Carney's War Page 4

  CHAPTER THREE

  The funeral of Hadji had taken place and Shakil had driven various relatives around which he had enjoyed as he sought to reacquaint himself with some of the other cousins. He had then driven Az, Khalil and Saira back together from the cemetery ten miles away in Essex to his own house.

  “The police don’t have any leads on who caused the young man’s death, but it isn’t being ignored,” said Saira.

  “They might not get who did it; you know how it is. Maybe we should just leave them in peace,” replied Shakil.

  Az hadn’t known Hadji, but he had been angered by news of the death especially as he had met others from that side of the family over the years. “Yeah, another one killed by some boy racer no doubt. If we ever find him I hope I get him first,” he flashed a look at Khalil who as sitting next to him in the rear of the Passat.

  “I know what you mean,” Khalil nodded. Saira looked over at Khalil.

  At the house the atmosphere was sombre as they had a light meal.

  “This is just about the worst thing,” said Khalil.

  “He was a really nice lad, you know,” Shakil replied. I met him a few times over the years.

  “They always are,” Saira responded and turned as she wiped away a tear. Khalil was touched by Saira’s behaviour; especially as in the few years he had known her she had met hardly any of his family with the exception of Az, Wazir and Shakil.

  Back at the flat Khalil and Saira embraced. “I really hope we never have to experience anything like that again,” she said.

  “You and me both,” replied Khalil.

  They sat in the living room still redolent with the smell of new carpets and fresh paint as they had only just finished re-decorating Khalil’s flat. The odour was in stark contrast to the gloom that had invaded their lives over the previous few hours.

  Later that evening Khalil, having suspended his business to attend the funeral, realised he had missed the day’s post. There was a flyer from a local political group. He started reading it; it seemed like the usual request for aid donations.

  “Since 1990 we have lived in an age where communications have never been so developed and where many have wealth unimaginable to a previous generation. But we also have a world where two-thirds of the global population does not have access to even basic resources such as clean water or a decent rudimentary standard of education. Some of these people are tomorrow’s potential foot soldiers of crime and terrorism.

  “There have been many areas of conflict so it’s not surprising we have compassion fatigue in the West and are sick of seeing our soldiers and aid workers killed in conflicts that seem pointless and without end…”

  As he read on some of the comments struck a chord with him and Khalil noted the first part of the email sender: britishjusticeparty@… Saira called him down and he threw the flyer away.

  ***

  Work dragged on for another twelve months. Joe decided that a complete change of scene was required to kickstart his life. Work pressures had been too much and he wasn’t enjoying the commute any more. Moreover his mortgage was secure thanks mainly to his grandmother passing on and leaving him a sizeable lump of cash.

  The opportunity arose to go and work in the Balkans in autumn 2004. He had wanted to go there with the military, as many in his unit had already served in Bosnia and Kosovo, but he hadn’t been able to get a posting. Now a role with the United Nations had materialized courtesy of a fellow British engineer. Joe had worked with him in Africa and the man had then worked full-time for the UN. The former colleague had put Joe’s name forward for the role.

  After several days of assessments and interviews in Putney at an NGO training office Joe was selected, but the posting wouldn’t be confirmed for a few weeks. The only real concern for Joe was his new girlfriend Sam, whom he had met earlier in the year; she was a languages teacher who lived in Kent. The relationship had grown stronger over a few months as the calls from exes dried up. After a lengthy discussion Sam said she would come and visit him and he agreed that he would fly home as frequently as he could. He secretly wondered whether he was doing the right thing, but knew he needed to clear his head and get away for a while. The rat race had got to him. In the pub one evening he told Dex and Baz what was happening.

  “Why do you want to go out there, mate?” asked Dex.

  “It seems the right thing to do. I need a break from this routine. Sam is positive about it. And it’s in my line of work.”

  “Yeah, but help the Serbians; they’re a bunch of war criminals. They are still hiding those bastards,” Dex replied.

  “I know, but I’m not going out there to specifically help them. I will be working with various minorities; Bosnians, Croatians, amongst others.”

  “Maybe when all is said and done we should leave them alone,” said Baz. “I mean look at all the massacres. We just stood by and watched while the Serbs carved them up. No one over there likes NATO or the UN; probably with good reason.”

  “Well then there’s a challenge,” affirmed Joe.

  “All right look at it another way Joe,” said Dex. “You have a career right, and a new partner, so think about it for a moment; don’t dump them. They are more important, mate.”

  “I get your point,” stated Joe. “But I’ve always wanted to go to that part of the world and see for myself what it’s like. It’s just something I need to do; to have a break from thi shit life as well. And anyway me and Sam are sweet enough.”

  There was a pause as they all stared at their drinks. Joe broke the silence. “Oh for crying out loud it’s only for six months or so – and if we don’t try and help people re-build their lives they will nosedive again and we’ll only have even more fucking wars.”

  “You don’t need to lecture me about it,” replied Dex. “It wasn’t that long ago that some other scum was causing mayhem in Europe.”

  “Anyway I am sick of all this routine crap,” Joe retorted. “Every few years all this office shit gets me down. And maybe I should have gone to Iraq.”

  “Don’t feel guilty about not going to Iraq,” said Baz. “The place is a fucking mess. You don’t have to be there to know that much. But it sounds like you have made your mind up so good luck with it mate.” Baz held his glass aloft – “to your good health Joe Carney.”

  Dex joined in, “good health Mr Carney.”

  “Stop taking the piss you two,” Joe raised his glass and laughed.

  ***

  Khalil picked up off the mat what he thought was a charity pamphlet and started reading it.

  “We are living in a time of change, fuelled as it is by pressure on resources and ever-changing communications systems the real challenge is to help those most in need. Individuals are making this new history. The fractures that have opened up…”

  He couldn’t be bothered to read any more, but he thought there were some important points. Az and Wazir just yawned and carried on staring at the TV. Khalil then realised it was another flyer from the same organization from many months before: the British Justice Party. It sounded like a legal group and he remembered that he needed to explore new routes for business contacts. A thought came to him that this might be one way of doing it. He pinned it to his kitchen board.

  Khalil went back into the lounge. He was fed up with the sight of Az especially; he just seemed to be getting lazier and lazier. Saira hovered around their feet with the vacuum cleaner.

  “So boys,” Khalil shouted, “what’s next up for you; got any plans?”

  “Nope,” replied Wazir. “Just carry on with the NVQs; they are keeping my place open at Uni if I want it back. Oh and I have this other part-time role, working on the mainframe at Sainsburys, or rather sitting there and making sure it ticks along; and drinking tea and eating cakes all day. Found it at the job centre so it’s proper Kosher like.” Wazir laughed at his own joke. Az tutted.

  “What about you, Az? I bet Shakil will be glad when you get yourself sorted out.” Khalil winked at Saira.
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br />   “Actually I’m off to Bosnia next week with an Imam and that. It’s all paid for.”

  “That sounds interesting, Az; what are you going to do?” replied Khalil, somewhat surprised.

  “I don’t know all the details; just visit a few ‘Xhamia’ as they call them out there and pop over to see some Bosnian and Albanian villages being re-built after the conflict. It will be interesting; you know the history and all that.”

  “Yeah; I’m slightly jealous. What about college and part-time work?” replied Khalil.

  “I think I should be OK when I get back; I have that job at the retail park, which they say they’ll keep open for me. I am going to do an evening class NVQ – bit like Waz.”

  “That’s good, Az,” said Khalil, rolling his eyes at Saira.

  That evening Saira and Khalil were discussing the visit of Az. Saira started: “I’ve nothing against your extended family, Khalil, but I really don’t want Az sitting around here again like that. My family didn’t bring us up like that.”

  “I know, sweet; I will make sure it doesn’t happen again. And I’ll tell Waz not to encourage him either. They should know better at their age anyway.”

  “Exactly; glad we are on the same orbit for once.”

  ***

  Three weeks later, in late October 2004, Az was being shown around Sarajevo, before being driven out to the area where he would meet some new contacts. He had been in Bosnia for a couple of days helping out in some local schools and making new friends. The location for the meeting was in a house on a side street going out east towards the airport. The three men with Az had all fought in the 1990s against the Serbians and one was missing his left arm. All three carried mental scars of the conflict. They were originally from Mostar and had lived through that city’s siege.

  Az didn’t know what to say when they talked about the nineties and their experiences. He felt out of his depth, that he should not be among them and certainly not regarded as an equal. They were about his age, in their early thirties, but had witnessed and experienced far more than he had in life. He rationalized that it was necessary for him to be there; that it would give him more exposure and could lead him onto something else, something worthwhile. He also felt that while it was uncomfortable he had no choice but to learn some life skills from these men.

  On arrival there were other men gathered at the address and they were all led into a large blacked-out meeting room. The evening’s subject for the main speaker was in English and about the continuing need for vigilance and the conflict that was still affecting Muslims all over the world. The Imam would also touch on what was happening in “Kosova” - as they called it- and the help that was required for “continuing operations” in that neighbouring region.

  Az was told that he would soon be staying in Kosovo for a short while as well as possibly in Albania. There was not any money available for a long period, but he would be welcome for a few weeks. He would also be receiving instruction from a “brother” from the wider Muslim community who would chaperone him and explain what it was they were doing in the cause of Kosovan independence.

  The final briefing was by an Albanian who spoke with an American lilt to his voice; a product of spending years in the US while his older brothers had fought for the liberation of Kosovo of 1999. The accent was irksome for Az, but he tried not to let it show.

  A few days later, having arrived in Prishtina, capital of Kosovo, Az noticed the US flags flying over many parts of the city, which he recalled had been on some of the photos he had been shown. It seemed that this place was more of a US state than part of Europe. One street was even called “Bill Clinton Boulevard” and had a huge photo of the man emblazoned on one of the taller buildings. Az was also slightly confused by the bunting everywhere, but he decided to remain a polite observer. He needed to learn about the recent history and the impact of the war on the local people.

  However, one of the local men cornered him: “You know Az your appearance is not good. You need to smarten up here. People expect a certain level of, how do you call it in English, sartorial elegance.”

  Az had already realised that the men had been commenting on his thick black beard and baggy clothing. He had hoped that they might think that he was a good Muslim, but he had also received a lot of unfriendly glances from locals and had considered shaving his beard off. With his shabby clothing he now realised that he must have stood out like a sore thumb.

  “Yes; you are absolutely right. I will smarten up.”

  “Thank you brother for being understanding; peace be upon you,” the man replied.

  The thought dawned on him that the real reason his chaperones had refused to let him, or any other visitors, out of their sight was in case they were approached by the police. It was quite apparent from their body language and gestures that the local men had not all been completely happy about letting their visitors walk about by themselves.

  They sometimes spoke in Arabic, referring to an “event” about to take place. Az was keen to witness it for himself; from the broken comments he overheard he knew that it was scheduled for that week. He realised that he may have been brought to this place for a more important reason than just sightseeing.

  ***

  The drive along the canyons of Montenegro in rain and mist was amongst the most dangerous conditions that Joe had ever experienced. He was on his way back from the Montenegran coast to a construction project in Prishtina, having started the short contract with the UN a couple of weeks before. The wintry weather had continued to worsen and at certain points torrents of water would cascade off the granite rock faces and across the road, causing the vehicle to swerve. The hazardous conditions were underlined by the presence of black ganitic memorials at the side of the road with faces screen-printed on them.

  Summer was now a distant memory - Joe could recall only that he and Sam had spent most of it together, with her mother occasionally in attendance following her recent divorce. He had said in his last telephone call to Sam that he would be able to fly back more frequently than expected and that the job would be finished by June.

  Joe and his Bosnian UN co-worker had shared the driving, but as they finally approached the Serbian border with Montenegro the “Stop” sign was not very obvious and Joe went sailing over the zone. A guard drew his weapon up and they screeched to a dramatic halt terrifying the other members of the vehicle.

  They were not actually supposed to drive UN vehicles into Serbia from Kosovo and then back into Kosovo as the Serb authorities didn’t recognize the transitional UN administered authority in what it termed a breakaway province. That was why they had taken the mountain routes into Montenegro from Kosovo in the first place. But those high level routes were now covered in thick snow and the driver had decided that it was safer to attempt the route back through Serbian territory and then back into Kosovo via the northern district of Leposavic.

  The Serbian border guards could see the white UN vehicle insignia as easily as they could see the UN ID badges and passports that the two men were holding, but still wouldn’t let them through. Joe unfurled some US dollars; he had a small bundle especially prepared for such moments in a plastic bank bag. It was a trick he had learned while travelling in Africa and Asia in the late nineties and it had always opened doors. This time was no different. After some apologies they got off with nothing more than a stern warning. They got through and drove back towards Prishtina along the main roads. It was 3.00pm on a Friday.

  ***

  Later the same day, at 6.00pm, Az and two Kosovan Albanian men were standing on the open area of the central park in Prishtina near the distinctive edifice of the National Library looking down at the UN complex below them and in the distance. They had been told to stand there from 5.30pm and watch. They stood without talking; the only sound was Az munching on a traditional Albanian meat pastry.

  The two explosions happened in quick succession and jolted the three men, causing them all to dip down. Normally the UN compound would have had
a few late workers exiting at that time on a Friday night, but there had been no one walking in the compound at the time of the explosions. Az was shocked and confused, not for the first time on this trip: why attack an empty compound? They made their own exit away north from the area towards a café one of the men owned.

  “What was the point of that attack; were you trying to maim people?” asked Az while stirring his thick coffee.

  “No brother, that is exactly not what we are trying to do,” replied one of the Kosovan men tersely. “We’re just trying to remind people that we are still in charge here; that we can strike anywhere. We don’t want these foreigners playing political games with the Serbians. This approach will achieve far more for the cause. You don’t have to try and kill everyone.”

  Az lifted his eyebrows, but slowly turned away and looked down the street. He realised that he had a lot to learn.

  ***

  “Apparently someone has thrown grenades into the UN compound. We need to stay put. The grenades have fallen into the green area in the middle and thankfully no one has been killed or injured. It may have been just to scare people. It certainly did that.” The UN policeman gave the men a quick briefing on the evening’s events. He had stopped their vehicle from entering the compound and they decided to park up away from the area.

  Joe and the driver went for a drink in the sanctuary of a nearby bar for the rest of the evening. They discussed the recent spate of attacks with a group of NGO workers.

  One of them was Greg; an Australian legal officer who had got a job as a UN volunteer working for the Ministry of Justice. Greg stated loudly so a number of people could hear “Jeez; this place is more fucked up than I thought, flinging fucking grenades into compounds. They don’t give a shit do they?”