Time to read: 7 minutes(s)

«"God is with us, victory is ours!" a drunken young man rushes toward the Wagner mercenary's car and shakes the hand extended from the window. The balaclava-clad driver honks, and the crowd erupts in applause and whistles. "Handsome! Men! Thank you!" the crowd shouts as the jeeps drive away. The trunks of the cars are piled high with now-useless weapons—RPGs and machine guns.

The farewell to the Wagner fighters in Rostov was as if a victorious football match or a rock concert had just concluded. Couples strolled arm in arm near the Southern Military District (SMD) headquarters. Trash littered the area, and the smell of alcohol hung in the air. A NeMoskva correspondent gathered opinions from Rostov residents about the "March of Justice," which could have ended in bloodshed but instead ended in mass agitation.

A young man squats on the road, right next to the bumper of a police car. He's holding a Wagner PMC flag. He's spinning around, taking pictures, even as the police horns are already blaring. The crowd roars in unison: "Wagner! Wagner!"

A girl standing on the sidewalk shakes her head. 

- Trash... 

The guy standing next to her nods.

— There were two hours left before the disaster, and they were having a party here. 

Evgeny and Alina are visiting the city. Both are around thirty. The girl came to Rostov from the "DPR," the boy evasively says he's "from Europe."

"There's only one commander-in-chief," Yevgeny comments on the situation. "Everything else is irrelevant. If resistance starts, it will always be crushed. A PMC is just a private military company; it has fewer rights; they shouldn't behave like that. They need to be pacified. In the West, they would have put this down long ago and wouldn't even look at it. Vladimir Vladimirovich is apparently a reserved man..."

"Were you scared?" I ask the girl. 

She smiles.

"I'm from the DPR. I'm not afraid of anything anymore."

Police lights dazzle, and the road is gridlocked. The asphalt is crumpled in places. Tractors are trying to tow tanks from the side of the road. One of them has "Siberia" painted on it in red, and another has a bouquet of flowers in the barrel. The Wagner mercenaries wave and give them the thumbs-up, but refuse to comment on the situation.

"What did you want to achieve with your raid?" I ask one of them. He's sitting in a jeep, holding a machine gun.

"What raid?" the bearded fighter feigns bewilderment.

— "March of Justice", I think...

The bearded man waves his hand vaguely.

- We just came to meet each other.

A man in his forties peers into the driver's window. Holding his teenage daughter's hand, he shouts, "Thank you!" and then drags her to an empty armored personnel carrier parked across the street. The word "Brother" is painted on the vehicle, and people take photos next to it every minute.

"You have such an opportunity!" the father coaxes, leading his daughter to the BMP. The girl obediently strikes a pose.

“God forbid such an opportunity,” their companion remarks. 

A man and a girl take a photo. According to the father, military equipment in the center of a city with a population of over a million is "not a problem."

"Why not? We all took it well," he says. "Mr. Prigozhin apparently lost his temper and decided to express his opinion, which hadn't been heard before. And now, I think, they'll listen."

"Weren't you afraid of bloodshed? It could have turned into a massacre." 

The man shrugs in confusion. He smells of vodka.

“No, it couldn’t,” he insists. “Why? Firstly, it didn’t work out. And secondly, it couldn’t. So I wasn’t afraid for a minute. I believe what Prigozhin said—it was all for a reason. They weren’t given ammunition. And the guys showed that there’s still a force that can stand up to corruption. I hope things will get better now. The guys were simply seething, and they carried out [the raid] very competently, daringly, and swiftly. The fact that they were called rebels and extremists—that’s not true. They are for Russia, for the Motherland.”

A guy is hanging around the "Bratishka" BMP, explaining something to his buddies. He's examining the vehicle's walls, then suddenly opens the side hatch. An abandoned grenade launcher lies in the cabin.

"It's a disgrace," the man in the checkered shirt nods gloomily. His name is Sergei, he's 46. "You can't just leave military equipment on the street like that... It's a disgrace. And allowing such raids to happen is also a disgrace. Civilians see it as a publicity stunt, but there's nothing good about it. You live here, do you enjoy the fact that there's a war here? Is it fun to walk around with your kids when there are armored personnel carriers parked there?" 

- Well, it is believed that Prigozhin was “driven to it.”

"I don't consider that an excuse. Because Rostov is a peaceful city. I went out this morning, bringing water to the soldiers. And I told them straight out: 'Fuck, bros, I hope there's no war.'"

The departing Wagner vehicles honk their horns in response to the applause of passersby. A distant rumble echoes—someone is firing machine guns into the sky.

Rostov residents admit that despite the unexpectedness of Prigozhin's "raid," the military equipment on the streets "didn't frighten" them.

"But we showed everyone we're not the last," said Evgeny, a 34-year-old auto mechanic. He came to the Southern Military District headquarters with a friend. "People don't know how much weaponry we have. We only watch it on TV. But at least this way we saw for ourselves that we have soldiers, uniforms, and equipment. Maybe it was scary [at first], but the guys are decent. I don't believe it when people say they're bad. And Rostov showed them we're good-natured people; we won't leave you hungry—we'll feed you and give you something to drink."

Evgeny attributes the "raid" to "politics": "They must have had some kind of disagreement." But he doesn't know what exactly: "I don't understand that stuff."

A black jeep pulls out of the army headquarters. Yevgeny Prigozhin's face suddenly appears in the window. He shakes the outstretched hands and bids farewell: "All the best!" 

The crowd erupts in cheers and whistles.

Rostov fitter Andrei Prigozhin "fully supports" the raid. He's confident that thanks to it, everyone understood that "the army needs to be supplied."

"It's a political act, for sure. Because propaganda is one thing, and what's actually happening on the front lines is quite another."

He considers Wagner fighters to be “normal guys.”

"They won't rush into trouble, won't make any unnecessary moves. They're skilled fighters, true professionals in their field. Which can't be said about the Russian Ministry of Defense's army... Just like how [the Wagnerites] captured Bakhmut! Great guys..." 

A masked man approaches Andrey. Hearing the name "Bakhmut," he corrects him: "Artemovsk."

“Yes, exactly,” Andrey apologizes.

The masked man's name is Artem. He spent the entire evening chatting with the Wagnerites and proudly admits they told him "secret information" about the Ministry of Defense. But he doesn't want to share it—because it's "secret." 

But Artem is happy to share his discoveries and plans.

"Any citizen can join the Wagner PMC, regardless of whether they served in the military or not. But I, for example, can't join the Russian army to defend my homeland. I'm not fit for the Ministry of Defense for health reasons. But I'm fine for Wagner." 

- Why didn’t you go then?

"Well, it's all here!" Artem says happily. "I talked to the guys, they explained how to get there. [They] said everything would be great and they'd take me."

The criminal past of some of the PMC fighters does not bother him.

"I talked to them, and the articles there weren't too harsh. So they could have gotten a pass."

The last Wagner vehicles leave the intersection near the Southern Military District headquarters. Traffic has been restored. People disperse—only a few passersby and police remain on the street. They stand near the "Bratishka" infantry fighting vehicle, apparently unsure what to do with it. A grenade launcher is still inside the vehicle.

The longest day in Rostov's modern history has ended. 

In the light of the flashing lights on the rear wall of the BMP, the inscription “HELLO WAS FUCKED” is visible.