’s business is facilitated by close relations with the executive branch.



Sheriff has created a diffuse economic structure that blurs the line between business and politics. On paper, it is a holding company. Yet in reality, Sheriff is a company that has profited from close relations with state officials. Its low tax burden, its provision of social goods through widely publicized charity programs for pensioners, and its ubiquitous corporate logo (an old-West sheriff's badge) lend it an aura of invincibility and quasi-governmental status. More than once I was told that the irony of a company positioning itself as the "sheriff" of an unrecognized country was not lost on its founders. After all, they said, citing the numerous Italian and American westerns shown on local television, "Who is the sheriff if not the chief authority in town?"

Michael Bobick is a doctoral candidate in cultural anthropology at Cornell University and is writing a dissertation based on field research conducted in Transdniester.