A tale of two soldiers A draftee’s funeral and an enlistee’s send-off party were held mere meters apart in a Russian village. Here’s how the day unfolded.
In the nearly two and a half years since Russia launched its full-scale war against Ukraine, more than 75,000 Russian soldiers are estimated to have been killed on the battlefield, according to the best available data. Soldiers’ funerals have become a regular occurrence in all of Russia’s regions, including in small villages, where many residents view enlistment as a relatively quick way to earn the kind of money they wouldn’t otherwise have access to — assuming they survive. An eventful day in a small village in Tatarstan recently laid bare the tension of this relationship to war: the funeral of a local soldier named Ilnaz was held at the same time as a send-off party for a new recruit named Sergey. The two gatherings were so close to one another that they nearly merged into one. A Meduza correspondent visited the scene to observe how the two events unfolded.
The names in this story have been changed for security reasons.
Almost every month, residents of this Tatarstan village bid farewell to soldiers deploying to Ukraine. And about every four months, they hold a funeral for a soldier who died there.
According to locals, the first funeral for a soldier was relatively well-attended, drawing about 90 people. Only about half as many came to the second one. By the fifth, they said, it wasn’t clear who had come to pay respects and who had simply wandered in out of curiosity.
The death of Ilnaz, a 36-year-old draftee, wasn’t reported immediately. He stopped responding to messages in January 2024, but it was two more months before he was officially declared missing. A local conscription official told his parents that their son may have died as long as six months ago, but the identification process dragged on for months; meanwhile, Ilnaz’s body began to decay. When his death was finally confirmed, the military sealed his body in a zinc coffin and prohibited its opening. Conscription officials denied his relatives permission to even go near it.
Ilnaz’s family was finally informed of his death in May. His funeral was scheduled for June 9.
‘Better found dead than never found’
On the day that Ilnaz’s family learns of his death, everyone else in town seems to be discussing a different young man: Sergey from Shosseynaya Street, who, without telling his family, signed a contract to join the war in Ukraine as part of a regional battalion.
It’s evening, and a group of men are standing around a food kiosk, discussing how much Sergey will earn from his one-year contract — and what kind of renovations he can do to his garage with the money.
A woman waiting in line whispers to her friend that Sergey is a gambling addict: “He has so much debt — nearly 150,000 rubles [about $1,720]. He’d never be able to make that kind of money here. Going to war was his only choice,” she says.
Her friend listens without much interest, nodding her head in response. She’s looking at the bread; a child at the front of the line has taken the last cheap loaf. Evidently unable to afford any of the rest, she walks away, empty-handed. Her friend, meanwhile, begins whispering about Ilya’s gambling problems to another woman in the line: Ilnaz’s mother.
It’s been about one hour since Ilnaz’s mother learned of his death. An official from the conscription office called and put it plainly: “Your son’s been found, but he’s dead.” She’s at the kiosk to buy some vodka for her husband, who’s managed to stay sober for the last six months. Her face is red from the heat, and her calves are covered in mosquito bites from working in the garden.
Ilnaz’s mother remains silent, and the other woman continues talking about how “shameful” it is to “have a gambling addict for a son.” She feels bad for Sergey’s mother, she says, because he “takes after his father: they’re both lazy alcoholics.”
A few minutes later, she asks if Ilnaz has been found yet. When Ilnaz’s mother tries to answer, the woman talks over her: “It’s really weird that they’ve been searching for him for so long. There’s a decent chance he’s already run off to fight for the other side and won’t come home.”
“They found Ilnaz a few days ago,” his mother says when she finally manages to get a word in. “We’ll bury him soon.”
“Well, it’s a good thing they found him,” the woman says without blinking. “Better found dead than never found. Anyway, they also say Sergey smoked pot while he was in college. His poor mother — it’s such a shame.”
A summer requirement
The village’s main institutions are all right next to each other: the town hall building, the kindergarten, the church, and the Orthodox cemetery. During funerals, it takes about two minutes to walk from the church to the gravesite of the deceased.
The village school is about a 10-minute walk from the cemetery. The village council requires all students and teachers to attend the funerals of local residents killed in Ukraine — even if they take place on the weekend. If a soldier’s death is reported far in advance of the funeral, like in Ilnaz’s case, teachers are tasked with helping their students prepare songs and poems to be performed at the burial ceremony. Usually, these songs and poems are about the Second World War, though students have sung a song about the Soviet–Afghan War on at least one occasion.
Part of the funeral preparation process is to clean up the cemetery and the church grounds. This is usually done on a Saturday by students in the fifth grade and older. Failing to take part in these preparations, the students say, is viewed as a sign of disrespect for the deceased soldier’s family.
Ilnaz’s son, Bulat, finished the fifth grade this year, so at 8:30 a.m. on Saturday, he goes with his classmates to clean the area for his father’s funeral. He arrives with a rake, a broom, gloves, and some trash bags. At his teacher’s instruction, he proceeds to clean up the grave of a village resident who died in 2005. It’s surrounded by empty vodka bottles and cigarette butts.
Around lunchtime, the students move to the church grounds. There’s much less litter here than in the cemetery, because the church is almost always closed. At the end of the cleaning session, the seventh graders pour a bucket of water over the village’s World War II monument before scrubbing it down with rags. When the dirty water pools into gray puddles, two stray dogs come over and start lapping it up, thrilling the students.
‘Still a living soldier’
Unlike soldiers’ funerals, send-off parties for new enlistees headed to Ukraine are fairly rare for the village, several residents tell Meduza. Most of the time, villagers who go to war are doing so against their will — either as part of the official mobilization drive or under pressure from police. Local law enforcement officers sometimes give a choice to residents who break the law: either sign an army contract and go to war or face criminal charges. In March, a 26-year-old villager who stole a car chose the first option; three months later, he was killed.
Sergey has invited relatives and friends both from his home village and from neighboring ones to come celebrate his departure. He asks his girlfriend to prepare two large bowls of his favorite salad; she spends the entire evening chopping vegetables and sausage on their balcony while posting on her WhatsApp story about how proud she is to be cooking for her brave boyfriend. Sergey’s father, meanwhile, brings over two cases of beer, while his mother bakes potatoes and savory pies. The party will take place the following morning — at the same time as Ilnaz’s funeral.
Sergey’s and Ilnaz’s families are aware the two events will be taking place simultaneously, but it’s too late to reschedule the funeral: the authorities have already been officially notified, and the students have prepared their performance. Sergey can’t postpone his send-off party, either: he’s already made plans for a night on the town with his friends, and he ships off to the Rostov region for basic training tomorrow.
According to Ilnaz’s mother, she asked Sergey to hold his event a bit further away from the cemetery, but Sergey refused, arguing that he’s “still a living soldier” and that he “should be respected.” After that, Ilnaz’s mother stopped arguing; in her current state, she says, she’s “simply not able to fight for what she wants.”
Two goodbyes
It’s 8:00 a.m. on Sunday, and it’s already sweltering. Locals have begun gathering at the church grounds for Ilnaz’s funeral, while Sergey’s mother and girlfriend are setting up a folding table on an athletic field nearby. The cemetery and the send-off party area are separated only by a gravel path and a few scraggly bushes.
At around 9:00, the priest arrives and begins the funeral service. A district government employee takes a video of the prayer and photographs the coffin. When their teacher gives the command, the students release balloons in the colors of the Russian flag and begin their performance.
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Nearby, vodka is set on the table for Sergey’s guests as the soon-to-be soldier lights a fire and starts grilling meat. According to his girlfriend, the couple and their friends have been celebrating his departure nonstop since the previous night.
The students’ funeral performance begins with Soviet writer Konstantin Simonov’s World War II poem “Kill Him!” Each child has memorized a few lines; a small fifth-grader in a button-down shirt recites:
And until you have killed him, don’t
Talk about your love — and
Call the house where you lived your home
Or the land where you grew up your land.
The student’s teacher is smiling and filming the performance. The other students stand motionless, having repeatedly been scolded for their fidgeting during rehearsals.
Don’t let it be yours, but his
Family who will wait in vain.
Once the poem is over, three students perform the pro-war song “We Will Rise” by the pro-Putin singer Shaman:
We will rise, as long as the Lord is with us,
And the truth is with us,
We will say thank you
For giving us victory.
Their singing is partially drowned out by the upbeat summer pop music coming from Sergey’s party nearby. One of the eleventh graders, struggling not to laugh, tries to surreptitiously film the performance on his phone, but the vice principal slaps his hand. When the song ends, the funeral attendees applaud politely, trying to ignore the drunken shouts coming from across the way.
Meanwhile, the smell of barbecue from Sergey’s send-off mixes with the odor of decomposing flesh emanating from Ilnaz’s coffin. The students at the funeral glance enviously at the partiers’ picnic spread.
A second grader with pigtails asks her teacher if the students are going to be fed after the funeral. “You should be grateful that you were even invited here!” the teacher responds, then proceeds to accuse her of disrespecting God, her elders, war, and her “ancestors who fought for this ungrateful brat to stand here and ask for food.” The girl lowers her head, stares at her feet, and nervously plays with her hair.
‘Those kids will be back here’
Ilnaz’s coffin is lowered into the ground. The funeral guests line up to throw handfuls of dirt from a blue plastic bucket into the grave. Each child says “Thank you, rest in peace” upon reaching the grave, just as they rehearsed.
Initially, the school’s leadership required all students to cross themselves while bidding soldiers farewell, but the rule was changed after some Muslim students’ families protested. It was ultimately decided that the rule would only apply to students with “Russian” names.
At Sergey’s send-off, his friends continue dancing to music from a car stereo. Sergey himself is already fast asleep in the grass.
Ilnaz’s mother wipes her eyes with a handkerchief, and her husband gives her a hug and whispers something in her ear. When the funeral finally comes to an end, she walks up to the priest and complains that holding a send-off party right next to a soldier’s funeral is “inappropriate.”
“Oh, come on,” he says, dismissing her objection. “They’ll gather back here just like this. And we’ll bury Sergey, too — and those same kids will be back here throwing dirt.”
The priest then turns to the conscription officers, who have already gotten into their official vehicle.
“Will I get paid more for Sergey? He’s a volunteer, after all — his funeral costs two thousand more [than a draftee’s],” he tells them. “You have my number.”
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Reporting by Dzhamilya Zamaliyeva. Abridged translation by Sam Breazeale.