Yulia Yuzik • Foreign Policy
On the life of Degi Dudayev, the son of independent Chechnya's dead president.
"Even when my father was alive we would often move around. We lived in Siberia, in Poltava [in Ukraine], and in Estonia. But if in those days we had the feeling of being at home everywhere we went, now it's the opposite: no father, no home, nowhere. I'm like the eternal stranger and really don't live anywhere. I visit my mother in Tbilisi, my brother and sister in Sweden, go skiing in Austria, and swim in the sea in Greece. I could have long immigrated wherever I wanted -- Sweden, Holland, Germany. For a few months I lived in Paris, trying to size the place up. But no, none of it was for me. What keeps me here is...."
He goes quiet, as if choosing just the right words. "Here I can still hear the Russian language. In Europe, I always get the sense that I'm at the edge of the world, always moving further from my home. I start to panic, thinking I'll never return, and because of the Russian language I got stuck here."
Aleksei Maishev/GQ Russia
Robert Twigger • Aeon
Escaping Cairo to experience the quiet of the Sahara desert.
A film director once told me that shooting exteriors in Cairo is a nightmare. Often they fake it, using Tunisian locations instead. The reason is the sound: the hum, they call it. You get it even if you shoot at 3am on Zamalek island, the wealthy garden district in the middle of the Nile. It's the aural equivalent of smog; hardly noticeable at first, not a problem for many, but insidious, worming its way inside you, rattling you, shaking you up like a cornflake packet. Your contents never settle. Someone told me a story about a man who bought adulterated cocaine. A flake of aluminium sulphate lodged in his sinus and burned a hole right through his skull and into his brain. I pictured Cairo's hum as a slow acid eating its way through the fragile bones of the ear, into the cortex.
John Moore/Getty Images
Carjack Victim Recounts His Harrowing Night
Eric Moskowitz • Boston Globe
The 26-year-old who found himself carjacked by the Boston bombing suspects.
The story of that night unfolds like a Tarantino movie, bursts of harrowing action laced with dark humor and dialogue absurd for its ordinariness, reminders of just how young the men in the car were. Girls, credit limits for students, the marvels of the Mercedes ML 350 and the iPhone 5, whether anyone still listens to CDs -- all were discussed by the two 26-year-olds and the 19-year-old driving around on a Thursday night.
Danny described 90 harrowing minutes, first with the younger brother following in a second car, then with both brothers in the Mercedes, where they openly discussed driving to New York, though Danny could not make out if they were planning another attack. Throughout the ordeal, he did as they asked while silently analyzing every threatened command, every overheard snatch of dialogue for clues about where and when they might kill him.
Mario Tama/Getty Images