Dragan

I’ve been working with Dragan, an AV technician here at the Court, on putting together a promotional DVD for the Court. We huddle around his computer screen in the AV office, sorting through old footage of the war, the Court’s construction, trials and other relevant bits.

Often this involves me asking dumb questions and Dragan and the tech guys making fun of me. Going through some grainy video of long-bearded soldiers, I asked: “Who’s this? Are these Serbs?” Ady, another technician sitting across the room who spent the war in Toronto, jolted me out of my seat when he screamed and leapt to his feet. “Serbs!! What?! Run!” We all cracked up, including Dragan, a Bosnian Serb whose first loyalty, like thousands of other locals, had always been to Sarajevo, not to his contrived ethnicity.

Dragan rolled his eyes. “Serbs, Sem (roughly how my name usually gets pronounced). Serbs? Ha! Look at them. What do those look like?”

“Uh—"

“See the beards - they’re mujahadeen. You know Bin Laden and them, da da da. Ha! Serbs! Ha!”

“Hehe, sorry, I’m just a dumb Canadian, you know. We don’t have these mujahadeen or this Bin Laden, whoever he is.”

Dragan, quick off the mark as always: “Sure, yeah right! They are there. You just don’t know it yet! Ha!”

Once, after many dry-eyed hours of editing, Dragan announced a cigarette break. The snow had at last melted, and I went out to stand with him on the Court steps.

"So, you like it here in my town, Sem?” Dragan asked, gesturing to the minaret-dotted hillside across the street.

"Yeah, I love it here. It’s a special place.”

Dragan looked down and took a long pull on his cigarette. As sometimes happens here in hyper-emotional Sarajevo, it seems I’d unexpectedly struck a chord.

"You know… this is my city, my home... I got married to Muslim woman during war. But special… before war was special. So many different people here from so many places. You wouldn’t believe. The old Sarajevo, maybe it is hiding in smokey café somewhere. I don’t know… Everything is so different now… Still, yes... you are right, it is special place. It is…” Dragan is a true poet of broken English. He took a last puff and stamped out his cigarette. “Ok,” he announced. “Let’s go, Sem. Back to work.”

Dubrovnik, Take 2

With the drama of trials ratcheting up, accompanied by their daily litany of horror, everyone at work has been feeling a bit phased. So, a group of us decided to take off to Dubrovnik in Croatia (I was there in October too) for the weekend and escape the pesky, neverending Sarajevo winter. I drove for 5 hours from snowy mountains to sunny coast, took a dip in the Adriatic, climbed around the city walls, took a boat to a remote island, saw peacocks, killed several million brain cells and saw a few posters cheering on an indicted war criminal. All in a day’s work in the Balkans.





Clockwise from top left: 1. The definition of a happy man; 2. This Croatian fisherman is probably pretty happy too; 3. Poster for indicted war criminal General Ante Gotovina; 4. Peacock on the island.

A few more pics.

Milosevic's Shadow: From the Balkans to Iraq

Slobo's funeral happened Saturday with little controversy or fanfare. Although a throng of 80,000 showed up to honour the former tyrant, there were signs that times have changed. His wife was unable to attend, having been indicted for corruption by Serbian officials. More symbolically, the floppy-eared hero of a Greater Serbia was buried in his little backyard in the town of Pozaravec, having been refused a resting place in Belgrade's main cemetary.

But nevertheless, Milosevic's shadow remains long and dark. His death has brought to the fore the ugly undercurrent of hardline nationalism in the ex-Yugoslavia, a disease that no international idealism has been able to stamp out, one so persistent that it begs the question whether democracy imposed at international gunpoint can ever really succeed. It is not, as some journalists seem to imply, that Milosevic's croaking has plucked Serb nationalism from the grave -- anyone who has read this blog knows that I have often commented on the continuing influence of radicalism in the region. It is only that Slobo's death has given the utlra-nationalists a new soapbox, and while that is scary in itself, the effect will likely be temporary. The truly terrifying fact is this: 45% of Serbia voted for the Serbian Radical Party in 2004 (see post below).

It is unfair to point the finger solely at Serbia. For example, when the ruthless Croatian General Ante Gotovina was arrested in December on war crimes charges, tens of thousands of Croatians took to the streets in protest. More generally, the people of the Balkans are still haunted by despairing poverty, an infestation of crime and corruption, and in many places, a thirst for vengeance. Without a doubt, the wounds from 1992-1996 are still fresh. In Sarajevo and towns around Bosnia, the scars are tangible. Nary a Bosnian can spend a single day without walking by a bomb crater or a neighbour's demolished house. 10 years is but a scrap of breath in the scope of Balkan history.

I do not seriously believe that the region is close to war, even if the ultra-nationalists were to gain power. As long as there is a sustained international presence here, peace-building can continue to hobble along. But every day I spend here makes me realize how long, arduous and often seemingly impossible a task nation-building really is. The Balkans, referred to as one of the most succesful post-conflict stabilization programs ever, is often contrasted with the miserable failure of Iraq. There is much to be thankful for in post-war Yugoslavia, but it is far from recovered or being a fully stable region. One ugly, big-eared, 64 year-old man's heart attack has brought back all the old fears and reminded us of how fragile the peace really is. Potential conflicts still loom in Kosovo and Macedonia.

Given how long the road ahead is for the Balkans a decade after war, I would not be surprised if Iraq is still in utter chaos 10 years from now. Indeed, Iraq bears some scary resemblances to pre-war Yugoslavia. Namely, it is a geographically diverse nation inhabited by three distinct ethnic & religious groups who have for many decades had their identities supressed by secular dictators. Both collapsed into chaos and internecine warfare after the rigid authority structures that had held them together for so long suddenly crumbled away. With no sense of security, Iraqis, just like ex-Yugoslavs, are turning to the most base of comforts: their sense of ethnic belonging.

If only Bush had drawn a few lessons from the Balkans before eagerly strapping on his pistols and galloping away into the Persian Gulf. But it is too late now. After my experience here, I am not one who believes in a rapid withdrawal from Iraq. The bed has been made, and now we must lie in it. In a bout of refreshing honesty, a Canadian general recently estimated that Canadian troops should be in Afghanistan for at least a decade. If you ask me, America and Britain had better brace themselves for a very, very long commitment in old Mess-opotamia.

A Bosnian Joke

Two Bosnian peasants, Mujo and Sujo (the protagonists of just about every joke) are walking along a narrow road in the countryside during the war. Both have had far too much to drink. It's night time and they are almost home, when suddenly Mujo spots a human head lying by the side of the road.

He gasps and shouts, "Hey Sujo, there's someone's head!"
Sujo: "What? Really?!"
Mujo: "Yes, it's a human head! Wait... hold on... it's our neighbor Dino!!"
Mujo holds the head up to the moonlight, and says, "See, it's Dino. Poor Dino..."
Sujo furrows his eyebrows in disagreement. "Nah, what are you talking about? It can't be him. He was much taller!"

The new Milosevic

The handsome Vojislav Seselj, radical nationalist and potty-mouth extraordinaire.This BBC article echoes something I wrote about several weeks ago after my trip to Belgrade:

If Kosovo does, indeed, become independent, the resulting nationalist backlash could well bring the Radicals and their hardline allies back to power.

A host of Western diplomats have already assured Kosovo's independence -- some even say by the end of the year. This means you should keep your eye on one man: Vojislav Seselj, head of the Serbian Radical Party referred to in the quote (if you want to know what this party is all about, read their name). Seselj is currently behind bars for crimes against humanity in the same prison where Milosevic recently keeled over. He has shown the same penchant for using the ICTY as a forum for frenzied rants, albeit with a little extra flair. In preliminary hearings, Seselj declared:

To all you members of The Hague tribunal you can only accept to suck my cock.(...) And you can just go on hampering my Defence, go ahead, but ultimately you are going to have to eat all the shit you excreted. Fuck you all, beginning with Hans Holthius, and so on, including that motherfucker.

Good one, Vojislav. Thankfully (or maybe not, for humour's sake), Seselj has been deprived of further outbursts -- he is still awaiting trial, in custody for almost 2 and a half years now. With Serbian anti-West, anti-world paranoia jolted by Milosevic's death, Seselj's supporters are already warning that he might succumb to the same Hague conspirators who "poisoned" Slobo.

Imagine, if you will, that you are good old Vojislav, enjoying a glass of brandy and a lollipop as you watch the news in your comfortable Scheveningen prison cell. Would it not occur to you that your death, in suspicious circumstances, might just be the jolt that ultra-nationalists need to overcome the fragile democratic movement in Serbia? Your party won 45% of the votes in the 2004 presidential election -- victory is only a martyr away. Thankfully, I think, we can count on Seselj's selfish opportunism to keep him breathing.

But the people of the Balkans have had no shortage of bad luck -- what if Seselj chokes on a twinkie, or trips over his teddy bear and breaks his neck? It is strange to pray for the good health of mass murderers, but such are these delicate times.

A Butcher's Legacy

Need a refresher on why Milosevic's shrewd escape from justice is so tragic? Read this wonderfully concise account of his crimes. (Hat tip to Owusu)

Ode to Sarajevo

These photos were not taken in the last week, but they might as well have been - recently the season changes by the hour. Such is fickle mountain weather, which dovetails nicely with the fickle Sarajevo women.

Local reaction to Slobo's death

An isolated sample of what some twenty-something Sarajevans think about the death of the Butcher of the Balkans:

Selma: "I am disappointed, but it is good because he was running Serbia from jail, and now also the Serbians do not have their #1 entertainer. I am worried, though, that they will make a big deal for his funeral right before the elections and the nationalists will win."

Armin: "I don't know what to think. Nothing will really change."

Dino: "My life won't change at all, no one's here will. It doesn't mean anything."

Sanjin: "Why do you even ask me this? I don't care. He was dead to me in 1990."

Slobodan Milosevic dies

Woke up this morning to have my hangover compounded by the news that Slobodan Milosevic has died in his prison cell in the Hague. If you ask me, this is the worst possible result (aside from complete acquittal) to the 4-year saga of his trial. Milosevic had never recognized the tribunal, and oftentimes it was more personal political soapbox than long-awaited moral reckoning (a tactic mirrored today by Saddam Hussein). And with his death, still no leader has been held truly responsible for the wars that ravaged the region. Although there is some glimmer of hope that Ratko Mladic and Radovan Karadzic will one day be captured, Milosevic has escaped for good.

On top of it all, there are rumblings in the conspiracy-loving Balkans at the fact that this is the second high profile detainee in Scheveningen prison that has died in less than a week. On Monday, Milan Babic, a Croatian Serb leader who ostensibly repented and testified against Milosevic, committed suicide in his cell in an undisclosed manner. In addition, recently the tribunal had denied Milosevic's request to be flown to Russia for heart treatment, saying that there was no reason he couldn't receive the same care in the Netherlands. Milosevic's wife has said that "The Hague has killed my husband."

Milosevic's Serbian defense team is demanding that his body be returned for an impartial autopsy and burial on home soil, and radicals are already touting the fact that old Slobodan (whose name means "freedom" in Serbian) will be interred an innocent man, his guilt never having been officially established.

Grbavica

Keep the name Grbavica in mind for next year's Oscar season. A Bosnian film, it recently won the Golden Bear award at the Berlin Film Festival, ostensibly the 4th biggest film prize in the world. I saw it last night and was, frankly, deeply moved. It is about living in Sarajevo in the aftermath of war and, specifically, of rape. Although I wouldn't really know, it seems to brilliantly and subtly convey the everyday scars of life in a war torn country.

Before and After

In a small town in eastern Bosnia called Foca, my friends Elias and Owusu wait for the hunchbacked lady to approach. Traveling with Owusu can be an eye-opening experience -- people are constantly staring and pointing, especially children. It seems rural Bosnians have never seen a black man, much less a black man on crutches. Owusu takes all this in stride, waving and joking that he is their returned prophet.

Before the war (1991):

Name: Foca
Population: 40,513
51.6% Bosniak (Muslim)
45.3% Serb
3.1% other
Number of mosques: 14

After the war (1998):

Name: Srbinje ( "Place of the Serbs") *
Population: 24,000
Estimated fewer than 100 non-Serbs
Number of mosques: 0

No data is available since 1998 from this "closed, dark place", site of some of the war's worst crimes against humanity.

* In 2004, a Bosnian court ruled that the name change to Srbinje was unconstitutional, and so it is now officially Foca once again. I'm not sure what the locals call it.

"Safe Area" Gorazde

Gorazde, like Srebrenica, was a majority Bosnian Muslim town along the Serbian border. Also like Srebrenica, the UN had declared it a "UN Safe Area," which meant practically nothing besides the intermittent presence of passive blue helmets. Telling is the fact that the term "Protected Area" was initially rejected by the Security Council.

Gorazde was continuously bombed to bits by Serb artillery, turning it into an isolated hellhole. From what I could see when we drove through the town last week, much of it remains in rubble. But unlike Srebrenica, it was never overrun and is known as the only eastern town not ethnically cleansed by the Serb army. As a result of creative map-drawing, it remains in the Muslim-Croat Federation.

Wudu'

Devout Muslims are required to wash their face, hands and feet several times a day before prayer, a ritual called wudu'. You can find these outdoor taps all over Sarajevo.

Igor's day

I found big Igor* pacing back and forth on the Court steps in an animated, contentious phone conversation. "Everything alright?" I asked. He told me he had been arguing with his ex-girlfriend's current boyfriend, who had somehow discerned through his network of informers that she and Igor had had lunch together that day (she works in the same building, so this is not exactly shocking). Igor had agreed to meet the boyfriend mano a mano after work, in the parking lot. Memories of my all-boys high school came to mind: "Meet me in the locker room after recess to settle this, dipshit."

"He'll probably just warn me to stay away from her," Igor said.
"Any reason to be worried?" I asked, "You need my help?"
"No, not really. He is bloody crazy though. A year ago he was always parked outside my apartment, watching me. I suppose he might have a gun."
"A gun? Shit."
"Eh, it's easy to get a gun around here, not uncommon. Don't worry mate, it's just a chat."

Nevertheless, we made a plan whereby I would interrupt their meeting after 15 minutes to give him an escape route. After work, I watched the parking lot from my office window: there was the paranoid boyfriend, screaming, arms waving wildly, and Igor calmly smoking cigarettes. At the appointed time, I came outside, shook their hands and pretended as if I had no idea what was going on. The boyfriend seemed annoyed, prattled on in Bosnian to Igor for a little while longer, then abruptly walked away.

"What did he say?" I asked Igor.
"Nothing special. I hate this stupid papac ("peasant" or "redneck") shit."
I laughed. "Just another day in the Balkans, eh Igor?"
"Yeah, sure," he chuckled. "I guess you could say that, mate. Never a boring day."

* Name has been changed in order to avoid me being a gossipy jerk.

Old man, young bike

In the small town of Foca. I actually saw him riding it later -- he seemed to be showing off.