Who is Emma​

Emma is an experienced journalist who is currently working for a local newspaper while dreaming of becoming a war photographer. At 37 she has won numerous awards for writing, as well as photography, but has never mastered the art of keeping direction. She is constantly searching for that new adventure. Will she ever settle down?

Emma now captures the scars of wars

By Chantelle Jansen van Vuuren

Emma shuffled into her camping chair and sat up a bit straighter. It was her time to tell the others about her scars.

“Growing up, I travelled a lot,” she said while looking at the fire. “Both my parents were archaeologists, and we never stayed in a country for more than six months. On the 19th of December 1991, we travelled to Algeria, where my mom and dad wanted to investigate the Qabr-er-Rumia. I was six at the time and I absolutely fell in love with travelling and unravelling mysteries,” she said as a small smile played on her mouth.

“What is the Qabr-er-Rumia?” asked Lisa with a frown on her face.

“I apologise, I should’ve used the English term. It is better known as the “Tomb of the Christian Lady”. She was the beautiful daughter of Count Julian. Florinda La Cava was her name,” Emma answered. Lisa gave a small nod of understanding.

“We stayed in a small town called Tipaza, which was convenient because it was only about 12 kilometres from the burial site. We were all ecstatic about this new adventure on our path...”

“Wait a minute,” Lisa interrupted. “If you were six, why were you not in school?”

“I was. Sort of”, Emma answered. “I had a caretaker, Ms Jacomine Polinsky, who came with us whenever we went abroad. She taught me basic education as any child would receive in school, and as a bonus I could learn any language that my heart desired,” Emma continued, but her stern glare at Lisa made the latter realise that now was not the time for rude interruptions.

“Anyway, so here we were in Tipaza, in the beginning of winter. After we unpacked and got something to eat, we headed out to the burial site. It was magnificent! The monument was 40 metres in height, but unfortunately, over the years, it had been damaged, so the height was now approximately 30 metres. We spent the whole day there, while mom and dad got their gear ready for the next few months. If only we knew what horrors would take place in a couple of days, we probably never would have visited Algeria, and then I might still have my parents,” Emma said in a hushed tone.

As she took a sip of water, she could see the shocked expressions on her companions’ faces. Their eyes widened, and they waited expectantly for Emma to continue.

“A week after we arrived, the first bomb dropped. Ms Polinsky and I were busy with maths in the tent near the entrance to the burial site when the whole earth started shaking. I was terrified and started to cry. My mom and dad came running out, terror in their eyes. My mom grabbed me by the arm and pulled me towards the Jeep, while my dad and Ms Polinsky were throwing equipment in the back of the car. As my dad closed his door and started the engine, another three bombs came flying down.”

Emma described the chaos that ensued and how her mother prayed that this would not be the end for the family, in a foreign land. “We drove back to Tipaza, back to our rental home, in the hope that it was still safe there. We were wrong,” said Emma and took another sip of water. The others looked at her anxiously, some moving around in their seats.

“When we entered the town of Tipaza, the mercenaries had already started to bombard it, and it was lit with petrol Molotovs. We parked in a small alley close to the home that we were staying in. My dad told Ms Polinsky to stay with me while he and mom got our clothes, passports, water and food for the journey ahead. We needed to get out of Algeria as soon as possible. I saw them cross the road and enter the building. They were in there for about twenty minutes before the front door opened, and I could see them with our backpacks. They were halfway across the road when a bomb was dropped on the building behind them. They fell to their knees as rubble landed on top of them,” said Emma, her breath catching in her throat.

She paused for a moment while her gaze fixed on an area behind the group, as if she preferred not to look at them while continuing with the story.

“I remember screaming as I opened the car door and ran to them. Their bottom halves were trapped under some debris. I tried to lift some of the rubble, but I was too small and too weak. My mom grabbed my arm and handed me one of the backpacks that contained our passports, a wallet and water bottles, and told me that I needed to go with Ms Polinsky. I refused and told them that I would get help. Both my parents looked at me that day with tears in their eyes. ‘Everything will be okay’ were the last words that my mom said to me before Ms Polinsky picked me up and ran back to the Jeep.” Tears were now silently streaming down her face.

Emma described the frantic journey out of Tipaza. “Ms Polinsky told me to keep my head down to avoid being shot. As we drove, we saw dozens of bodies of all ages and genders scattered along the way. The sounds of guns and explosives got quieter the further we went,” she said but then paused to pull up her left sleeve. A scar of about three centimetres was clearly visible.

“It was only when we were a safe distance away from Tipaza that Ms Polinsky noticed the blood. When I looked down, I saw a deep cut in my left hand. It was bleeding profusely, but I didn’t care, because it showed that I tried to help my parents. We visited a clinic that was close by, where they stitched up my hand and bandaged it. Ms Polinsky and I then drove to Batna, where we would buy plane tickets back to South Africa. Ms Polinsky explained that I would have to go and live with my Aunt Helena in George. As we got onto the plane, I felt even more heartbroken. My parents were gone, my caregiver, whom I had grown to love, was abandoning me, and I had to live with an aunt I didn’t know,” she said, the misery of her situation at such a young age reflected on her face.There wa

s an eery silence in the camp while the group waited for Emma to continue. Gerrit got up and put another log onto the fire, but perhaps it was a way not to show his emotions.

“A few months went by before we had a burial for my parents. It was quite the task to bring them back to South Africa, but that was how they would’ve wanted it. We buried them in Wilderness, as this is where they had met and married. Ms Polinsky was at the funeral as well and bade me farewell as she now had a journey of her own. She married three years after the incident and emigrated to Alaska. As I grew older, wars started to intrigue me. I wanted to delve into the minds of historical generals and captains and find out what triggered countries to start wars. Since that time in 1991, when the Algerian war began, my fascination with wars increased. I wanted to capture everything on camera - all the emotion and feelings and heartache caused by war, because with destruction comes growth. I have learned that the hard way,” said Emma while looking into the eyes of her companions.

“This was how I got my scars, physically and emotionally. And this is why I take photos of the scars that were left behind by wars. Each picture tells a story that cannot be put into words; it can only be felt through the eyes of the beholder,” she said, a pensive look in her eyes as she rubbed the scar on her hand.