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A Muslim woman reportedly received death threats for exposing her stomach on Instagram

Madina Basaeva (Photo: Instagram courtesy dina_saeva)

Madina Basaeva, a Moscow-based blogger, shared an innocent video of herself dancing in a crop top and matching shorts on Instagram about a week ago. But, apparently because she is Muslim, Basaeva has received death threats in the comments on the video, the Daily Mail reports.

Basaeva’s Instagram account — and the target of all the fury — appears to be @dina_saeva, though it looks as if there are multiple accounts impersonating the blogger on Instagram. The post, shared a week ago, had 95,000 likes as of this writing.

⠀⠀ Какая твоя слабость? 🤤 ▫️⠀ What is your weakness? ▫️⠀ ما هي نقاط ضعفك؟ ________________________________________ Track: RASA & Kavabanga, Depo, Kolibri – Витамин

A post shared by 🕊 𝒟𝒾𝓃𝒶 𝒮𝒶𝑒𝓋𝒶 🕊 (@dina_saeva) on Jun 5, 2018 at 10:22am PDT

  According to the Mirror, this all may be due to the fact that Basaeva showed her stomach in the video. As the Mirror explains, Basaeva is part of the Tadzhiki Muslim community.

Many of the comments on Basaeva’s Instagram post are in Russian. But according to both the Daily Mail and the Mirror, the comments include various death threats, including one that reportedly reads, “When will you finally die?”

Both U.K. outlets also report that Basaeva has responded to online backlash in the past by saying the commenters “don’t like anything” she does.

“’You don’t like if I am dressed, you don’t like if I am undressed, you don’t like the new content, finding a new song and coming up with choreography is that you don’t like either,” Basaeva has said, according to the Daily Mail. “It is impossible to satisfy you. Each and everyone of you. Do you understand?”

The outlets didn’t say whether or not Basaeva reported the comments to the police, but threatening someone online can constitute criminal activity. And even for those who don’t agree with Basaeva’s actions, it’s not OK to threaten her life. Religious disagreements can be the source of productive dialogue and conversations, but comments like these should never be tolerated.

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Ali Baba Bar

by Andrey Troitskiy

   The Ali-Baba Bar usually closed at midnight on Sundays, but it was dead tonight, so Edik, the only member of the staff who stayed on after they emptied the cash drawer and drove the money away, decided to knock off early. According to the clock it was already twenty to eleven, meaning it was about time he started getting ready to lock up. Edik came out from behind the bar, walked over to the teenage girl and guy seated at the little table by the narrow, slit-like window and intimated it was high time they were on their way. The kid tapped the face of his wristwatch in protest, but Edik just turned his back on the pair and walked over to the corner, where he shook awake a drunk who’d dozed off on a chair, and announced that his time was up: the establishment was closing in a quarter of an hour. When he got back to the bar, Edik finished his coffee, picked up a dishtowel and dried some beer mugs standing on a tray. And he was about to go to the staffroom to peel off his filthy apron and change his clothes, when the door opened and a new customer blew in.      A man of about forty, in a rumpled gray suit, walked up to the bar. He put his club bag on the floor, took a seat on a stool and ordered a lager beer. Edik recognized the fellow, nodded to him and, in an effort to master the sudden onset of anxiety, he tried to muster up the semblance of a smile. The fellow’s face was tanned, and his dark hair lightened by the sun; there was a faded tattoo of a ring on the middle finger of his right hand. They called him Oleg Slavin, though the name was surely an alias, and his passport a fake. It was obvious at once that he’d traveled from afar, from somewhere in the south, that he was tired after his long journey, in need of a good sleep, and ill-disposed to shooting the breeze.      “I haven’t got the keys today,” said Edik quietly, casting a glance behind Slavin. That damned kid and his chick hadn’t gotten the hell out of the bar yet, the solitary drunkard had stayed put and was now sucking back the rest of his flat beer. “They told me you wouldn’t be showing up until Tuesday or Wednesday.”      “Circumstances have changed,” said Slavin. He had a gulp of beer, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and put a pack of cigarettes on the bar.      Edik ducked into the staffroom, pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and dialed a number, but not the usual one—he dialed a different number entirely. And quietly, cupping his hand around the mouthpiece, even though nobody could hear him anyway, he said, “It’s me. He’s here. Yes. Only just. Out of the blue…”      “Will you be able to keep him there for half an hour?” asked the fellow on the other end. “In a way that won’t arouse suspicion?”     “Actually, he’s not used to having to wait around. Well, okay. I’ll try. But I’m begging you—let everything go down the way we agreed. No blood.”      “Don’t worry about it,” answered the man. “Nobody wants there to be any blood.”      Edik hung up, walked up to the window and looked out on the courtyard, dark and filthy. A look of melancholy and apprehension had set in his eyes, and he didn’t want to go back behind the counter, but mastering himself, he shuffled back to his station.      “They told me to call back in fifteen minutes,” he said to Slavin, who was unhurriedly sipping his beer and, so, as to occupy himself with something, Edik went back to drying the washed mugs.      He poured Slavin another beer and snuck a furtive, sideways glance at his watch—it was as if time had stood still. Then he thought of something else he could occupy himself with; he started scrubbing the sink with a brush. The work made him feel somewhat calmer.      Slavin had been showing up here for the last six months, dropping by two or three times a month, usually on weekdays. Edik was always informed in advance of his imminent arrival by persons unknown to him. The minute Slavin crossed the threshold of the establishment, Edik was supposed to dial a telephone number, which was changed monthly, if not more frequently. An unfamiliar voice would dictate the address of a newly rented apartment, to which Slavin was to proceed.      Sometimes things happened differently. A man would come into the bar and leave a couple of keys for Slavin, to a car and an apartment, and give Edik the address, which he had to memorize, without writing it down. They would often leave a cell phone; once they entrusted him with a big, heavy Samsonite suitcase with a tumbler lock. Why the hell this Oleg Slavin came all the way up here from the southern climes, what he was doing in Moscow—those were questions Edik didn’t bother his head about, because he didn’t want to know more than he needed to. Clearly the man was a courier, and he wasn’t moving Tadzhiki melons, either. And that was that.      When it came right down to it, though, Edik wasn’t assuming any risk. Especially since the people coming into the bar for keys and addresses were always different. Before Slavin there was somebody named Khaburgaev, who skulked into the place now and then; before him it was some Tadzhik or Uzbek with a surname you couldn’t pronounce, and a couple or three times a good-looking woman by the name of Svetlana came by.      If the cops ever put the squeeze on him, he would deny everything. Edik was just a little guy—they asked him to phone someone—he phoned. They left something—he passed it along. End of story. What was so criminal about that? He got paid good money for carrying out a few simple tasks. Not allowing himself any overindulgences, he socked every kopeck away, in the hope that one day he could escape this stifling dump and open his own bar, big and bright. And not in Moscow, either; he didn’t have the stomach for it. The dirty cops and all the city council racketeers put the screws on you with all of their kickbacks. He’d start a business back home, in Penza. He’d let all the beautiful people come, with their bulging wallets, and not any hoods or winos.      “Isn’t it time for you to call back?” asked Slavin.      “Right, right,” answered Edik. He turned on the tap, rinsed the suds off his hands and wiped them. “I’m going right now.” He popped into the staffroom again, stood there for a couple of minutes with his back pressed up against the wall, and went back into the bar.      “They don’t seem to have it together over there, they asked me to call back again,” he lied, feeling his face stiffen from the strain of it all. “Shit, it’s always like that. Just a second…”      He came out from behind the bar and walked over to the drunk. Grabbing him by the scruff of the neck, he stood him up, led him to the entrance and shoved him out the door. Then he hung out the “Closed” sign, but left the door unlocked. He let down the blinds on the windows and went back behind the bar.      “Another beer?” he asked Slavin, but the latter shook his head no.      Edik looked at his watch; the half hour had elapsed long ago. A few days back, at the same time of night—before the bar closed— three brawny young fellows showed up. They weren’t very amicably disposed, aggressive even. They put an envelope full of money down on the counter and said that upon the arrival in the bar of a tanned fellow with a tattoo on his finger, he was to call such and such a number. At first Edik started to panic, and even tried to make up some excuse, but then he decided that in his position it didn’t pay to argue—otherwise he might be asking for it.      “Alright, alright,” he replied. “I’ll do whatever you say. Only don’t stick that gun in my face.”      The fellows left, having promised to pay Edik double the amount once he’d set up the meeting with Slavin. And they also promised there would be no disputes, much less any blood. They just needed to talk to the man, make him a business proposal or something like that.      Clearly, Edik’s bartending job at this place was finished. All he had to do now was get the money he’d been promised, buy a train ticket, and head home. He hadn’t found himself either a decent chick, or any friends in Moscow; there was nothing to keep him here. He’d already packed up his suitcase and gym bag, though he still hadn’t informed his landlady that he’d be leaving any day now.      Chain-smoking and tapping the bar with his fingertips, Slavin fidgeted uneasily on his stool. And when the front door opened and the three young guys in tracksuits walked into the bar one after the other, he only turned his head slightly and looked Edik in the eye with a grimace of contempt. Slavin knew a set-up when he saw one.      And he was swift: he jumped off the stool and over to the side, toward the john, covertly pulling a pistol out of his jacket. He fired three shots from the hip. It took all of two seconds. There was a volley of automatic gunfire in reply, then another. More shots were fired from the pistol.      Having hidden behind the bar, Edik was sitting on his haunches. He bent down, lowered his shoulders and decided he ought to lie down on the floor, but he didn’t get the chance. He felt a blow to his side, under the ribs, and a sharp, burning pain, which caused him to double over. Edik thought he must’ve been hit. It was probably only a flesh wound, because he was alive, and conscious…but why was there so much blood? The world swam and reeled before his eyes.      The shooting ceased just as unexpectedly as it had begun.      The three fellows approached the bar, turned Slavin over from his stomach onto his back, rifled through his pockets and fished out his papers and billfold. There was a smoldering butt stuck to the dead man’s lip; the ashes were falling into his half-open mouth, which had filled with blood. One of the guys pulled a camera out of his jacket pocket and snapped a few pictures, while another grabbed the club bag. Then they both hurried to the door. The third guy followed close behind them, but then he turned back. He leaned over the bar on his stomach and looked down at the bartender, who was lying in a pool of blood.      “Help me,” Edik managed to whisper, but so quietly he barely heard himself.      “Right away,” answered the fellow.      And transferring his pistol to his right hand, he shot the bartender twice in the head, then turned and walked away.

trans. Krystyna Steiger

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