Five bruises, lacerations and a plaster cast - that's the balance of my training for reporting from dangerous zones, which I signed up for myself. Nobody forced me.
That is why this text was created with one hand - fortunately, the left one suffered. Although, the keyboard requires both hands, but that's how it is.
The training is not just for war reporters - it covers protests, stress, first aid. And why not go, I thought, I will meet my colleagues, spend five days in Austria...
It could be worse.
The training is in the barracks where soldiers are trained for United Nations missions. You sleep in barracks, you can use a shared bathroom without cabins - but from camping experience I know worse.
There were journalists from Bosnia, Montenegro, Albania, Kosovo, Georgia, Armenia, Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan...
Military training: lectures and exercises from eight in the morning to ten in the evening, with short breaks for coffee and cigarettes, for lunch at noon and dinner at five. The food is simple, the choice is limited - the army prepares for emergency situations.
They taught us first aid, what to (not) do when we encounter a minefield, I was among the three who entered the emergency tunnel, learned how to create oxygen when the power goes out in the shelter, practiced the use of Motorola, the military alphabet, reading maps, driving on unknown terrain, negotiating at checkpoints...
We, journalists, used to questioning everything, soon started to get on the soldiers' nerves. On the second day, probably as a punishment, around ten in the evening they made us put on bulletproof vests and helmets.
We were greeted by two heavy dolls that we had to drag on a canvas stretcher while running and crawling under the simulation of a shooting. The bulletproof vest weighs eight kilos, and I can't boast that I've been running in recent months.
Army in the forest
On the last day, we formed convoys, assigned drivers and started the simulation. A car in a minefield, three injured, one without an arm and a leg - a doll, of course. I helped her and spent the rest of the day with artificial blood on my knees.
And then we came across an army in the middle of the forest. They took us to a tent to negotiate whether we could continue on our way, but soon there was gunfire. One soldier fell, wounded, and asked for help. My colleague started without a helmet, so I replaced it.
I pulled the body armor of a man who was two meters tall and over one hundred kilos. In winter running shoes and with a bulletproof vest, I slipped on the leaves and the ground.
I felt dizzy, I didn't know what exactly happened, only that my hand hurt a lot. The simulation was stopped after I said that we had real casualties.
They twisted my arm, told me I had to go to the hospital. My hand is swollen, I'm flying tomorrow, let's go to the doctor anyway. I reluctantly miss the last scenario and leave the duo in the driverless car. Furthermore, they were driven by a real soldier.
Almost heroin
Three hours later, with a scan that doesn't clearly show whether it's a fracture, I return to the barracks. The doctors say that immediately after returning to Serbia, I will go for additional examinations.
Later, the trainers-soldiers treated us to beer and whiskey. Then they told me that trying to save the soldier was a mistake. Journalists do not help either side. And before that, we were taught to help everyone and always. I'm a little confused.
If we were in a real war, they told me, I would be a heroine. One soldier told me that in eleven years of training, no one got hurt. It was their first training for journalists, and here is the incident. At least he will remember.
A "small" incident, they say. They just tore the ligaments in the hand. And so I was one-handed for a week and at least I had something to write about.
