The Brothers: The Road to an American Tragedy

Map: The Tsarnaevs’ Journey

One LOVE

YOU CAN BE PROUD OF BEING A DAGESTANI, proclaim the billboards lining the highway from the airport to Makhachkala. It is the spring of 2013. The billboards picture, by way of argument, the recently appointed head of Dagestan, Ramazan Abdulatipov, speaking with Russia’s president, Vladimir Putin. Both look unhappy, but the photo op, apparently a one-time occurrence, seems not to have generated a better option.

The highway to the capital, like so much of Dagestan, is an object of pride and an embarrassment at the same time. It was built recently, and well; it is by far the best road in Dagestan, so good that at night young men race their souped-up Lada Priora sedans here. The Lada Priora is a bad, Russian-made car, but its twentieth-century technology lends itself to quick fixes. Which is a good thing, because as the road enters the city, turning into the main avenue, the smooth surface gives way to potholes that can cost you your tire or your life.

Outside the city, the highway is lined with unfinished houses, scores of them. They betray modest ambition—small two-story structures along a highway—and yet even this dream has gone unfulfilled. Rectangular openings stare at the highway where windows should be. Cows graze in between these carcasses and wander lazily onto the highway.

People you meet in Dagestan will tell you where else they have been. They have rarely ventured very far, but they have invariably found any other place to be remarkably different. Several drivers tell me that in Moscow or Saint Petersburg or even provincial Astrakhan, three hundred miles to the north of Makhachkala, people do not drive into natural-gas fueling stations (almost everyone in Dagestan seems to drive a car retrofitted for natural gas) with a lit cigarette in their mouths. In Astrakhan, one man tells me, they get all the passengers out of the car before refueling. This kind of regard for human life awes and baffles him. Astrakhan is no hub of bourgeois humanitarianism, but then, compared with Dagestan, almost anyplace is.

The Russian Federation includes eighty-three nominally self-governing regions, districts, autonomies, and republics; the republics differ from the rest of the convoluted federation’s members in that they have the right to choose their own state language—mostly because the republics are, by and large, populated by non-Russian ethnic groups. Dagestan, a republic, sits on the edge of the Russian empire, a mere two and a half hours by plane south-southeast from Moscow but as culturally remote as the far northeast, where Russia borders the United States, or the far east, where it seeps into China. Dagestan borders Azerbaijan and Georgia to the south and war-torn Chechnya to the north. Throughout its history as a part of Russia, Dagestan has been one of the poorest parts of the empire, and one of the most embattled. It has also always been the most diverse, with dozens of distinct ethnic groups living in various states of war and peace. Each group has a fiercely defined identity, but no single ethnic group claims the region as an ersatz nation-state, and a Dagestani identity per se can hardly be said to exist. So the billboards seem to be calling on people to take pride simply in living in Dagestan. But why would anyone want to live here?

This is where the story begins.

FIRST, Zubeidat ran from Makhachkala. In May 1985, she was walking in the outskirts of Novosibirsk, terrified of getting into trouble, though most people back home would have said she was asking for trouble just by being in Novosibirsk. She had graduated from high school in Makhachkala a year earlier, and she wanted to go to college. Worse, she wanted to go to Moscow. One of her older brothers lived there, and from what she could tell, this brother was an important person. He worked in retail, which in the Soviet Union meant access to all sorts of nice things and influential people, and she had kept calling him, begging him to take her out of Makhachkala.

Makhachkala is a hard place to love. In the 2010s, a pair of journalists who set out to compile an oral history of the city, a coffee-table book with lots of nostalgic sepia-colored photographs, were repeatedly told by the residents they interviewed how unlivable Makhachkala had always been, what a misunderstanding of a city it was. A locally prominent artist called it “a town without a legend” that was “unsuited for normal life.” A fort reconstituted as a town in the mid–nineteenth century, it felt like a haphazard and temporary agglomeration of more than a hundred ethnic groups, each of which maintained its own language and used variously simplified and mangled Russian to communicate with one another and the outside world. Streets bore the names of the ethnic groups that had originally settled there: Armenian Street crossed Persian Street. Soviet authorities renamed the streets in the spirit of internationalism and Communist ideology, but the old designations remained in the vernacular. Each group made its own living arrangements, usually unaided by the Communist state that had assumed the obligation for sheltering and feeding all citizens but failed consistently, and failed worse the farther from the center the citizens resided. People lived in barracks, in rehabbed fort structures, in sheds and other temporary dwellings, and well into the late twentieth century, indoor plumbing and cooking facilities remained the stuff of dreams.

Neighborhood borders were inviolate: a male outsider who tried to date a neighborhood girl would be knifed. The single unifying culture of the city was that of the prison. There were eight prison camps within the city limits before Stalin’s death in 1953; once released, many of the inmates stayed on in the city. In at least one case, a camp was abolished and the barbed-wire fence removed, but the barracks were simply renamed “dormitories” and everybody stayed. The city jail, which never stopped functioning, sat up on a hill, a major landmark and the center of the switchblade-making industry. Every Makhachkala-born male past the age of puberty had to own a switchblade that had been smuggled out of the jail and sold on the black market.

Not that there was much of a legal economy: centrally distributed consumer goods rarely reached Russia’s southern edge. Makhachkalinians wore clothes and shoes made by local tailors and cobblers—there was one of each on nearly every block—and ate fish caught in the Caspian Sea by local poachers, who went door-to-door every day hawking sturgeon and black-backed herring so fatty it could be tossed into a skillet with no oil. Yet the Caspian itself seemed to have no place in the city, or in any story about it. A gentle, light blue sea that is actually the world’s largest lake, the Caspian was cut off from Makhachkala by a railroad constructed at the turn of the twentieth century. Only a thin strip of sand, barely a hundred yards at its narrowest, separated the water from the rails. The sounds of the railroad drowned out the murmur of the sea, and the bitter smell of tar, the metallic smell of hot rails, and the smoke of the engines overwhelmed the Caspian’s softly salty air.

Whether people lived in nineteenth-century stone buildings or twentieth-century wooden barracks, they dwelled a family to a room if they were lucky, and used the courtyards for all their daily needs: wood-burning stoves for cooking, wooden outhouses never far away. At night young men went yard to yard, scooping human waste into large barrels mounted on their horse-driven carts, nicknamed “stinkies.” Household waste flowed in open trenches along city streets until the 1960s, when, legend has it, old gravestones were used to enclose the trenches in the city center—there are still residents who claim to have seen Arabic writing beneath their feet.

Dwellings with indoor conveniences came in the 1960s, too, but in 1970 an earthquake measuring 6.7 on the Richter scale shook Dagestan. The epicenter was less than twenty miles west of Makhachkala. Thirty-one people died and half the city’s population was left homeless. Twenty-two villages outside the city were completely destroyed, and their residents, too, flooded into Makhachkala even as more than a thousand aftershocks, some of them nearly as strong as the original quake, shook the city over the following six weeks. Makhachkala returned to the premodern state to which it seemed doomed.

A year later, the newly underequipped and overcrowded city was hit by a cholera epidemic. Moscow shut Makhachkala down: anyone who wanted to leave the city had to be tested for the germ and was not allowed to travel until cleared. The city’s population swelled further with those waiting to travel out of Dagestan.

ZUBEIDAT WAS BORN in Makhachkala three years before the earthquake. By the time she was a teenager, she was acutely and painfully aware of living in a backwater. Even the Chechens, who lived right next door and had been decimated by forced exile, had a real city: Grozny had fashion and music. It was from Grozny that young men would bring records and reel-to-reel tapes for Makhachkala’s first diskotekas—a fancy word for dances—in the early 1980s. To create disco lighting, the young men stole colored glass from traffic lights and, at great peril to themselves, flashing lights off police cars. In Grozny, young men were not too timid to wear pointy cowboy boots, which had roared into fashion; Makhachkalinians, who did not dare wear them, called them nokhchi-boots, or Chechen-boots. Men in Makhachkala still wore visored hats nicknamed “airport caps” for the exceedingly large flat surface they created on the wearer’s head. Elsewhere in the Soviet Union these caps marked men as hailing from the remote Caucasian provinces, but in Dagestan they were privileged as city wear: country folk wore fluffy white sheepskin hats. The possession most coveted by any young person who wanted to escape Makhachkala’s provincial uniformity was a white plastic bag printed with a full-color photograph of a man’s behind in Wrangler jeans. These cost up to five rubles on the black market; a loaf of bread ran sixteen kopecks, or just over three percent of the price of the plastic bag.

Everyone in Makhachkala knew everything about everyone else. There was one Russian Orthodox church in the city and, directly across the street, one abortion clinic. Being seen entering either could ruin one’s reputation for life—the church because of Party prohibitions on religion, and the clinic because, while most Soviet women strove to control their fertility and had few means of doing that aside from abortion, Dagestani women were having more babies than women almost anywhere else in the USSR were having, and staying home to raise them. The home was ruled by the men in accordance with Adat, a set of rules that were said to derive from Islam but were largely local customs. Most of the local populations were Muslim; the Russian colonizers had imported Russian Orthodoxy, and migrants had brought Greek Orthodoxy, Catholicism, and Judaism. The Communists had banned the open organized practice of all religions, and in Muslim groups over the course of decades the family and community practices of Adat came to reign supreme—and to be conflated with Islam in the popular understanding.

Customs differed somewhat even between closely related Muslim ethnic groups such as Chechens and Avars, the largest ethnic group in Dagestan. In both traditions, though, the eldest brother ruled over all siblings. Zubeidat was Avar, so if she wanted to go live with her brother in Moscow, she first had to ask her eldest brother, who lived in Novosibirsk, in southwestern Siberia. That was where she had gone, then, to ask his permission.

While the eldest brother was thinking it over, August, the month of entrance exams to Soviet colleges, came and went. At least Zubeidat was now out of Makhachkala, though at some point in the not-too-distant future she would be expected to travel back to Dagestan and marry a young man from an Avar family with whom preliminary arrangements had been made. The Avars did not practice arranged marriages, strictly speaking, or practice them strictly—dating and romance were allowed by some families some of the time—but marriage agreements were always made between the men of the families, and no one ever married outside the ethnic group. Premarital sex, for the women, was punishable by death: the Soviets had done nothing to end honor killings.

Novosibirsk was not Moscow, of course, but much more important, it was not Makhachkala. In fact, a city could not be less like Makhachkala: it was vast, uncrowded, its central squares and avenues a vision in Stalinist grandeur that looked better from the air than they did at street level, where all that scale made a person feel bug-tiny. Zubeidat’s brother lived in a neighborhood of two-story stone buildings constructed by German prisoners of war in the 1940s, and gray-brick five-story buildings from Khrushchev’s socialist-construction boom of the 1950s, a few taller apartment blocks from the 1970s, and even a few wooden barracks-like structures left over from when some group or other had been warehoused there. Still, even this haphazard collection of unattractive architecture was assembled with so much space between buildings that Zubeidat never forgot she was in the big city—and this was why she had kept stretching out the months until she returned to Dagestan.

The neighborhood abutted a trade school on one end and a jail on the other. The trade school, which trained retail-store managers, had mostly young women for students, and Zubeidat had become friendly with a few who lived in the dormitories there. Still, the proximity of the jail always made her slightly nervous about walking home to her brother’s place alone, even on a May evening when the light was a soft gray and would stay that way until midnight. When she sensed someone walking behind her, she jerked around.

The man was not scary at all. In her mind she immediately marked him as parnishka, a Russian diminutive for “guy.” He was slight, even skinny, and he was wearing a green military shirt and green slacks without the jacket or the hat that would complete the uniform; this was the way a man who had recently left the service or would soon be leaving it would dress. Zubeidat turned back around and continued walking, so relieved as to feel almost joyful. The stranger must have sensed this, because he caught up with her and fell in step.

“Devushka,” he said—“girl”—using the standard form of address for an unfamiliar young woman, “do you happen to know Tanya, who lives in room twenty-seven in the trade-school dorm?”

“I do,” said Zubeidat, and decided she was walking to the dorm. “I can fetch her for you, if you want.”

“And you are her…?” he asked. He seemed a little confused about what he wanted, or what he wanted to know.

“I’m just an acquaintance,” said Zubeidat.

“Where are you from yourself?”

“Dagestan,” said Zubeidat.

“And I’m from Chechnya,” said Anzor Tsarnaev. This was not true: he was Chechen, but he had grown up in Kyrgyzstan, in Central Asia, fifteen hundred miles from Chechnya. Nor did he want anything with that girl named Tanya: she was just someone going out with a friend of his, and he asked about her because he needed something to say before he could ask this girl’s name.

Now she said, “That makes us brother and sister.”

“I’m so happy right now,” said Anzor. “I’ve met a kindred spirit. You know, I was just taking a walk, I wasn’t going anywhere in particular.”

Which meant they could talk. Zubeidat told him that she was from Makhachkala and she was staying with her brother and that another brother was an important man in Moscow. Anzor told her he was finishing up his military service. He was a boxer and had won some competitions, and his job was coaching.

“I have to go because I have a curfew,” she finally said. “My brother is strict. But if you want to know, I’ll tell you that this is the building where I live, my brother’s building. We come from the same land, you and I.”

THEY DID LOOK like brother and sister, thin, sharp-featured, and constantly animated. They both hail from ethnic groups that come by girth naturally and cultivate it: the men wrestle, box, and engage in other martial arts that favor bulk; the women bear many children; and heavy, grainy home-baked bread is the traditional basis of all meals. Anzor and Zubeidat liked their own skinniness and worked to protect it, and friends sometimes mocked them for this. Zubeidat thought they looked as beautiful and exotic as two swans, and a quarter-century later, when they had moved halfway across the world, she took to telling people that “the Swans” had been their nickname back home. Anzor’s love for Zubeidat, which he said befell him at first sight, was anything but brotherly. It was romantic in a way most unusual for men from these parts and especially for men from his culture, in which to this day the wedding ritual involves “stealing” the bride from her father’s home, which in many cases indeed involves force.

“Can we see each other tomorrow?” Anzor asked. He had a way of projecting resolve and shyness at the same time, a combination Zubeidat thought was lovely. Her younger son would inherit it from Anzor, this disarming quality of being at once confident and openly vulnerable.

“I don’t know,” Zubeidat said. “I think we are going to the countryside tomorrow. Maybe we can see each other in a couple of days. You can come here if you want, just make sure my brother doesn’t see you.” She knew he knew that without her having to say it.

Anzor came back the following day.

“We didn’t end up going,” said Zubeidat.

“It’s like I had a feeling you’d be here,” said Anzor.

The day after that they had a date, and he brought flowers. Young men around here typically always brought girls roses—in fact, Zubeidat had already rebuffed a couple of them, though it hadn’t been because of the roses—but Anzor brought a mixed bouquet of wildflowers.

“It’s so beautiful,” she said.

“I’ve been walking past this flower shop every day,” he said. “I’ve been thinking, Someday I’ll meet a girl and then I’ll get her that bouquet.”

ZUBEIDAT PANICKED EARLY, possibly as early as that first date. “They’ll never let us marry,” she said. “Not even my brother. Even though he left Dagestan so long ago that he lives like a Russian—he’ll never let me marry someone who is not Avar.”

“You know, I don’t care,” Anzor said. “If our families say no, we’ll just run away. I’ll be your mother, your father, your brother, and your sister.”

But first he was going to take her to his family’s home in Kyrgyzstan. By this time Zubeidat knew that, though they both claimed to hail from the Caucasus and in a way they both did, Anzor was a man born in exile. And Zubeidat was perhaps starting to sense that she was born for exile.

ON MARCH 7, 1944, the Supreme Soviet of the USSR passed a resolution that began:

This resolution, which was unclassified but also unpublished, had been preceded by a series of secret meetings, resolutions, and decrees convened and issued over the course of about six months. As the Red Army pushed the Germans out of the Caucasus and began to advance in Belarus and Ukraine as well, Stalin had become obsessed with the Soviet citizens living in the parts of the country the Germans had occupied starting in 1941. Throughout the war he had believed that soldiers who had allowed themselves to be taken prisoner were traitors. Those lucky enough to have been freed were immediately re-incarcerated in the Gulag, for treason. What about those who lived in their own homes under German rule for years? Were they similarly contaminated? Had they welcomed the Germans? Had they cooperated willingly, cooking and cleaning for them and enforcing German rule in their own land? Had they over time come to like the Germans? Had they come to love them? Did they remain loyal to them after the occupation ended? What was the Soviet regime to do with the millions of its own citizens who were now suspect? Stalin might have liked to exterminate or exile the entire populations of Ukraine and Belarus, but they were too large to be isolated or removed effectively—and in any case, at the time he was confronted with the problem of the Caucasus, the Red Army had not yet advanced far into Ukraine and Belarus.

Stalin, who was half Ossetian—a North Caucasian ethnic group that is majority Christian—was perhaps most suspicious of the Muslims in the region. The largest Muslim group in the Russian North Caucasus were the Chechens, traditionally cattle farmers in the mountains and grain farmers in the valleys. Among them, an anti-Soviet insurgency had indeed existed, and it had welcomed the Germans, though most of Chechnya was in fact never occupied and the majority of Chechens were, by all accounts, loyal Soviet citizens. The Chechens were the largest group to face deportation, though not the only one. In all, seven ethnic groups with a total population of over 1.5 million would be removed from lands on which they had lived, and which they had defended for centuries in many wars. They would be moved to what, on the map, looked like vast empty space in Soviet Central Asia: over a million people would go to Kazakhstan and the rest to Kyrgyzstan. Smaller numbers of other exiles had already been shipped there—the Kalmyks, a Buddhist people who had lived on the western shore of the Caspian Sea, and ethnic Germans, who had once settled along the Volga River.

On February 23, 1944, all Chechens living in Chechnya and neighboring republics were ordered to report to designated assembly points in their towns and villages. They were loaded onto trucks or marched the distance—sometimes dozens of miles over snowy forested mountains—to the trains that would take them to Central Asia. In at least one location about seven hundred elderly, disabled, and people too young or too weak to make the trek from their high-altitude villages were herded into a barn and burned alive. Resisters, protesters, and sometimes the merely confused and slow were shot on the spot. Over half a million Chechens and Ingush—a closely related smaller ethnic group—were loaded onto cattle cars, which began the nearly two-thousand-mile journey to Central Asia. About 85,000 of them would end up in Kyrgyzstan: the trains began arriving March 4, a week after they left Chechnya and three days before the Supreme Soviet issued its resolution. This was less than half a year before the first Nazi concentration camp was liberated and the Western world began a decades-long inquiry into the fates of other exiles and the trains that had carried them. The fate of the deported peoples of the Caucasus would never be similarly examined.

Over the years frightful estimates of the number of people who died en route to Central Asia have circulated, but in fact the journey was essentially undocumented: the sealed trains passed through the country anonymously, never stopping for food supplies or bathroom breaks. The exiles fashioned holes in the floors of their overcrowded cars to relieve themselves; they tried to ration such supplies of bread and water as some of them had carried; washing was out of the question. The typhus epidemic began on the trains. When the first trains pulled into Kyrgyzstan on March 4, they carried twenty-five corpses—the exiles had thrown off the rest of the bodies along the way, in the vain hope of avoiding contagion. Eight hundred people were diagnosed with typhus on arrival.

Before the exiles arrived, local authorities had reported to Moscow that they had set aside enough supplies to feed the newcomers for four months. The rations were set at 116 grams of flour and 56 grams of grain a day per person—significantly less than the starvation rations of Auschwitz-Birkenau. By April 1, some 125,000 people had arrived from the Caucasus, members of seven distinct ethnic groups. Of them, 52,876 were judged fit for work upon arrival. Four months later, the number of those fit for work was 43,713: most of the nine thousand people who had lost their ability to work were, in the language of the corresponding reports, “extremely emaciated.” In those first four months 5,128 people died, including 770 from typhus and 1,778 from starvation. The malaria epidemic began in midsummer.

If the meager supplies ostensibly prepared for the deportation ever really existed, they were not getting to the exiles. A secret report on the inspection of a collective farm in June 1944 stated that the “special settlers,” as the authorities euphemistically called them, were not working, or working sufficiently well, “mostly due to the absence of food supplies, as a consequence of which the absolute majority of the special settlers are extremely emaciated…. Thirteen people have died as a result of typhus and starvation. Ill people in a state of extreme emaciation, essentially at death’s door, as of June 8 this year number 40, including 20 children…. Special settlers are eating mostly grass…. No one is keeping track of special-settler deaths.” The report described the mother of four children aged two to ten, the three youngest of whom could no longer move; she was making them soup out of grass. Reports from other collective farms painted a similar picture, but introduced a new category beyond “extremely emaciated.” This category was “bloated.”

Some of the exiles were placed in collective-farm housing, never spacious to begin with. Usually this meant that a local family who occupied a two-room house had to cede one of the rooms to a family of newcomers. The local families resisted, perceiving the arrival of the exiles, rightly, as a threat not only to their space but to their health: typhus soon spread to the local population. Still, for the exiles, being forced into someone’s house was infinitely preferable to the alternatives: being warehoused in unfinished or vacant, usually unheated apartments, generally three families to a room; being warehoused in common village spaces such as a collective-farm cafeteria or meeting hall; or being shoved into unheated tents or mud huts. Authorities directed the collective farms to construct housing for “special settlers,” but the most construction materials any of the collective farms appear to have been issued was thirty-two logs to put up barracks, the roof to be made of locally collected reeds. No construction appears to have commenced by the fall, when the weather started turning cold again.

Exiles were to be issued plots of land and seeds for planting, but most could not bring themselves to bury even a single grain seed in the ground; they ate them. The few who did manage to plant did not know how to work the local land—and the plots they had been issued were by definition the undesirable, difficult ones. No one had a harvest that year.

The “special settlers” were more than an imposition on the locals: they were, it was well established, the enemies of the people. They lacked even the limited civil rights accorded ordinary Soviet citizens. They had to check in regularly with local secret-police representatives, as one might check in with a parole officer. Secret-police clearance was required for the most quotidian of actions, such as seeking help at a medical clinic. The secret-police officers had a range of disciplinary measures at their disposal, including fines and up to ten days’ administrative arrest.

Other locals also treated the exiles as one would treat the enemy. One collective-farm chairman loaded seven families on three horse-driven carts and instructed the drivers to take them to another town and dump them at the side of the road. This was to serve as a lesson not only for these families but also for the “special settlers” remaining in his village: they too would be expelled if they did not work hard enough. In this case, law enforcement investigated the incident and concluded that none of the members of the seven families was actually physically fit to work. Other collective-farm chairmen claimed that they did not need any additional hands and simply refused to acknowledge the “special settlers,” in the hope of driving them away. They not only withheld rations but also instructed the village store not to sell to the new arrivals. Inspection reports describe numerous instances of local authority figures beating the children of the exiles, sometimes to death. The beatings of adults are not mentioned, probably because they were not seen as warranting notice.

Zayndy Tsarnaev, Anzor’s father, was brought to Kyrgyzstan at the age of thirteen. The family was placed about forty miles east of the Kyrgyz capital, Frunze, in Tokmok, a settlement wedged in a narrow valley between the Kyrgyz Range and the Trans-Ili Alatau mountains. Local legend has it that the Soviets once considered making Tokmok the capital, but the Chu, a furious mountain river that took over the entire valley every spring, rendered the location unsuitable. When the exiles arrived in Kyrgyzstan, an effort to harness the Chu was under way. The men were immediately rounded up and loaded onto horse-driven carts, which took them to the construction site for the future hydroelectric plant. Delivered late at night, the men escaped early the next morning to look for the railroad station so that they could go back to help their families. Secret-police files overflow with reports and complaints filed by construction supervisors, who demanded a police cordon at the site to keep the men from leaving. The paperwork details living conditions at the site. There was no shelter. There were no bathing facilities, which meant the men were flea-ridden. They received two meals a day, at six in the morning and at five in the evening. The rations consisted solely of grain and water. As the men died off, secret police conducted raids to round up new workers from among the special settlers and deliver them to the site. Construction supervisors complained the new arrivals were unfit for work because they were not only extremely emaciated but also naked and barefoot.

The death rate among the exiles remained steady through the freezing spring and the scorching summer; they entered the winter of 1944–1945 with no suitable shelter or reliable source of sustenance, and the dying continued. The following year decimated the survivors, and the year after that killed many of those who remained. And yet, after three or four years—after the death of half or more of the Chechen population, after the pain and humiliation and dread of living in an open-air prison and, incongruously, in a constant state of uncertainty—the life of the “special settlers” appeared to stabilize. They were still, in essence, prisoners, with their movement and activities severely restricted and violence a daily threat, but they gradually secured housing and, to some extent, succeeded in assimilating. Some families continued to hold their children back from Russian- and Kyrgyz-language schools—Chechen-language education had effectively been outlawed—but after a few years this was a small, albeit constant, minority. Access to the legal local economy, accorded only to fully vested Soviet citizens, never really opened up to the exiles, but the Chechens compensated by creating gray-market trading systems, so that after a few years they were not only able to move out of cramped barracks and freezing mud huts but also became providers of coveted goods for the locals—and since virtually all goods were in short supply, most goods were indeed coveted. While most families submitted to having their children educated at Russian- and Kyrgyz-language schools, virtually everyone still spoke Chechen at home, considered intermarriage impossible, and continued to live in accordance with Adat, which, in exile, gradually became both more important and less detailed.

STALIN DIED IN 1953, nine years and one day after the Chechens began arriving in Kyrgyzstan. In another three years the new Soviet leader, Nikita Khrushchev, began gingerly to lift restrictions on the deported ethnic groups. The Party now admitted that the exiles had been wronged—in a meeting with a group of them, Khrushchev even said the dictator had been paranoid and out of control—but the bureaucracy did not know how to handle hundreds of thousands of people who had been displaced. Their houses and lands had long since been occupied by others, in the concerted campaign of colonization that the state had conducted for years after the deportation. Ethnic Russians had been moved into Chechnya by the orphanageful, in conditions scarcely less punishing than the Chechens were facing in Central Asia, and those who survived had by now put down roots. What kind of violence would break out if the Chechens—or the Kabardians, or the Balkars—returned to claim their homes?

Representatives of the displaced peoples begged that they be allowed to return, in exchange for promising to not challenge the current residents and to settle on empty land, as long as it was in the Caucasus. The Khrushchev government did not believe them and, after much hemming and hawing, settled on a particularly cruel way of sawing the baby in half: the exiles would be effectively freed, which is to say, they would be given standard-issue Soviet documents and released from all limitations on freedom of movement, allowing them to settle anywhere in the USSR—except in their lands of origin. The first few groups of exiles who were offered this deal accepted it, but in the fall of 1956 the Kyrgyzstan Chechens balked en masse and refused to sign the agreements that would have entitled them to regular identity documents. At the end of that year, the Central Committee finally approved a plan for returning Chechens to Chechnya, gradually, over the course of three years, in a highly controlled manner. The process was hellish and hellishly corrupt. It also took much longer than planned. But by the mid-1960s everyone who wanted to move to the Caucasus had left. Soviet statistics make it all but impossible to determine what proportion of the exiled population went back, but thousands of families stayed in Kyrgyzstan. Those who stayed also wanted to go home—but to them, home had become an abstraction, or at least a distant goal. Some lacked the money to move. Others could not face the hardship. “No one is kicking us out of here, and no one is waiting for us there,” a Chechen man in Tokmok told me in 2014.

Sixty years to the week earlier, a man named Medzhit Baiev said in the presence of a secret-police informant: “I am an old man and don’t need to go anywhere, but my children will now have the same rights as all the other peoples of the Soviet Union. I am deeply grateful to the government.” He was right: his descendant Khassan would grow up in Chechnya. In the 1990s he would face the war there, work as a surgeon operating on the wounded, then escape to the United States and settle in Boston, where he would eventually help another Chechen family, the Tsarnaevs, to settle as well.

But in the 1960s, the Tsarnaevs also stayed in Kyrgyzstan. Zayndy had made it by then—he ran the dumping ground that had formed in an old quarry in Tokmok. Between his official salary and a sideline of collecting scrap metal, paper, and clothing that he fished out of the refuse and turned in to the relevant recycling plants, he was making a good living. His wife was having one child after another. He ran the house like a homegrown tyrant; his wife would stay home and raise their kids to be educated and ambitious, but she would never be seen outside the home. Zayndy would invest in some land in Chechnya and build a house, so that eventually his children’s children would grow up there. This was the thinking of most of those who stayed behind: they were not putting down roots in Kyrgyzstan—they were just extending their stay before their families returned home at last.

In 1985, Anzor Tsarnaev returned from his military service in Novosibirsk to his father’s home in Kyrgyzstan, bringing his young wife with him. The neighborhood was Sakhzavod, so named for the nearby sugarcane-processing plant. There was also a cannery and a wool-processing plant—it was the industrial outskirts of Tokmok, which itself had come to feel like the remote outskirts of Frunze, the capital. Frunze was like a flattened version of Novosibirsk—the same vast squares and broad avenues and Soviet neoclassical buildings, only much lower. And Tokmok was like nothing in particular. The Chu had been harnessed in 1982. It was now a tame little stream flowing through a concrete enclosure, but Tokmok itself still had a makeshift, insecure sense about it, as though every structure could be washed away any minute. With the exception of a couple of school buildings, nothing here looked like it was meant to last.

A conglomeration of settlers had nested their homes near the factories: cinder-block first stories with wooden attics and sharply pitched asbestos-board roofs. One of these roofs had given way under the feet of Anzor’s older brother in 1979 as he was replacing a worn red Soviet flag on top of a trade school with a newer one, and he had fallen to his death. In 1985, when Anzor and Zubeidat came, most of the other five Tsarnaev children were still in or around their parents’ house. The street on which they lived was split about equally between Chechens and ethnic Germans. The latter called their children by Russian diminutives but continued to speak German to them: “Yasha, herkommen,” they called out into the street at suppertime, and the children disappeared behind the cinder-block fences. The street had a blind feel to it—a single block long, lined with solid gray fences, it ran perpendicular to the mountain ranges, so neither of them could be seen from a house window. Immediately upon arriving, Zubeidat commenced dreaming of living by the sea again someday. Everyone on this street dreamed of someday going home to someplace beautiful and far away.

Two WANDERING

The idea that they were like brother and sister because they were both from the Caucasus really held only as long as Anzor and Zubeidat stayed far away from both the Caucasus itself and their families. According to both Avar and Chechen traditions, now that Anzor and Zubeidat were married, she was to enter his parents’ house as a member of his family. Had she married an Avar, she would have had the support and coaching of the women of her own family in this endeavor; as it was, she was now alone. And to her new family, she was immediately suspect. Neither Anzor nor his parents, who had grown up in Kyrgyzstan with only a mythical, vague story of the Caucasus, had ever even heard of the Avars, although they speak a language closely related to Chechen and have historically been viewed by their Russian rulers as a subset of the Chechens. To the Tokmok Chechens, Zubeidat was just not-Chechen. She worked conscientiously to fit in, quickly and easily learning to speak Chechen—though she and Anzor always spoke Russian to each other—but in other ways she was as different as a woman could be from her new mother-in-law. Liza was what Americans might call a victim of domestic abuse; her Chechen neighbors from Tokmok just say that Zayndy was “very strict” and never let his wife go out in public by herself or, for that matter, with him. Few of their former neighbors can even recall her name, so quiet and invisible was she. Zubeidat and Anzor, on the other hand, appeared inseparable; more than that, they appeared to be equal partners. Not for Zubeidat the Chechen—or Avar—custom of serving the men and never sitting down at the table with them, or with the guests. Nor did she hold back in conversation. She could be charming, she had a loud, unabashed laugh, she invited and accepted compliments, and unlike her gentle husband, she could occasionally be cutting. If anything, these rebellious ways had to do with Zubeidat’s having grown up in a city, and with having made a break with her own family, but Liza had only one word for all of it: Avar.

Anzor had promised Zubeidat back in Novosibirsk that he would take her as far as they needed to go to be happy together. It is not clear how they chose Kalmykia as their destination after Tokmok. Most of Anzor’s uncles and cousins had moved to Chechnya, and Zayndy was, according to his plan, slowly building a house there as well, in the village of Chiry-Yurt. But Zubeidat may have feared she would not be accepted in Chechnya, or perhaps none of Anzor’s uncles had extended an invitation. An older cousin on Liza’s side, though, invited them to Kalmykia, Dagestan’s northern neighbor—and perhaps the idea of living on the Caspian again appealed to Zubeidat. But Kalmykia turned out to be the opposite of Makhachkala, a desert—just sand and steppes and emptiness that made even what sea it touched seem desolate. And Anzor’s relative turned out to be a cattle farmer. Anzor’s family, like all the Chechens in Tokmok, had always kept cows, sheep, and goats in numbers the Soviet government deemed excessive. (Most of their livestock was part of the shadow economy and had to be hidden when inspectors or snoops came around.) So Anzor easily fell into the farmwork: he was generally willing to do any kind of labor, and this he was good at. But Zubeidat, although she had family who lived in a village back in Dagestan, was herself a city girl, and she had not imagined that a cattle farm in the middle of nowhere would be the place where she would find happiness.

Happiness came in the form of their first child. Zubeidat gave birth to a boy in October 1986. They named him Tamerlan, for the Central Asian conqueror with refined tastes—Tima, Russian style, for short. He was perfect and, Zubeidat knew, always would be. And she would be a perfect mother. He was decked out in bow ties from the time he was a toddler; in grade school, he would stand out among his classmates for his clean clothes; in middle school, for his near-perfect grades. But none of this could happen on a cattle farm in the steppes of Kalmykia. For the boy’s sake, Anzor and Zubeidat moved again.

THEY RETURNED TO Tokmok after just six months in Kalmykia. Zubeidat was nineteen now, Anzor was twenty, and they were parents. Now that Zubeidat had given birth to a male child, Anzor’s family might treat her more kindly. The move back to the Tsarnaevs’ house, though, was a gamble. In the Chechen tradition, the child belongs to the father’s family, and his mother is treated as merely an appendage; if there is conflict, she can leave or be kicked out, but the child stays in his paternal grandparents’ home. It might have helped that the Tsarnaev home was rapidly emptying out: the eldest daughter, Malkan, had married and moved to Chechnya; the next daughter, Maret, always Tokmok’s star student, was in nearby Frunze, studying law and supporting herself as a janitor; and now the youngest, Ruslan, had also been accepted to the law college in Frunze. Alvi, an older brother, was still in Tokmok, but unmarried. Tamerlan would be the first grandchild in the family home.

In 1988, when the baby was not yet two, the Tsarnaev family was changed irrevocably. A quarter-century later, The Boston Globe would report that Anzor’s father had “died in an explosion,” as though in a blast that foreshadowed the blasts at the finish line of the Boston Marathon. The Tokmok tragedy was more mundane than that account implies. Working at the city dump, Zayndy found a large metal canister of the kind usually used for natural gas. This object could be useful not just as scrap metal but also for parts. Canisters like these were used in retrofitting cars to run on natural gas, and like everything that went into cars, they were in short supply. Zayndy placed it in his own car in order to move it from the dump. The container must have been leaking gas: when Zayndy started the car, it blew up. It was later impossible to determine, from the scraps of the car, whether the container had been in the trunk or on the backseat.

Liza moved to Frunze to live with Maret, who had graduated with her law degree and was starting what would be a brilliant career. Alvi took over the dump but had little use for the family home. Anzor and Zubeidat were now in charge of the two-story house in Tokmok.

MEANWHILE, the Soviet Union was imploding. Far away, in Moscow, Mikhail Gorbachev declared perestroika and glasnost. All over the vast empire, movements for independence and ethnic self-determination were taking shape. Some struggles were beginning to lead to bloodshed. In Tokmok, glasnost—the gradual softening of censorship—meant that video-screening salons started opening. They were not glamorous affairs, just plain rooms with a videocassette player and a screen no larger than those found in many American living rooms, but the movies they showed were more colorful, brighter, and faster than anything Tokmok had ever seen. Zubeidat and her friends liked the Bollywood films that were flooding Soviet television and the newly minted salons. Anzor and the other men might secretly have liked them as well; openly they acknowledged loving only Police Academy. In any case, whether or not they were ever dubbed “the Swans,” as Zubeidat would claim, the couple continued to be so dramatically affectionate with each other that once their friends were exposed to Bollywood sappiness, they started calling them “the Indians.” And whatever the men’s taste in movies, certainly they liked that they now had a place to gather outside their homes and backyards: they loitered outside the video salons before and in between the irregularly scheduled screenings, smoking and talking about their plans for the future, which was starting noticeably to change.

The Soviet Union was gradually opening its borders, and this meant that the Germans of Sakhzavod left. Kyrgyz families moved into their houses, cutting down their neat little orchards and making the Chechens nostalgic for their old neighbors’ fastidiousness. More of the Chechens were leaving, too. Anzor’s last remaining relative in Tokmok, Zayndy’s first cousin Jamal, who in accordance with custom had become the male authority figure for Alvi and Anzor after their father’s death, sold his house in Sakhzavod and moved to Grozny. He was becoming an entrepreneur, which was the thing to be now.

There was suddenly no limit to what you could do. One Chechen man, Ruslan Zakriev, bought a city park in the center of Tokmok. For about a year he thought about what to do with it. Then he bought some equipment from an unfinished amusement park and turned Tokmok’s city park into an amusement park with old-fashioned carousels and a creaky roller coaster. He took to wearing a white cowboy hat, belted jeans, and brown pointy-toed boots. Later, after the word “diaspora” had seeped into the Russian spoken here, he declared himself the head of the Chechen diaspora.

Public land was no longer public, it seemed, but was a source of private money. Alvi managed to convince somebody that the old quarry beneath the town dump was still full of copper or aluminum or both. Excavators came and found nothing, but by that time Alvi was gone with the money.

Two of Anzor’s closest friends, Semyon and Alladin Abaev, became long-haul truck drivers: now that the borders were open to imported goods and private businesses were allowed to buy and sell them, truckers were in high demand. Eventually each would buy his own German-made MAN truck, and a house with a yard large enough to park it.

Some people could not figure out what to do. Anzor’s other closest friend, Badrudi Tsokaev, had worked all sorts of manual-labor jobs in the Soviet era and had done well enough to support his wife, Zina, and their four children. Peculiarly, the new capitalist system seemed to have little use for a jack-of-all-trades who lacked ambition, or a way of selling himself. Still, for Anzor and Zubeidat, Badrudi and Zina, who lived at the end of their block, remained authority figures. They were about a decade older, more experienced in the ways of the world and, both being Chechen, in the way that Chechens did things. Zubeidat went to Zina with questions on practice and ritual: How do you get the kids to sleep? How do you handle bedtime with two and then three toddlers? Zubeidat had given birth to two daughters after Tamerlan. Zina gave her practical advice rooted in custom; she told her, for example, that a Chechen boy past the age of seven would have to have his own bed—and extensive praise. Zubeidat’s children, especially the boy, continued to be perfect: always impeccably dressed, polite, quick to get out of the way whenever guests came to the house. Tamerlan, even at the age of five or six, had an obvious understanding of his role as older brother; he was responsible for keeping his sisters quiet when there were guests, and safe when his parents were out. Zina also encouraged Zubeidat to make sure the children prayed five times a day. Neither of their husbands had any interest in what little Muslim ritual had been passed on to their generation, but the women wanted to bring their children up right.

Anzor responded to Zina’s praise for his son by saying he would have Tamerlan marry her daughter. Zina would say, “No way am I letting her marry your son! Your wife is not Chechen.” Everybody would laugh.

Some people were perhaps too well suited for the new era. The brothers Alaudin and Aziz Batukaev, two other Sakhzavod Chechens, were on their way to becoming the organized-crime bosses of this part of Kyrgyzstan. They had many trades, but drug trafficking was the most important of them. Central Asian–grown marijuana had been moving into other former Soviet republics for decades, and Chechen crime groups were instrumental in setting up and maintaining those routes. Now they were also moving much more profitable drugs such as opiates from Afghanistan.

The Batukaevs’ backyard abutted the Tsarnaevs’, and another of the Batukaev brothers set up a car-repair shop there. Anzor became his apprentice: cars would be his business. He would buy cars driven over from Germany, fix them up, and sell them at an outdoor market on the outskirts of Bishkek, as the capital of Kyrgyzstan was now called. Mercedes-Benzes were especially popular, but Audis and even some Volkswagens also had their buyers. If you asked Anzor, he would certainly tell you that this business, unlike some others, was perfectly legal. All the cars had papers of some sort, and customs tax had been paid. Whatever money had to be slipped to customs officers to expedite the process was just part of the system. Chechens always had to pay—if you took the train from Bishkek to Grozny, say, you would be shaken down by customs and border officials half a dozen times along the way, and traveling by train surely was not illegal. In fact, many of the cars making their way from Germany to the former Soviet Union were stolen, or had been reported stolen for tax-evasion or insurance purposes, or were salvaged “sinkers”—cars with severe water damage that could not be sold in Germany and had been written off. The profit margin of Anzor’s business was the product of flaws that made the cars undesirable in Germany and his ability to rectify or mask those flaws.

Anzor was making a living, but, as long as his business was conducted one car at a time, the family would never be rich. In 1992, they moved again.

BY THIS TIME, Chechnya seemed as close to a promised land as it had ever been. It now had its own president, the wildly popular Dzhokhar Dudaev, a pilot, the only Chechen ever to have reached the rank of general in the Soviet military. He was assimilated and worldly, married to a Russian woman and serving in Estonia when the Soviet Union began to break apart. He resigned from the air force and returned to Chechnya to take the helm. The new Russian president, Boris Yeltsin, was a vocal believer in ethnic self-determination who had once famously told minorities to “take as much sovereignty as you can carry.” Once Gorbachev was toppled, Yeltsin facilitated the peaceful divorce of the republics that had constituted the Soviet Union: Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan, where most Chechens, including Dudaev, had spent at least a part of their childhoods, were now independent countries. Chechnya remained among the eighty-nine republics and regions that made up the newly constituted Russian Federation (a number that would shrink as a few of them combined over the coming years). Of these, Chechnya would be the only one to have the courage of its convictions and claim independence.

Anzor, Zubeidat, and their three children moved to Chechnya, to the house Zayndy had been building in Chiry-Yurt. There were cars to be fixed here, too, so Anzor was busy. Zubeidat was pregnant with their fourth child. When the boy was born in July 1993, they named him Dzhokhar, for the republic’s heroic president.

Chechnya had everything it needed to succeed on its own: international borders and easy trading routes with such potential partners as Turkey and Azerbaijan; oil, which it now planned to keep instead of shipping for processing to other parts of Russia; and the will to prosper once it was finally free, after nearly two centuries of the Russian yoke. The only thing it lacked was Moscow’s consent to let it go. When Yeltsin talked about sovereignty, he had apparently meant other Soviet republics, like Kyrgyzstan or Ukraine, not the ones inside Russia. The prospect of one of the eighty-nine regions breaking off and starting a chain reaction was unacceptable. Indeed, Moscow needed to nip such independence movements to prevent further ones. Cracking down on Chechnya would be a popular move—most Russian citizens remained deeply prejudiced against Chechens—and would send a strong message to other regions with pro-independence movements.

Moscow imposed an economic blockade of Chechnya. When that failed to bring it back into the Russian fold, Yeltsin’s government reached for other measures. In the summer of 1994, unmarked planes began flying low over Chechen towns and villages, firing at random and dropping a few bombs. Kremlin spokespeople blamed those attacks on Azerbaijan, without bothering to explain why Chechnya’s southern neighbor would suddenly take to bombing it. These were Moscow’s warning shots, which, unsurprisingly, served only to mobilize the Chechens in support of independence.

In December 1994, Russian troops amassed on the border with Chechnya. On New Year’s Eve, Russian planes bombed Grozny so hard an international expert soon compared it to Dresden. By this time, Anzor, Zubeidat, and their four children were in a battered Škoda, driving to Kyrgyzstan. They might not have learned to pick their destinations, but, with moving as their solution to everything, they did know when it was time to get out.

Three DREAMING OF AMERICA

Tamerlan’s grade-school teacher Natalya Kurochkina told me that the boy was afraid of fireworks, presumably because he had been terrified by the bombing of Chechnya. Badrudi Tsokaev, Anzor’s Tokmok friend and neighbor, told me that the rear right door of the Škoda in which Anzor brought his family back from Chechnya at the end of 1994 resembled a sieve from having been shot up by a machine gun—though it is not clear whether this had been Anzor’s car at the time of the shooting or someone else’s vehicle that he acquired later, since he had the skills required to repair it. Years later, in America, Anzor appears to have blamed the pains and worries that plagued him on the trauma wrought by war. On the other hand, his cousin Jamal, the one who had stepped into the father role after Zayndy died, told me with some resentment that, unlike him, neither Anzor nor Tamerlan had lived in Chechnya during the war. This was true: they left at the very beginning, and things got so very much worse after that. The Tsarnaevs never had to zigzag on foot along a road for miles, trying to avoid stepping on dead bodies. None of them ever saw a drunk Russian soldier stumble through the doorway of their house and shoot someone they loved. None of them had a friend or relative die in their arms, the warm smell of his blood sticking to their clothes, their hair, their skin forevermore. As a family, they never endured the ordeal to which virtually every family in Chechnya was subjected: that of searching and waiting for a male relative who had disappeared.

Of all the experiences of war, the Tsarnaevs were fully exposed only to one—fear. Unlike the people who stayed in Chechnya, they never learned to normalize war. Reporting on the war in 1994–1996 and in 2000, I saw women in Chechnya who for months cooked family meals on open fires on city sidewalks. I saw children who did not remember ever having set foot outside their apartments and who could not sleep without the sound of artillery fire. I saw young women who had mastered the care and handling of Russian soldiers and knew that if they ever failed, their family members would pay with their lives. The Tsarnaevs simply ran for their lives. Who is to say this leaves a lesser scar?

Over the next two years, as the Russian army continued to pummel Chechnya, refugees from the war streamed into Kazakh and Kyrgyz towns where they had family. Some said they needed protection from the rebels; others said they were the rebels and needed protection all the more. They brought fear, and they brought guns, and they were not always welcome. “We are practically natives here,” Ruslan Zakriev, the cowboy-hat-wearing self-appointed leader of the Tokmok Chechens, told me. “We didn’t want any trouble.” And when trouble came—as when shoot-outs began on the Chechen streets of Tokmok and Bishkek—they blamed it on the new Chechnya. Anzor and Zubeidat confirmed: The new Chechnya was not a place for living. Anzor said he had sold the house his father had been building in the village of Chiry-Yurt. They would not be going back.

Anzor and Zubeidat together took Tamerlan to Tokmok’s School Number Two to sign him up for first grade. It was the middle of the school year, but the other children accepted him quickly and uncritically because Natalya Kurochkina told them that this boy was running from the war. “We talked a lot about the war then,” she remembered almost twenty years later. “There were kids coming to the school who had lost fathers there.” Aside from a conspicuous fear of fireworks, which may be too handy a foreshadowing to be fully believed, Tamerlan stood out only for the best of all possible reasons. He was an exemplary child, polite to a fault and often speaking caringly about his younger sisters and brother.

Zubeidat’s project of rearing perfect children remained on track. She was an overachieving stay-at-home mother while Anzor continued to fix cars. When he came to school, however, he wore a suit; the teachers perceived them as a white-collar couple who were seeking the best possible education for their children. Tokmok’s best, however, was not nearly as rigorous, challenging, or ambitious as Zubeidat wanted it to be. At the end of second grade Zubeidat withdrew Tamerlan from the school. Here the trail goes cold for two years, but in 1999 Tamerlan was enrolled in fifth grade at Tokmok’s Pushkin Gymnasium School Number One. “We got prestigious that year,” the principal explained to me.

School Number One was a school for families like the Tsarnaevs, those whose plans for their children extended far beyond the boundaries of their own universe. In 1999 the state educational authority granted the town’s oldest school the status of “gymnasium”—no one could be quite sure what that meant except that now it was officially the best school in Tokmok. Anzor and Zubeidat sold the old Tsarnaev family home in Sakhzavod and moved to the center of town to live near the best school. From the second-floor window of their apartment they could see the white two-story building with its Greek portico and decorative Doric columns, and a red flag protruding from the middle of the facade as though it had been stuck between the school’s eyes. There was a skimpy garden in front of the school, and this was where I found the principal, Lubov Shulzhenko, sitting on a bench beneath a dry little maple tree on a scorching morning in July 2014. She was a bleached-blond woman in her early sixties, very short and very overweight, and she had been running the school for twenty-five years. She wanted me to know what a good school it was. She wanted everyone to know. In her office, the walls were literally covered with citations. She made sure her students entered every competition, big and small, in everything from Russian spelling to rope-skipping, and she maintained a carefully curated rotating exposition of the citations, because even her impressively sized office walls could not hold them all.

She bragged about the graduates who had fulfilled their parents’ dreams, like a young man named Sergei who had won a mathematics scholarship and was now writing software for a German company. Inside the school, Sergei’s picture was one of a dozen in a display featuring the distinguished graduates of Pushkin Gymnasium School Number One. His accomplishment appeared more impressive than any of the others’, but the caption indicated he had graduated more than a decade earlier. Miracles do not happen very often. Most of the other graduates, including the distinguished ones, had stayed in Tokmok, doing what their parents did—working as clerks in the bloated town government or one of the other outposts of state power. And for the majority of graduates, the most useful skill they acquired at Pushkin Gymnasium School Number One was so-called professional training: woodworking for the boys and sewing for the girls.

ANZOR’S SIBLINGS who had left Tokmok were living an entirely different life. Bishkek, where Maret, Ruslan, and Alvi were living, was less than an hour’s drive away, but it seemed a century closer to the Technicolor world of the video-screening salons. Bishkek has its own Chechen neighborhood on its own outskirts, called Lebedinovka, or Swan Village. It is as flat and dusty as Sakhzavod, though the houses and gardens, hidden from view by tall concrete fences, are often larger and better tended than those in Tokmok. Many of the families who live here have relatives in Tokmok, including the Tsarnaevs and the Tsokaevs; some grew up in Tokmok. As Muslims, they pray five times a day and hold the fast during Ramadan; as Chechens, they acknowledge that children are the property of the father’s side of the family, and some of the women do not sit at the table with the men; and yet, life in the capital has a perceptibly different quality from life in the provinces, however close they may be.

Ruslan was studying law at the university. Almost every night he stopped at the house of Badrudi Tsokaev’s niece Madina—rather, the house of her husband’s parents—and stayed until three in the morning. Incredibly, Madina’s mother-in-law, the head of that household, had no objections to a mixed-gender young crowd that talked endlessly and finished just about every night by dancing the Lezghinka, a fast, even frantic dance traditional to many of the cultures of the Caucasus.

Then something truly incredible happened. Maret, who was now a judge, came to see an old classmate, Badrudi Tsokaev’s sister Yakha, at work. Yakha was a saleswoman at a small grocery store, and one could always stop by for a chat. Maret said she wanted to get married to a man who was “mixed.” Yakha thought this meant he was only half Chechen and assured her friend that if he was Chechen on his father’s side, the marriage would be accepted. But Maret was simply easing her friend into the news. There was nothing “mixed,” and nothing Chechen, about her fiancé: he was a Canadian. When she left for Canada with him, she did not even go to say good-bye to her old friends.

Ruslan graduated and got a job with PricewaterhouseCoopers, the giant American consultancy, which was running a large-scale privatization program funded by the U.S. State Department. Then he started dating a young woman who worked there with him—an American woman, not a Chechen-American but a real, blond American named Samantha, who wore trousers, collected swords, was thoroughly used to getting her way, and had a father who had worked for the CIA. Then Ruslan moved in with her. Among the Chechens of Lebedinovka, a rumor began to spread that Ruslan was setting things up for a fake marriage so he could move to the United States. But the rumor did not stick: the impending marriage was in fact scandalously real. Ruslan and Samantha married in a Muslim ceremony and in 1996 moved to the United States, where Ruslan planned to go to law school—word at Lebedinovka was that he would be going to Harvard, though in fact he would eventually be accepted at Duke University Law School.

And then Alvi went to the United States. He did not have a law degree or an American spouse—he was making money as a handyman and his wife was very much Chechen, and living in Kyrgyzstan—but he got a tourist visa and took off. By this time the entire Tsarnaev clan agreed: the future was in the United States—and the United States was within reach. Anzor and Zubeidat told all their friends that they were moving to America. They said it was the only place their children could get the education they deserved. In preparation, both Anzor and Zubeidat would obtain college degrees in law, as Ruslan and Maret had done.

MEDIA ACCOUNTS of the Tsarnaev story generally state as fact that Anzor worked at the prosecutor’s office in Kyrgyzstan—this was apparently what he consistently said after the family moved to the United States. Even the FBI investigators seem never to have questioned this claim. Some accounts add that at a certain point, as the political situation in Kyrgyzstan deteriorated, Anzor, as a Chechen, could no longer work in law enforcement. In fact, while it is true that Kyrgyzstan has seen extreme ethnic tensions and violence in the past twenty years, most of it has been directed at the large ethnic Uzbek minority; the tiny Chechen minority has not been affected—that is, it has not been marginalized further than it was before the collapse of the Soviet Union. Friends do recall that a few years after Anzor and Zubeidat began studying law, Anzor started showing off an employee ID issued by the Pervomaysky District Prosecutor’s Office in Bishkek. There is, however, no record of anyone named Anzor Tsarnaev ever having worked for the Pervomaysky or any other prosecutor’s office in Bishkek.

“He had a friend who worked at the Pervomaysky Prosecutor’s Office,” explained Badrudi. “He fixed Anzor up with an ID. It made talking to the cops a lot easier.” In other words, it was a fake ID. There was a fake uniform that went with it; no one remembers seeing Anzor actually wearing it, but he was photographed in it at least once. It is true, though, that Anzor got a new job in the late 1990s: he went to work for his older cousin Jamal.

My first meeting with Jamal Tsarnaev was set to take place at Grozny airport, a crowded and disorienting place. “How will I recognize you?” I asked him over the phone. “Oh, you’ll recognize me,” he responded. Then he paused and added, “You’ll know me by my hairdo.” Jamal turned out to have a perfectly naked, blindingly shiny skull. On the right side of his head there was a depressed patch about an inch and a half square—and it was almost perfectly square, with four round marks at the corners, where screws had been removed. As we settled in at a café for the interview, I asked Jamal what he did for work.

“Does that have anything to do with the story?” he asked tersely.

“No,” I said. “I’m just making small talk.” Asking him about his head injury or brain surgery was clearly out of the question.

He relaxed a bit and after a moment’s reflection said, “I pick up things that are not in their proper place.”

Translated, this meant something like: I am a crook. I don’t have a specialty—I am more of an opportunistic, general-interest criminal.

In the late 1990s, Jamal told me, he started a business transporting tobacco from Kyrgyzstan to Russia. By “tobacco” he could have meant just about anything, including tobacco—or drugs. Jamal was based in Grozny, and Anzor was his man in Kyrgyzstan. A prosecutor’s ID and a uniform would have been handy in this line of work.

Anzor and Zubeidat were not lying about going to America, though, or about studying law. They had both signed up to be correspondence students, a system that dated back to Soviet times, when it allowed full-time workers to obtain college degrees without taking time off—but also, in most cases, without learning much. They would travel to their colleges for one or two weeks each semester, to take exams. Anzor and Zubeidat always liked studying—Zubeidat generally grasped any new information as quickly and easily as she had learned Chechen, and Anzor had had the love of learning beaten into him by Zayndy, even if Anzor never was as good a student as his lawyer sister and brother. They were raising Tamerlan to be a good and versatile student, too. Not only was he getting near-perfect grades at Pushkin Gymnasium School Number One, he was also enrolled in extracurricular sports, advanced study of school subjects, and piano lessons.

In 2000, the Tsarnaevs left Tokmok. No one there saw any of them again until the summer of 2012, when Anzor showed up in the Sakhzavod neighborhood one afternoon. He knocked on the metal gate of the house of Badrudi’s brother, on the street where they all had grown up. To his delight, he found the old crew there, Badrudi and his brother and the brothers Abaev, sitting around a table in the garden, eating lamb kebab and drinking brandy. They filled him in on the neighborhood news of the last dozen years: a few marriages, a couple of divorces, some kids, a number of deaths, and the brothers Batukaev—Alaudin had been gunned down right here in Sakhzavod, and Aziz had been in prison for over five years and kept racking up more sentences for inciting unrest there. To his old friends, Anzor looked thinner and older than they had expected, but he sounded as good as ever. His eldest, Tamerlan, he said, was “the hope of the U.S. Olympic team” in boxing. The girls were both married with children. And little Dzhokhar was attending the best university in America on a scholarship. The story made sense to the men: everything had gone pretty much as Anzor and Zubeidat had planned.

WHEN ANZOR AND ZUBEIDAT disappeared from Tokmok in 2000, those who did not know them very well assumed that, after four years of talk and preparation, they had finally gone to America. Those who did know them knew that Zubeidat was “a dragonfly, never able to stay in one place,” as their Tokmok next-door neighbor Raisa Batukaeva put it. “She was always dragging him off.” This time they went to Dagestan. Why? It is possible that Zubeidat’s longing for the sea temporarily overpowered her American dream. It is possible that they could not conjure a way to move to America—studying law was not going to magically make it happen—and had the idea, however vague, that the troubled Russian Caucasus might make a better launching pad. It is possible that Anzor’s work for Jamal and his habit of impersonating a law enforcement official were starting to get him in trouble. Most likely, it was a combination of all these factors. They sold the apartment in Tokmok, which would have been worth about three thousand dollars at the time, and moved to Makhachkala.

Nothing—not even observing the radical changes in Tokmok after the collapse of the Soviet Union—could have prepared Zubeidat for what she found where the city of her childhood used to stand. It was as though every single building in Makhachkala had been impregnated by an architectural alien that caused it to sprout tentacles and grow other random organs. Everywhere something was being sold: cheap garish clothing imported from Turkey, counterfeit everything—cosmetics, underwear, electronics, footwear. Dagestan was still cobbling its own shoes, an estimated million pairs a year on which no one paid any taxes or extended any guarantees, but now these shoes looked like they had been made in China. The new trading outposts were kiosks assembled from plastic panels, panes of mismatched siding, metal sheeting, acrylic, and whatever else was handy. They would spring up overnight, sometimes blocking the sidewalk, and then change hands, begin to disintegrate, and disappear just as quickly, only to rematerialize as someone else’s shop that sold something else but looked and felt exactly the same as the one that was there before.

There were plenty of places for the residents of Makhachkala now to buy, sell, and haggle, but there was no place for them to conduct the business of being urban dwellers. No cafés or restaurants—only a very few larger stores provided the public space essential to the fabric of any city. Public transport, such as there had been, had fallen into disrepair, replaced by privately owned small vans that followed routes of their own choosing. At the same time, the city was ballooning: its population had gone from 300,000 to 800,000 in less than ten years, but only 100,000 of those who had lived there a decade earlier remained. Everyone was a newcomer, and almost no one had ever lived in a city before. Villages began to sprout at the outskirts of Makhachkala, unregulated construction that used much the same material as the kiosks; rural Dagestanis were trying to make a place for themselves in the capital. Virtually nothing and nobody remained of the city Zubeidat had loved and hated when she was growing up there.

While Makhachkala was swelling, Dagestan itself was starting to fracture in an unprecedented way. A generational religious chasm had opened up. Throughout the seventy years of Soviet rule, most formal study and practice of Islam had lived underground. The dangers inherent in practicing and teaching the religion varied with time—being an observant Muslim could land one in prison in the 1940s or bring reprimand from the local authorities in the 1970s—but the isolated state of Soviet Muslims remained a constant. Sheikhs—elders and teachers in the Sufi tradition—passed their knowledge from generation to generation, and with each iteration something changed. By the end of the twentieth century, Dagestani Muslims practiced local traditions, such as worshipping at the grave of a sheikh, that would strike a Muslim from a place like Saudi Arabia as nothing short of sacrilegious. And the Dagestani Muslims’ knowledge and understanding of the Koran would seem woefully superficial.

It was to Saudi Arabia and, to a lesser extent, the United Arab Emirates that young men from Dagestan began to travel in the 1990s, once the borders opened. There they discovered an Islam based on the rigorous study and discussion of the Koran, as practiced by the Salafis. Many of them stayed and studied for several years. Then they returned and confronted their village elders. Some of the young Salafi neophytes were driven from their villages; others left of their own accord; virtually none lived in peace with local elders, or with their families. Makhachkala’s uneasy boom was at least in part the result of an influx of these newly urban, newly religious disenfranchised young men. Those who continued to practice Sufi Islam, and the secular authorities who increasingly relied on the Sufi hierarchy, called these young men Wahhabis—a dangerous misnomer.

WAHHABISM is a modern fundamentalist movement in Islam, and in the late 1990s its presence was beginning to be felt in the Caucasus. The war in Chechnya, which began with Moscow’s crackdown on a secular ethnic self-determination movement, had changed Chechen society profoundly. Hundreds of thousands of Chechens had been killed or had left during the armed conflict from 1994 to 1996. When a peace treaty was finally signed in August 1996, giving Chechnya essentially the autonomy it had been seeking but without the official status of an independent state, its population had been depleted, its earth had been scorched, and its economy had been destroyed. Its leader, Dzhokhar Dudaev, had been killed by a targeted Russian missile in April of that year. He was replaced with Aslan Maskhadov, who had been his right hand. Maskhadov was very much in the Dudaev mold, also a former officer in the Soviet army, also entirely secular and assimilated, but he lacked Dudaev’s ruthless charisma, and by the time he signed the peace treaty with Moscow he lacked full authority over Chechen rebel fighters.

In the desperate years that followed, radicalism of every sort flourished. A small number of proselytizers from Saudi Arabia and other countries found a large number of young men willing to listen to them, and to begin proudly calling themselves Wahhabis. They believed another war was in the offing; Russia remained the enemy, but the soldiers’ new fervor was religious rather than ethnic. For several years they fought a guerrilla war that looked more like a number of gangs preying on vulnerable people under the guise of a holy war: they kidnapped journalists, foreign humanitarian workers, and even Chechens; some of the hostages were killed and others released for ransom. Then another war really did begin.

In the summer of 1999, armed Chechen fighters began crossing over into neighboring Dagestan. In August and September 1999, Russia was terrorized by a series of apartment-building explosions that killed more than three hundred people. Russia’s newly appointed prime minister and Yeltsin’s anointed successor, the former KGB colonel Vladimir Putin, blamed these bombings on Chechens, linked the acts of terror to the new Chechen armed presence in Dagestan, and unleashed the Russian military on Chechens in both Chechnya and Dagestan. The new war, which would drag on for years, catapulted the previously unknown Putin to national popularity, ensuring he would indeed become Russia’s next president. In the years after the start of the second war, a wealth of evidence emerged pointing to Russian secret-police involvement in both the apartment-building bombings and the Dagestan incursions, but with Putin quickly turning Russia into an authoritarian state, this evidence never became the object of official investigation. Journalists, politicians, and activists who tried to conduct their own investigations were assassinated.

Dagestan, meanwhile, found itself in the middle of a war. In response, local authorities did something that essentially ensured the war would go on for years to come and the supply of soldiers would be limitless: they outlawed Wahhabism, by which they also understood Salafism. The urban young men whose conflict had been with their own fathers and their village elders were now, dangerously and romantically, outlaws. Their everyday religious practices were forced underground: even the imams of Makhachkala’s two large Salafite mosques took to pretending they were Sufis.

The local police and the federal troops now stationed in Dagestan soon settled on a singular, and singularly ineffective, tactic for fighting the enemy they had conjured—a witch hunt. Local authorities compiled lists of suspected Wahhabis. A young man could land on the list for wearing a beard, for attending the wrong mosque, or for no reason at all. Men whose names were on the list were detained, interrogated—in a couple of years some would report being asked, “Where were you on September 11, 2001?”—and, in the best-case scenario, released only to face further harassment. In the worst case, they disappeared.

In response, some of the young men took up grenades, mines, and bombs. These were most often used to blow up police vehicles. Makhachkala and much of the rest of Dagestan became a battleground, with explosions and gunfights erupting daily. This was the Dagestan to which Anzor and Zubeidat brought their four children, including Tamerlan, who at fourteen was on the verge of becoming that most endangered and most dangerous of humans: a young Dagestani man. Anzor and Zubeidat had to move again, to save their children—again.

They would go to America after all.