فصل 03

CHAPTER THREE

Don’t get involved

‘Hello. Are you Katy?’ a man said as she came out of the arrivals terminal at Belgrade airport. ‘I’m Ed Jonas. Welcome to the mad world that used to be Yugoslavia. I think I saw you once when I was back in London.’

He was in his sixties. She remembered the day he’d come into the offices of The Daily Witness. They hadn’t talked then, but she’d watched him chatting with her colleagues and laughing with Caryl Jones. A newsman through and through, that’s what everyone said about him - one of the best.

When he offered to take her bags she refused to let him. She felt a lot stronger than he looked. They got into a taxi.

‘Is this your first foreign job?’ he asked. ‘Your first war?’

‘Yes,’ Katy said.

‘Well, I’m sure you’ll be all right,’ he replied, but he didn’t sound sure at all.

Later they went to a restaurant in Skardalija Street, which Ed Jonas said was one of his favourites.

‘Can I ask you a question?’ she said after they’d ordered their food.

‘Sure. Go ahead,’ he said.

‘Why are you leaving?’

‘Why am I leaving? Well, this is my last night as a war reporter. I’m packing my bags for the last time. So I’ll tell you, but no tears and sympathy, OK?’ He poured her a glass of wine.

‘I promise,’ she said.

‘OK. Well, I’ve got cancer, you see. I only just found out. It’s not too advanced and it’s possible that the doctors can get rid of it. But I’m not the healthiest person in the world, as you can see.’

‘That’s terrible,’ Katy said.

‘You promised!’ he replied.

‘Yes. I’m sorry. But why are you still smoking if you’ve got… if you’re ill?’

‘Funny word, isn’t it, cancer? Nobody likes saying it. Why am I still smoking, you ask. Because I can’t see a reason to stop. If I’m going to die I might as well die happy. Smoking is one of the few pleasures I have left. Anyway, back home they’ll ban it one day, you see if they don’t. I’ll stop then.’ He winked at her. ‘Anyway I’ve got a wife and two grown-up children. None of them likes me very much at the moment. My wife says she wants to divorce me. But in a couple of months I’m going to be a grandfather for the first time. I think I need to make my peace with all of them. Now seems like a good time to go home in the circumstances.’

‘Yes. Yes, I can see that,’ said Katy.

‘Hey, don’t look so miserable. You’re young and healthy, good-looking too. You’ve got some young man, I expect,’ Jonas suggested.

‘No, I don’t think I have.’ She told him about Paul and in return he told her about his life: wars in various parts of the world, the friendship of journalists, the cost to his personal life, the history of The Daily Witness.

They finished the bottle of wine. When the coffee arrived their conversation turned naturally to the situation in the country that had once been Yugoslavia.

‘Sometimes what’s happening here…, umm, what’s happened here…’ He put two sugar lumps in his coffee and seemed uncertain about what to say next. ‘Well, it just doesn’t seem believable, does it? I mean, we’re in what used to be called the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia. I know that it was always an impossible kind of federation. I know that. Six different republics, different religions, different races. But during the communist years, Tito somehow managed to keep it all together. And then when he died in 1980 it all began to fall apart. The Croats and Serbs in Croatia started arguing with each other, the Kosovans tried for independence, the Serbs got upset

‘And from what I know it all went really bad when Croatia and Slovenia declared independence in 1991,’ Katy said, mostly to help him. He was trying to talk, but coughing at the same time.

‘Yes,’ he agreed, clearing his throat noisily, ‘that’s when the killing started. And the fighting has been terrible. Then, on top of that, when Bosnia and Herzogovina said it wanted to be independent too, many of the Bosnian Serbs weren’t happy, and the Serbs from Serbia weren’t happy either. That’s when they started trying to “cleanse” Bosnia and Herzogovina of the Bosniaks - the Bosnian Muslims - and the Croats. They want to kick them out so they can have the place to themselves.’

‘The thing I still don’t understand,’ Katy said, drinking her coffee, ‘is why the Bosnians - the non-Serb Bosnians - don’t fight back.’

‘Well, they try to, but they haven’t got the Serbs’ weapons - tanks, guns, all that. They’re fighting back as fiercely as they can in Sarajevo, but they’re in a pretty bad state there.’

‘The big debate back in the UK is whether other countries - I mean the USA, Europe - should do something about it. What’s your view? What do you think the international community should do?’ Katy asked him.

‘The international community!’ Jonas exclaimed with an angry kind of laugh. ‘The international community says, “It’s a pity of course, but we aren’t going to sell arms to the people who want an independent multi-ethnic Bosnia and Herzegovina. We’re not going to sell to the Muslims. It’s not our war.” It makes me so angry. When I think of Sarajevo, of how it used to be.’ His voice faded. He seemed to be seeing the city he was talking about.

‘Tell me,’ Katy said. ‘Tell me how it used to be.’

‘It used to be the most amazing multi-ethnic city you could possibly imagine. Everybody - Serbs, Bosniaks, Croats, Montenegrins, Roma, Jews, everybody - used to live happily, side by side. But not any more. The Serbs are up in the mountains sending shells and bombs into the city, the streets are full of snipers and the place is falling apart. What is it that turns neighbours into killers? How do perfectly decent ordinary people get so crazy?’

‘What’s going to happen, do you think?’ asked Katy.

‘I honestly don’t know. If the United Nations was a bit braver or if the Americans got involved, they could stop the killing tomorrow. But after Vietnam, Somalia, Rwanda - all those embarrassments - nobody wants to stick their neck out. Instead the United Nations sends a peacekeeping force like they always do. But haven’t they learnt? You can’t keep peace if peace doesn’t exist in the first place.’

‘So the Serbs will win? They’ll get their Greater Serbia? Is that what you think is going to happen?’ she continued.

‘I don’t know. The Bosnians - the multi-ethnic Bosnians - have fought the Serbs on the streets, and there are signs that the international community is getting very fed Up. So it’s, umm, just possible that they might do something sooner or later. But they’d better hurry up because most of the people who are trapped in Sarajevo will be killed unless someone comes and stops what’s going on.’ He started to cough again. He looked terrible. ‘Do you mind if we go back now?’

As they got into the lift at their hotel, Ed Jonas gave her some advice.

‘Out there in Sarajevo you have to be careful, all right? They don’t usually kill journalists, but everybody makes mistakes. And Katy, there are snipers everywhere. Haris will do his best to protect you - he’s the driver I always use in Sarajevo and he’ll meet you when you get there - but there are other dangers too.’ He suddenly looked more serious than at any other time during the evening. ‘The most important thing, young Katy, is: don’t get involved. OK? Don’t get too close. If you stay objective, if you keep your distance, you’ll be all right. If only I was thirty years younger!’ The lift doors opened. ‘This is my floor,’ he said. He kissed her goodnight. She smelt the smoke and wine on his breath. He walked down the corridor without looking back.

‘Why are you here?’ the British soldier asked, looking at Katy in surprise.

‘Because I’m a journalist, I suppose.’ She wasn’t going to be frightened. She hadn’t even got to Sarajevo yet.

‘Journalists!’ he muttered. He was sitting opposite her in the army truck as it drove along the empty roads. It was painted white so that everyone would know it was part of the multinational peacekeeping force. There were three other soldiers with them, but two of them were asleep and the other one wasn’t listening.

‘Do you ever get attacked?’ she asked the soldier.

‘Yeah. Often.’ Was he actually trying to frighten her? He was younger than her, all white skin and orange freckles. Under his helmet he had very short red hair. ‘A friend of mine got shot in the arm last week. They sent him home. Lucky chap. This is the worst job I’ve ever had in the army.’

‘Why?’ she asked.

‘Because we can all see what’s going on, but we can’t do anything about it,’ he explained.

‘Why not?’ She was interested to see how he would explain their mission.

He looked really upset, as if he was going to cry. ‘Because we’re a peacekeeping force, that’s why.’

‘Well, isn’t that a good thing?’ she asked innocently.

‘It should be. But all it means is that we’re not allowed to do anything at all. We just stand around being nice to people, and any soldiers - it doesn’t matter where they come from or what they think they’re fighting for - can just walk right past us with big grins on their faces on their way to murder a few more innocent civilians and burn down their houses.’

‘It’s not that simple, surely?’ she suggested.

‘Yes, it is. Right now the Serb soldiers go from village to village, blowing up houses, farms, mosques, anything they feel like. They separate the men and the women - take them away, shoot them, or put them in prison camps and do all kinds of unspeakable things to them. They say they’re “cleansing” the land of their enemies. “Ethnic cleansing” they call it. And the victims can’t do anything about it because they haven’t got anything to fight back with. And neither can we because our stupid government says we’re not allowed to get involved. Oh, no!’ he said suddenly. ‘I forgot. You’re a journalist.’

‘It’s all right. Don’t worry.’ Katy gave him her sweetest smile and watched him go red. ‘Even if I write about your feelings I won’t say who you are.’

They didn’t talk after that. The truck roared on through the afternoon. It was raining as they passed through one empty village after another. Most of the houses had no windows or doors. In the beautiful countryside nothing moved.