Inside the Pro-Russian Breakaway Region That Doesn’t Officially Exist

Stories from Roads & Kingdoms
May 2 2014 12:00 PM

A Sunday With “Separatists”

A bus trip into the pro-Russian breakaway region that doesn’t officially exist.

Young members of the communist party march on the 96th anniversary of the Russian Revolution. Tiraspol, Moldova
Young members of the communist party march on the 96th anniversary of the Russian Revolution in Tiraspol, Moldova, on Nov. 7, 2013.

Courtesy of Davin Ellicson

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TIRASPOL, Moldova—It’s anyone’s guess whether eastern Ukraine will be goaded into separating from the rest of the country, but for a glimpse of what that divorce might look like, you don’t have to look any further than the small pro-Russian breakaway of Transnistria.

That’s where I found myself recently, on an overcrowded minibus making the 80 km (50 mile) trip between the capital of Transnistria and the capital of Moldova, the country it separated from. It passes east-west through the main “border” checkpoint, on the Dniester River, past the fortified bridgehead where an armored personnel carrier is surrounded by Kalashnikov-wielding troops and secret service agents inspect documents.

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Among the passengers on the minibus with me are Svetoslav Terescenko, 20, and Tatiana Verejan, 19, for whom this is the route between their home in the east and their university in the west. It’s also a potential path from the past to the future, because although they identify strongly with Russia, they see opportunity in the West.

While speculation continues over whether Russia, following its annexation of Crimea, will push west and absorb this separatist enclave, the couple discusses their long-term escape.

“We have always wanted to leave Transnistria,” Terescenko says, holding his girlfriend’s hand. “The people who stay here are getting their money from the government or stealing it from somewhere. Those who can’t see a future are just leaving.” The two first met 18 months ago on this same bus route.

Like many Transnistrian students their age, they’ve chosen to study in Chisinau so their degrees will be recognized abroad. Degrees from Transnistria’s university in Tiraspol only mean something in Russia.

But looking west for opportunities doesn’t equate with a rejection of Russia, says the pair. Terescenko, a medical student, and Verejan, who studies economics, both think annexation would be the best outcome for Transnistria’s stability and agree with Crimea’s absorption into the Russian Federation.

But this current east-west struggle means little to them in real terms. Cold War rhetoric exists in the realm of geopolitics and newspapers. For those planning their careers, families, and lives, it’s not so much a question of allegiance as a matter of pragmatism.

“Our wish right now is to graduate and go to Australia,” says Terescenko, comfortable in a gray hoodie, jeans, and sporting a scruffy Lincoln beard. “Even if Russia does annex us, the situation won’t be better; it will just stay the same. In Russia it’s good to live in Moscow or St Petersburg. The money Russia gives to Transnistria now will be the same. They would just change the passports, nothing else.”

Verejan leans forward: “We just don’t want to go back there.”

Heading East

A couple of hours before meeting Terescenko and Verejan, I was heading the opposite direction.

For almost 23 years, Transnistria has—with the help of about 1,500 permanently stationed Russian troops—maintained a self-governed independence from Moldova, which counts the territory within its borders. It’s a de facto state, unrecognized by any sovereign nation. In normal times it’s referred to as a “frozen conflict.” But as Ukraine descends into crisis, Transnistria's position as a pro-Russian separatist enclave within the boundaries of an aspiring European Union member has seen that label shift. It’s now a “front line” in the escalating showdown between Russia and the West, say experts. And despite the breakaway state prohibiting foreign reporters it hasn’t accredited, a flurry of datelines has appeared from its capital, Tiraspol. 

So, donning a Hawaiian shirt to conceal what little journalistic professionalism I could be accused of having, I decided to follow suit to meet the people living in this symbolic battleground. Amid reports of Russian troops staging military drills in the region, our minibus, a shiny Mercedes Sprinter, set off from Chisinau.

As we completed our Transnistria entry forms en route, my translator, Viorel, gave me some additional tips on the tourist routine: “If they ask, say you’ve come to get some Kvint.”

The internationally exported cognac, “the beverage that gives pleasure,” according to its website, is a source of great pride for Transnistria, although the enclave’s infamy as a trafficking haven for everything from guns and people to cigarettes and frozen foods likely eclipses its reputation for brandy.

After a bumpy 90-minute ride east, we reached the border, a checkpoint and small collection of booths guarded by a handful of Cossack cap-wearing troops with Kalashnikovs slung over their backs.

First at a kiosk, then inside a modest cabin, stony-faced officers maintained a stern silence while flicking through my passport. Without having to mention cognac once, I was given the all clear and headed back to the bus.

Tiraspol

Much has been written about the time-warp aesthetic of Transnistria, which served as the industrialized region of Soviet-era Moldova, although driving through it is more a case of back-and-forth time-traveling—a simple turn of the head can add or subtract 40 years. At one moment you’re staring at old Russian-made Ladas parked outside a dreary apartment block backdropped by a sprawling factory, the next a flashy Mercedes passes by, or you catch a glimpse of the Sheriff Stadium, a massive modern football arena built by (and named after) the region’s biggest company, whose name is plastered on gas stations and billboards.

But despite the sporadic additions of modernity, one travel guide’s description of the republic as “an open air Soviet museum” rings particularly true when we reach October 25th Street, Tiraspol’s main road and a reference to the Russian revolution. 

A statue of Lenin in front of the Parliament building. Tiraspol, Moldova. November 2013.
A statue of Lenin in front of the Parliament building in Tiraspol in November 2013.

Courtesy of Davin Ellicson

Fronted by a Lenin statue several meters high and topped by a flag bearing the hammer and sickle, Transnistria’s parliamentary building looks every bit as communist as the name of its legislature—still the Supreme Soviet, which has governed the region as the Pridnestrovian Moldavian Republic since it declared independence in 1990 as the Soviet empire crumbled.

Across the road, soldier statues flank a war memorial inscribed with the names of the Transnistrian troops who died in the country’s war against the Moldovan government fought mostly in 1992. Although brief, the conflict claimed about 1,500 lives and only ended when Russian troops and tanks—like the T-34 that has been mounted on a platform as part of the memorial—arrived and backed the separatists.

Children play on a tank, a monument to Transnistria's 1992 war of secession with Moldova in which over 1000 people were killed.
Children play on a tank, a monument to Transnistria's 1992 war of secession with Moldova, in Tiraspol in November 2013.

Courtesy of Davin Ellicson

Since then, the enclave has remained in limbo. Yes, it has adopted a constitution and developed its own military, postal system, currency, and license plates, but not a single United Nations member has recognized it as anything other than a territory within Moldova, statistically Europe’s poorest nation.

Even Russia, whose soldiers never left after the ceasefire and still guard hidden weapon dumps, has refused to recognize its sovereignty, though it’s no secret Russian cash and gas underpins its economy. Pro-EU Moldova sees Transnistria as a threat to national security, while experts around the world are asking whether the enclave could be “the next Crimea.”

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