Srebrenica

A short story by Craig Cormick

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" I'd tried to videotape Star Trek last night for my weekly fix of fantasy, and I'd accidentally taped some documentary off SBS. I was running it back and forward with the remote control, hoping that if I zapped it fast enough one way or the other I'd find Star Trek in there somewhere. But of course it wasn't there. It was just this documentary on Bosnia.

It was in Italian. Or maybe French. I couldn't pick the words clearly. And the subtitles weren't too clear either. The reception hadn't been good. I fast cued it and watched the safari-suited reporter running around in fast motion. Flapping his hands and shouting at the camera.

He was driving down a highway. At breakneck speed. Then running around his car pointing at ancient ruins. Maybe two years ancient. Hardly a house still resembled a house.

Then he was back in the car. Shouting at the camera. Driving fast. That'd help him avoid being shot, I thought. And then he was standing in the midst of a militia. They looked rough. If he stood with them too long, he'd get it. I hit the pause button. Let him stand there for a full minute. Let them line him up in their sights. Then I hit the cue forward button again. Let him run amongst them. Arms still flapping. So fast they'd never catch him.

Then he was whizzing down the road again. Long lines of refugees walking past him. The camera zoomed in close on their faces. Men. Women. Children. So many faces. All whizzing past so fast.

Then there was me. I nearly dropped the remote control. Amongst the refugees. It was me! I hit the stop button. Then rewound the tape. Then play. The reporter was back with the militia. Stop. Fast forward. Play. Too far.

He was nearing the end of the refugee column. I cued backwards. Trying to see the faces amongst the static. He drove back along the entire length of the refugee column. Then I cued it forward again. Still too distorted to see it. I was there somewhere. I had seen it. But now I couldn't find it. I had been standing there. Just looking at the camera. Where was I? Cue forward. Cue backwards.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

I couldn't find it. I let the video play on. Now the reporter was in another town. This one intact. Shoppers walking down the streets, turning to look at him as he still shouted at the camera. I tried to read the subtitles. See where he was. They were too hard to read. The words too blurred.

Cue forwards. He was running down the streets. Like Benny Hill. Looking into shop windows. Talking to policemen. Workers. Then whizzing down another street. Past a line of people standing outside a shop. The camera zoomed in close on their faces again. Men. Women. Children. Patiently waiting. And then pulled back on a couple talking. And it was me again!

I hit the cue backwards. Ran back up the line. Then play. Quick. Quick. There it was. Me. I hit the pause. The frame froze in a distorted shot. As if something was ripping apart the people in the queue, tearing their heads and bodies into small lines. I hit the frame advance button. Once. Once more. Once more. Trying to get a clearer picture. Trying to reassemble the bodies. Trying to see myself more clearly.

It was me! I was standing there, talking to a dark-haired man. In a line outside a cafe. I got up and went over to the video player. Opened the control. Played with the tracking switch. Tried to get a clear reading of the subtitles. I twisted the tracking switch one way. Then the other. I wrestled with the image. Made it a little clearer until I could read it. Then cued back and let it play again.

It was our dialogue that was in the subtitles.

"Hello", I say. "This is a nice town."

The dark-haired man frowns a little and licks his lips. "Yes", he says in the subtitles. "Very nice town."

"What is it called?" I ask.

"Sorry?"

"What is the name of this town?"

"Is Srebrenica." His voice matches the subtitle. I could understand the spoken and written word. And the way he says it makes me short of breath. As if all the air is suddenly sucked right out of me. Filling me with panic.

"No", I say. "It can't be." The subtitles again. But I can see from my face that I know it is true. And I know this man. He is the Bosnian refugee who lives down my street here. I could look out the window and see his flat. But I can't look away from the TV. Here he is with his wife and children. Two small girls. They are wearing yellow dresses. Staring at me. Still alive.

"Srebrenica", I say. I can't say it the way he said it. I can't make it sound real. Can't instil a sense of panic. "You have to leave here", I say. "You will be killed if you stay here. The whole city will be destroyed."

"Sorry?", he asks. He can't seem to follow my words. Too many of them. Too fast. I want him to understand me. I cue backwards. Repeat the words to him.

But he turns to his wife and says something. I can't read the subtitles this time. Too distorted. She shrugs. He turns back to me and smiles. "Very nice town", he says.

I look worried. I have to find somebody and warn them. I have to tell them. I leave the line and run down the street. There is a policeman standing on the corner. I grab him by his arm.

"Do you speak English?", I ask. I can hear myself talking in English.

"Yes. Some. A little perhaps", he says. But he is not talking English. I can only read this in the subtitles. "You have to leave", I say. "The militias are coming to kill everyone. Everyone. I have seen it on TV. Thousands will be killed."

"No", he says. "It is not true. We are safe haven. We are protected by the UN army. See the UN is here."

He turns and points down the street. But it is deserted. He looks down the other street. Nobody.

"But they were here", he says, mystified. "They must be here somewhere. We have the UN. The UN!"

He says the word carefully. The subtitles show it in capital letters. As if the emphasis might make the UN soldiers reappear. Then he shakes his arm free and goes to search for them.

"You have to leave", I shout. "The Serb militias are coming. They will kill thousands."

The image darkens. The camera shows a dark cloud moving across the sun. It is thick and black. Suddenly the streets are empty. I can hear the distant pounding of gunfire. They don't need subtitles. The militias are closing in. I have to escape this town. The camera follows me as I run down the end of the street.

I catch a glimpse of people scuttling between houses. Running away. Parcels and plastic bags under their arms. I run after them. But when I get there nobody is in sight. I look around frantically. Maybe they have run into the woods! They are leaving the town.

I run after them. Across a long green field towards the tree line. I can hear the heavy artillery now. Very close. It is landing in the town behind me. Hitting buildings. Cars. Homes. Anybody still there will be blown into small pieces. I don't want to think of my neighbour's children and wife. What the artillery will do to them. I keep running.

My sight fixed on the tree line. So distant. I run and run. My breath begins to hurt. The shells whistle over my head. I fix my eye on one tree and run. My lungs hurt. But it gets no closer.

There is fire behind me. I can feel its heat on my back. On my legs. I run and run and run. Aim for that single tree. Feel the fire in my lungs. Hear the shells high overhead. I will the tree to be closer. Will myself to run faster. Try to swallow the pain. Try not to think of the blood and flesh. Splattered on the pavement near the cafe. The shells falling. Glass shattering. Buildings falling. Run and run and run. Close my eyes and run.

I hit the cue forward button. Trying to help me get there faster. I can feel the heat and the rasping pain in my throat. Then I fall to the ground. I hit the play button. I need to see if I am injured. I haven't felt anything. But I need to see.

The motion returns to normal. The inertia leaves me. I am lying on the ground. Panting. Unable to get up. Then I cautiously lift my head. I am inside the forest. I am safe from the shells that are falling on the city.

But then I realise that Bosnian-Serb militias will be advancing towards me. I swallow large gulps of air and point the remote control at the screen. Like a gun. Searching for the militias. They are somewhere ahead of me.

Then I see movement through the trees to one side. I hit the cue forward button. Move fast. I skirt away in the opposite direction. Then movement on another side. I skirt back a bit. I'm going too fast. Can't hear the sound. Can't hear them. I hit the play button. Normal speed. Normal sound.

And then I hear something whistle close past me. I pull my head low. Then another. I hit the slow motion. I need to see them. But in slow motion I can't hear anything. I scan the picture carefully. Then I see something coming at me. Flying between the trees. But it isn't a shell. It is a word. A black-outlined yellow subtitle.

I hit the cue forward. I duck to the ground to avoid it. Then there is another word. Then another. And another. Coming too fast to read properly. I can just gather the sense of them. Terrible words. Fearful words. I am afraid in my heart of them. Too many of them. Too fast. Then I am scuttling away on my hands and knees. Keeping to the darkest places. If I keep low, and out of the light, with my eyes shut, I can avoid them.

I am scuttling across the ground like a crab. In fast motion. Eyes low as the words pass over my head. Then they stop. I stand up and look about. I hit the pause button. I am still in the forest. There are rags and plastic bags about me. Scattered amongst the trees. I don't like it here. I hit the play button and walk away. Keeping my eyes low. But it is still dark and I don't see the barbs. Tangles of them. Stretched between the trees. I walk straight into them. And am caught fast.

There are rows and rows of what looks like newsprint. Twisted and stretched into barbs and mesh. And I am entangled tightly. It grabs at my clothes and twists into my flesh when I move. I close my eyes and pull. But it holds fast.

I try not to look at it. Try to let the tears form in my eyes so I won't see it. Turn my head and pull. I hit the slow forward button. Give myself more strength. Harder and harder. Then I am free again. Blood runs from my cuts. The text could have gotten in. Maybe I am infected. I don't care. I turn and ran. Cue forward.

Then I am out of the forest. On a small mountainside. Pause. Thick in refuse. Cardboard boxes. Plastic bags. Clothing. Small suitcases. Papers. Letters. A toothbrush. Yellow. It is like a rubbish dump. But I know what it is. I know. Slow forward.

I look around for the mass grave. Afraid lest I should fall into it. But I can't see it. I step carefully. Lest at each step the ground should open up and pull me in. Then I see it. A dark cavity in the ground. Its gaping dark opening beckons me towards it. I want to run away. But I can't. I have to witness it. I have to see.

I walk to the very edge and peer in. It is horrific. I pause. The screen image breaks up again. I advance frame by frame. Trying to get a clearer image. Then I can see them. There are hundreds — no thousands — of words lying jumbled at the bottom. So many words. Names of the dead. Descriptions of the massacre. Nationalistic speeches. Catalogues of arms. Glorious justifications for war. Names of the murderers. And over and over the one word — "Srebrenica". I can read that one clearly.

I turn away and vomit. In slow motion. Throwing up what looks like small dark words of fury and outrage. Yellow with black outlines. The image is not good. I cannot read them easily. I step away from them and wipe my mouth.

I am about to turn and run. But I hit the cue backwards button. Make myself turn back and pick them up. The slime and stench stick to my fingers. Then I turn and run. Hit the cue forward. I need to get out of these dark woods as quickly as possible. I need to save these words. These must not be left buried in the woods, nor rushed past.

No matter how distorted, these words must be read.