Finding the Grey

Above is a picture of the only pair of shoes I’ve worn during the past three months in the Caucasus. It’s a love/hate relationship at this point. Between my feet is a deep pile of cow love, which is exactly what I was in(figuratively) for my last 24 hours in Stepanakert, the capital city of Nagorno-Karabakh.

On my last evening of an enjoyable and exhausting two-week stay in the internationally unrecognized Republic of Nagorno-Karabakh(or Artsakh), seven policemen—one in uniform, six plain clothes— entered my hotel room wanting to know what exactly I was photographing in Artsakh. My American natural instinct was to respond with “for what reason are you asking?”, but my better judgement took over, realizing quickly that I was in a de facto republic with only one monosyllabic English translator among my seven visitors.

“Are seven of you really necessary for this?”, I asked the translator.

“Yes. Us. Seven. All. Necessary.”

And so began a crash course introduction to Artsakh style interrogation techniques.  One officer devoted to every pocket on every piece of clothing. Another browsing the contents of my laptop. Another looking through my books. Another listening to my ipod. One guarding the door. One asking questions and the translator—my new best friend.

Before you read below, remember(or learn) this— Artsakh is controlled by Armenians within Azerbaijan’s borders. A brutal war, fresh in the daily consciousness of both Armenians and Azeris, only ended in 1994. Tensions are always high and the threat of war is permanently on the horizon. Peace seems remote, no matter what the politicians are saying. Oh yeah, there’s a little issue with Turkey as well—the Armenian genocide.

The stories I had been working on for two weeks were generally positive stories about Artsakh and its people. I really had nothing to hide but as the contents of my backpack(and life for the last three months) were laid upon my bed, I started to realize that I actually possessed quite a few items that would make policemen of a war torn country suspicious of me.

“Yes, that is an Azerbaijani key chain.”

“Yes, those are 10 stamps in my passport from Turkey”

“Yes, that is a hand-written poem in Azeri praising the former president of Azerbaijan Heydar Aliyev”

“Yes, that is a video of a land mine being detonated”

“Yes, those are rusted bullet casings I collected from a field that I planned to make a wind chime out of”

All you can think when such evidence is being laid out against you is, “How could I have been so stupid?”. You put your head down. You shake your head. You’re not winning.

Off to police headquarters we went. The next five hours consisted of reasonable questions about my time in Artsakh and my time in Azerbaijan. Natural questions considering the prospect of war facing these men day in and day out. Most of the policemen I was with had fought 16 years earlier and are ready to fight if war breaks out again. But with any interrogation there are bound to be questions ridicules…

“Do you support Azerbaijan or Artsakh?”

“What do you think about the genocide?”

“Are you a Russian spy?”

“Why are you not married?”

My favorite round of questions were when they went through each and every name in my notebook of the last 9 years—”Who is Kevin from Tucson?”

Over time I was able to calm down and answer each question in the most basic English I could utter to avoid any confusion with my translator. Some of the police took on the role of good cop and offered me tea and cigarettes or threw in a question about Artsakh girls.

After five hours I was told that my computer would be searched over night for “files dangerous to the Mountainous Republic of Nagorno-Karabakh”. More worrying than potential arrest or military tribunal, was that I have a Mac and I highly doubted that the IT team I was dealing with knew that you needed to eject external hard-drives before disconnecting them, thus jeopardizing all the work(not backed up yet) I had done the past three months. I feared they would find images and video that I had of explosives and maps (land mine story) and deem such files “dangerous” enough to delete all the work from my time in Artsakh. I didn’t know what to expect.

I was escorted back to my hotel room and told not to leave until they returned (the next day at noon). With all types of scenarios swirling in my head I finally fell asleep around 4am during a Russian dubbed version of The Matrix.

The following day three of the policemen— ironically the three playing good cop the night before— knocked on my door.

“Jonathan. Map pictures. Delete. Everything else ok. We go to police station now.”

Relief. An unbelievable lifting joy pulsed through my body. Little did I know that I had five additional hours of interrogation in front of me.

This time they really digged about my Azeri contacts and asked me questions about them I had no information on. It was frustrating to say the least but I knew I was somewhat out of the woods and had nothing to hide about anyone who was remotely a threat to Artsakh. I knew they were wasting our time with such questions but in the end these men were just doing their jobs— doing their best to protect their fragile country.

Finished with the official questioning I signed a document stating that I had not been harmed nor had any of my possessions been damaged. With all official duties completed the police loosened up and we discussed the girls of the Caucasus and Artsakh food. The policemens’ consensus best film of all time— The Day After Tomorrow. I was invited to lunch but declined— unable to endure another hour of questions, no matter how innocent their nature.

The entire experience was a mixed bag of emotions; fear, anxiety, frustration, confusion and relief. I learned a great deal about my ability to remain composed and gained a greater awareness to the responsibilities of policemen and military. I also learned the futile argument that “intentions” play when it comes to protecting a country— they’re thrown out the door and barely considered. These men had a job to do and in all honesty, they did it well.

Plus, it’s not a bad story.

Thanks for looking.

Jonathan

Tear gas sucks and so does the IMF.

Thanks for looking.

Jonathan

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