Sometimes, Lizzie still could not quite believe the change in her life. She had been in Melbourne, working for a community agency when, out of the blue, she was invited to an international conference to speak about how to strategize and influence power-brokers to get support for abused women and children. She had been more than a little overwhelmed at the gathering but had discovered that her experience was as relevant as that of most of the other participants who were people from other community agencies just doing the best they could to get change in their home places. Lizzie fell back on the old “story-telling” that she had found worked even with hard-nosed politicians and media. As the daughter of Gwennie, she could always tell a story.
Then, one night she got a call from some strange German sounding man in Geneva who offered her a job. He had been at the conference, and he wanted a communicator. Did he mean a journalist? No. He wanted a communicator, who would find out what people felt and thought and needed—with minimal jargon and bull-shit and tell their story for them when they couldn’t tell it themselves. Was she interested? At the end of a much-overdue divorce and with her hair just growing back after chemotherapy, was she ever interested? Bloody oath. She was on a plane within days, had an interview, went back to pack two suitcases and moved to Geneva to spend time travelling to various “hot spots” in between luxuriating in this city’s multiple charms.
This time, she was heading for Armenia and Ngoro-Karabagh. Sam was missing this war—he was on assignment in Western Africa. Lizzie was going to where one of the other international agencies had been sending humanitarian assistance for months. They had an agent based in Armenia who was supposed to be overseeing distribution, getting it into the country and making sure that it reached the people who needed it. They knew he was getting the supplies, but they had heard whispers that the military was getting more than an acceptable proportion as their charge for not taking the lot. The agency was sending a British representative to check things out and had asked Lizzie to go too, for a factual and “popular” report that could be used for lobbying and for further fund raising.
As usual, it had all happened very quickly, and Lizzie had two days to get a visa and catch a plane. Interesting, girl, what do you know about Armenia? Well, she found out that there was a plane flying into Armenia from Paris once a week, so she collected the usual bundle of forms plus photos plus money and headed down for a visa. Sam sent a message, Off you go again, girl. Take care. Love Sam.
What was that? ‘Love’? Think about it later, Lizzie.
The Armenian visa office was closed despite the sign on the gate that said these were opening hours so she went back again in the afternoon. Same sign: ‘Open 9:00–4:00 every day.’ Still closed.
Next morning, she was lucky, well, sort of lucky, because it was open but it was jam-packed with people. She waited for three hours in the stifling room where there was no option except to stand because if you sat on one of the two chairs, you lost your place in the queue. Finally, almost at closing time, with at least another twenty people behind her, Lizzie made it to the counter where a sour-looking clerk slapped the documents Lizzie handed her onto the desk, then stood up and walked out of the room. There were sounds of dialling and a one-sided conversation while she, presumably, made a telephone call. Finally, she waddled back. Lizzie was not happy, but she knew the power games of immigration clerks, customs people and embassy staff pretty well by this time. There was absolutely no point in getting in a knot because that made them flex their bureaucratic little biceps even more.
Lizzie waited silently while the woman nonchalantly flipped through every page of the passport and each of the forms. She continued watching while the woman flipped, again, through every page of the passport and each of the forms. She still watched while the procedure was repeated a third time and (bloody hell, woman!) a fourth time. Finally, there was an agonisingly slow shuffling of papers and a hand reached for a stamp. Checked the stamp. Tried the stamp-pad. The stamp-pad was dry. With a sigh, the woman heaved herself out of her chair again and left the room again. Lizzie waited. The room waited. The clerk returned. She picked up the dry pad and left again. Silence. More silence. Waddle. Waddle. Flop back into the chair clutching the stamp pad. More shuffling. Silence broken by the grinding of Lizzie’s molars. Then a voice, a decidedly surly voice, asked a question presumably in Russian. Maybe Armenian? Either way, Lizzie had to apologise in poor French and shrug she didn’t understand. A mammoth sigh from the mammoth. The question was repeated. Lizzie apologised in English and shrugged she didn’t understand.
In English, ‘Where will your plane land?’
Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Lizzie! What’s the capital of Armenia? She went blank. She couldn’t remember. A triumphant glower was beginning to show on the face of the clerk who repeated the question. ‘Where will your plane land?’
‘The capital city,’ tried Lizzie.
‘What is the name of the capital city?’
Oh, come off it! You know the name of the capital city. The clerk was now on a roll. She could taste her victim. ‘What is the name of the capital city?’
Lizzie tried grovelling, ‘I can’t remember the name of it. It is the capital city and the planes are only flying in once a week to the main airport.’
No way. The clerk was inflating with glee in front of Lizzie’s eyes. ‘What is the name of the capital?’
Yes. I heard you, you bitch, but I can’t remember. Do not say that out loud, Lizzie.
The passport was closed. The documents were coming back. Lizzie needed that visa. She turned to the crowded room and called out, ‘Can anyone here tell me capital of Armenia? I need to fly there tomorrow.’
From the back of the room came a cockney voice, ‘It’s Yerevan, love. See how she likes that?’
Lizzie gave a thumbs up, turned to the clerk and said, ‘Yerevan. It’s Yerevan. The capital of Armenia is Yerevan.’ For heaven’s sake—this was the Armenian embassy!
Victory. The clerk was deflating before Lizzie’s eyes. Sullenly, ‘When do you need this visa?’
From the back of the crowd, ‘Now. She just said she needs it now. Just give her the bloody thing.’
There were murmurs of agreement from the crowd. The blimp knew she was defeated. She stamped the page, filled in the details took the money and shoved the passport back. Lizzie left with a smile. The man grinned at her and said, ‘I hope you really know where you’re goin’, love. I may not have done you a favour. Hope you make it back!’
Lizzie remembered his words the next day as she boarded the plane in Paris. She had flown from Geneva by Swissair with good coffee and warm croissants. Her wonderful, looker-after, secretary, Maureen, had been shuddering about Lizzie flying Aeroflot into Yerevan, but it turned out to be Air Armenia and they seemed to use Aeroflot’s old planes!
It was Maureen who always insisted to Lizzie, “take one good set of clothes…in case you meet someone”. Maureen had great hopes for Sam despite Lizzie always telling her that there would never be another real “relationship”. In the transit lounge, Lizzie had met up with the British representative, a woman, tall and elegant, pretty and with an air of being very proper. Her name was Hester. Who calls a kid “Hester” in this century? Oh great, she’s going to be one hellava help in a war-zone.
They exchanged courtesies and then were called to board. The plane stank, a mixture of sour and dank. It was free seating, and Lizzie knew that meant fighting for a seat that had a back that stayed up, preferably one behind another seat that had a back that stayed up and she darted into one just before a burly man carrying at least fifty-three parcels—well, maybe six or seven. Hester waited politely and then joined her.
After take-off, Lizzie decided to go through her briefing documents again to check the maps with places and contacts named. She tried to lower the tray table. Some hope. It was unlocked, but it stuck to the seat in front and would not move even when Lizzie tried thumping it and wedging a pen under the top as a lever. No way. That tray table was staying put. Quietly, Hester reached into her bag and took out a Swiss army knife. Quietly, she opened it. Forcefully, she stabbed it into the tray table and pulled. The tray table dropped with a clatter. Hester smiled gently and folded away her knife. One day, Lizzie, you will learn not to make too rapid decisions about people. One day.
As the hours passed and Lizzie put away her documents, she let her mind drift to that first European war-zone she had visited. Ex-Yugoslavia. The world had hastily recognised Croatia. Then the war focused on Bosnia-Herzogovenia with the Serbs, the Croats and the Muslims. Lizzie had never been there before the wars broke out, but she had heard people talk of the beautiful coastline, the richness of the cultures, the smiles of the people. Lizzie only remembered grey. Grey upon grey upon grey. Buildings shelled to nothingness. Rubble. Charred bits of wood. The anguished eyes of some of the women. The glazed “I-will-not-remember” eyes of others. And in the air, hatred so tangible you felt you could grab handfuls of it. There was nothing subtle or insinuated about that hatred. It was an emotion that was hard-edged and razor-wired, that barbed out from almost everyone Lizzie met. She had hoped she was meeting just one sort of person and not a real cross section.
It had been late in 1992 that Lizzie had a call from a woman she knew in one of the UN agencies working in Zagreb, ‘We’re hearing all sorts of nasty rumours about rape-camps, places where women are being raped as part of this ethnic-cleansing. ’It’s outside our mandate to even investigate. Any chance you and your lot could check it out?’ Lizzie went to a senior colleague who, as it turned out, was definitely not interested. It was far too “political” for them, she said. The organisation had members in each ethnic grouping, and those members had voting rights on the international management committee. If a team, or even just Lizzie, found out anything damaging then the colleague (middle management) could lose at least some supporters. No. No. They would just help with humanitarian aid—simpler, safer and that’s where the funders and donors wanted to have input. None of this more sensitive stuff. Let someone else get involved in all that complex sort of thing. The bureaucrat was a woman with a definite career plan and was not going to take any risks. No. No. No, Lizzie. Let someone else check it out.
Lizzie had sighed. The irony of a woman not wanting to get involved in this sort of issue was not lost on her, but neither was it new to her. How often had Lizzie seen that “you-must-have-provoked-him” look on other women’s faces? How many times had she heard “Just keep your mouth shut and don’t upset him” or “If you made him feel special and told him how wonderful he is, he wouldn’t stray”. But this sounded bigger than just some suburban housewife being beaten up, so Lizzie headed down to the “Big Boss” and eventually, it was agreed that a team of three would go and check out the rumours. If there were grounds for investigation, it could be officially handed to the UN.
They had found strong grounds for investigation. In refugee camps, they had heard the same stories over and over. Workers with refugees had heard the same stories from women from all parts of the country and all walks of life. Stories of incredible horror. Stories of villages being taken over, the women and girls herded into one place, an open space surrounded by the other villagers—men and women of different ethnicity perhaps, but still people who had been neighbours, even friends. The stories included accounts that in open spaces, publicly, the Muslim women and girls were raped. And raped. And raped. This was not the sort of rape that was a by-product of wars when men disobeyed rules of morality or society by proving their power over helpless victims. This was methodical and procedural. Rape was being used as a weapon, a tactic of war. This was a planned attack on communities. These people could not live together after these scenes of public violation because hatred was planted here, along with the seeds of children who would always be the children of “the enemy”.
Lizzie and the others in the team heard the same stories wherever they went. They heard of women who survived the early attacks who were now beginning to give birth. There were stories of women killing their babies, of women who were insane now. Two people told the story of a young woman holding her small baby as she was taken to the open space, with her two older daughters. The baby was thrown to the ground beside her, and she watched the child cry as soldier after soldier mounted her. Her two young daughters were made to watch until when the men had finished, the eyes of the young girls were put out. The soldiers said they wanted them to remember the rape of their mother as the last thing they ever saw. Could these stories really be true? Could people do this to each other? The team could not verify them: they could only report that such accounts were widespread among those who had fled. What sort of hatred led to such acts if the stories were true? What sort of hatred created such stories if they were false?
There were stories of courage too. Lizzie heard stories of men who had been ordered to rape women and girls who had been their neighbours. Some refused. They died. One man was said to have broken down and sobbed as he begged the soldiers not to make him do it, ‘I drank with her father when she was born. I have seen her grow. Her family are my friends.’ They shot him.
In the refugee camps, people were crowded together with pitifully few belongings. It was early winter with some snow but the ground around the crude shelters was muddy, and the cold was beginning to creep cruelly into all the corners. Lizzie saw women and children sharing blankets and, when the day was done, they sat together, often silently. Where there were huts, Lizzie was amazed at the tidiness of everything and the signs of women trying to create some sense of order with old bits of cardboard put down at doorways to keep the mud out as much as possible. Thin blankets were folded, and the few extra items of clothing were placed in little piles. Out in the drizzling rain, women washed laundry and where there was some sickly sun, they washed children in buckets of carried water.
In one hut, Lizzie saw a lace curtain at a window. The elderly woman had taken weeks to escape, and she had carried her lace curtain all the way. Another woman told of the invasion of her village, of being, at last, put on a bus and then of walking and walking and walking. She had hidden the videotape of her wedding and brought it with her, until, when she had reached the border, the soldiers demanded something to let her over. All she had was the videotape. They took it and broke it in front of her. The only time she cried was when she talked about losing the videotape.
In one mosque Lizzie visited, women and children sat passively on small pieces of plastic with their bedrolls neatly behind them. The mosque had opened its doors to all or any of the refugees regardless of religion or whether or not they still practiced the religion. It was in stark contrast to the Orthodox Church where Lizzie and the team went to talk to the local priest who finally unclasped the five thousand and thirty three (well, anyway, a lot) of the locks on the church door. When Lizzie asked him about the reports of rape the man shrugged his shoulders, ‘It is war, Madam. Rape happens.’ Lizzie clenched her teeth but her anger, her rage slid out. ‘And when it happens what do you do? What do you say? Or do you do nothing? Do you stay inside this place which is supposed to offer succour? Is that what you do? Do nothing?’ The team was ushered out rapidly.
In the makeshift camp at the mosque, there was little talking between the people, and many often just stared into the emptiness around them. Outside one refugee camp, Lizzie stood in the open square in a clinging, insidious mist as a couple of women and some children sat on bags of belongings and small crowds of men hunched together. The facade was all that was left of a church, where the rest had been shelled. A woman with a little boy moved from group to group asking about her husband. Heads were shaken. No one met her eyes. There was an overwhelming sense that this was neither the end nor even the beginning of the end of the story. In the greyness, Lizzie realised this was how wars happened and kept on happening. How could something like this ever be put to rest?
When the team had arrived back in Geneva with a report calling for full investigation of the use of rape as a weapon, as a tactic of war, the European Parliament had sent a fact finding group and the United Nations Human Rights Commission had sent another ‘rapporteur’ (one had already been and returned with nothing about rape). Lizzie had seen the media attention grow as she was constantly interviewed. There was a nasty sense of voyeurism about some of it, and she steadfastly refused to provide salacious details. One morning in her office, the telephone rang. She answered and identified herself as usual. Then came the question, ‘Is this the woman who went to Zagreb?’
‘I have visited Zagreb.’
‘You visited camps?’
‘Yes, I visited camps. How may I help you?’
‘Help yourself. Stop telling these lies. This is a matter of life and death—you understand me? It is your life or death if you continue.’
The line went silent. The calls were repeated for nearly a month. That expression, “life or death”, did not seem a cliché anymore. Lizzie mentioned them to the woman, her senior colleague, who was definitely not interested in Lizzie’s problem—although, by this time, she was all of a quiver with excitement about the “wonderful” media because the ambitious little bureaucrat loved the idea of high public profile.
However, as the same little bureaucrat had predicted, one faction of their constituency from ex-Yugoslavia was livid. It was all lies and filthy propaganda. There was no need for any investigation. The team had stirred up trouble for nothing. Women were always raped in war. What was happening to this report? In true Geneva style, Lizzie’s senior and some of the boys set up a committee—not to deal with the issue but to decide how to deliver the report to those members. Too late. The UN and the European Parliament had already confirmed the need for full investigations.
Then, one morning, Lizzie came down from her apartment and found the door to her car unlocked. She was sure she had locked it the night before when she came home. Her imagination, ever active, leapt. ‘Car bomb!’ she screamed silently. She stood for about ten minutes vacillating between making a fool of herself or being blown to smithereens. Finally, she sat in the car. Turned the key. The engine started. No bomb. Grow up, Lizzie. But, on reflection, was that a bright thing to have done, girl?
Lizzie stormed into the senior administrator’s office. ‘You do something to get this crap stopped or I go the newspaper boys and tell them you do not give a shit about your staff!’ Someone must have done something because the calls stopped.
That war was still dragging on as Lizzie flew to Yerevan. She wondered again about a world where men could attack each other by attacking “their” women. She wondered too about a supposedly civilised world where a man could assert his masculinity by violence against “his” woman. She wondered too about the men who were not like that, who were capable of both gentleness and strength. She thought Sam was probably one of the second sort but it was on record that Lizzie was no judge of blokes. Was any group “normal”? And if so, which one? Lizzie dozed and closed her mind to memories as the plane flew on to the next war.
It took four hours to collect their bags and clear customs at Yerevan, where there was no queuing, just a huge, jostling crowd. The agent in place, who introduced himself as Johnny, came elbowing through to meet them, and this was no mean feat given that he was about five feet tall and could kindly be called rotund, a nervous, twitchy little man given to darting around and he never seemed at ease, although he did seem efficient. He had a car and petrol and said they could go immediately to Ngoro-Karabagh as he had obtained permits. They drove through Yerevan which was desolate at six in the morning although occasionally someone could be seen beginning to venture out. There were few vehicles on the pot-holed roads, and the smell of petrol was everywhere. At isolated spots, people were selling it in jerry cans along the roadside, and even in residential areas the fumes were strong as trucks unloaded illegally into small cans for re-sale.
In the car with them was a man in battle fatigues who went by the unlikely name of “Lulu”. Lulu was carrying a handgun and had a grenade on his belt, no teeth and the glazed eyes of someone who was really somewhere else or maybe on something else? Johnny seemed very impressed by Lulu who, according to Johnny, was a great guy with a great sense of humour. Johnny told Lizzie that one day when they were travelling together, Lulu had pulled the pin on a grenade and just sat smiling and holding it while Johnny drove over the rough roads as gently as he could.
‘What happened to the grenade?’
‘Oh, Lulu threw it away.’
Was this “get the visiting women” time?
‘Another time,’ Johnny continued, ‘the dogs had been really bad.’ (Lizzie was to hear often of packs of hungry dogs attacking pedestrians in the city). Some of “the boys” were complaining about them, and Lulu didn’t say anything, just left took a Kalashnikov, went into the street and sprayed anything that moved. Anything on four legs, that is. Hell, it was funny. You should have seen people running and Lulu just laughing and laughing.
You sound like a great guy, Lulu. I wonder if you are coming with us all the way. No. Johnny is explaining that Lulu won’t come through the Corridor with us. Now, am I glad or sad?
The Lachin Corridor was, in fact, the road over the mountains and the link between Armenia and the small area known as Ngoro-Karabagh which was within the borders of Azerbaijan. The people of Ngoro-Karabagh were mostly ethnic Armenians, who did not want to be part of Azerbaijan. Hence the war.
After dumping their bags and packing a small knapsack each, they headed for the Corridor. Johnny drove. He had made a big show of loading a handgun into his belt holster and checking for extra ammunition. Hester, having longer legs, sat in the front seat, and Lizzie shared the back with jerry cans of petrol. Given that the Corridor was known for being regularly shelled and for the snipers all the way along it, Lizzie decided not to think about those jerry cans of petrol. Because it was cold, Johnny liked to drive with the windows up, and she began to think she could explain his erratic mannerisms. He was probably permanently stoned on the fumes. Hester quietly rolled her window down and seemed oblivious to Johnny’s request to close it.
They drove for a couple of hours, and the road was steadily climbing. Occasionally, they passed through shelled or burnt out villages. At one point near a river crossing, an elderly couple had stayed in their small house. The old lady, all in black with her head wrapped in a scarf, stared still and silent as they passed. As they climbed high, a mist covered them and the world and reduced visibility so even Johnny had to put down his window and he and Hester had their heads out trying to see the road. The road was a slippery churn of ice and snow. When it became very bad, they pulled to one side and decided to wait for conditions to clear. Slowly, as the mist dissipated and rolled away, they heard a heavy droning and into the clearing came a truck loaded with soldiers, also heading for Ngoro-Karabagh. There had been no other traffic on the road for hours. The driver stopped. The soldiers leered. Johnny twitched and pulled out all their documents. After a few minutes, the driver shrugged, put the heavy vehicle into gear again and ploughed on into the mist that was waiting.
The three in the car decided to wait too, before following that lot. It was now bitterly cold but freezing seemed better than sitting in the fumes, so they propped themselves against the car and stomped their feet and hands for warmth. Hester and Lizzie hadn’t eaten for about eight hours and that had been a smelly roll with plastic chicken slices served with abominable coffee in the plane. They were just beginning to move back into the car when they heard another vehicle coming from the opposite direction. As they waited, a big old truck rattled and wheezed its way into view. It too, stopped. There were two men in the cabin. Johnny grabbed his gun, jumped out of sight behind the car and hissed, ‘Bandits!’ Hester and Lizzie looked at each other and half shrugged. Should they throw themselves on the icy ground behind Johnny? It seemed a little over done somehow. There were just two men and a wheezy old truck. The driver smiled and got down from his seat. He was an old man with a gentle face and he pulled off his hat, approached Lizzie and began to speak. Lizzie smiled back, ‘I only speak English.’
Now the smile became a broad, broad beam. ‘English? English?’ Nods and smiles.
‘Me—me speak English too!’
This was uttered with tremendous pride. Then, he took a theatrical, big breath and out came, in perfectly enunciated English, ‘Jane has a cat.’ Pause. ‘Yes, she has.’ Pause. ‘No, she has not.’ This time the pause was extended, obviously for the audience to applaud. Lizzie and Hester laughed their appreciation. More smiles all round, except from Johnny, still crouched only half hidden behind the car. The old man’s hand went to the inside of his coat.
‘Careful! Careful!’ hissed Johnny.
Now it was the old man’s turn to look amused as he flicked one passing glance in Johnny’s direction. Slowly, the hand emerged holding a ballpoint pen. ‘I have a pen.’ Pause. ‘Yes I have.’ Pause. ‘No, I have not.’ Pause and final flourish. Bloody hell, foreign language teachers the world over must teach the same sort of stuff. Lizzie remembered, ‘La plume de ma tante.’ Had she ever needed that phrase in all her time in Geneva? By this time, the other man had joined the group on the roadside and there followed a highly flirtatious conversation all based on those six sentences. Eyebrows were lifted and jiggled, Lizzie could almost see moustaches twirled to the refrain, ‘Jane has a cat. Yes, she has. No, she has not.’ They all enjoyed themselves, except Johnny who was, still, crouched almost hidden behind the car.
Finally, the men headed back to the truck. But not to the cabin. They went to the back and began to pull open the big double doors. ‘This is it!’ hissed Johnny. ‘Get down! Get down!’ He had the gun pointed at the two old men.
Lizzie and Hester watched as the driver (the linguist) pulled out a large flat box and came back to them. He bowed and handed it to Lizzie saying, in the most courtly fashion, ‘Jane has a cat,’ with another smile. Then he and his friend got back into the truck and waved pointedly to Johnny, who, yes, was still crouched, almost half-hidden behind the car, and they slowly drove past in the direction of Armenia and Yerevan.
‘Smugglers,’ said Johnny as he put his gun away.
‘Nougat,’ said Lizzie as she looked into the box. ‘Great nougat.’
She passed the box to Hester, and they chomped their way happily through the delicious honey and pistachio cubes. Johnny’s eyes lit up greedily. He took three pieces and got back into the car, where he demolished most of the contents within the next fifteen minutes.
They made their way through the rest of the Corridor with no shelling and no snipers. Johnny assured them that his “intelligence” had informed him this would be a good time to travel. Whether this were true or not, he had certainly brought them through safely. Their papers were finally passed by the soldiers at the barriers, and they made their way through the streets of small towns and villages. Everywhere there was massive destruction. A small crowd cried and prayed at a fresh grave in a tiny cemetery. In one street, there were a few stalls with women trying to sell old clothes and shoes. One young boy offered a few medical supplies, almost certainly from pilfered aid packages. There were a few vegetables. Three potatoes here. A turnip there, with a handful of carrots. Two jars of preserved beetroot nearby.
They visited a church where some aid was stored and distributed. They went to what had been a city hall where again, some aid was stored and distributed but they were very small amounts out of the plane loads that had been dispatched by outside agencies. Johnny talked about the difficulties involved in moving supplies from Armenia into Ngoro-Karabagh and of how it was only possible because he had such good friends in the military, because he knew how to handle them, how to get what was needed so supply trucks were not taken by the bandits. That all sounded reasonable. There were always some pay-offs in situations of war in order to get aid to those who really needed it, usually the women, children and old people. But, so far, they had seen very little getting to those groups. Where was the rest going?
Johnny took them to a hospital. Here, he was welcomed with lots of backslapping and “good-old-boy” camaraderie. All the patients were men and most of the staff was men, some of whom wore military clothing. Lizzie and Hester were told over and over what a great man Johnny was, how much he helped the hospital, how he could get them supplies when no one else could and Johnny was given a list of things needed most urgently.
Lizzie did not like the feel of this situation, and from the look on Hester’s face, she was sharing the same disquiet. Johnny talked excitedly to the senior staff, while there were looks at the two women and some laughter, until they were shown into a room with a video recorder and screen set in one corner. ‘We shall show you our work.’ Johnny and the medical director (that’s what he seemed to be) exchanged grins as the film began to roll.
Bloody hell! It’s an operation, all blood and guts. He is picking up a saw. Amputation. Bloody, bloody hell! These bastards are showing us a very-not-prettied-up amputation in a field hospital. Look at those grins. Bastards. Shit Bastards. They expect us to be squeamish and faint or throw up. And they could be right. I can’t look away. But I can’t look. If I close my eyes, they will know. Oh bugger! Bugger! What can I do? Stare below the screen. That’s it. Glaze your eyes a bit and focus on the button of the VCR underneath the screen. Gotcha! Now there is a technicolour blur of blood and bones just out of focus. Don’t think about it. Stay cool. Stay calm. Keep your face expressionless. Focus on the button. Focus on the button. I wonder what Hester is doing? Break concentration just for a flash. The boys are grinning and just about dribbling at the sight of all that gore. Hester seems to be fascinated. She must have found that button too. Back to it, Lizzie. Do not, do not, let your eyes drift up to that screen.
‘You see what is happening, ladies?’
Johnny, you are an arse-hole.
‘Hmmm…’
‘It is interesting, isn’t it, ladies?’
‘Hmmm…’
Bloody hell again! Hester is asking questions. How long does the procedure take? What is the success rate? How many patients? What sorts of wounds? Is it possible she is actually watching this stuff? It was possible.
She said later that she had always been interested in watching things like that. She did find it fascinating.
Once outside again, Lizzie was able to concentrate too as she just closed her mind to the images she had glimpsed. Of course, it was a military hospital. Johnny was so anxious to play the big man that he had given the game away. At first, he answered all the questions about number of wounded, location of field hospitals, transport etc. Then, it dawned on him and, hurriedly, he said the hospital also treated civilians, which was why he provided supplies. There were no civilians in sight. Certainly no women or children. Those people went to another hospital, Johnny assured them, ‘Of course, that hospital gets help too, lots and lots of help.’
Could they visit that other hospital?
‘Maybe. It was late now. It would not be good to spend all their time just visiting hospitals.’
He could assure them it got lots of supplies. ‘Right now, Johnny.’ Lizzie wanted to see that other hospital, now. ‘I would like to see it too,’ said Hester.
There was more prevarication from Johnny and more insistence from Lizzie. Sulkily, he slammed back into the car and drove to another building. Even from the outside, the contrast was marked. Both places had washing out but here it was threadbare and discoloured. There were no vehicles in these grounds. Women, children and old men sat quietly as though they had been waiting for hours. Most of the staff (but not all) were women, and there were no shiny uniforms, shoes were old and worn. The visitors were taken to the Director’s office.
Later, Lizzie wrote:
The hospital had been bombarded fourteen times—with extensive damage sustained. The director, who was a doctor, shrugged her shoulders and said, ‘Every time we start again from scratch.’ Staff worked, delivering babies and caring for patients in the basement. They “came up” when attacks seemed to have stopped. Equipment is limited because much has been destroyed in the bombings. There have been numerous caesarean deliveries, “sometimes in the mud”. Staff have to use lamps—and kerosene is urgently needed. As always, many babies choose darkness hours to enter the world.
The doctor continued, ’There is an Azeri woman here. We are treating her like one of us. What is the guilt of the woman? When villages were cleared out, they did everything—rape, cutting out babies from wombs, cutting off hands and ears. One woman was covered in every part of her body with cigarette burns. The Red Cross deals with those things. It is bad. It is war.’
During goodbyes, Lizzie remarked on some little wild flowers on the desk in the midst of obvious struggle and suffering, and the director smiled, ‘It was Women’s Day yesterday.’
As they left the building, Lizzie and Hester exchanged glances behind Johnny. From now on, they would be watchful of this smart little operator who seemed to like playing toy soldier.
The light was beginning to fade as they drove to another section of the city. They arrived at a three-storied building that had obviously been shelled but was still reasonably intact. They climbed over rubble and found a staircase that led to the second floor where a man and a woman greeted them. Johnny handed over a small parcel, and the woman kissed his hand gratefully. She smiled at Lizzie and Hester and showed them to a room that still had an unbroken window and a door that went out to a small balcony. In the twilight, it was possible to imagine what this community must once have been like. There was a church half-built which had not been shelled, just not been finished at the time when fighting broke out. Now, it stood waiting. In the debris, were broken flowerpots and an old clotheshorse probably used for drying washing on another balcony. There were no lights and darkness came quickly.
Lizzie returned to the room to see an old kerosene tin in which a small fire was now smoking, and on the floor were three straw mattresses that looked and smelled damp. The woman had boiled some water on the fire, and she now handed Lizzie a cup of gritty black tea. There was a slice of bread and a chunk of dry cheese for each of them. The woman looked apologetic. Lizzie tried to smile her thanks and understanding, because although it had been a long time since Lizzie and Hester had eaten, she guessed it was longer for the woman. The woman’s eyes filled with tears, and she shrugged hopelessly.
A little later, she showed Lizzie and Hester another room with a bucket. There was no running water, just a small bowl on the floor beside the bucket, and the woman was vehement in miming that they must not drink it nor put it near their mouths. Lizzie managed as best she could in the darkness with her tiny pencil torch and then groped her way back to the first room.
This was also completely dark except for the last embers of the smoking fire. It was very smoky because the man had just put another piece of wood into the tin and it must have been damp too. Lizzie and Hester looked at each other. ‘Do we freeze or get smoked?’
They decided to take the smoke. They each chose a mattress, kicked off their shoes and settled down to try and get some sleep. Quiet settled in the room, a quiet that was soon shattered. Not by bombs or screaming. It was shattered by Johnny’s snoring. Never before or since had Lizzie ever, ever experienced snoring like Johnny’s snoring. The old floorboards running from beneath his mattress to beneath Lizzie’s seemed to vibrate. In fact, Lizzie would not have been surprised if the walls had not finally tumbled down upon them. Never, never, had a man, woman or creature snored like Johnny snored. And it went on and on and on until she thought she would scream. On and on and on. Lizzie groped for her torch and shone it on the sleeping, snoring figure. Bloody hell! He had his gun in his hand and was clutching it to his chest. What if it went off? It was possible with the force of those snores. Bloody, bloody Hell! He could kill one of them and it probably wouldn’t be himself, more’s the pity. What in the name of all things holy, should she do? Could she do?
Lizzie switched off the torch and lay in the darkness. The snoring continued. Radar was probable picking up the vibrations. Did radar pick up vibrations? They wouldn’t need radar. They could trace them with the naked ear. What was the opposite of a naked ear? A dressed ear? The snoring went on and on and on, and Lizzie could feel herself getting slightly hysterical. She was hungry, cold and tired. What the fuck was she doing here? Why was she not sitting on a couch somewhere with Sam, eating chocolates and watching television? The snoring went on and on and on. What the hell could she do to that man with his gun?
Out of the darkness came a very civilised voice, ‘Lizzie, you’re an Australian. Why don’t you just thump him?’
So Lizzie did.
He didn’t shoot anyone. There was a brief lull, and then the snoring started again. It was a long cold night.
As the light came up, they dragged themselves out from under their coats and back into their boots. They took it in turns to visit the bucket as the man and the woman were rekindling the fire. There was no tea this morning. The man handed round a small bottle of brown liquid. Johnny gulped it quickly. Hester took a few sips. Lizzie swallowed. She choked. It was firewater.
Johnny grabbed the bottle again. ‘It’s brandy. Something like brandy. They make it locally. Drink up. It will get you going.’
It certainly did. Lizzie was known as the cheapest drunk in Australia because she simply could not hold much alcohol and this was almost straight spirit she figured. She had hesitated but then she saw breakfast. The woman had put a piece of metal over the top of the can where the fire smouldered, and on to the metal, she broke three eggs. Eggs were like gold in this situation so it was a very generous gesture. But Lizzie’s stomach heaved. She hated eggs that were not well cooked, that had even a hint of white “slime” around them and these were just warm, no sign of cooking, as the woman scraped them onto three tin plates. She was looking pleased that she had this luxury to offer the guests. Lizzie offered hers back signalling that the woman might like it. Bad move. The woman looked hurt. This was a valuable offering. On an empty stomach, with another mouthful of “brandy” to help it along, Lizzie ate the slimy warm, raw egg. She smiled her thanks then silently told herself, Do not throw up. Do you hear? Do not throw up. I know this is a war zone with important things happening, but please, please, please Lizzie do not throw up.
As the day progressed, she was glad she had eaten something. That egg was probably better than the grubby bread that was the only other thing on offer. Or maybe, the “brandy” wasn’t such a bad idea.
For that day and the next, they visited refugees and distribution points. Everywhere people were in dire need. The contents of aid parcels were being eked out. With no electricity, urban dwellers were having to gather what wood they could find and use that for a little warmth and, at least, boiling water. Blocks of apartments had no running water. Even the luckiest people still had to carry buckets or cans up the flights of stairs. Water is heavy. The elderly suffered most. One old lady explained that she could only get a little bread every now and then and it became very hard and stale as she tried to make it last. She had no teeth, a fact which she demonstrated by slapping her gums so the only way to eat the hard, dry bread was to soak it in water, which had to be carried and boiled over a fire of wood that also had to be carried.
For many of the women, lice were a problem as they had no soaps or medication to control what was brought back by their sons, husbands and brothers who occasionally had leave or who came back for nursing when they had been wounded. Caring for the sick men-folk was a major burden. Apart from the practical issues of how to feed them and keep them warm, there was the emotional burden of watching them suffer without the means to help them.
The irony was, as Lizzie had often found it, the soldiers were, at least, reasonably well dressed and well shod. But men who had lost limbs could often not even get crutches let alone prosthetics or counselling and in cramped, hungry, cold quarters family groups suffered bitterness and anger as well as physical privation. Young teenaged girls and boys who were not yet old enough to go to the army were often sullen and rebellious. They couldn’t study, they were burdened with carrying and working all day, and they had little or no concept that anything would ever change. They wanted more than war. They wanted their futures. Some, at least, wanted the glamour and excitement they thought the soldiers experienced and few understood the realities of fear and pain in the actual fighting. ‘That would be nothing’, they often shrugged, ‘compared to living here with nothing and only the children and the old people.’
They were children themselves, and Lizzie could see the fear in the eyes of their mothers and grandmothers. No one spoke much about AIDS or other sexually transmitted diseases but they were there among the women whose men came home even for visits. Condoms were a luxury in communities where just surviving from one day to the next was the main challenge.
In the middle of all this, of making lists of what could be most usefully brought in to help, of finding how to reach those most in need, Lizzie saw many women who kept themselves and their families going by maintaining whatever order was possible in the chaos. In a partially destroyed apartment, the remaining inhabited rooms would be swept and neat. One very young woman with two sons had a piece of plastic over a three-legged table propped on a pile of bricks. She kept wiping the piece of plastic as she talked. She would break off sometimes and comb her fingers through the children’s hair, pushing the too long strands back behind their ears. She too pleaded for soap and powder for the lice. On the windowsill, there was an old tin can filled with soil, and growing in it was one gloriously golden tulip. Please someone let her get some relief before that strand of hopefulness fades.
In one building, a small crowd gathered around them and yelled, almost screamed, their desperation. They had received one aid parcel each but that was months ago. Didn’t people care about them? Had everyone forgotten them? Johnny tried to hurry them away, but Lizzie and Hester stayed to listen. Where was all the aid going if not to people such as these? One woman on the edge of the crowd stood silent with her arms folded tightly against her chest, and as Lizzie moved towards her, the woman began to talk in simple English. The woman’s face was stern and grim as she explained that there were old people who could not even leave their beds and others were caring for them as well as their own families. But people’s kindness was becoming as strained as their resources and these old folk might just be left to die alone. Lizzie could see the woman’s strength, could see her exhaustion, see tears. The woman held out her hands and Lizzie took them. And then the tears really flowed in a pool of silence that spread out from them to the surrounding group. The woman leant closer and put her head next to Lizzie’s. Saying nothing, they stood, just two women together.
Then Johnny burst through the crowd. He flung the woman away. ‘Don’t touch them,’ he almost shouted. ‘You know they all have lice.’
It was so crude and such unnecessary humiliation that Lizzie swung around and stepped between him and the woman, the temptation to slap him almost overwhelming, ‘Get out! Get out of here this minute. Wait for me in the car and don’t you ever, ever dare to speak like that again! I will see you lose this job and that you don’t ever get another in this line of work. You’re a lying, cowardly, mealy-mouthed little worm. Get out of my sight! Out! Get the fuck out of my sight! Wait for me in the car!’
He looked gob-struck by the attack but had no option but to slink away.
‘That was quite well said, I think,’ said Hester.
The two women stayed a little longer talking with the crowd who had not had Lizzie’s outburst interpreted but who had obviously gotten the main gist of it. When Lizzie and Hester joined Johnny in the car, he was apologetic over an underlying resentment and was now much more wary of the women and their questions as if he had realised that they might not be taken in by his performance. It was too late. They had seen how often the military spoke of his beneficence and how little aid was passing through civilian distribution points. They had to spend a lot more time together so a degree of civility was maintained. He did do some good work, had, at least, been able to get supplies into the country. It was probably something of his own, real and understandable, fear that led him to kow-towing to the military boys. He was energetic and efficient, but he was also a frightened little bully. All bullies are frightened, Lizzie, you know they are. Remember? It’s just that when you are the one being bullied it’s hard to remember. This may be a different sort of war zone, Lizzie, but do try to be smart enough to learn something from what you see.
They made one more stop at a medical clinic, and then Johnny became quite agitated. ‘We have to leave. We have to go back to Yerevan, get out of here quickly.’ When they queried this sudden change of plan he said, ‘An attack. There is an attack planned. There’s going to be a lot of shelling. We have to get out quickly.’
So the little guy did have some source of information. Or was he just in a hurry to get back to Yerevan and offload these two pesky women? They had to take his word for it, and his nervousness was pretty convincing, so they headed back to the border and went through the Corridor at break-neck speed. Lizzie realised where that expression probably originated as they bounced and flung their way around boulders and potholes. Once they had to stop because the rim of one of the back wheels was bent in and rubbing badly. Johnny took a sledgehammer, a sledgehammer, from the boot and pounded the rim back into some semblance of shape then they hurtled on again over the top, skidding on ice and taking their chances in the mist. They saw no one and heard nothing until they were on the flat land in Armenia heading back towards Yerevan.
Then they heard the soft boom of shells far behind them and realised he might be a little prick, but he had gotten them out and safely back. Yerevan now looked familiar with the black marketeers on the roadside, the smell of fumes. Even with its air of dejection, it seemed like civilisation after the past few days. They were staying at a once glamorous hotel that was now all chipped gilt and faded glitz. There was sometimes a trickle of cold water and for an hour each evening there was electric light. Bliss. There was coffee, bread and some vegetables. Extra bliss. There was a bed. But far and away the most luxurious thing of all was that there was no Johnny snoring. No need to position oneself in case that bloody handgun went off in the middle of the night. Lizzie tried not to think too much, about whether she was scratching her head because it needed a good shampoo (impossible even with that occasional trickle) or whether she was scratching because she had brought back some live souvenirs.
For two days, they met with a range of UN agencies and NGOs that were based in Yerevan trying to co-ordinate and organise humanitarian assistance. It was obvious Johnny knew none of them and had been operating out of the mainstream. This was not always a bad thing given the heavy bureaucracies that could develop but, in this case, it had been counter-productive. Based on his information and reports, his agency had been bringing in supplies that were mostly geared to the needs of an army rather than the most pressing food, soaps and types of medication needed by the civilians. They had been under the impression these were being taken care of by other organisations. The irony was that very few people had the sort of access he had to the areas most under fire. If he had had any sense he could have kept the army happy with some stuff and passed on the information about community needs. Lizzie and Hester made their reports, and each hoped that they would make some difference to the lives of the people they had met.
Yerevan was under a self-imposed curfew so work always had to be finished well before dark in order to be off the streets. There were stories everywhere of the bandits in the city itself where carjacking and killings were reported every day, and anyone abroad at night was prey for these roving gangs who were reported to rape and kill as well as rob their victims. Lizzie, Hester and Johnny were careful not to take any unnecessary chances and always returned to the hotel by late afternoon each day.
Until the day the car wouldn’t start.
They came out of meeting with a UNICEF representative, bundled into the car all tired and ready to finish the day. The streets were emptying as people hurried away to the relative safety of their homes. Johnny was unusually quiet as he was beginning to realise that his operation was being seen to be quite different from the reports he had given and the way he had presented himself. He grumbled into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition key, but the engine would not catch. It took nearly an hour of trying, of waiting in case the engine was flooded, of trying again, of searching in vain for another car to jump-start them and finally of pushing before it started. By this time, the light was nearly gone and the streets were deserted. They set off but at an intersection, the engine cut out again. Everyone was determinedly calm as they pushed again, and it finally caught again. They were about half an hour from the hotel, and it was dark as Johnny drove quickly keeping the revs up as much as he could.
They were about five minutes from the hotel when they saw the lights of another car approaching from the opposite direction. They all seemed to hold their breaths until the car passed by them. Then as Lizzie watched out the back window, she saw it slow and swing into a U-turn. It was coming back behind them. Johnny put his foot down, and the little car surged ahead doing its best to get them to safety. The other car caught them and sat behind them with its headlights on high. Lizzie turned again and was momentarily blinded. The other car was almost touching their bumper. Against the lights, she could see nothing and they were all travelling too fast for these old cars and these roads. Johnny reached for his gun unclipping the holster. For a few moments, nothing seemed to change. The order of things remained. Then the other car came up on them and rear-ended their car. They held on as they were jolted by the hit.
Then the other car pulled back momentarily. For a moment, they thought it might be over but then the other car started to pull alongside them.
‘Give me the gun,’ said Lizzie. ‘They won’t expect it from a woman in the back seat.’
Johnny hung on to the precious weapon, but Lizzie could almost taste his fear mingling with her own and Hester’s.
‘Give me the bloody gun!’
The other car was toying with them, edging up but not yet level with them. Hester took the gun from Johnny’s hand and passed it back to Lizzie who registered how obscene and heavy it felt. She checked that she could feel the safety catch and sat leaning on the back of the front seat with the gun out of sight in front of her. She knew they were almost at the hotel but could not see the entrance in the darkness somewhere ahead of them. The other car too suddenly realised that their prey might be close to its home, and there was a sudden roar and it was alongside. Lizzie could make out four shapes. Slowly, the predator inched forward, and they knew it was only seconds until they were forced off the road. Lizzie gripped the weight in her hand, and no one spoke.
Then Johnny swerved their little car and hit the other one. The surprise of the attack caught the other driver off guard, and there was a momentary hesitation. Ahead of them, they could see the hotel. There would be a guard at the entry. Johnny put his foot down and took the turn at full speed. For an instant, it seemed they would roll but somehow the wheels held the surface, and they were safe. Their hunters pulled up and sat with their lights down the driveway, sat like a creature growling in the night. Johnny pulled up in front of the doorway, turned off the engine and the lights, and they sat silent and frozen in the darkness that was only pierced by those staring white eyes from the road. They sat and waited. There was no sign of the guard. Then slowly the white light moved, the engine sounded louder and the car slunk away. Three people exhaled. Lizzie checked the safety catch and handed the gun over Johnny’s shoulder. Then she gripped his shoulder in thanks. The little prick had gotten them away safely again.
It was only later when Sam asked Lizzie if she would have used the gun that she realised she would have done. Yes, if she were honest, she knew she would have fired that weapon and possibly killed a man. What price, Lizzie the Pacifist? Think about it, girl. In your heart, you know you would have pointed that gun and you would have pulled the trigger.
It was interesting that Hester, instinctively, had recognised that in Lizzie.
When she finally made it to her room, Lizzie felt quite exhausted. There was only a little time left with electricity, and she used it to finish her report. As the bulbs flickered, she lit the candle and dropped onto her bed intending to rest a minute and then pack in readiness for the trip home that would begin with the joys of Yerevan airport early in the morning. She must have fallen asleep. She woke suddenly to realise the candle was guttering, and that there was someone in the room standing by the bed. It was the not-at-all-lovely Lulu. He was still in his army fatigues, still toothless, with his pants unzipped and playing with his weapon. His gun—that weapon. He was leering as he moved closer.
Lizzie sat up slowly. ‘Get the fuck out of here, Lulu.’
He stopped, not understanding the words but a little taken aback by her tone. She repeated, ‘Get the fuck out, Lulu,’ in her most school teacher voice. She pointed to the door. ‘Out. Out. Out with you.’ She shooed him out like some recalcitrant pup or donkey. Bloody hell, she thought as she put a chair against the door and was asleep again within ten seconds.
She had to scramble a bit in the morning but they were in plenty of time for the three hours of push and shove needed before boarding. They said goodbye to Johnny, thanked him and as they warned him about the operation and their report, Lizzie was left with the distinct feeling that he regretted not turning her over to the bandits or tying her to a stake in the ice field at the top of the Corridor. As they entered the old plane, Lizzie and Hester commented that it didn’t seem so bad. They didn’t notice any smell. Then they both collapsed, even Hester giggled, as they realised that they probably smelt worse. Their clothes were filthy, they hadn’t showered properly since they left home, their hair was dirty and they were very likely bringing numerous crawling little head passengers and tiny white eggs with them.
The plane was late of course, and they had to rush to make the connection in Paris. Hester was coming to Geneva for the de-briefing sessions. As they boarded Swissair, it was like going into heaven. The cabin crew greeted them but, more importantly, so did the aroma of coffee and warming croissants. It was all so clean and so comfortable that they stood for a moment at the entry to smile at each other. They were the last to board. They began down the aisle and Lizzie noted noses wrinkling as they approached and knew they must smell really bad. Hester tapped her on the shoulder, and as Lizzie turned, Hester actually grinned, then shook her hair vigorously and ran her fingers through it several times. Lizzie grinned back and, standing there in the business class section with blue suits withdrawing from the proximity of these two noisome late passengers, she repeated Hester’s performance. If they were indeed carrying tiny little “extras” in their hair, they could gleefully share them around. It was probable a measure of their state that they thought it was hilarious.