“A cheerful guy, honor student, it beats me how he became a terrorist”: Why Dagestan failed to prevent a bloody Islamist attack

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“We took pride in being from Sergokala, but now it's a disgrace”

Sergokala, with a population of around 9,000, is located in the foothills between Makhachkala and Derbent, near the exit of the Aya-Kaka mountain gorge. Locals consider Sergokala’s setting ideal: a half-hour drive to the sea, and an hour to the mountains.

Sergokala has been growing rapidly due to an influx of settlers from more remote mountain villages. In recent years, most of the roads have been paved, supermarkets and even cafés have appeared, while cows and sheep, once common on the streets of Dagestani towns, are now rarely seen. Tukhum family ties are no longer as strong here as they are in more homogeneous mountain villages, and it has been a long time since you could say that everyone knows each other personally — rather, people are connected through one degree of separation.

In the 2000s, Sergokala often served as the scene of militant activity, and a violent episode in 2016 attracted serious attention. That’s when militants killed Lieutenant Magomed Nurbagandov. The attackers wanted the officer to urge his police colleagues to resign from the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Instead, Magomed uttered the phrase, “Keep working, brothers,” which is now used by Russian security forces for propaganda purposes.

Nurbagandov was posthumously honored with the title of Hero of Russia. The school he attended was renamed after him. A monument was erected in Makhachkala. “For years, we took pride in being from Sergokala because of Magomed,” a teacher from the school remarked, “but now it's a disgrace. Just think — such different people came from the same village.”

On June 23, 2024, terrorists attacked churches, synagogues, and a traffic police post in Makhachkala and Derbent. The attack claimed 21 lives, with around 40 others injured. The attackers were from Sergokala, and investigators believe their organizer is a son of former Sergokala district head Osman Omarov.

Four months later, life in the village seems to have returned to normal — but people are still reluctant to discuss the terrorist act. Occasionally, there are reports of nighttime raids, in which homes are surrounded and someone with ties to the terrorists is taken away. Usually, the unlucky target is among the locals who were in contact with the perpetrators in the days leading up to the attack.

Of course, many in the village had casual interactions with the terrorists, such as making phone calls to them for everyday reasons unconnected with the plot. Now these people are living in fear, anticipating that they, too, might be called in for questioning on suspicion of sympathizing with the terrorists. No details of the investigation are being shared with the public. Only fragmented information trickles down through lawyers to the relatives of those detained. Rumors of torture circulate in the village, discouraging residents from speaking about the matter — only whispers are heard within close circles. Any mention of the attack or former village head Magomed Omarov heightens the tension, and conversations quickly become hushed.

When the terrorist attacks are discussed, the prevailing emotions remain shock, confusion, and even disbelief. Just two or three years ago, none of the future terrorists gave off the impression to anyone in Sergokala that they were capable of such a crime. They all came from well-off families. One of the neutralized terrorists, Osman Omarov, son of the now-former head of the Sergokala district, was an entrepreneur. In 2017, he registered as sole proprietor of a livestock breeding business — poultry, sheep, goats, and cattle. He also owned a café in Izberbash and was involved in real estate development in Sergokala, building residential complexes.

Ibrahim, a Sergokala resident who worked for Magomed Omarov's family for several years, says he still cannot believe what happened:

“Osman and his brothers always treated the staff with respect, and they were even somewhat afraid of their father, too intimidated to raise their heads around him. If there were any issues, they wouldn’t dare address their father directly but would resolve them through their eldest brother, Omar. He was the only one who could speak to their father as an equal.”

Other sources speaking to The Insider added that Osman once worked at the Derbent Cognac Factory and later at the local branch of Sberbank. These jobs are cited as proof that, at that time, Osman could not have been an Islamic fundamentalist, as businesses related to alcohol and money lending are considered haram, or sinful, in Islam. Moreover, the Omarov family still owns vineyards from which they sell French grape varieties to Derbent.

Villagers also find it difficult to recall anything negative about Ali Zakarigaev, Osman Omarov’s cousin. A former classmate from the Faculty of Economics at Dagestan State University remembered him as a cheerful and lively character.

“He was the group leader, a golden boy, and graduated with honors,” he told The Insider. “While working in the administration, he was always clean-shaven,” a grooming choice that does not align with the image of a bearded radical Islamist.

A young and energetic businessman from Sergokala, Rasul, said that Zakarigaev “was involved in politics, ran for office, and invited me to join his party about five years ago.” In fact, Zakariagaev participated in the 2021 Dagestan People's Assembly elections as a candidate from the Just Russia party on the Sergokala regional list.

No one knows exactly what Zakariagaev did for a living in recent years, but it’s clear his life was comfortable. Raziyat, a close acquaintance of the Omarov family, described Zakariagaev as a typical temshchik — a term in Dagestan for those who dream of easy money while living off their wealthy parents:

“He was involved in YUSRA, owned slot machines in Makhachkala, and tried to open a branch of VTB Bank in Sergokala,” Raziyat says (all of these activities are considered forbidden in Islam). Rasul mentioned that Zakariagaev enjoyed expensive things and liked to flaunt his wealth. “Just the gates of his house alone cost around 1.5 million rubles, and during a search of his home, they found an oven worth 800,000 rubles. His family cannot understand how someone who loved life so much could end it this way,” Rasul shook his head.

The other participants in the attack led less affluent lives. Abdusamad Amadzhiyev once worked for Osman Omarov in a plastic window manufacturing workshop and later on a construction site for a residential complex. “He was an ordinary teenager,” said Amadzhiyev's former classmates. “He grew up without a father and started working early after school, making furniture. He married young. Several years ago, when he became more focused on religion, he stopped communicating with us.”

Gadzhimurad Kagirov, the cousin of Magomed Omarov’s wife, was known in the village for his involvement in fights and had several run-ins with the police. In 2021, he was fined for a brawl with a restaurant employee. Prior to that, he had been involved in a confrontation with the police at a wedding in Sergokala, for which he reportedly also received a fine.

A close acquaintance of Kagirov, Kurban, adds that Gadzhimurad participated in MMA fights and aspired to work in law enforcement (either in the Economic Security and Anti-Corruption Department or the FSB). “Until recently, he wasn't particularly religious. Neither his behavior nor his career goals suggested that he was deeply devoted to religion,” Kurban said quietly, as if fearing someone might overhear him — yet he is also emotional, using gestures and a convincing tone, as if worried that he might not be believed.

Little is known about Dalgat Daudov. He was a former neighbor of Osman Omarov and worked for him on construction sites for residential complexes.

When asked what the future terrorists were like in recent years, businessman Rasul, who once knew Ali Zakarigaev, replies that lately, they had distanced themselves from everyone and only communicated among themselves.

Mosque of discord

A couple of years ago, newcomers from the village of Mulebki built a small neighborhood mosque in a new area of Sergokala using their own funds. The village is growing, and now it takes more than half an hour to walk from the new districts to the old part of town, where the central mosque is located.

The construction of the neighborhood mosque in Sergokala quickly became a source of contention. “Almost immediately, conflicts began between the imam of this mosque, Ramazan, and Osman [Omarov],” Rasul explains. “Osman and his friends believed that the imam performed the prayers incorrectly, so they refused to pray behind him.”

“They waited for the collective prayer to end so they could perform their prayers separately. The imam of the central Sergokala mosque spoke to them, but it was all in vain. Imam Ramazan even started locking the mosque after the night prayer to prevent Omarov and his group from entering, although mosques are supposed to be open at all times. That’s probably why they began to build another mosque in the village, where they planned to appoint their own imam.”

Currently, the doors of the mosque are locked. It is unknown who closed them, when they will be reopened, or if the building will be reopened at all. However, not all that long ago, the mosque was buzzing with activity. Villagers recount that in April 2023, during the month of Ramadan, neighbors complained about noise at night and the large number of cars. According to their accounts, local women were once denied entry to the mosque with the remark, “People like you don't come here,” presumably implying that the women were not wearing hijabs.

One local resident, Murad, who lives near the neighborhood mosque, says he initially went there to pray and noticed nothing unusual. Murad speaks slowly, carefully choosing his words: “Acquaintances in the local police told me not to go there because it's a Wahhabi mosque.” He cannot explain why the authorities held this view, but he stopped going to the mosque just in case and discouraged his friends and family from attending as well.

In Dagestan, the term “Wahhabis” is used by law enforcement to label anyone who is more or less opposed to traditional Islam, those who criticize Sufism, “folk” Islam, and local customs, as well as those who seek to “purify” the faith. These groups are united by their rejection of the authority of the Spiritual Administration of Muslims of Dagestan (DUMD).

According to anthropologist and Dagestan researcher Ivona Kalishchevska, conflicts surrounding mosques are common and do not necessarily indicate the radicalization of congregants. “It’s not particularly exotic for congregants to dislike an imam who has been 'officially' appointed by the DUMD, especially if he refuses to let someone into the mosque,” Kalishchevska observes. “In Islam, there's no notion that only one person can run the mosque. Anyone can come to pray.”

“I love you, I had no choice”: how people become terrorists

According to villagers, the most striking and rapid transformation occurred with Gadzhimurad Kagirov, who aspired to work in law enforcement before switching to the side that is waging war against them. Kurban, a close acquaintance of Kagirov’s, recounts that this change took place after he went to work in the Moscow region in 2022:

“He lived in a forest, working for Gazprom, or so it seemed — he was involved in gas pipeline installation. He worked with other bearded men there. He read a lot of religious books. When he returned home to Sergokala for Ramadan in 2023, he spent all his time at the new mosque. They even ate there. They studied Arabic and read books. After Ramadan, he went back to Moscow to work. He sent everyone links to various preachers, recommended what to listen to, and suggested what to read. All his conversations were only about religion. He kept giving me endless advice.”

Rasul also has recollections of Kagirov: “Shortly before the attack, Kagirov went to the owner of the local hookah bar and demanded it be closed. He called his older brother in Moscow, who works as a bailiff, urging him to quit his job because working for the taghut [idolatrous] state is a sin.”

Kagirov grew a beard and stopped getting haircuts. “He was never an eloquent person, but in the last few months, he spoke like the preachers on YouTube. He would say to me, ‘Just imagine, our beautiful land with seas, oceans, mountains, and forests. And in paradise, it’s a thousand times more beautiful.’ He kept repeating this,” Kurban says, falling silent and looking away. Then he unexpectedly adds, “He couldn’t have done this of his own sound mind. I’m sure he was threatened, and that day he was under some influence. Did you see how they fearlessly walked into gunfire? Can a person in their right mind behave that way?”

The mother of Abdusamad Amadziev recalls arguments with her son over religious matters. Abdusamad insisted that his family avoid weddings or other social events where alcohol and music were present. In the weeks leading up to his death, Amadziev seemed increasingly withdrawn but refused to explain his state of mind. A former classmate says she unexpectedly encountered him a couple of weeks before the attack. He spoke about his daughters. Allegedly, Amadziev left a farewell note for his wife. The exact contents are unknown to The Insider's interviewees, but he reportedly entrusted his wife’s brother with caring for his daughters and wrote, “I love you, I had no choice.”

“Where were the police officers while they were practicing shooting?”

In April 2024, Osman Omarov and Ali Zakarigaev returned from Turkey, and their unusual activities became more noticeable. Locals report that shortly before the attack, they settled all their debts with fellow villagers. Daudov waited an entire hour to repay the owner of a construction materials store, despite persistent suggestions that he come back another day. Kagirov called acquaintances to confirm that they had forgiven his debts. The group members likely did so because, according to one of the hadiths, a person who dies in debt will not enter paradise.

Rasul recalls an incident that he believes indicates the local police might have suspected something: “Shortly before the attack, one of the local police officers stumbled upon a group of people in the woods. They were practicing shooting with automatic weapons. This included Osman Omarov. The officer called for backup. Together, they demanded that the shooting stop. Osman Omarov began threatening the police, saying he would shoot them. The police officers silently turned around and left. What more could you expect from them?” Rasul gestures in frustration.

After the attack, all five police officers from Sergokala and the head of the police department were dismissed. Villagers sympathize with the department head, who had held the position for only a couple of months before being fired for cause.

“On one hand,” says Rasul, “it’s right that the officers were dismissed after the attack. Where were they while these people were openly criticizing people and practicing shooting? On the other hand, they were practicing with hunting rifles for which they had permits. I have one too, and I myself practice, though not in the woods but at the range, as it should be. Yes, we knew they had turned to religion, but no one could have imagined they would take up arms.”

Rajab, a former employee of the Sergokala administration, claims he sees nothing surprising in the police officers’ behavior:

“Everyone who worked in the district's government agencies knew it was better not to get into a conflict with Omarov. Anyone who left the administration in a conflict with him would find it nearly impossible to secure a government position in the district afterward.”

Shamil, a young man from a well-off family, believes that the story about the police and the shooting is at least exaggerated, because he says such arrogant statements and appeals to status do not resemble Osman Omarov.

Shamil thinks the current focus on the actions of the former district head and his son's involvement in the attack is merely an excuse to vent frustrations for a populace that harbors resentment towards the wealthy. At the same time, Shamil agrees that everyone was aware of Omarov's vengefulness and that local government workers might have been afraid to cross him.

Raziat states that Magomed Omarov interests law enforcement only because they want to use his son as a pretext to seize all his family's property and fill the pockets of officials:

“All their efforts are aimed at digging up more about Omarov and his family. This is all anyone writes about. Nothing else interests them. But there’s nothing heard about them going after the organizers and masterminds. I think it’s because they know exactly who the organizers are. How could they not monitor them when they returned from Turkey? Or when Osman married Batyrkhanova, who had been watched by the police until 2022? They knew everything and allowed it because it was beneficial to someone. They say the 6th police department was going to be disbanded because there was no longer a threat of terrorism. Maybe someone didn’t want it to be disbanded, so they threw them a case to work on.”

“It's the communists’ fault”

After the attack, media frequently mentioned that Sergokala is a secular village by Dagestani standards. Local online communities speculated that perhaps it was precisely because the criminals were not raised in the traditions of Islam that they became susceptible to radical ideas.

To understand what is meant by a “secular” village, one can compare Sergokala with another large Dargin village, the center of a neighboring district — Akhusha, located 120 km southwest of Makhachkala.

Sergokala, with a population of approximately 9,000, has only three mosques: a central mosque, a roadside mosque, and a neighborhood mosque. The central mosque was built in the 1990s. No one can clearly recall whether there was an ancient mosque from the pre-Soviet era in the village. In Akhusha, with a population of about 5,000, there are approximately 40 mosques, sometimes as close as 300-400 meters apart.

The central mosque in Sergokala accommodates about 1,000 people, and during the Friday prayer, the main congregational prayer that practicing Muslim men are obliged to attend, the mosque fills to just over half its capacity. The roadside mosque is small, holding 50-60 people, while the neighborhood mosque is about twice that size, accommodating around 100. In contrast, in the smaller Akhusha, all residents gather in the Jumah mosque on Fridays, which holds 2,500 people. The mosque is always overcrowded, especially on holidays.

In Akhusha, most parents strive to teach their children to read the Quran, and there are groups in most mosques for this purpose. Additionally, the village has several madrasahs. In Sergokala and the surrounding villages, there are no madrasahs. The central mosque offers a summer school for Quranic education, with hourly classes held during the academic year. An average of 60 people attend the summer courses, while regular classes see about 30-40 participants. This educational initiative began only three years ago when a new imam was appointed.

The absence of madrasahs seems to Hizri, a religious figure from Sergokala, to be a key reason behind the emergence of radical youth in his village:

“Why did this happen? Why are there no terrorists in the Levashinsky or Akhushinsky districts? Why is Sergokala making headlines globally for the second time? All other large villages have madrasahs, but Sergokala is different. Communism has always been strong here, and even now, communists occupy government positions, opposing the development of Islam.

Among the youth, however, communism has faded — and nothing has replaced it. Parents prohibit their children from going to the mosque and studying Islam. Yet when someone is hungry for information, they will seek it out. Young people enter a room, grab their phones, and search for “What is Islam?” The first results they encounter often come from extremist religious preachers. They believe the first source they find and trust no one else.

Now, after the recent terrorist attack, parents who just began allowing their children to go out are scared again. A father calls and says, 'I can no longer let my child go to the mosque.' They fear that if their child attends the mosque, he will grow up to become a radical.”

Hizri also emphasizes that he does not cooperate with the authorities:

“They ask us to report anything suspicious we notice, but we don’t inform on specific individuals. We say, 'You are just as much men as we are; come to the mosque, observe how everyone behaves, and you will see for yourself.'

Some people choose this path purely for ideological reasons, while others do so politically. In the past, those who chose this side politically became known as 'forest men,' and their intentions were clear. We initially expected that [for Osman Omarov and his associates] it had been a purely ideological choice, that they wouldn’t do anything bad, such as a terrorist attack. But they did. Now, it seems we must prepare for the possibility that anyone on this path can take up arms and do anything.”

“Dagestan Stands Alone”

Many commentators have observed that the perpetrators of the June 24 terrorist attacks did not fit the typical profile of a terrorist, particularly regarding their social status. However, Shamil, the son of wealthy and influential parents, finds nothing surprising about this apparent contradiction:

“Future terrorists are recruited by being told that Dagestan was occupied by Russia 200 years ago, a conquest achieved through the slaughter of our ancestors, women, and children. Now, Russia imposes its laws and culture on us.”

According to Shamil, ongoing discrimination against Caucasians in Russian cities supports the recruiters' narratives about the oppressed status of Muslims in Russia and fosters feelings of humiliation:

“We often see videos of how ‘covered’ women are treated across Russia. They are beaten, their hijabs are ripped off, and they are dragged by their hair. I don’t consider myself one of those Dagestanis who act aggressively in other regions, but I still feel the sting of nationalism. For us Caucasians, even renting an apartment can be a challenge.”

Shamil points out that there is ongoing propaganda suggesting that Dagestan could thrive independently of Russia. Citing examples like Qatar and other Islamic countries with high living standards funded by oil and gas revenues, recruiters effectively tap into sensitive issues for Caucasian men. They speak of dignity while highlighting the supposed need to protect their homeland and religion.

Ivona Kalishevska believes that Russia’s “Special Military Operation” and mobilization have fueled growing protest sentiments among the people. “Even if someone volunteered, they are still someone's son or nephew. Tukhums are large, and the perception of death in Dagestan differs from that in the rest of Russia. Everyone knows each other, and funerals can't be hidden. Naturally, this breeds discontent.”

Islamic experts agree that the primary focus of recruiters is social justice. This encompasses various issues, including pride and the narrative surrounding the occupation of Dagestan. Recruiters emphasize the urgent need to eradicate corruption and establish social justice in the republic, which they claim can only be achieved through Islamic governance.