The first time I stepped onto the streets of Grozny in December 2024, I couldn’t help but recall the harrowing images described by Sebastian Smith decades ago in his book, Allah’s Mountain: The Battle of Chechnya. The book is debatable on many aspects of First Chechen War (1994-1996) but still clearly provides harrowing account of destruction of city and lives. His words painted a picture of a city devastated beyond recognition, a wasteland where only ruins and silence reigned. He wrote, “Flattened by bombs and shells, then bulldozed clean, the one time heart of the city is a desert… that no one dares enter for fear of bombs and mines.”

Grozny, then and now, stands as a testament to time’s relentless march and the indomitable spirit of a people who have weathered storms few could endure. When Sebastian Smith walked its streets after the first Chechen war, the city was a graveyard of concrete and steel, its skeletal remains whispering tales of a war that had torn through its heart. The air back then was heavy with the acrid scent of gunpowder and despair, and the silence was broken only by the faint cries of those who dared to hope amidst the ruins. Smith’s Grozny was a city of shadows, where the ghosts of the past mingled with the defiant resolve of survivors, their eyes reflecting both pain and an unyielding will to rise again. Twenty-five years later, I walked those same streets, now unrecognizable in their transformation and here is what I saw…

I was invited for the 3 days event by the Ministry of National Policy, Foreign Affair and Press for The 11^th  International Press Award ceremony, “Golden Pen”  held in the capital city of Grozny. As I took a ride from Airport to the hotel  through the city center that evening, a different Grozny unfolded before me. This was not the city Sebastian Smith had etched into my imagination. His Grozny—a place of rubble, despair, and the haunting scars of war—had lived in my thoughts for years, a ghostly image of a city forever frozen in destruction.  The Grozny I had carried in my mind, the one Smith had so vividly described, seemed to vanish before my eyes, replaced by a vibrant, modern city that bore almost no resemblance to the war-torn landscape I had envisioned. I stood there, stunned, struggling to reconcile the two versions of this place. It was as if the past had been erased, or perhaps buried, beneath this new, gleaming facade.

The December air was cold but the streets lit with warm golden lights, where once the city was leveled to the ground, I now found government buildings, educational institutes, well-maintained parks and warm homes. The heart of the city was no longer barren—it pulsed with energy. A few skyscrapers stood proudly against the horizon, their lights gleaming like beacons of progress. Beautiful mosques with their intricate domes and towering minarets dotted the city, a testament to undying faith and endurance of Chechens.

I was advised by my hosts to rest for the day but as usual I did not listen. At first night, I found myself near the Tiynalla Hotel pond. As I leaned on the railing, taking in the view, soft music began to play from speakers around the pond. I closed my eyes for a moment, imagining how the echoes of artillery had once filled this same space, now, hold serenity. This was no longer the city of shadows and ruins; it was a city of resilience, healing, and revival.

The next morning, under the gracious guidance of the Honourable Minister of National Policy, Foreign Affairs, and Press with his team and guards, took our delegation on a journey to the Spetsnaz Academy, the Russian University of Special Forces, nestled in the heart of Gudermes. The 400-hectare complex stood as a fortress of advanced training and tactical mastery where elite units—Alfa, Vympel, GRU, and SOBR—forge the next generation of warriors.

For someone like me, who had spent countless hours reading about the legendary Spetsnaz online and marveling at India’s defense collaborations with Russia, this visit was nothing short of a dream come true. My excitement, however, reached its peak—when I couldn’t resist blurting out, “Will we get to see the Pantsir S1 or the S400 systems?” The room fell silent, and a sea of raised eyebrows and bemused glances turned my way. In that moment, the wide-eyed child in me withered away, replaced by a sheepish, overly polite adult who suddenly found the grasses very interesting. Seeing my enthusiasm one of the senior member of the forces smiled and said very warmly that they are not on display.

Despite my momentary embarrassment, the experience was nothing short of extraordinary. We were treated to a series of perfectly choreographed drills, where soldiers moved with precision and purpose, their bullets flying in perfect sync with their targets. The air was electric with the sound of gunfire further elated my mood.

Later that day when we came back to the hotel, we were asked to get ready for The Golden Award ceremony, the night I will never forget—a celebration of storytelling, culture, and the power of words. The grand hall was filled with top ministers, renowned journalists, and researchers from across Russia and the world, all gathered to honor the art of narrative.

The evening was a vibrant tapestry of Chechen culture, with performers showcasing traditional folk dances and songs that echoed the resilience and beauty of this land. The rhythm of the music, the swirl of colorful costumes, and the soulful melodies transported everyone in the room to the heart of Chechnya’s heritage. Between the performances, I found myself immersed in conversations with senior journalists, ministers, and researchers, each exchange adding a new layer to my understanding of this complex region.

After 3 days of work with the ministry I left their care to discover the common people’s tale on my own. I was shifted to a guest house nearly 2 km from Grozny city center. For the rest of my stay I strolled down the entire city everyday and night to gather stories for my work and share it with the world.

As I read in the books that during wars, Grozny after sunset was a place shrouded in danger and fear. Sebastian Smith, described it as a city where the streets emptied at dusk, leaving behind a haunting silence, broken only by the echoes of war. The Stalingrad-like ruins of the city center stood as grim reminders of conflict, and the open-air bazaar, though a lifeline for trade, would vanish as people retreated to their villages. Nights were marked by gunfire and rocket attacks, and the city felt like a ghost town, its residents locking their doors as darkness fell.

But, as I walked through the same streets that Mr. Smith once did, I see a city reborn. The ruins have been replaced by gleaming buildings, and the colourful umbrella street, once deserted, now pulse with life even after the sunsets. The younger generation, my generation, has reclaimed the night. Sleek cars cruise through the city, their music blending with the hum of conversation from bustling cafes. Young people gather over late-night coffee, their laughter a stark contrast to the silence that once defined Grozny after dark. Families fill the parks, and the elderly move leisurely to bus stops, where for just 33 rubles, they can travel anywhere in the city.

The city feels safe, vibrant, and full of hope—a stark contrast to the Grozny of the past. Where Smith saw a city scarred by war, I see a city that has risen from the ashes, a testament to the resilience and determination of its people. The younger generation, unburdened by the weight of those dark years, now walks these streets with pride, knowing that Grozny is no longer synonymous with danger but with renewal and possibility.

On one Saturday afternoon, I found myself sitting in the bustling Grozny Mall with a group of newfound friends, waiting for our pizza at the local Pizza Hut. Despite the sanctions that had made headlines across the world, life here seemed to hum along just fine—Chechnya now had its own versions of McDonald’s and KFC, and the aroma of fresh food wafting through the air was proof that some pleasures were universal. As we chatted, the conversation danced from one topic to another with the ease of a lively group of young women. One moment, we were gushing over Bollywood and the girls’ crushes on Indian actors and the next, we were diving into the future of their republic. Around the table were five of us—young, educated, and fiercely proud of our heritage. The girls spoke fluent Russian and English, and Maryam, the polyglot of the group, even threw in Arabic and Italian for good measure. They were, in my eyes, the embodiment of a new generation of Chechens—ambitious, articulate, and determined to rewrite the narrative of their homeland.

“I want the world to see us—the everyday Chechens—for who we really are,” said Kheda, who worked at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. She adjusted her hijab and leaned forward, her voice steady but filled with passion. “For too long, Chechnya has been defined by wars and conflicts. But we’re so much more than that. We’re fair, honest, and kind people. We’re a people of resilience, culture, and ambition. Despite everything, we’ve managed to preserve our ancient customs. We love our culture, we honor our traditions, and I want our republic to be known for that—not just its past struggles.”

Zara who speaks German along with Russian and English, nodded in agreement. Maryam, another linguist, jumped in. “I think language is our bridge to the world. When I speak Arabic or Italian, I feel like I’m opening doors for Chechnya. We need to connect with other cultures, learn from them, and show them what we have to offer”.  “Plus, it’s a great excuse to travel. Imagine me, a Chechen girl, translating trade deals for officials in Rome while eating gelato. Now that’s a future I can get behind!”

I couldn’t help but laugh at her enthusiasm. “I think what we all want,” I said, “is a Chechnya that’s strong, united, and forward-thinking. You’ve already come so far—and there’s still more to do. But if anyone can do it, it’s you all. Together.”

Around us, the mall buzzed with life—families shopping, friends laughing, children playing. It was a far cry from the Grozny of the past, and as we sat there, five young women with big dreams and even bigger hearts, I couldn’t help but feel that the best was yet to come. And who knows? Maybe one day, we’d all be back at this very Pizza Hut, reminiscing about the day we toasted to a future that had finally arrived. After we finished strolling around the city the entire day  it was time to bid adieu. The girls headed home, while I took a taxi back to my guesthouse. Lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling, replaying the day’s conversations until sleep took over. The next day, I stayed in my room, working on pending tasks, the city’s buzz outside a quiet backdrop to my thoughts. It was a day of quiet focus, a brief pause before diving back into the stories waiting to be uncovered.

On Monday morning, at the stroke of 9, a car arrived to whisk me away to the legendary Kavkaz mountains— steeped in history and symbolism. These mountains, I knew, were more than just a breathtaking backdrop; they were the silent witnesses to centuries of Chechen resilience, standing tall against the tides of outside aggression. From the days of Hadji Murad to the recent Chechen wars, the Kavkaz had been a fortress, a sanctuary, and a strategic stronghold. Their rugged terrain, ancient towers, and dense forests had provided natural cover, making them ideal for guerrilla warfare and ambushes. As  Smith in his book wrote, “during the recent wars, these mountains echoed with the sounds of open fighting, long-range artillery salvos, and the cries of a people determined to defend their land”. But today, as I trekked up the winding paths, I found not echoes of war, but solace and peace. The only sound that pierced the stillness was the melodic call of the Azan, the Muslim call to prayer, ringing out like a hymn to the heavens.

At the top of one of the peaks stood a small, cozy mosque, its simplicity a stark contrast to the grandeur of the mountains around it. I stepped inside and offered my afternoon prayers, the serenity of the moment washing over me like a balm. When I stepped out, my host—an elderly man in his 70s with a warmth—was waiting for me. He had noticed earlier that I didn’t take black coffee at the café during one of the stops, and with the attentiveness of a father, he opened the back of his car and pulled out a thermos of chai, along with cakes and biscuits.

“For you,” he said with a smile. As we sat there, sipping tea and nibbling on sweets, we chatted through a translator app, his curiosity about my life as boundless as the mountains around us.

“Why did you come to Chechnya?” he asked, his voice tinged with both wonder and amusement. I explained my research paper, and he nodded thoughtfully before asking again, “But why Chechnya? Why here?” I smiled and replied, “Maybe when you hear so much negativity about a place from the media, your heart grows heavy, and you want to discover the truth for yourself. That’s why I’m here.” He chuckled, admitting he knew little about paradiplomacy or geopolitics, but his excitement was palpable. “When you finish your work,” he said, “I want to read it. I’ll show it to my friends and tell them, ‘This is the girl who came all the way here to write about us!’” His pride was infectious, and I couldn’t help but laugh at his enthusiasm.

As the day wore on, he took countless photos with me, each one capturing his beaming smile and my gratitude for his kindness. In his eyes, I saw the spirit of the Kavkaz—resilient, welcoming, and full of life. By evening, we bid farewell to the mountains and headed back to the city, the memories of the day etched into my heart. I couldn’t help but wonder how a place once described by Smith as ruthless and dangerous now felt so calm and welcoming, thinking, may be time indeed is a healer.

The mountains had given me more than just a view; they had given me a glimpse into the soul of Chechnya—a place where history and hope intertwine, where the echoes of war are drowned out by the laughter of its people, and where even the simplest act of sharing chai can feel like a celebration of life. As I left, I carried with me not just the stories of the mountains, but also the warmth of a man who, in his own way, had shown me the true heart of Chechnya. And perhaps, one day, I’ll return to these peaks, not just to write, but to sit again with my host, sip chai, near a waterfall in summers.

As my 10-day visit came to an end, I couldn’t help but feel a bittersweet tug at my heart. The time had flown by, filled with moments of discovery, connection, and reflection, yet I knew my work here was far from complete. My research on Paradiplomacy —a topic that had brought me to this resilient land—remained unfinished, like a story paused mid-sentence. There were so many stories I had gathered, so many voices I had heard, but they were still fragments, waiting to be woven into a larger narrative. And then there were the stories I hadn’t yet heard—the war veterans with their untold tales of survival, their children who carried the weight of history in their eyes, and the everyday people whose lives were a testament to resilience and hope. I had only scratched the surface, limited by time and words, and it left me yearning for more.

Perhaps one day, I thought, I would return. I would stay a little longer, chat a little louder, and listen a little deeper. I would sit with the elders, walk again through the bustling markets with the youth, and stand in the quiet corners of history that still whispered their secrets. And when I did, I would share it all—not just through fleeting conversations or brief articles, but through a book that would carry the essence of new Chechnya to the world. I wanted to tell the world about the wars that had scarred this land, the politics that shaped its present, the economy that fueling its future, and the tiny, everyday tales of its people—stories of love, loss, laughter, and hope that often go unnoticed but are the very heartbeat of a nation.

On Tuesday morning, as I packed my bags, I carefully folded not just my clothes but also the memories I had gathered—the laughter shared over pizza, and Chai, the passionate conversations about the future, the quiet moments of reflection in the shadow of Grozny’s rebirth. Each memory was a thread in the tapestry of my experience, and I carried them with me as I left for home, my heart full but my work still calling.

Chechnya had given me so much—a glimpse into its soul, a connection to its people, and a deeper understanding of its complexities. As I boarded the plane, I carried the weight of responsibility—to tell its stories, to honor its resilience, and to one day return to complete what I had started. Until then, I held onto the hope that my words, though limited now, would one day do justice to this land and its people. And maybe, just maybe, I would return to stay a little longer, to listen a little closer, and to share a little more of Chechnya’s extraordinary tale with the world.

Areeba Sherwani is A Research Associate with the Ayaan Institute and won a award at the Golden Pen Ceremony for her Writing with Ayaan.