There are four of us in the car. The road ahead is empty and the cameraman is trying to hide his equipment as we draw up at the first checkpoint. “You…tell them you’re my brother, that we are a family going to see our aunt in Gori. Just say it in Russian…quickly. If they ask… say you’re ID is back home…on their side of the Checkpoint.” I nod. This isn’t the moment for disagreements. She gestures to the driver. “Go slower you idiot…you’ll frighten the Russians.”
He isn’t listening to Irina. He is chewing a piece of paper he tore off the corner of the daily news and is listening intently to the radio. He clutches the steering wheel tightly. Irina sighs and stuffs her press card into the little box under the dashboard. She’s in her late twenties and is wearing simple clothes to pass unnoticed by the Russians. I think she’s probably nervous too. For the past few days virtually no Georgian journalist has been allowed into Gori. To my left a French photographer is drinking a can of Sprite.
“It’s really nothing. I mean…The Russians are so polite. These Georgians don’t know what they’re talking about. They aren’t shooting the wheels off cars like the al-Aqsa Martyrs’ Brigade. Seriously…boring war….this…You want some Sprite….You thirsty?”
I don’t answer. He crunches the can and screws down the window to lob it out into some trees. The air bats my face. Brown plains and barren hills are passing by at 120 km/h. A few cows are wandering around in gloomy serenity – but I am trying to calm myself down. I thought until five minutes ago we were just going to the check-point. My stomach feels a little unsettled. Pictures of TV News flash through my head. Then I realise there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. I smoke a Kent as we draw up to Russian lines. I suppose I’m trying to look ‘hard’ by pulling some kind of frown. I repeat to myself. “This is what you wanted…what you wanted.”
The Russian standard is flying 21 km from Tbilisi by a stream. Some soldiers are taking a nap. Others are re-enforcing earth dug-outs. It’s looks like their kit and attitude hasn’t changed since Life photographers snapped scenes like this is in the ‘40s. I feel like I’m inside one of those pictures. I open the car door into what I had only known from photographs. This should be in black and white. This should be 2D. The Tank is hanging over the side of the tarmac, three hastily thrown-together pieces of concrete mark the control spot. In the drizzle the Officer lumbers up and stares us up and down. A uniformed guy taps Irina’s shoulder and lifts up his early 2000’s Oakley sunglasses. There are large scars along his left-cheek. He smiles with unwashed teeth.
“Good morning….Pretty.”
So these are the ‘peace-keepers.’ You can see the Tartar in those long eyes. He holds an AK-74, spits out some phlegm and takes down the code on the number-plate. There’s no saluting, I can’t see a seniority system between these twenty-somethings. But he’s definitely in charge. Three of his men open the boot, push some stuff about and signal we can go on. They are quite polite and laugh a little idiotically when they find a bottle of cheap vodka in there. The French photographer keeps muttering under his breath. After a few minutes they let us through.
“Ridiculous. This is nothing. Not like when I was in Afghanistan -“
Irina pulls round and snaps at him. “How the hell would you feel if there were Russians soldiers – no matter how polite…21km from Paris?” He rolls his eyes and takes out some biscuits. “Want one?” He chews the chocolate all the way into Gori. He’s still being rude but has switched to French. “You see those APCs there…she’s afraid of them. I’m not. I’m a reporter…I see it almost like a toy. I want to snap it… Can’t be afraid of it….”
Tanks are loitering around the edge of the town like metal-animals. Young men are sitting on them looking rather bored. “You see…” The Frenchman mutters. “War is about waiting. That’s what you’ll learn.”
All is empty. There’s nobody home. The deserted streets eerily remind me of Christmas Day in England – just all the window panes are smashed in and a few apartment blocks are blackened. They’ve been bombed. The car bumps along the road. Irina shouts, “they used cluster bombs so be careful. You all know what they’re like.” I smile. I have no idea what a cluster bomb looks like. And rather stupidly I don’t ask. We park in the main square under the statue of Joseph Stalin. He was born in Gori – but musing about his historical legacy seems ridiculous when I can actually breathe it. Russian soldiers are on patrol so we push quickly into the Town Hall.
Soviet Baroque columns hold up a space crammed with the frightened and the confused. The wounded are sitting around dejectedly in the ante-chambers. Cuts, bandages and slings for broken arms fill the four corners of the room. As we walk up the stairs an old women is in tears. I don’t stop to ask why. The Georgian Governor is waiting for Irina.
He’s a young guy and has a nice pink shirt and a thick black desk in a room with a large conference table. Head in hands he smokes another Parliament Kingsize and coughs. Really badly. Behind him are his shelves. There are sixteen icons, a collection of knives and a framed photo of someone aiming a pistol. I Imagine he took it when war seemed like something fun. The Governor is sullen and spends most of the time scribbling down tank positions onto a map of his district and keeping an eye on the TV. Movements, pull-backs and new strikes are running along the announcement ticker.
“My country is occupied. We are resisting.”
I hear a grating laugh. Some journalists find that funny. Outside I run into the correspondents of the Figaro and the Sunday Times. These grinning men suggest I wander down to see the prisoner exchange. We arrive too late. General Borisov, the supreme Commander of Russian Forces in Gori is already leaving in his 4×4. He’s visibly drunk, is sweating profusely and speaks a foul-mouthed car-mechanics Russians. “Look guys…I’m getting my fighting boys outta here….just leaving some peacekeepers OK…? Just outside, right?” I ask him if the tanks there are going to be needed for that. He burps. Everybody pretends they didn’t notice. “Peacekeeping’s tough man. My guys are getting the fuck outta here tomorrow…. Don’t hassle me…I’m bu-sy!” The door is slammed and he hits the road. A piece of paper fell out of the door as he brutally shut it. Later that evening, the Le Monde Correspondent explains what the circles mean. It’s the new map of Georgia.
“They are occupying everything north of Gori and everything West of Senaki. For good. Or so it appears.”
