ON THE CURSED BOSNIAN LAND (5)

SARAJEVO - THE DIVIDED CITY

AIM, Sarajevo, September 12, 1994

Although Sarajevo is long forgotten by the media, it still attracts attention for a single infamous reason: there are two cities and two "states" all in one city. This is, of course, the actual state of affairs, but, unfortunately, in the course of the past few months, it has gradually started to turn into a permanent solution.

If you wish to cross into the so-called Serbian Sarajevo, there are two ways: in Pofalici, near the Commercial School, a border crossing was established on the bridge of Brotherhood and Unity (what irony!), recently renamed by Karadzic's followers into the bridge of Serbian fighters. This crossing, guarded by the UNPROFOR, is intended to enable the population to cross from one side to the other and is located at just about 30 meters from the tram tracks along which a stream of people goes to work every day to the centre of the city which is controlled by the B&H army. Whenever you pass along that section, close by, on the other side of the bridge, you will see the Serbian flag waving, allegedly in another "state".

Should you think that this is just a caprice, you will quickly be disillusioned by border signs reading "Republika srpska" hanging on the other side of the bridge and by Serbian border police and customs officers. There is probably no border that is more painful than this one which divides Sarajevo into two parts. Because right here, next to the turbid waters of the river Miljacka is the famous Wilson's promenade, better known as the alley of sighs, where couples in love used to look for their benches before the war.

And yet, the procedure for obtaining a permit to cross from one side to the other lasts for more than two months and it generally refers to elderly people, so the number of citizens who have crossed this bridge so far is quite insignificant. Since Karadzic has ordered closing down of the so-called blue corridors, this crossing is practically deserted too. The military and the guards are still there on both sides of the river, but very few people cross it, because they are afraid they will not be able to return.

Hence, it is possible to cross into the part of Sarajevo controlled by the Serbs only in the Western part of the city, but again, just for journalists and those employed by humanitarian organizations, and only if announced in advance. Practically, as soon as you pass by the bullet-riddled buildings of what used to be students' hostels in Nedzarici and the literally burnt down building of the "Oslobodjenje" journal, you emerge on the Stup loop. At its entrance, a white UNPROFOR transporter again, with its barrel pointing towards Ilidza testifies that you are crossing a dangerous section and entering the so-called Serbian republic.

While you are driving, dreadful scenes pass in front of your eyes: bullet-riddled houses pierced with holes like Swiss cheese, remainders of a market place and a gas station, a tank with the Bosnian coat of arms - the golden lily on its side in the canal by the road, a graffito on the only remaining wall of a torn down building scribbled by a joker: "Wellcome to Sarajevo"...

After another fifty meters, you notice camouflage nets and tiny windows of Serbian bunkers covered with mud next to the road. First, you come across the control point of the Serbian army at a place where the main road leading to the airport crosses a side road linking Ilidza with the part of Nedzarici controlled by the Serbs. A routine control follows.

• Do you have a notification?

    - I do. I have made an appointment to visit the old
  

  people's home at the first line.

• Alright, but take care. The sniper is "working" since daybreak.

The part of Nedzarici controlled by the Serbs is completely deserted. This small part resembling a wedge driven into this suburb of Sarajevo is too dangerous a place to motivate people to stay there. Bullet-riddled buildings surround me, at a point the road is criss-crossed by metal walls - protection against Bonsian snipers. I reach the old-people's home where the manageress Milena welcomes me along with the UNPROFOR soldiers.

• Come on, what are you turning round all the time for ... don't be afraid. When we have survived here for the past two years, you certainly will survive this one visit.

She does not make this remark for no reason. I see it for myself the very next moment after we start on our tour. The building is located at a place only about twenty meters away from the first line of trenches. While escorting me through the demolished dining-room, she explains what has been happening during these war months.

• Before this crazy war, we had over three hundred elederly people living here, and now there are hardly about seventy. Twenty three of them were killed by mortars and sniper shots during the war. Many of them froze to death during the first war severe winter, and the majority were displced. We are taking care of those who are left with superhuman efforts. Our army has given us a mobile kitchen, and fortunately the UNPROFOR is here now to help us and bring in food.

While she is talking, we are passing through bullet-riddled rooms which overlook the part of Nedzarici controlled by the B&H Army.

• None of the elderly open windows turned that way, because shooting immediately starts. They even killed our cow in the yard a few days ago. It wasn't a soldier, was it?

• Have you brought us cigarettes - a likable old man stops us in one of the corridors.

• There will be some tomorrow, Bajro, be patient.

Having noticed my surprise when the man's Muslim name was mentioned, Milena anticipated my question.

• I hope you didn't believe the propaganda that there are no Muslims here, did you? There is no difference for me... They reproached me at first, but I didn't give in. You see, I am still keeping the coat and the office of my doctor Ajanovic... he did go into the city, but I am keeping everything for him. Tell him that if you see him...

I don't know whether I would have believed her hadn't I seen the elderly stop her all the time and heard them praise her. They obviously feel her as their own and she seems to understand them best, since she herself is an orphan of the Second World War.

While we are climbing the stairs to the top floor, I hear the sound of a guitar. UNPROFOR soldiers from the French Battalion are accomodated there, they are some kind of insurance for the elderly. I ask them to let me see the view, because it is a rare opportunity for me to catch a glimpse of the city from this side. A bare-headed soldier opens the balcony door for me. About a hundred meters in front of me I can see the remains of the burnt building of the journal "Oslobodjenje" which I have passed by about ten minutes ago, and a colourful building on its side which was finished just before the war and which was also intended to be an old people's home. I am trying to peep outside, but the French soldier quickly pushes me away.

• No, for Pete's sake... don't go near. As soon as they see someone who isn't in our uniform, they immediately start shooting from that building over there. So watch from there, standing behind me.

God, what a feeling: to be in one city and watch it from two sides.

• Come and see our baby, Milena calls me.

    - I don't understand, what is a baby doing in an old
  

  people's home?

• Our worker Ramiza gave birth to her little daughter Admira half a year ago. She is our pet child now.

We find Ramiza changing the baby's diapers. The child's father, Admir is also in their room. The war has forced him out of Croatia. He found temporary refuge here, met Ramiza and stayed.

Before I leave, Milena introduces me to Rada and Milojka, who are in charge of the kitchen. They were both wounded in the war.

• There are eight of us altogether... I am sorry you will not meet the others. But, I hope there will be another opportunity.

As I watch them in the rear-view mirror waving to me, I keep thinking how difficult it is to explain to people with fettered minds that there are good people on the other side. And that there is suffering. National propaganda has succeeded in convincing the people that those on the other side, no matter which, are nothing but enemies. As if bridges will never be built again. I am arriving at the same control point again on the road leading to the airport. This is where a year ago, the Serbs stopped a white transporter and killed Hakija Turajlic, the Vice-president of the Government of B&H.

I cross the road and enter the famous Kasindol street which leads all the way to Ilidza. Along one of its parts, for about a hundred meters, a wire is stretched and old carpets hung over it - as a protection against snipers which shoot from the direction of Butmir, the territory controlled by the B&H army. Here, just like in the city, the people are walking around normally, as if the war and the frontline were miles away, and not right here, next to their houses. They are all used to it, having accepted evil as a way of life. The carpets cannot stop the bullets, of course, but they are all comforted by the fact that at least they will not be directly aimed at.

I pass by the tram tracks and come to another control point at the entrance to Ilidza established after Karadzic had ordered closing of the blue corridors. There are several soldiers and civilians at the control point.

• Where have you been, you tramp... it's been ages since you passed this way, a civilian approaches me, and only after I see that he wears glasses I recognize Mladen. We studied together at the University once, he was a year older than me, one of the best students. Mladen was born in Ilidza - when the war began, that is where he stayed in the police.

• How are things going in the city? Do you ever see any of the folks I used to know?

• Only a few of our generation have remained, most of them have gone abroad. And perhaps just four or five professors who used to teach you remained in the city.

Dok razgovaramo, polagano nam prilaze i ostali.

While we talk, the others slowly come up to us.

    - Is that Marinko?
    - Yes, it's me, a tall, handsome young man replies to

me, also a civilian. I know him too since the good old times spent in Sarajevo.

• Do you know that he got a son a couple of days ago?

    - My cap off that you even dare raise children in a
  

  war.

• If I thought like that, no time would ever be the right time. Where there is enough food for two, there will always be for the third.

I ask them until when will this blockade last and what are the chances for the plan of the Contact group to be adopted after all.

• Listen, man... the border is where the soldier's boot stands. That is how it was from times immemorial. They can't dictate us what territories we should return, when we are the most powerful force on the frontline. Now they are trying to scare us, and Serbia has turned its back on us, but all that is in vain, a soldier tells me, bearing the isnignia of military police of the so-called republic of srpska.

• What do you think about the latest behavior of Milosevic and Serbia? Is the blockade really efficient?

• Honest to God, we too were surprised, but we will manage somehow. The worst thing is that they have cut the telephone lines with Serbia and Montenegro, and we all have relatives and friends there.

I ask Mladen and Marinko whether they have seen Bogdana, a nice girl who used to work in the office which issues passes for unhindered travelling through Serbian territory.

• She has just started to work again... Do you know that her mother was killed?

• No, what happened?

    - Just before this latest cease-fire was signed, the
  

  Muslims shelled us from Igman. Her mother was in front of the entrance to their building... when she heard the hiss of the shell, she just managed to shelter her younger daughter with her body. She was killed on the spot, and the child escaped without a scratch.

As a rule, it appears that in every war, those who are the least gulity suffer the most. There is always more victims among the civilians than among the soldiers. People are killled on all sides, Bosnia is soaked in blood, and the peace is nowhere in sight. And the more deaths there are, the broader the gap between the quarrelled nations. Because, once you lose someone of those dear to you, you quickly lose the sense of justice and you are slowly eaten up with hatred and it begins to control you.

I continue on my way. Passing through Ilidza, one easily notices the scars of missiles, but the damage is much smaller than in the city. The streets are full of people, the stores are open, even the traffic is quite heavy. I notice that, just like in Sarajevo, many people ride bicycles - there was a shortage of fuel here too even before the war. Generally speaking, everyone is trying to find their way round the best they can.

At what was once called the Mostar crossroad I turn to the right towards Kobiljaca. This is deep within the Serbian territory, there are no signs of fighting as soon as you leave Vrelo Bosne. The peasants work in their fields, there is an unusual haste. Had it not been for a military vehicle or a UNPROFOR transporter here and there, you would not know that you were in the middle of a war.

Halfway, somewhere near Rakovica, by the road, a restaurant with a symbolic name still stands: "Centre of Yugoslavia". Namely, this really is the geographic centre of former Yugoslavia: when all lines cross, measurements show that this is the very place. What irony! The windows of the restaurant are all broken, the furniture demolished. Just like Yugoslavia was demolished...

A couple of minutes later and I arrive at Kobiljaca, the "border" crossing of the so-called republika srpska. Flags, the barrier is down, "customs and police". A soldier approaches me and a girl in uniform. It is nothing unusual about women playing men's roles around here. They are most frequently used for communication with the UNPROFOR, because all white convoys pass at this crossing.

• Good-day, where are you headed?

    - To Central Bosnia and then to the seaside, to Split.
    - Oh, how I envy you... I wish I could go down to the
  

  coast. To Makarska a bit, or up to Istria... if this war lasts much longer I'll forget what the sea looks like.

• I guess everybody is fed up with it.

    - What are you carrying?
    - Just personal luggage, why don't you take a look.
  

A routine search follows, everything passes well. While I am closing my bag, I notice a large group of people with bundles gathering on the other side of the barrier, by a big building.

• Who are they, I ask the girl.

    - Serbian refugees from Tuzla region. They somehow
  

  manage to get to Kiseljak and then here they cross to the Republic of srpska. You can see for yourself, what great misfortune this is for them. They have left their entire lives behind and now all they have are a few bundles.

• Yes, I have seen plenty of refugees all around Bosnia. Both the Muslims, and the Croats and the Serbs. And there isn't a single man in this cursed space who hasn't a story of his own to tell: all of them are sad and tragic in their own way. A chain of horror and people's destinies...

• Go on, and have a pleasant journey. And come again.

The barrier is lifted. I am leaving the so-called republic of srpska, passing through the no-man's-land and slowly descending down hairpin-bends to the "border" point of the so-called Herzeg-Bosnia on my way to Kiseljak. Another "statelet" lies ahead.

GORAN TODOROVIC