Faith in Vera – a tribute to a friend.

Who was Vera Rich?

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Poet, translator, activist, eccentric, Learned Kissagram, or in the words of a senior member of the Moscow Patriarchate “that EVIL woman”?

My Granny called her “the One who Sings”. Vera had taken to calling her at random and singing her translation of the Bahdanovic Romance down the phone at her. She knew my Granda had died and wanted to help. THIS I suggest was Vera.

Venus new-risen above us appearing
Brings with her bright-shining memories of love;
Do you recall when I first met, my dear one,
Venus new-risen above?

From that time forth evermore, skyward gazing
Seeking that planet I’d scan heaven o’er,
Within me a deep silent love for you blazing,
From that time forth, evermore.

But the time of our parting draws near, ever nearer,
Thus does our fate, does our fortune appear.
Deeply, profoundly I love you, my dearest,
But the time of our parting draws near.

In that far country, my love buried deeply,
I shall live drearily, yet, high above
I shall gaze on that planet each night, vigil keeping,                                                                     In that far country, my love!                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           Gaze upon Venus once more, when far distant                                                                               One from another, there mingling we’ll pour                                                                                   Our glances, let love flower again for an instant…

Gaze upon Venus once more!

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There is a lot of material online about Vera’s achievements as a poet and literary translator, but very little so far that captures what it was like to know her and be her friend. This blog is being written far later than it should have been but at last I have decided to describe impact on my life.

Snapshot from over ten years ago.

Vera had been ill for some time with breast cancer…..What was on my mind at that moment in my roller-coaster friendship with Vera, was not WHO she was, it was rather HOW she was, and then WHERE she was. Was she still alive? Had she survived the operation? If she hadn’t, I was going to have to start putting into place the wishes she had expressed to me regarding what she wanted to happen in such an instance. To summarise:

“If I am still alive but a vegetable, do switch me off before Elspeth and her Pro-lifers get near me. First, you must get a knife, not a fancy one, kitchen canteen will do, and put it in my hand. If not, I will not get to Valhalla”.

“Yes Vera”

“I want to be cremated as I don’t want the fuss. Give half to Ukraine and half to Belarus”.

“Yes, Vera”

I did not expect ever to have to put these plans into action. The day I found out she had died in her home with a copy of Under Milk Wood open beside her, my Dad had remarked “How’s Vera? I bet she’ll go on forever”. Sadly this was not to be.

However, though she had survived that operation only to die a year or so later, she was still giving me problems. I tried Barnet General furnishing them with the name Vera Rich, and giving her date of birth. After that produced no results, I tried other hospitals in London. No luck.

No-one had any trace of Vera Rich.

Where was she?

I sat for a while trying to think of a sensible course of action and in the end decided to go for something that should not in any rational universe, work. I randomly called the Belarus Embassy. She had had a chequered history there as did I, but generally, I felt they might have an eye on where Vera was and what she was up to.

“Hello. I know you probably can’t help but I am very worried about the poet/translator Vera Rich who is very ill, is meant to be in hospital and seems to have disappeared.”

“Ah yes, I don’t know personally but I know someone who does”.

At that I was put through to their First Secretary who said not only did he know where she was, he had seen her a couple of days earlier.

She was being looked after by the Belarusian community at the Church in Finchley.

I called, got her on the phone and after hearing about my adventures in tracing her she said:

I thought you KNEW. My name is NOT Vera, you Bumbaclot, it is FAITH but Slavs don’t have the “th” sound so I translated it into “faith” which of course, is Vera. And besides, you KNOW I don’t like to be found too easily. You never know who might be after me.”

How convenient that she also happened to live in Vera Avenue in Enfield. How very Vera for this to be so.

I was then regaled with tales of how she had fared in hospital. She had had a mastectomy as part of her cancer treatment. She was wearing the wig my mother had given her after her own cancer treatment had come to an end. It was remarked upon that Vera had not looked as well-kempt in years.

I have even managed to find online a photo of her wearing the wig in question.

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She had sailed through the op, and while recovering on the ward, had a feeling that she was meant to BE somewhere. That somewhere was Bush House doing a BBC interview. She sneaked out of her hospital bed, put her coat on over her nightie and headed off in a mini-cab. She told the driver to circle Bush House while she did her interview. At this point he was stopped by the police as his behaviour and middle Eastern appearance had alerted people to suspicious goings on near the BBC. She sorted that out, got back in the cab and was driven back. She installed herself back in her hospital bed and I am not sure anyone even noticed.

Her creative input did not end in hospital. Here is one of the poems she wrote at that time:

Dear Friends…
Accept my gratitude
(Not to send thanks would be most rude!)
For flowers, sweets, get-well cards, cake, fruit,
(My locker-top’s awash with loot!)
But one gift, though most kindly meant,
Rather frustrates your good intent;
Though you were right; if I could choose,
There’s no gift I’d prefer to booze!
But having just lost my left breast
I’m told “Sobriety is best” –
Or rather (not to tell a “story”!)
The Doctor says it’s mandatory!
At least till they remove the “drain”,
I have to keep both gut and brain
Free of all fluids that can cheer!
Yet (Woe is me! Alas! Oh dear!)
So many gifts have come in bottle
To tempt the palate and the throttle
(If you’ll forgive that archaism
For ‘throat’)! If only through the prism
Of vodka, “single malt”, liqueur,
I could perceive the world, my cure
Would, I am sure, progress much faster…
But here the Doctor must be master –
And he proclaims they are taboo!
Well, what he says, I have to do!
But oh, the misery implied!
Consider this, I might have died
Under the knife, so surely he
Could allow one wee dram for me?
No, he will not! And furthermore,
There is no guarantee my store
Of booze will last till I can leave
And take it home! For (please believe!)
All the “kind souls” who visit me
Are so weighed down by sympathy
That (seeing me denied one sip)
THEY all take a substantial “nip”!

And another snapshot:

I had been at her 60th birthday celebration at the Bahdanovic museum in Minsk. It had been an odd visit. I was already very ill without knowing it with PTSD. I had ended up staying with the family of one of the Belarusian diplomats in London. This had not been a good move on my part given that I was expected to be driven around and escorted at all times, and a programme of approved meetings had been arranged to which I was expected to adhere. I don’t think they quite got the British thing of just ambling around people watching and they certainly did not think I would be IDLY ambling. They seemed convinced that I would be ambling with intent.

I did however manage to escape their grip and get to Vera’s “do”. I knew she was well-respected in Belarus for her translations of Belarusian poetry particularly the “three greats” Bahdanovic, Kolas, and Kupala. What I did not expect was the extent to which she  was revered. I arrived early at the museum but already several hundred had gathered arms full of flowers. I managed to squeeze in at the back. She was up at the front in one of her “good” frocks – ie it was just about holding together –  being serenaded by a young Belarusian “bard” with a guitar. He struck up the opening chord of “Romance”. Vera was off. She sang it in English in her slightly wavery but more or less in tune soprano.

Then absolutely spontaneously, the crowd sang it back to her in Belarusian. It is the ultimate in compliments that they considered her translation into English to be almost, if not entirely, equal to the quality of the original. This is where her genius lay. She was first and foremost a beautiful lyrical poet who had the ability to grasp all the mechanics of the languages in which she worked. Her translations were more than literal interpretations of words, they were poetic works in their own right, retaining not just the meaning of the original, but the feelings, the imagery and the music.

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How it began:

How did this whirlwind of creativity and quirkiness end up in my life?

It was not long after the death of my colleagues in Belarus. I was still swept up in the swirling toxicity of the aftermath. I was trapped between the expectations of my employer that I would agree to promulgate a version of the truth that I could not stomach, aka lie, and my loyalties to the Belarusian “side” who were shouldering the blame but who were not to blame. I was trapped fighting daily the growing urge to tell the truth which would grow up with an acid-like intensity in my stomach, grow up my chest and get clogged burning a hole in my throat. To handle this, I was obliterating my feelings with alcohol and other forms of escapism such as disappearing from my office and spending more time than I should at the Embassy of Belarus.

It was the night of the Old New Year Party on 13th January. It proved to be a life-changing event for me in many ways. I met for the first time the stalwarts of the Anglo-Belarusian Society – people like myself who had been entranced in some way by Belarus without being able to understand why. It was the night I danced the polka with the Ambassador who later chased me down the corridor when I tried to leave at a “respectable” hour insisting “real Belarusians stay until the end”.

Earlier he had approached me and said “there is someone you MUST meet”.  I remember exactly where I was standing at this point in the corner by the window, my usual position at parties. Suddenly the crowd seemed to party & skipping towards me in black dancing pumps was this sparkly-eyed lady of a certain age in a black flouncy frock. I don’t remember much about what we talked about. I do know I was nearly flattened against the wall by the sheer force of her intellect, her personality, her sense of fun. at somewhere around midnight when the CDs had been brought out and Engelbert Humperdinck was crooning “Please Release me Let me Go”, appropriately as it turned out on numerous levels, that she had an asthma attack and took her leave.

However half an hour later, the door flung open and she pranced back in again having had a “second wind” of some kind in the taxi. She formed part of a hardcore group of survivors of Olympic-standard Belarusian hospitality sitting round a typical Belarusian table solving the worlds’ problems over yet more vodka and pickles until the early hours.

Daily life with Vera:

From then, she adopted me. I became a handbag carrier, the regular sounding board for her new poems and songs, and one of her Manifold Poets. I became the recipient of Vera’s legendary very early morning phone calls. I recall one at around 6 am when she asked:

“Have I GIVEN you my poem about Queen Victoria’s pain relief?” And without waiting to be asked she launched into it. Only Vera could rhyme Lithuania with “pain her”.

Victoria took marijuana
To dull arthritic pain
(So say the medical arcana
Of her imperial reign!)
And when the hair thinned on her pate
(Although this did not pain her)
She drank (to keep her crown on straight)
Birch-wine from Lithuania!

Sometimes she required more from me than listening to her latest opus. If the call opened with a harassed-sounding Vera demanding “what are you DOING today?” I knew I was in for something unexpected and more than likely bizarre. I ended up pretending to be a journalist writing a review for her of an exhibition about diamonds and heading for Kew to review an exhibition of glass sculptures. I accompanied her on multiple visits to Wetherspoon’s to which she was inexplicably devoted. She knew exactly when the Curry Nights and Pensioner Deals were on in every single branch in Greater London. One was doing a promotion of Ukrainian beer so she got me to ring them to arrange a photo shoot of herself sitting with a few pints. I had to pretend to be her PA. On one occasion, I was summoned to her chaotic house in Enfield. Vera was a hoarder and it was incredibly difficult to get her to part with anything despite many of us trying over the years. I was not given the nature of my mission. It turned out to be cutting down a bush in her garden. I was worried about my clothes but she had a solution. I was presented with a flouncy cocktail dress which had belonged to her mother.  I got stuck in with my secateurs dressed as though I was at a 1950s garden party. A Belarusian arrived with an axe. He started on the trees. He made us flower crowns. Vera drank wine and serenaded us throughout and then we finished with a bonfire and an Indian takeaway. Just an average day with Vera.

What she meant to me:

Only now she has gone do I fully realise the importance of Vera’s friendship. Those years were chaotic for me as I descended into the Hell of PTSD and addiction. Vera was one of the few constants. She did not judge. She was just there and accepted me no matter what state I might have been in. A few years after she died, a mutual friend said she had talked to her about me she had said “Alison will get well but it will take a long time. We all just need to be there for her until she does”.

I miss her.

I wish she could see what I have been able to achieve despite illness. She would have loved to have gatecrashed my presentations, and would have I am sure, convinced me to allow her some airtime to entertain with songs about the NHS. I can see her with the NHS Graduate Scheme whirling like a dervish round the ballroom in Leeds where we hold the Welcome Event every year.

She would have critiqued my writing and adopted any of my friends who showed a poetic bent.

She would have had things to say about our plans to publish a book of her translations of Belarusian poetry to coincide with the 10th anniversary of her death.

Verafinchley

I feel her presence a lot and it seems at times I get messages from her. Not long after her death, I was browsing in a charity shop in Notting Hill when a bookshelf collapsed above me. I was hit on the head by a book which I picked up. It was Vera’s collection of Belarusian poetry in translation “Like Water Like Fire” .

Likewater

Eternal Memory:

Some of her ashes are in accordance with her wishes near the grave of Shevchenko in Kaniv, Ukraine. The rest are interred in the wall of the beautiful wooden church in Finchley built for the Belarusian Greek Catholic congregation of which she was a devoted member. The spot is marked by a beautiful carving created in the Ukrainian city of Lviv, in her memory. She is portrayed as a Princess in a tower watching as St George dispatches the dragon. (She was born on St George’s Day). In fact, she would have taken on the dragon herself. She would have assaulted him with the full power of words, her poetry, her songs, her thoughts on all and sundry.  Mesmerised, the dragon would have slunk off defeated. She would have loved her place in the wall of the Church in Finchley.

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She would have loved that some of her ashes brought her back to Ukraine to rest near the grave of their national poet Taras Shevchenko. This is truly a testament to the deep respect and love for her in Ukraine.

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Most of all, however, she would love the affection, and often humorous memories, her friends hold of her in our hearts. There were many obituaries and given how hard it is to sum up Vera, her life and work succinctly, this from Judith Vidal Hall from Index on Censorship is, I think, came closest to capturing her essence.

“But there was courage too; loyalty as well as determination. In many ways she had, more than many, outlived her Cold War era: she spent her youth battling the tyranny of the Soviet system; her maturity was spent caring for the victims of its residual legatees in Belarus. They will miss her, increasingly, for there will not be another like her. I shall miss her very particular brand of extreme eccentricity combined with humour and the touch of genius.”

And this genius in clear in this translation of the moving poem “Testament” by Shevchenko.

When I die, then make my grave 
High on an ancient mound,
In my own beloved Ukraine,
In steppeland without bound :
Whence one may see wide-skirted wheatland, 
Dnipro’s steep-cliffed shore,
There whence one may hear the blustering 
River wildly roar.

Till from Ukraine to the blue sea  
It bears in fierce endeavour
The blood of foemen — then I’ll leave 
Wheatland and hills forever:
Leave all behind, soar up until 
Before the throne of God 
I’ll make my prayer. 
For till that hour 
I shall know naught of God.

Make my grave there — and arise,
Sundering your chains,
Bless your freedom with the blood 
Of foemen’s evil veins!
Then in that great family,
A family new and free,
Do not forget, with good intent 
Speak quietly of me.

I will not forget, we will not forget, and we will never cease to talk quietly of her (and celebrate as loudly as we can) all that she was and did. 

 

Read more:

Obituaries

https://www.indexoncensorship.org/2010/01/obituary-vera-rich/

https://www.augb.co.uk/news-page.php?id=190

http://britishlibrary.typepad.co.uk/european/2016/04/vera-rich-in-memoriam-1936-2009-.html

Works

Translations and own poetry

https://allpoetry.com/Vera_Rich

Comprehensive bibliography including articles on Human Rights for various publications.

https://wikivividly.com/wiki/Vera_Rich

 

 

 

The downward spiral

Drowning

I can pinpoint the exact moment when I crossed the line into active alcoholism rather than being a strictly controlled binge drinker. I was in Belarus with a Detective Inspector from Grampian Police. Against all odds and expectations, our combined efforts, and those of our friends in Homiel, had allowed us to arrange the repatriation of my colleagues’ remains in record time. We had accompanied the two coffins which were in a refrigerated lorry on the long drive from Homiel to Minsk. It took forever as we had to keep stopping to check the temperature. It was an unusually hot summer. We were sweltering in 34 degrees and I remember thinking” typical” that my boss was up ahead in a refrigerated lorry.

We had run the gauntlet of bureaucracy in Minsk but I had circumvented a lot of it by having blank signed letters from Sir John Everard, Our Man in Minsk, which allowed me to manufacture any random bit of official-looking paper that was suddenly demanded of us.

Finally it was done. There was nothing more we could do. The coffins were in storage ready for the Lufthansa flight to London via Frankfurt. We were on good old Belavia (NOW enjoy a pleasant flight as though apologetic for the crap flights of the past and warning us to expect at best ‘pleasant’) but their planes were two small to take crates containing coffins.

We retired to our hotel, once again back in the suites that I had bribed our way into. The DI brought out the vodka he had been given by the Homiel militia. I remember thinking “I am never going to drink that”. It was a very brief hesitation but the last time I had such a reservation about drinking for many years after that. What I know is, this time the vodka hit me somewhere differently. I have no idea what falling in love feels like but I can imagine it being something like this. Suddenly the heavy burden of unexpressed pressure, and of unreleased trauma disappeared.

God was in His heaven. All was right with the world.

I had a “where have you been all my life?” moment. I felt at one with the universe and finally, at peace with myself. It was an illusion of course, a mask, a façade, but one that became key to my basic survival until it was taken apart piece by piece.

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We returned to Aberdeen and a flurry of press activity, the ongoing existence on the first floor of the Town House of “the Bunker” where only those staff trusted with “the Truth” were hidden away working feverishly on damage limitation exercises.

I had the sense of being paraded around at this time. I was forced to go to funerals and speak at the memorial which was broadcast live. I found it hard as I did not like Ann, my boss. I found her vindictive, jealous and bitter. I did not change my views just because she had met her death in these terrible circumstances. However, I had alcohol to help suspend my set of values, and extinguish the need to care.

To begin with, it did not take much alcohol to have the desired effect but, of course, it gradually needed more and more to reach the desired oblivion. I had started to experience worrying psychological symptoms. I felt constantly as though I was about to be attacked. I had flashbacks in the sense of certain smells and sounds took me right back to the Belarusian mortuary. Alcohol could remove those symptoms. It could stop the panic in its tracks and knock me out to sleep at night. It also enabled me to LIE to the widow about what led to her husband’s death. I felt the truth bubbling up and rising in my throat threatening to strangle me. All I needed was to excuse myself and head for the nearest toilet where a few swigs of vodka would have the desired effect.

I was gradually being eaten alive by fear. Each day the list of things I “had” to drink to carry out increased. One day, I could make a telephone call, the next day I found I couldn’t without some “Dutch courage”. That continued until there was very little I could achieve without alcohol in my system. My life became dominated by finding alcohol, hiding alcohol, consuming just enough alcohol for it not, I believed, to be noticed, but still to take the edge of the ever-growing tumour of fear that was invading my entire being.

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One day I was approached, very bravely, by a colleague. She said it had been noticed that I occasionally smelled of alcohol. I can still feel the utter humiliation of that moment. She was very kind to me. However, no support was offered. I had started to drink so much that the truth would spill out of me in an uncontrolled fashion. I apparently blurted out at a Civic Reception that we had all been sold a lie about the deaths in Belarus and that there was a massive sin of omission in leaving out the details about the orgy that had taken place that day. It must have taken guts on that colleague’s part to approach me on this. I was far from ready to imagine living without alcohol to cushion me against reality however.

I was a loose cannon. I needed to be kept out of the way and silenced somehow.

I made the decision myself however. I was sitting in a Section Heads’ meeting and I was asked for my opinion on what kind of coffee machine we should have in the department. I replied “I do not give a shit”. I realised at that time that not only did I not care about the coffee machine, I also did not care about my job, or crucially, about the overseas communities with which I was working and to which I knew I was devoted. I realised that I had ceased to care and that that meant that something profoundly WRONG had happened to my personality. I had disappeared.

I packed up my desk and walked out.

Woman falling

I stepped off the edge of the cliff on which I had been teetering for quite some time. I had no parachute.

My flat became an oubliette. My days consisted of waking up feeling dehydrated and my head would start to race. I now know this “racy head” feeling was the onset of withdrawals as I would have had a good few hors unconscious without any alcohol. I would put on daytime TV and commence the operation that was getting myself into shape enough to get to the nearest source of alcohol to stop my head from racing.

Inside myself somewhere I knew what I was doing. I was killing myself by the slow method. I have a memory of walking unsteadily back to my flat past the Chinese takeaway, stepping with difficulty up onto the pavement and in my head was the line from American Pie “this will be the day that I die” running on repeat in my head. In truth I would not have cared one way or another. This was a state beyond suicide, which is an active state. I had ceased to care a damn whether I lived or died.

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And this was the beginning. There was a LOT further down to go than this.

On occasion I could somehow pull the fragments together and manage to function after a fashion. I would turn up at appointments with the Professor who is a world expert on Trauma. I was very skilled at diverting him away whenever I could sense that he was getting to the core of my trauma which went way further back than the death of my colleagues. That incident had dredged up a lot of suppressed trauma from way back. It had all been festering there like an apparently spent volcano where the lava had been boiling unseen ready to explode through faults in the hard surface. I was terrified that it was going to be unleashed and engulf me completely. I could not allow anyone near there. It was too shameful, too painful, too dark. And I had a supply of vodka in my bag to ease the pain before and after our sessions.

Women-art-by-Diana-Hansen-Young

My Psychiatrist was caught up in the idea that I was going to sue my employer with him as a key witness so our sessions were more about that than being about providing me with support. My Trade Union were well on their way to putting a court case together but I now realise I was too far gone to be a reliable witness by this time. I would be crucified.

My sense of that desperate time when I had to try to come to terms with the fact that I was no longer the International Officer. I had been my job. There was nothing else. My mother had instilled in me from early on that I was not going to make the same “mistakes” that she had in turning down a job in the Foreign Office in order to get married and have children. I was so desperate to be loved or at least accepted by my parents that I complied. The trouble with making one’s work one’s identity is that if that work is lost for whatever reason, it is like the worst form of bereavement. In fact I felt as though I had died.  I repeated over and over in my head “they think I can cope with this, they think I can cope with this”. It was dark, desperate and destructive.

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So I drank. I just drank and drank to stop myself from thinking and from feeling. The vultures were gathering. I was getting into more and more debt as my sick pay had ended and I had been formally “retired on ill health grounds”. In addition, the physical consequences of extreme alcohol misuse and overall self neglect were becoming evident. Dad had to rush me into hospital after my stomach started bleeding. There was no time to get an ambulance. Mum developed a kind of sixth sense which would alert her to my being in crisis. She would all five foot one and a quarter of her, knock my door in to get me to safety.

In the end I had to face up to the fact that I was going to lose my home. This was beyond painful and in fact writing it, I can still feel it now. There was no other option however. I dream about it even now from time to time. I am back in my old flat that was my first home of my own.  I know I shouldn’t be there but I can’t leave. I hear some stranger come through the front door then I wake up often wet with tears.

I moved back in with Mum and Dad. With my Mum primarily “policing” me, I managed to stop drinking and at least create an illusion of being sober. However, I had done nothing to address the underlying trauma. I seemed well. I returned to university to do an MSc which I never finished. The stress of exams sent me spinning back into the vortex again.

At this point, all I wanted was to run. I managed to get a job running the Moscow School of Economics Office at Manchester University so off I went with a bank account filled up with “compensation” I had accepted from my employer in an out of court settlement. I had no idea how ill I was and that as soon as I was away from the relative safety of my parents’ house, and at large in an unknown City, I would relapse immediately. I never turned up at the new job. I had finally been consumed by the trauma and drowning in alcohol. I was now fully submerged in the Twilight Zone.

Someone had switched the lights off. I did not exist.

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Crime and Punishment

In times of universal deceit telling the truth is a revolutionary act. (Orwell).

In the eyes of some it is a criminal act requiring punishment even by those who know it is the truth. The act itself of putting one’s head above the parapet and going against those preferring to hide behind the wall, appears threatening, not playing the game and requires to be stamped out.

The immediate aftermath of the death of my colleagues was a whirlwind of funerals, memorials, press attention and for me, the pressure of dealing with bereaved relatives from whom the truth had been concealed.

I had started to use alcohol to try to blot out what I now know were the increasing symptoms of PTSD. I found I could drink to knock myself out to sleep and to knock into oblivion the onrush of flashbacks. It also helped me cease to care. The down side was that I had even less of a filter between my head and my mouth. The truth started leaking out in an uncontrolled manner. I became very dangerous indeed for that reason. That is when the punishment began.

I managed to keep a lid on it for a considerable time before it became patently obvious that I was out of control. I carried on working. I won major awards for my work but the toughest thing was finding myself caught between the Belarus Embassy, who were desperate to avoid legal action by the truth coming out, and my own organisation who were equally keen to avoid the truth coming out.

I have a lot for which to thank the Belarus Embassy. They offered me sanctuary – an escape from the relentless pressure in Aberdeen. I took to going down there and taking up residence at their invitation in their guest flat. It was an escape as I started to attend events with the Ambassador, have long conversations about art particularly Chagall, theatre, music, and the respective pressures we were both under in our work. He came a valued friend. We did normal things like eat pizza and his extraordinarily bad attempts at cooking in the flat “above the shop”. He believed I was the reincarnation of the Grand Duchess of Lithuania and Queen of Poland Barbara Radziwill and had beautiful boxes commissioned as a gift for me featuring her on her own and with her husband August Sigismund the Second. He bought me long stemmed roses. He took me away from the darkness for short periods. It was to no avail ultimately as I was on a downward spiral and it was to damage both of us. The clouds were gathering. The vultures were hovering.

My drinking back in Aberdeen was getting worse and worse. Every day the list of things I could not do increased. One day I could make a phone call, the next day I could not without a slug of anything alcoholic. The day I realised the effect all of this had on me was when I was at a meeting of section heads. They were discussing some project that I knew somewhere inside me I cared deeply about. However, when asked about it, I felt nothing. I said “I have no opinion”. At that stage I knew that something profoundly wrong had happened to my personality. I left the room, packed up my desk and walked out. That was the start of a whole year on sick pay.

Woman falling

I thought I WAS my work. When I realised I could no longer do it, I felt as though it was me who had died. That feeling was increased when my colleagues immediately demanded that I come in and collect my remaining belongings or they would end up on a skip. I dragged myself round there in a very vulnerable state to find my things, including gifts from children in Chernobyl like two small glass birds, had been thrown into boxes with no care or compassion, just contempt.

My GP who was also the Council’s Occupational Health Doctor had been trying to persuade me for some time to leave as the place was too toxic. He could not of course go into details but he said I was one of many colleagues being treated for stress, that it was a sick place and I would only get more ill if I remained there. However, I was devoted to the work, to the communities overseas I was helping and from whom I was learning. I had stayed on way too long and indeed I was very ill by this time. When I told him about the demand that I come in and collect my things before they threw them out, he said “they want to remove any trace of you”. By this time I wanted to remove any trace of myself. I did this by drinking myself to oblivion all day and every day. If I was my work, and I now could not work, I no longer existed. This was what it was it felt like.

My health worsened and I spiralled into debt. The Belarus Embassy continued to try to be helpful but I was being dragged into quicksand. I was in freefall. I remember overhearing Embassy staff saying “she is killing herself”. I was already dead as far as I was concerned.

thZE9PIRSA

I had been formally diagnosed with “work-related PTSD”. The doctors deliberately added “work-related” as they were urging me to take legal action. They were prepared to act as witnesses. I agreed. I had some odd idea that decency would prevail. It of course did not. I found people whom I thought were friends avoided me in the streets, whereas others whom I had not considered friends turned out to be angels in disguise.

Of course, the Council went into full defensive mode when the legal action was commenced by my trade union. Every effort was made to find other stressors for which to blame my decline into mental despair and alcohol misuse. I was summoned before a psychiatrist in Edinburgh. I went with Mum and Dad as they wanted to show him I had a decent and supportive family. I answered his questions as honestly as I could. Somehow he twisted the most innocent statement into something negative. He asked me if my sister had ever taken drugs. I replied “She’s a teenager. I have no idea”. That came out in my statement as “her sister is a known drug addict”. I can say quite categorically that this was not the case. This psychiatrist had clearly been chosen for a reason. Impartiality was not on his radar. It was distressing for my entire family.

And they decided to blame my “inappropriate” relationship with the Ambassador of Belarus and reported him to his Ministry.

Then the threats started. The female “friend” of our then Lord Provost who was the Leader of the Council involved in the incident in Homiel Margaret Smith, threatened me in the street. I recall her words exactly “you’d better watch what you are about”.

I got offered a voluntary job working for a European-funded youth project. They welcomed me with open arms given my experience of getting European funding. However when I arrived all keen to be useful again on day one I noticed something odd. I was early and spotted an erstwhile colleague from my old department scuttling hurriedly out of the building. When I got in, there was a very odd atmosphere. The warmth had gone. I was told to sit in an office and then a highly apologetic member of the charity staff asked me to leave the building immediately. They had had threats that their Council funding would be removed if I was allowed to do this unpaid voluntary job. I left the building. I had to. I could not allow this excellent charity to be damaged because of my presence.

So the punishment was to make me a pariah in the City in which I was born. And what did I do to dampen the pain? I drank. I drank to reach the stage where I felt nothing and it was taking more and more alcohol to reach the desired stage.

This was the beginning of the downward spiral. I had committed the crime of telling the truth and the punishment was to be meted out in full. But it was only the start. Things were to get so much worse.

Downward Spiral

I loved my job and I was good at it. I remain heartbroken at its loss. I do not miss the City, and I certainly do not miss the City Council. I miss being able to make a difference to people like the wonderful citizens of Homiel who gave me more than I gave them. I will never fully recover from this grief.

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If you have enjoyed reading this blog, or have at least got something from it, perhaps you might consider a small donation to my Go Fund Me page. My current work in healthcare started to resemble rather too closely what I went through in Aberdeen, so at present I am unable to work until I have some time to heal. This means I have no income. More important to me however, is that my experiences mean something to my readers so please do not feel pressurised into offering me practical help. This is NOT why I am writing.

https://www.gofundme.com/AllyandIzzy

Thanks for reading this far.