Gwennie's Girl Read online

  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 i
nto 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.