A Russian Afghani: A Story of a Captive Soldier from Alexey Nikolaev’s Book
Nurmomad (Sergey) Krasnoperov was conscripted and sent to the war in Afghanistan in 1984, and soon after that he couldn’t take the bullying from his comrades-in-arms and went to join the mujahedeen. He spent several weeks in captivity, after year a marriage was arranged for him, and this is how Afghanistan became his home.
oscow photographer Alexey Nikolaev launched a fundraiser to publish his photo book "Forever Captive". This a book about former Soviet soldiers who were taken captive in Afghanistan and stayed there for a long time. Bird In Flight publishes the story of one of the people in the book - Sergey Krasnoperov, or Nurmomad.
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When I flew into Chaghcharan early in the morning, I went to see Sergey at work. I could get there only on cargo scooter - what a trip it was! Sergey works as a foreman, he has 10 subordinates, and they are procuring ballast for road construction. He also has a part-time job as an electrician at the local water power plant. He was suspicious about me at first, which is a natural reaction - I was the first Russian journalist who ever met him during his time in Afghanistan. We talked, we drank tea and we arranged to go to his home in the evening.
As a result of several hours of negotiations and three or four liters of tea they agreed to take me to Sergey’s place, on the condition that we would not be spending the night.
After that I saw Sergey in town many times, but this was the only time I spent some time at his home - it was dangerous to leave the town. Sergey told me that now that everyone here knew there was a journalist here I could get hurt. My first impression of Sergey was that he was a strong, calm and confident man. He talked a lot about his family and about how he wants to move from the mountain village to the town. As far as I know, he is building a house in the town. When I think of his future, I don’t worry about him. Afghanistan has become his real home.
— I was born beyond the Ural mountains in the town of Kurgan. I still remember my home address: 43 Bazhova St. They sent me to Afghanistan, and by the end of my conscription, when I was 20, I went to join the mujahedeen. I left because I didn’t get along with my comrades-in-arms. They were all united and I was alone — they were insulting me and I couldn’t respond. Although, it wasn’t even new guy bashing, as all of those guys were conscripted at the same time as me.
I didn’t even have weapons, otherwise I would have killed them then and there. And the mujahedeen who were located close to our unit accepted me. Not right away though - for about 20 days I was locked up in a small room, but it was not in a prison, and there were guards at the door. They put me in shackles at night and took them off during the day — even if I could get to the ravine, I wouldn’t know where to go. Then their commander came, and he said that if I came on my own, I could leave on my own, and I needed neither shackles nor guards. Although I don’t think I would have gone back to my unit — they would have killed me. The mujahedeen commander was most likely testing me.
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The first three-four months I didn’t speak the language, and then we gradually started to understand each other. The mullahs were seeing the mujahedeen a lot. We started to talk and I realized that God is one and religion is one, it’s just that Jesus and Mohammed are emissary of different faiths. I didn’t do anything when I was with the mujahedeen, I only sometimes helped them mend their SMGs. I was then appointed to serve some commander who fought with other tribes, but he was soon killed. I did not fight against the Soviet soldiers, especially taking into account that the army was withdrawn from that region fairly soon after my escape. The mujahedeen realized that if they found me a wife, I would stay with them. So this was what happened. I got married after a year, and after that they stopped watching me, they never let me go anywhere alone before that. But I was still doing nothing, I had to survive - I suffered several deadly diseases, I don’t even know what they are called.
I have six children. I had more, but many died. All of them are blonde and look almost Slavic. After all, my wife is like that as well. I earn one thousand two hundred dollars a month, they don’t pay this kind of money for nothing here. I want to buy a lot of land in town. The governor and my boss promised they would help me, I am on the waiting list. The public price is small, around a thousand dollars, and you can sell it for six later. It is profitable in case I do decide to leave. As the saying goes in Russia these days: It’s business.
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Sergey spends a lot of time at work, but he tries to go home as early as he can. One of the children is always meeting him, hoping for a present.
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Chaghcharan is a small town lost in the mountains of Central Afghanistan. It is the administrative center of Ghor province. The town itself is a series of identical houses: two-storeyed boxes, with shops on the ground floor that mostly sell Chinese or Indian goods. People live upstairs from the shops - the number of people in the streets during the day creates the impression there must be 10-20 people living in each room. What really happens is that many of them live in the mountain villages near town. There is a small airport in the town, the planes don’t fly too often, but you still can get to both Herat and Kabul. Walking around the town I realize it is all made in one color - sand yellow, despite the fact that some buildings are painted blue or green. In the nighttime only one street is lit, and the nights in the mountains are dark. People with flashlights are checking on the shops from time to time, making sure everything is in order.
After some time I submitted to this rhythm, too. It was sometimes disturbed by new guests at the hotel who wanted to treat me with some traditional dessert or asked me for cigarettes. This town is trapped in time, just like a fly in amber. Even modern technology, cars, phones and electric lights do not make it more modern. I think this is the way it was 20, 50, and 100 years ago.
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