After Monday's shock, Tuesday morning in Moscow dawned bright and tense. No one had yet claimed responsibility for the twin suicide blasts that killed 39 people and injured dozens more in the Moscow metro, and the headlines, especially in the Western press, teemed with preemptive analysis: Did the trail really lead, as the FSB alleged, to the restive Northern Caucasus? Would there be more attacks? And if so, would there be massive retaliation, or even war? Were the attacks bad for Prime Minister Vladimir Putin: a critical blow to his steely appeal, and a political contract based on trading liberties for security? Or were they good for him, a pretext to tighten the screws at home? What if Putin used the attack as proof that his dauphin President Dmitry Medvedev had lost control of the situation, necessitating Putin's triumphant return to the presidency in 2012?
These are, of course, important, rational questions. But they only matter if you view yesterday morning's subway bombing as a big deal -- and many political observers in Russia, from Kremlin insiders to linchpins of the opposition, do not. Was it gruesome and tragic and of earth-shifting significance to all those who lost friends and relatives? Absolutely. Was it a game changer in the grander scheme of things? Probably not.
"Is it a big deal?" asks Yulia Latynina, a veteran opposition Russian journalist who has long reported on the Caucasus. "No, it's not. What was it that even happened? Russia has been exploding for 11 years, just not in Moscow.'"
In other words, when taken in the broader context of Russia and the slow-motion conflict in the Northern Caucasus -- the 2004 explosion in the market in the southern Russian city of Samara (10 dead, 60 wounded), the two Russian passenger planes that simultaneously fell from the sky that same year (89 dead), the suicide bombing that nearly killed the Ingush president in June -- the blasts in the Moscow subway by two female jihadis were just another parry, and not a very damaging one at that.
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According to Irina Adrionova, the spokeswoman for the Russian Ministry of Emergency Situations, this blast was far less severe than Moscow's last subway double-bombing, back in 2004. "Yesterday's explosion took place when the train was already at the platform and had its doors open so the initial wave of the blast was more diffused than in 2004, when the train was in the tunnel," Adrionova explained. "And, in 2004, we also faced a fire of the highest magnitude."
Many observers -- myself included -- were struck by the orderliness of the emergency response. The Emergency Ministry instantly organized an information point for reporters and concerned relatives, posted frequently updated information on the victims' whereabouts on its website, and recorded announcements listing hotline numbers, including one for psychological help, to be played in the metro. Digital billboards across the city flashed the numbers, too. By 5 p.m., just nine hours after the first blast, the metro was fully operational, in time for the evening rush hour. Even Medvedev and the normally floridly thuggish Putin were relatively measured in their responses.
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