I stand with Ukraine [plus an extract from my memoir]

You probably don’t know this, but the last project I worked on in academia was on the property rights of internally-displaced persons in Ukraine, those who had to leave Eastern Ukraine in 2014. The question I was researching was who has responsibility to remedy the property rights of 1,7 million people who fled their homes: Russia, Ukraine or both?

Together with several colleagues at the university, I worked on a funded project where we interviewed hundreds of Ukrainians who lost their homes, survived on very little and lived in difficult conditions, pining for their homes and some sense of normality in their lives. As a part of this interdisciplinary team, I advocated for the rights of Ukrainian people in front of the Chatham House and at the UK Foreign Office, participated in a public panel discussion at the Centre for East European and International Studies in Berlin and convened an event in Brussels to discuss our findings with EU officials.

I remember attending a big conference in Ukraine back in 2017, organized by the Ukrainian Judge at the European Court of Human Rights. I was presenting a paper during the last panel, which had 6 presenters. I was #5 and I could see how people were flagging. So I told them a story, my story, of how I came close to becoming an internally displaced person, the anguish and fear one experiences at the approach of the enemy forces [I’ve included an extract from my memoir below]. The room became completely still and people sat on the edge of their chairs, listening, and I was able to put my legal points across.

Unlike those 1,7 million people, I had a lucky escape, though every 8th person in Azerbaijan, my country of origin, was an internally displaced person for several decades since 1988.

I can only imagine what the Ukrainians are going through right now. My heart goes out to them.

It’s too close to home (geographically and metaphorically) and it fills me with sadness and fear for the entire post-Soviet space.

[EXTRACT FROM MY MEMOIR]

16. WAITING…

Ganja, Azerbaijan S.S.R., 1991

I was sitting safe behind the tall windows in the living room on a lazy Sunday morning, watching the snow falling slowly, when I heard a series of muffled but disconcerting sounds coming from outside. I opened one window a crack and pressed my ear to the frame’s edge. There it was again, like someone was banging rapidly and repeatedly on a metal bucket with a poker. I stiffened in recognition. Was it a Kalashnikov? The beauty of the snow had not allowed me to forget for long. They were shooting again. The round of shots pierced the illusion of peace created by the floating snowflakes. The expectant silence of the in-between felt solid as lead. Then came a slower paced response, the unmistakable report of a shotgun, like the one Baba used to hunt with in the forests. His gun had been commandeered along with every other weapon in the city weeks before to be used by local young men who volunteered to fight the Armenians.

The lean-faced official had told us that the city needed every single gun, even rusty old one’s like Baba’s, to give to the volunteers.

‘The Armenian forces are making steady progress towards Ganja. Now is not the time for sentiment.’

When Nana handed him the weapon, he thanked her with a curt but solemn bow, before marching off to the next house. Baba’s gun had killed many small animals. Sometimes when he did not have time to go hunting properly, he shot sparrows in the back garden. I remembered how my hands had got bloody placing the limp bodies into a large bowl.

As I cradled my hot glass of tea that morning, I wondered how many people his gun would kill. The tea warmed my hands. I inhaled the comforting aroma of cloves that Nana always added to a winter brew and I relaxed for a moment. Then another volley of shots rang out: Bang, bang, bang, bang…

Was I imagining it or were they getting closer? A shiver ran down my spine. Nana walked in. Trying to hide my fear, I pulled the window shut and smiled at her.

‘Would you like some more tea, Nana?’ I said, reaching for the samovar.

‘No, no, have yours, child,’ she replied, settling heavily on her favourite wooden chair. It creaked under her weight. We sat in silence, me watching the snow, her watching me. I heard her sigh.

‘They are approaching,’ she said. ‘I heard our troops are defending Chaykand.’

‘Troops’ seemed a funny way to refer to a group of citizens, mostly young, who alongside local villagers had volunteered to stand up, with limited ammunition, to the opposition’s armaments, which included tanks. The Soviet troops were staying out of the conflict and Azerbaijan did not have its own military force.

Nana’s eyes were tired, empty of the fierce light that usually burned in them. Her lips were tightly pursed, pulling down the corners of her mouth.

‘Oh Nana,’ I exclaimed. My mouth suddenly dry, my tongue tasting metal not tea. ‘Can’t we escape to Baku?’

‘I doubt we can. Two women alone. They took our only gun. Besides, everyone who can escape is doing so right now.’ She sighed again then stared straight at me. ‘I can’t leave my home. It’s all I have. And where would we go? Where could we go?’

I was shocked by her words. We had visited friends and family in Baku over the years. How about Minaya Khala with her three sons? I could name a few others. It was pointless to have a home if we ended up dead, I thought. Nana seemed to read my mind. She shook her head.

‘It’s different when we visit Baku for a week or two. If we leave our home behind, we would be homeless.’

The word ‘homeless’ made me tremble. My mind raced for alternatives. We could not just sit here and wait. I stood up, clenching my fists silently in frustration. I knew the truth, only Nana could make the decision, whether we fled or died. I was not supposed to resist or have my own opinions. Saving myself was not an option either. Girls were firmly under the wings of their families until they married in our world. If I left, I would be disowned and that, I had heard, was like a living death.

‘But what shall we do, Nana?’ It was the question I had asked many times. I expected her usual reply: ‘Inshaalah Allah is on our side. Our men will conquer the Armenians. They will never let them take over. Our city is the gem in this country’s crown.’

I wanted her to repeat this mantra. I needed to hear it, but today she did not reply. She sat quietly, head bowed as if examining the patterns on the tablecloth. I was suddenly irritated by her attitude.

‘Nana, do you think the Armenians are going to win?’ I said, controlling my voice. It was all very well for her to just sit around. I reasoned since she was almost sixty, she was ready to die anyway, but I was young and was not ready to go without a fight. Nana lifted her head and looked straight into my eyes.

‘Gulush, you know that I love you.’ I did not know how to respond. Was this a statement or a question? ‘Gulush, you are the light of my eyes. But if they come…’. Her voice was husky and guarded. My insides churned, waiting for her to complete the sentence. ‘If they come,’ she repeated. ‘If they come, I will kill you myself! They will not have you – your honour or your purity! They will not disfigure you in any way. Not my Gulush, my little…’ She started to mumble to herself. I turned away.

I could not take the words in. Did she really mean it? Or was it like when she used to say, ‘I’ll kill you if you fail at school’? Could I resist her if she tried to kill me? Sometimes, when she was angry, I had found myself paralysed with fear. I had never imagined overpowering the woman who could pin me to the spot with her burning eyes.

Three rounds of shots exploded outside in the snow, even closer. We’d heard horror stories on the news – abused children, tongue-less men, eyeless and broken women. This enemy did not take prisoners. They just wanted our land.

Although I did not know how I would survive, my impulse was to run away, but Nana caught me in her arms before I had even turned towards the door. She pressed my head to her chest. Her cotton apron smelt of fried onions.

‘Even in death you will be pure and happy. When the time comes, you won’t even know. Have no fear.’ As her claw-like fingers stroked my hair, as the sounds outside grew quieter, my internal questions grew louder. When she released me, I struggled to stay standing as she turned to the kitchen. ‘Until then, we carry on. We can’t let them win in our heads. Get on with your chores, I have cooking to do.’

As I went to fetch the dusting cloths, the questions ran faster round my head. How would she do it? Would she poison me, like Madame Bovary, in the book I had read? The gruesome details of her slow and painful death had made me shudder. Shots were echoing more frequently through the blizzard now, but I kept polishing the glass of the display cabinets. I imagined them being smashed by the invaders. This thought led to questions. Would Nana just kill me, or kill herself as well? Would she slit my wrists, the way Mama had slit hers, all those years ago when Avaz’s family had rejected her as his fiancée? The image of black rivers running down her fingers flashed in my head. What else could she do to me? Shoot me, perhaps? Was that why she had wanted to keep Baba’s gun? I had seen blindfolded people put before a firing-squad in war films.

As I remembered this, reality broke in again, as a stream of gunshots rang out close by. I nearly dropped the antique plate I was dusting. At that moment, Nana came in, her face flushed from the heat of the kitchen, but as calm as a summer pond.

‘You can leave that now. Come, sit down,’ she said. Not knowing what else to do, I obeyed. ‘Here you go.’ Nana placed a plate of meatballs, potatoes and chickpeas in front of me. I realised then that I must have been polishing the same cabinet for well over an hour. I stared at my plate. The centre of the meatball would be a perfect hideaway for poison, suspicion whispered in my head. Nana usually called me to help with any cooking; ‘chop those’, ‘pass that’, ‘pay attention’, ‘clean this’, ‘not that way’; but today she had not. My appetite completely disappeared despite the smell of the food tickling my nose. Nana sat next me and started to eat her own meal. Her food looked exactly the same as mine.

‘Eat up, it’s good.’ Then she smiled. ‘Your brain is too large, Gulush. Don’t worry, there is no poison in there,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t waste good meat like that now, would I?’ She reached out her large soft hand and squeezed my forearm. ‘I was upset,’ she said, quietly. ‘We all get upset, so dramatic in our family, sometimes. Aren’t we? But listen, the guns have stopped. All will be well.’ Then she swapped the plates round.

‘Gulush, eat your food. We need to be strong, us women, for what may come.’ The war in my head had become too intense to bear now. I wanted it to stop. I wanted things to be as they had been, so I lifted my spoon and began to eat. Within a few minutes, the taste and aroma had driven worry to the back of my mind.

***

If you’d like to find out more about my book, here’s the link.