‘I wanted to save her from herself’ In a new memoir about her childhood in Chechnya, Lana Estemirova remembers the life, work, and assassination of her mother
Growing up in Chechnya in the 1990s and early 2000s, Lana Estemirova knew that her mother, renowned human rights activist Natalia Estemirova, had a very important job. She often went to work with Natalia at the Memorial human rights group’s Grozny office, and overheard her conversations about the abuses sweeping the republic amid the Chechen Wars. Then, when Lana was 15 years old, her mother was kidnapped outside their apartment block and brutally murdered. In her new memoir, “Please Live: The Chechen Wars, My Mother and Me,” Lana tells the story of her childhood, and how her mother’s unwavering dedication to her work not only shaped their relationship but ultimately led to her death. Meduza spoke to Lana Estemirova about commemorating her mother’s life and work, how Ramzan Kadyrov’s iron grip on power in Chechnya continues to destroy lives, and how she’s come to terms with the risks that come with fighting for the truth.
Meduza first published this interview in Russian on July 7, 2025. The following translation has been edited and abridged for length and clarity.
— How long did it take you to write this book? And what was the most difficult part for you?
— The idea to tell our story came to me in 2012, when I was in Chechnya. I was at the cemetery, sitting at my mother’s grave, and I promised her that I’d tell our story so that she would remain in people’s memory forever. And I also promised that my children would always live far away from war, in safety, and that I would never risk my life unnecessarily.
As I was finishing university, I realized that the time had come to write the book. I met with Mary Lawlor, the founder of Front Line Defenders, and told her about my plans, and she helped me find a grant. I planned to finish the book in a year, but reality shattered all of these fantasies: it turned out that writing is much more difficult than I thought. I was watching the situation in Chechnya get worse and worse, and this was superimposed on the memories of my past — and I realized that I had overestimated my strength. At the same time, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was letting my mother down, even though everyone said I wasn’t. They told me: “You’re not letting anyone down. If it’s hard for you, leave it.” But I continued to work on the book.
Then I met my agent and he really took charge. A publishing house bought the rights and I finished the book within a year. I think it’s right [that the book is only coming out now] because as you get closer to 30, you look at a lot of things differently. It was important for me to look at my mother not only from the point of view of a child but also from that of a grown woman who sees her as an equal.
— Who do you see as the audience for your book?
— From the very beginning it was important to me that this book wouldn’t just be for Chechnya or Russia experts, journalists, or people who knew my mother. I wanted it to focus not on the war, [Chechen Governor Ramzan] Kadyrov, or the murder, but on the story of a single mother and her daughter. There are many such families, and the story of a woman who devotes herself to her work and a child who raises herself will be familiar to many.
People around [my mother] asked why she didn’t move to another region of Russia or abroad, and why she gave all of herself to this work, which ultimately led to her death. I tried not to look for an answer to this question, but simply to show what our life was like, so that the reader could answer for themselves whether it was worth it.
Of course the book should be translated into Russian eventually; I’m working on it. And it would be very important to me for this book to be published in Ukrainian too. I think it would be important for many people in Ukraine to read about such a painfully similar experience. It’s important to remember that the Chechen people are now essentially hostages and this unenviable fate could threaten many of Ukraine’s regions if they are surrendered to Russia.
— The title of your book is Please Live: The Chechen Wars, My Mother and Me. How did the Chechen Wars affect your family?
— I ironically refer to myself as the same age as the war: I was born in 1994, when the First Chechen War began. I write about how my mother and I simply didn’t have a choice — we didn’t have the luxury of staying out of this war. Like many others in Chechnya, we were swept up in a historical whirlwind and no matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t separate ourselves from this history or from politics.
My mother was half Russian, she was born in the Urals, but when the war began she had been living in Chechnya for many years, working as a history teacher. After I was born, we also lived in the Urals for a while, and my mother could well have stayed there, but she made a choice to return to Chechnya to help people. She felt that she had to do this because something terrible was happening to her beloved homeland. She became involved in activism, especially [during the period] between the wars, from 1996 to 1999. She spoke with victims of filtration camps, recorded their stories, and made programs for television. In the late 1990s, she started working with [the human rights group] Memorial and investigating abductions and torture.
We were completely inseparable. I also sat in the [Grozny] Memorial office; I knew the names of tanks and armored personnel carriers by heart, and remembered the names of guys who had gone missing. She made a choice not to turn away from the war, to look straight into the mouth of this abyss. But I — as her little shadow — simply had no choice. I was wherever she was. But I had the enormous privilege of growing up on the right side of the barricade. Memorial was and remains Russia’s conscience, which [the authorities] are constantly trying to hide. The truth always comes out, and I am very glad that I was a witness to this truth.
— How else was your childhood different from that of your peers?
— In many ways, I think it was similar to my classmates’ or relatives’ childhood. My British friends say that it was like their grandparents’ childhood. You were simply sent outside and told to come back when it gets dark. And the whole day you would be left to your own devices.
My mother didn’t make what she did a secret — it simply didn’t occur to her. I knew that she had a very, very important job, it just seemed natural. Human rights activists, journalists, and lawyers from all over the world often stayed at our house, [including Russian investigative journalist] Anna Politkovskaya. For them, it was a trip to another reality, where people live like in the Middle Ages. Even though we lived in an apartment building, we didn’t have running water or electricity — but at least the sewage system worked. These were extreme conditions, but for us, it was normal.
My childhood was different in that I knew what was happening behind closed doors: I heard stories about torture, [torture] pits, and kidnappings. I knew what the word zachistka meant [a Russian military term for a “cleansing operation”]. My mother hid only the most horrific materials, but otherwise there were always statements and photographs of men with bruises lying around the house. My mother was very disorganized, so I was always putting [these papers] into stacks.
— Were there any questions that your mother refused to answer?
— She’d usually answer all my questions about her work. But when it came to her own life and her past, my mother was very secretive. She’d say, “When you grow up, we’ll talk.” She didn’t really talk about herself, even with close friends. I was awaiting the moment when I’d grow up and we’d talk about everything as equals. But, unfortunately, this never happened.
— Do you remember when you first realized that your mother faced threats due to her human rights work?
— The first time I truly realized it was in the spring of 2008, when Kadyrov summoned her after [she criticized Chechnya’s headscarf policy in an interview on REN-TV]. He started insulting her, yelling, and threatening her. Then he said, “I heard your daughter goes to such-and-such school, aren’t you afraid for her?” I learned about these threats from [overhearing] my mother’s conversations. I was petrified.
After that, we went to England for two months so [my mother] could take a break. I started to think about and imagine what things would be like if something happened to her. I suspected there were other threats, but I only learned about this after her death. She never told me anything herself.
— Did your family have any special safety protocols when you were living in Chechnya?
— When I was little, there was nothing of the kind, except for standard things [like] if there’s a firefight [nearby], you throw yourself on the ground or take cover and put your hands over your head. But we were told about this in school too.
My mother began to worry about me when I became a teenager: brides are kidnapped in Chechnya, and she was afraid someone would kidnap me. Our neighbors were Kadyrovtsy [Chechen security forces] so my mother said: “Sit quietly, don’t open the door for anyone, come home after school, and don’t meet up with anyone.”
But in the end my mother realized that as long as I was in Chechnya, I’d always be in danger. So for the last two years of her life, she sent me away — first to a school in the Moscow region for several months, and then to stay with my aunt in the Urals for almost a year. This was a huge sacrifice for her and me both. Staying in Chechnya was dangerous, so she could only breathe a sigh of relief and continue her work when I was far away. Looking back, it pains me greatly to realize that we essentially spent the last year of her life apart — we literally saw each other for about a month and a half.
— What changed in her life and work during the periods when you were outside of Chechnya?
— When I wasn’t around, she had no brakes at all. I’d [call and] ask her, “Did you eat?” because I knew that she didn’t cook much or go out anywhere. She was just completely immersed in her work. She worked day and night, without stopping to take time for herself. When I look at the articles she published under her own name in the last year of her life, where she writes about abductions and public executions committed by the Kadyrovtsy, I see that she was completely fearless.
I used to read her articles and think, “God, it’s like she doesn’t think about the consequences at all.” I was terribly worried about her. I kept running through [worst case] scenarios, as if trying to prepare myself for what it would be like if she were gone. It was a nightmare for more.
In the last month of her life, the threats became more frequent, and even her colleagues knew that she shouldn’t stay [in Chechnya]. They convinced my mother that it was time to leave, and we were already sorting out our documents and my passport. My mother said, “I just need a week to sort out everything, and then we’ll leave.” That week, she was kidnapped and murdered.
Even though I was a very self-centered teenager, when it came to my mother, I really wanted to save her from herself. And this feeling still won’t leave me. Like many children who lost their mother too early, I feel as though I failed to love and care for her in return. It’s easy to think in terms of clichés about a mother who abandoned her daughter, but we had a very special story that was much more complicated.
— How did your mother’s death change your outlook on the world?
— I had a lot of anger towards Russia and Chechnya. In general, I had — and probably still have — a lot of resentment [towards the Russian state], especially when I saw how carelessly the investigation into my mother’s death was handled. I was simply overcome with rage. Even looking at the murder cases of [Russian opposition politician] Boris Nemtsov and [journalist] Anna Politkovskaya, I thought, “Of course they aren’t naming the person who ordered it, but at least they put the perpetrators behind bars.” And it was as if my mother was so unimportant that they decided [to blame her killing] on a leftist militant who had already died. I know that as long as Kadyrov and Putin are in power there can be no talk of justice, but this was just a slap in the face.
I still have this hate inside me. I believe that justice will prevail, and my mother’s colleagues continue to fight for it. They carried out their own investigation. All the names [of those responsible] are known — they’re [officers from] the Kurchaloy district police department [outside Grozny]. I believe that even if justice doesn’t reach them on this side of life, their judgement day will come. And I know that when Kadyrov lies on his deathbed, hundreds if not thousands of people he has killed will appear before his eyes, and my mother’s face will be there too.
Sign up for The Beet
Underreported stories. Fresh perspectives. From Budapest to Bishkek.
— You’ve said in previous interviews that initially you didn’t delve into the details of the investigation. When did this change?
— When I had already started working on the book. I knew what happened with the investigation, but in the years [after my mother’s death] it was important for me to focus on moving forward and being a whole person, not a victim. At first, I simply needed to survive the loss of my mother and not let hatred and anger completely eat away at my soul.
It was important for me to try and overcome this trauma. If I had known all the details about how many times she was shot and the state her body was in, or that she had someone else’s DNA under her fingernails and was covered in bruises because she fought until the end, I think it would have broken me.
— In a 2021 ruling, the European Court of Human Rights (ECHR) said it found no evidence of state involvement in Natalia Estemirova’s murder. And in January 2022, it rejected a request to have the judgement reviewed. What do you think about this decision?
— The ECHR concluded that Russia didn’t investigate this murder properly, but it didn’t shift the blame onto the security forces or the Russian state. For my mother, [Western institutions] were sacred places: there’s no justice in Russia, but at least in The Hague or Strasbourg there is. My mother helped so many people achieve justice in the ECHR and then her death became the subject of court proceedings. So when I saw such a weak ruling, it really hit me hard. Perhaps [the ruling] would have been different if it were made after 2022. I don’t think they’d refused to place responsibility on Russia now simply because [the authorities] didn’t give the court access to the case [files].
— You left to study in the U.K. almost immediately after Natalia Estemirova’s death. How often have you visited Russia since then? And what changes did you see each time you visited?
— I went for a very short time. I knew I couldn’t go back to Chechnya, so I had little desire to stay in Russia for long. But I saw that people were living for their own pleasure and they didn’t really care about what their country was doing in Georgia, Syria, the Central African Republic, and Chechnya.
I grew up in Chechnya, not in Russia. I don’t consider myself Russian and I have very few memories connected to Russia. But it’s always shocked me how Russians don’t see Chechnya or the [North] Caucasus as part of their country. For them, it’s something foreign, inconvenient, and negative.
After Russia invaded Ukraine, there was nostalgia for the past, about the [2018] World Cup, when Russia was supposedly on the right path. But I think that Russia was a dictatorship even then. People were sitting in prison and the [authorities] carried out political assassinations. Not to mention what was happening in Chechnya — how many purges there were and how people rotted in illegal prisons. Your lives were detached from this story, but now you’ve become direct participants in this conflict and realized that your country is, in fact, the spawn of evil.
[My last visit to Chechnya was] in 2012, which is why I wouldn’t call myself an expert on modern-day Chechnya. I think it was the first time since my mother’s death that I returned to my apartment [block], which is near to where she was kidnapped. I walked around Grozny and thought about how different it was from the city I grew up in. Even though they swept away all traces of their crimes and all the destruction, it was a completely fake, plastic city. And the people seemed fake to me too, because I knew what was happening behind closed doors; how people were afraid to talk about what’s happening in Chechnya, even in their own homes.
Deep down I realized that I was very uncomfortable being there. Without my mother, I didn’t feel at home. I left, and a year went by, and then a second one, and a third, and I realized that as long as Kadyrov is in power [going back to Chechnya] would be unsafe. I just don’t want to be so close to that man.
— Do you still have any connection to the region?
— I talk to friends who live outside of Chechnya. I’ve broken off contact with everyone else for their safety. And I’m in contact with my mother’s journalist friends who understand the situation.
— Natasha, a documentary about your mother, premiered in June. The filmmakers said that a lot of people refused to speak to them on camera or were even afraid to share archival photos and footage. Does this surprise you?
— No, this doesn’t surprise me because I encountered the same thing when I was writing my book. I wanted to speak to people who knew her, and the result was depressing. [Many people] said, “We remember Natash, she was so wonderful!” But as soon as I asked permission to ask them some questions, promising [anonymity], they immediately said, “No-no-no, that’s dangerous.” Even people who knew her back in the 1980s and 1990s were afraid to speak.
Since [Kadyrov came to power in 2007], there has been so much violence, intimidation, murder, and torture that people know how far he and his cronies are willing to go. They also have the connections in Europe to find, beat up, and even kill those [who have decided to leave Chechnya]. People know how far his tentacles can reach. Over the years, he has established absolute power: he really has eliminated all of his opponents, built up an entire [political] machine, and raised a generation of sons he wants to pass on his power to.
— What gives you the strength to continue working in the journalism and human rights field?
— A huge source of inspiration and motivation for me is journalists and human rights activists, my mother’s colleagues, whom I respect endlessly. No matter how hard things get, I always think about those who gave up their freedom and lives so that I could be safe now. But I never put myself on the same level as them, because I have a completely different experience and goals. I never set myself the goal of being Natalia Estemirova. I am Lana Estemirova. I have my own destiny. What I can do is be a storyteller.
For some, when your whole family is taken away from them, this can be motivation to redouble their fight. But I learned other lessons. My ancestors had a very difficult life, and I think that at least someone [in our family] deserves simple human happiness — and that’s my daughter. I would like her to know me as an old, old mother who’s losing her mind.
It’s only natural that not everyone is ready to make sacrifices. We can only support those people who go all the way as best we can. For example, it’s important to keep talking and writing about Russian political prisoners. Perhaps what the bad guys want is for us to disconnect from what’s happening in the world, to be caught up in consumerism and not participate in social or political life. I think it’s important to continue to fight in our own way — depending on what risks you’re willing to take.
We usually do the talking at fundraisers. This time, we’ll let our readers speak for us. “Dear stranger, if you can support Meduza on our behalf, please do. And we’ll be here supporting our fellow citizens who are being persecuted and stripped of their freedom by Russian authorities. Thank you to everyone who helps journalists tell the truth, talk about things that matter to society, and give us the information we need to grow and persevere.” — Yulia, St. Petersburg
Meduza
Abridged translation by Eilish Hart