Some refugees lie through their teeth. Some bribe their way out. Some refuse to bear witness. Who's to say which category any of us would occupy in a similar situation?
Yesterday morning Macedonia's main border crossing at Blace provided a study in contrasts.
Though the border remains effectively closed, two families made it across; one with a tale of a Kosovo bathed in sweetness and light; the other with a story of ongoing horror.
According to Sacir, a Serb "friend" had volunteered to drive him and his extended family of six, from Pristina to Blace. No, there was never a hint of danger; nothing but peace and birdsong all the way; not a sign of another refugee on the 90-minute journey.
At the border, they were simply waved through with exemplary courtesy after having their passports stamped. Nothing to it, "just like normal". A latter-day miracle, indeed.
Had money or valuables changed hands at some point? You bet your life it had. But Sacir denied everything, didn't even want to give his surname. All he needed now was to bypass all this nasty refugee camp stuff, head straight for the airport and his cousins in Turkey. "He'll be bloody lucky," snorted an aid worker.
Meanwhile, in a nearby tent, the other newly-arrived little family sat on the floor, spent and fearful.
Tears ran down the face of Ekrem Guza (31), a soft-spoken cement factory worker and father of two small children, as he described Begrace, which up to 3 a.m. last Saturday morning was a village of 8,000 souls. At that hour, masked paramilitaries attacked, armed with long knives and machineguns. As houses burned and villagers fled, the gunmen shot at least 20 of them dead.
He saw them with his own eyes, scattered in the streets and in the fields. "All those people who fled are now in Stagova," he said, referring to the last railway stop before Blace. "But they are not allowed to catch the train. Every town and village where the train stops, you see thousands of people waiting." He was able to cast some light on the fate of those refugees who were turned back when the border was first closed eight days ago. Three buses, he said, were loaded at Blace and sent to the Albanian border where they arrived safely.
A fourth bus, however, which loaded up after 10 a.m. that Wednesday night, mainly with people from Pristina, and set off for Albania, has not been heard of since. "No one knows what happened to it. We have no word that it arrived. No one from that bus has contacted any of their families."
Ekrem and his family beat the odds. They made it out on their third attempt by train after being turned back on Saturday and Sunday by Serbs who told them that the Macedonians had closed the border.
Yesterday they tried again at Stagova. When some 2,000 people tried to rush the train, in the confusion he and his family squeezed on and hid. At the border, Serb soldiers looked for documents they did not have (like 80 per cent of the refugees), and told them the border was closed. But as they stood there, Ekrem experienced three epileptic-like fits and the Serbs relented. Macedonian police simply registered them and channelled them down to the transit camp below.
Back in the city of Ferizaj, says Ekrem, Serb forces are using the construction factory to hide their tanks and heavy artillery. This weaponry occupies one side of the vast factory floor; the other is packed with thousands of Albanians brought in by bus and army trucks from four or five surrounding villages. These people, he says, are human shields against NATO.
As for Belgrade's announcement that it is withdrawing troops, Ekrem looks sceptical. "Far from that, more people are still arriving with the military and police. Men from Russia and Belarus are coming down to earn money as troops for Arkan."