评论:感觉这会是又一张过时的地图。也许在未来看,这只是在冷战后秩序被挑战时的一系列领土部分中的前几个。未来说不定会有相似的,有我们更熟悉的地名的新闻。Erdogan和Aliyev行为上都是习近平的同类,而“人滚地留”也不是中国粉红的专属。未来人看2020,除了covid,经济下行,扩张中的中国,也许还很不幸地要加上种族清洗。
This story was originally published by Eurasianet under CC BY-ND 4.0
Author: Adrian Hartrick, Eurasianet. Translation: Burleigh
“这看起来并不好。“
我们正驶往舒沙。在路旁,亚美尼亚士兵正在挖掘战壕,明显地在为防御这条路做准备。这条路是卡拉巴赫陷入战争的民众获取物资的关键走廊。
在深谷的对面,围绕群山的森林正在燃烧。这大概是因为阿塞拜疆军队为了逐出在林中躲避无人机的亚美尼亚作战力量所投放的白磷弹。路旁的士兵透过望远镜,密切地观察山谷里的进展。
一位同行的记者两周前到过此处。他称情况有了极大的变化。”这和上次不一样“,他说,”让我们看看斯捷潘纳克特怎么样”。
现在是11月3日。数日前,阿塞拜疆军队距舒沙已经不足5公里,并在树林中与亚美尼亚单位近距离交战。尽管阿塞拜疆军队的临近引起了在舒沙和附近地区首府斯捷潘纳克特的人的警惕,我们中大多数人都认为,这只是小股的骚扰亚美尼亚单位的突击队,不是一个主要的威胁。
但是路沿景象告诉我们,情况比我们想象的要更不受控制一些。
随着我们盘旋下降到舒沙的峭崖的底部,进入山谷中的斯捷潘纳克特,我们发现该市平静而繁忙。尽管面临龙卷风导弹和自杀无人机的威胁,各年龄的市民还在四处走动,购物和处理琐事。
我们安定下来,出门吃饭。我们一坐在餐桌边,地面便开始颤抖,伴随炮火的低沉声音 - 来自舒沙的方向。
战争迷雾
尽管身处卡拉巴赫,可靠的信息还是难以获取。到处都是流言。在前线有认识的人的人带来互相冲突的新闻。当地政府表面维持乐观,淡化负面的进展。
次日近午,我们听闻我们来路,因为舒沙附近的交战,已被亚美尼亚政府关闭。随着这条被称为拉钦走廊的,唯一(相对)安全的出入通道的关闭,我们已经事实上被困在了斯捷潘纳克特。
一开始,我们被告知亚美尼亚军队正在发起对山谷中阿塞拜疆突击队的扫荡,并排除对拉钦走廊的威胁。随着一日过去,炮火变得更密集。传言称山谷中的阿塞拜疆军队比之前认为的要更大规模,并且还包含了叙利亚佣兵。我们无法查证这一点,但是事情明显很严重,气氛也很严峻。
几组外国和亚美尼亚记者们在等待消息,同时紧张地讨论撤离的方案。当地政府称公路很快会重新开放,但是当地官员和平民开始出现接受现实的阴暗神情。战斗正在逼近斯捷潘纳克特。
最后一线
对情势感到紧张的我们在酒店酒吧讨论应急计划。我们在讨论应该马上通过一条北边的公路撤离,还是应该次晨离开,现时继续报导。
邻桌一位结实的亚美尼亚人,带着战争的疲乏,正在抽烟,并听我们的对话。我们问了他的意见:我们应该离开吗?
“这完全取决于你的任务”,该男子,Artur说道。“这是我们生存之战,而你们留在这里报导很重要。我的任务是成为我祖国的英雄。你们的任务是?”
“我们的任务是尽我们所能报导。我们死了对谁都没用。“我的一位同事称。
”很多记者仍在报导,我认为他们是英雄 - 不是就阿尔察赫共和国而言(即卡拉巴赫),而是对他们的职业而言。“Artur回复道。”如果你们离开了,没有人会知道这里发生了什么。你们应该留下。“
这场对话带着尊重,但是我们知道,Artur来自一个不同的事实。亚美尼亚人为了留在卡拉巴赫流了血。这里几乎每个家庭都为战争失去了成员,他们的信念不会动摇。
决定当晚留下以后,我们前往一个地下避难所,探望了一些从战斗开始便住入的卡拉巴赫老人。”我的儿子在第一次战争(在90年代)负伤。我孙子在第二次战争(在2016年)牺牲”70岁的Arageh称。“我姐姐的儿子已经牺牲了...现在我家里有六个男人在前线。”
房间另一边一个女人称:”记者总是来这里,和我们讲几句,但是世界没人听我们。和你们对话会帮到我们吗?“。一名84岁老人,Isabella,含泪宣称”我一直住在这里...这是我的土地。我的房子受损了。我一无所有,但我不会离开。“
外面的街道上,一种最后决战的气氛正在逼近。
当地亚美尼亚人很可能将战至最后一人。这是一场在数层血腥上的战争。90年代的卡拉巴赫冲突目睹了双方在对方身上的暴行。住在阿塞拜疆的亚美尼亚人被迫逃离,而另一方也是。亚美尼亚的胜利导致60万阿塞拜疆平民被迫离开被占领的土地。阿塞拜疆人迫望复仇。如果他们成功回到卡拉巴赫,卡拉巴赫土地上亚美尼亚人的存在可能将会终结。
逃离
经过另一个长夜的炮击,我们中几个在清晨尝试通过另一条北边的路离开卡拉巴赫,回到亚美尼亚。其他同事选择留下。
经过紧张的行驶,扫视天空以避开阿塞拜疆的火炮和无人机,我们回到安全的亚美尼亚的塞凡湖。
斯捷潘纳克特的新闻越加绝望:该市正经历前所未有水平的炮击。
“This doesn’t look good.”
We were barreling toward Shusha, in Nagorno-Karabakh, and all along the roadside Armenian soldiers were digging trenches in apparent preparation for the defense of the road, the vital supply corridor for Karabakh’s embattled population.
Directly across the steep valley, the forests on the surrounding mountains were on fire, possibly the result of white-phosphorus shells dropped by Azerbaijani forces to try and flush out Armenian units who were using the forest as cover from drones. The soldiers on the roadside peered at the scene through binoculars, intently monitoring what seemed to be a developing situation in the valley.
One of the fellow journalists in our car had been here just two weeks before and said the situation had dramatically changed since then. “This feels different than last time,” he said. “Let’s see what Stepanakert looks like.”
This was November 3. For several days, Azerbaijani forces had been within about five kilometers of Shusha, clashing with Armenian units in hand-to-hand fighting in the forest. While, the close proximity of the Azerbaijani forces was alarming to those in Shusha, as well as those in the nearby regional capital of Stepanakert, most of us believed that these were small commando units sent to harass the Armenians and that they did not pose a major threat.
But the scene on the road suggested that things were a little less under control than imagined.
As we wound around the base of Shusha’s dramatic cliffs and descended the valley into Stepanakert, we found the city calm and bustling. In spite of the constant threat of Smerch missiles and suicide drones, adults of all ages milled around, buying groceries and running errands.
We got settled and went out to eat. As soon as we sat down, the earth began shaking with the rumble of heavy shelling in the near distance. It was coming from the direction of Shusha.
Fog of war
Even on the ground in Nagorno-Karabakh, reliable information can be hard to come by. Rumors swirl, people with contacts at the front receive conflicting news, and the local government tries to maintain a positive face and downplay negative developments.
Late the next morning we got word that the road that we had come in on had been shut down by Armenian forces as a result of clashes around Shusha. With that road, known as the Lachin corridor, the only (relatively) safe way in and out, we were effectively stuck in Karabakh.
Initially we were told that Armenian forces were launching an operation to ‘cleanse’ Azerbaijani commandos from the valley and neutralize any threat to the Lachin road. As the day progressed, the shelling only became more intense. Rumors started arriving that the Azerbaijanis in the valley were actually a more sizable fighting force than previously thought and that they included Syrian mercenaries. We weren’t able to verify any of this, but whatever was going on was serious and the mood was bleak.
Groups of foreign and Armenian journalists waited for any information and nervously discussed possible options to get out. Local authorities claimed the road would be reopened shortly. But a dark resignation began to show on the faces of officials and civilians around town. It started to feel that the war was closing in on Stepanakert.
A last stand
Nervous about the situation, our group gathered at the hotel bar to discuss a contingency plan. We debated whether we should leave immediately on an alternative northern road or wait until morning and continue working in the meantime.
At a neighboring table, a burly Armenian man in battle fatigues was smoking a cigarette and listening to us talk. We asked him what he thought: should we leave?
“It all depends on what your mission is,” the man, Artur, said. “This is a fight for our survival and it is important for you to be here to show what is going on. My mission is to hopefully be a hero for my motherland. What is your mission?”
One of my colleagues answered: “We want to cover what’s happening here to a point that we can cover it. If we’re dead, we’re no use to anybody”
“There are many journalists still here reporting and I consider them heroes, not for Artsakh [Nagorno Karabakh], but for their profession,” Artur answered back. “If you leave, no one will know what is happening here. You should stay.”
The conversation was respectful, but we knew Artur was coming from a different reality. Armenians have paid in blood to stay in Karabakh. Nearly every family in the enclave has lost members to war and their conviction is unwavering.
Deciding to stay the evening, we visited a basement shelter where some elderly Karabakhtsis have been living since the war began. “My son was injured in the first war [in the 1990s] and my grandson was killed in the second [2016],” said 70-year-old Arageh. “My sister’s son was killed…I have six men from my family on the frontlines at this moment.”
Across the room another woman chimed in: “Journalists always come here and talk to us, but the world doesn’t listen to us, do you think talking to you will save us?” A bitter and tearful 84-year-old, Isabella, declared: “I have always lived here…this is my land. My house has been damaged, I have nothing, but I will never leave.”
In the streets outside, it started to feel that a last stand was near.
Local Armenians likely will fight to the last man. This is a war built on layers of brutality. The Karabakh conflict of the 1990’s saw cruelty visited by both sides on each other. Armenians living in Azerbaijan were forced to flee to Armenia and vice versa. The eventual Armenian victory in that war resulted in the exodus of more than 600,000 Azerbaijani civilians from the newly captured territories. The Azerbaijani mood is vengeful, and should the effort to take back Karabakh succeed, it is likely the Armenian presence in Karabakh will end.
Escape
After another long night of shelling, a couple of us made an early morning attempt to leave Karabakh by the alternative, northern road back to Armenia. Other colleagues chose to stay.
After a tense drive, scanning the skies for Azerbaijani drones and artillery, we arrived to the safety of Armenia’s Lake Sevan.
Checking the news from Stepanakert, it was getting more dire: The city was suffering under an unprecedented level of shelling.