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Madness Visible: A Memoir of War [Janine Di Giovanni] on leondumoulin.nl *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. Award-winning journalist Janine di Giovanni.
Table of contents
A Memoir of War
She is a graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop, where she received an M. Chapter One Exactly how much time passes from the moment a man is wounded until he starts to feel pain? Sometimes it's a second. Sometimes it's an hour. Sometimes it's more than an eternity. NATO officials in Brussels said they were investigating the report and were reluctant to comment before their work was complete. The wet, late spring. The way time slowed down until each second seemed elastic. The sixty seconds that it took for four men to lift the youngest soldier, dead, boots still on, and lay him carefully on the back of a truck bound for the morgue.
How everything surrounding that minute--the tears of the soldiers lifting him, the way a hand was cupped over a match to light a cigarette, the Kalashnikov thrown angrily on the ground--stretched into hours. In the background, the low rumble of noise. It seemed so far away, over the mountain even, but it was right there. Some soldier crying: "My two brothers died. I don't want to die. The early-morning breaking light during the first wave of bombing, deepest blue with the faintest brushing of stars. Then lighter azure, then premature streaks of pink. The sun finally rising over the harsh mountains.
Then finally light enough so that I could see the sleeping soldiers next to me, dotting their way down the trench. In the darkness, I mistook them for tree stumps. Or the way that the wounded looked when the others carried them into the trench. The way they did not scream or beg, just submitted. The childlike surprise on their faces. One minute sleeping quietly, the next, the leg they can still feel, no longer there.
One of them was a half-dressed teenager. Face, neck, chest covered in blood, brighter than the blood dried on his gray sock. The sock was still on his left foot, but his right foot was gone, as was his right calf, his right knee. The last bomb blast caught him, surprised, down near the riverbed twenty minutes before, and he must have been feeling the pain by then. But he lay silently on a stained stretcher and waited as though he were waiting for a bus.
First step of first aid: expose the wound. So they cut away his T-shirt to see where he'd been hit, and he was there in the wan sunlight, topless, shivering.
Madness Visible. A Memoir of War
Next to him, another boy, skin slashed with hot shrapnel, chest peppered with wounds that were dotted like measles. The medic, a twenty-three-year-old architect who lived in Switzerland, moved from body to body, slapping field dressings over open wounds, injecting morphine, washing away blood and dirt and mud. The boy without the leg looked forgotten in the chaos of the morning bombing.
It was too loud in the ditch for anyone to hear him whimpering. He lay alone, throbbing with pain, and watched those scenes of anger inside that ditch: of soldiers running from their positions, running away to the forest. A commander called for them to come back. They continued to run, cantering like colts. Ali, the Moroccan commander, shouted, "The Serbs are two thousand yards away! Some moved. Others just stared. The medic, moving between bodies, touched my arm.
He stood over a teenager with acne and an exposed bone in his leg, a cut over his left eye. The medic held the flesh together and moved the needle through the skin as if he were mending a button on a shirt. The needle did not pierce the flesh easily. The medic cursed. He pushed the needle through the flesh again, harder this time, and the boy underneath him winced. Nearby was someone else: a body with a mangled leg, deep in shock. We pulled down his trousers and the medic threw the bloody fatigues in the mud.
The boy looked at him, startled, confused. He put one in his mouth, offered another to me.
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I wiped blood, took the cigarette out of his mouth. But he kept offering the pack. The medic jabbed him with something and looked up over the trench to see a seventeen-year-old girl soldier called Jacky. She had a blond ponytail and a small Koran on a leather strap around her neck. Everyone said she was the mistress of the commander, but she said, in a small, tough voice, that she was there to fight. She ran with a box of ammunition and a friend with short spiked hair and a Walkman tuned to hip-hop.
The friend left the music on even during the shelling. His time as a soldier had made him cynical, suspicious of NATO's intervention, of the sudden interest of the West. As he looked up at the sky, there was another flash of light, another explosion, and it caught his lenses. He told me to watch the boy. The boy slept, soft hair falling across his forehead, his wounds. The cigarette pack was left in the mud. It has been nearly two months since the NATO bombing campaign inside Kosovo began, a response to a wave of Serbian military and paramilitary attacks on Kosovar Albanian civilians.
Those attacks included assassinations, mass killing, burning villages.
Then the refugees began pouring into neighboring Albania, Macedonia, and Montenegro. They passed on donkey-pulled carts, in vehicles, or on foot, slipping on the ice, in the mud, in the snow, carrying their lives in shopping bags. Some were forced to walk alongside the tracks. A blind man tapped his cane along the railway telegraph wires for guidance. Forward bases, front lines like those at Kosare, sprung up.
The Ushtira Clirimtare e Kosoves UCK , or KLA, was swelling with soldiers who wanted to push back the Serbs, liberate their country, and rescue the refugees who were stranded in the hills. The soldiers I was with in Kosare were trying to liberate the town of Junik. They had taken our position from Serbs a few days before, and now we were getting hit, unsure of who was bombing us. Ali was older and experienced. A devout Muslim, he prayed five times a day and had come from North Africa to fight for his Balkan Muslim brothers.
He made it clear that he did not like my being there. The bombing, he said darkly, was a punishment. The night before was someone's birthday. Everyone sat around a fire, drinking, smoking, singing. He moved down the trench carrying a stack of old helmets, which he threw like footballs to the soldiers.
Mine landed in the mud; it had no strap. He then separated us, fifty meters between each person. I watched Ali moving away, heard him calling, his voice growing fainter: "Be prepared for everything," he said. His face was hot, his body did not move. He continued breathing.
But outside, another boy, dark, Arabic, with a beard, pulls down his trousers. He squats. He's covered in blood and is in too much pain to be embarrassed. He's got shrapnel wounds all over his leg, his arm. He lifts one hand.
Janine di Giovanni
I passed him the bottle. He drank from it, collapsed on the ground. The sky changed. Morning had come. The pink light softened the rocks on the mountains, the jagged cliffs. The grayness faded, then brightened to blue. For Gellhorn, it was the Spanish Civil War; for di Giovanni, it's the series of conflicts that, since , have consumed the republics of the former Yugoslavia. Expanded from a Vanity Fair article, this book presents a harrowing firsthand account of a region's spiral into madness. Di Giovanni, a senior foreign correspondent for The Times London , was there almost from the beginning: she shuddered through the first icy winter of the Sarajevo siege the longest in modern history ; she sipped tea with Arkan, the dreaded leader of the ethnic-cleansing paramilitary Tigers; she stood shoulder to shoulder with Serb revolutionaries on "Day One" of the overthrow of Slobodan Milosevic.
The book deals primarily with di Giovanni's experiences covering the most recent war—'s conflict in Kosovo—but it moves through time from the initial dissolution of Yugoslavia to the most recent, guardedly optimistic attempts at reconstruction. Di Giovanni provides ample historical context to the fighting readers seeking to understand the separatist impulse of the Montenegrin Orthodox Church or Milosevic's "mother complex" have plenty of evidence to play with , but eventually, the names and dates of massacres and treaties pale next to the spectacle of pure horror: a dog trotting by with a human hand in its mouth; a crazed woman lying naked in full view of snipers, begging to be shot.
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