THE CAMP OF REFUGEES FROM KLADUSA:

WHEREEVER "DADDY" GOES, WE SHALL FOLLOW

AIM, Zagreb, September 26, 1995 Drab hovels and decaying haylofts, tiny spaces made of corn cobs with no doors, abodes made of boards pasted together with mud, here and there with nails, which resemble kennels, and which usually contain two small beds with no sheets, often with no blankets either; half pulled down shanties and numerous tents, small and large with too many holes; tractors and trailers on which half washed clothes are dried when it does not rain, and in which people sleep at night close to each other for lack of space; bumpy muddy road which does not deserve to be called a road; dilapidated trucks and vans where people live because there is no other way and in front of which small tables are layed to spend long days playing chess and drinking coffee; in improvised sheds, tied to a tree close by or in a walk around flooded fields subsist what used to be the riches of their former owners; a hardly noticeable field hospital just behind the first houses by the road where those without an arm or leg rest; wheel-barrows and wagons which crawl by mercedes cars of laughing Croat humanitarians who are in a rapid afternoon visit; hairdresser's, cobbler's, blacksmith's and inns with local popular names (Sejla, Halil, At Two Friends'...) and popular folk music heard from them; on four shaky chair legs with curly small boys hopping around them, small "shops" are spread out with just a few things on display, but important for survival: razor blades, cigarettes, brandy, juice, soap, meat at german mark a kilo and... spices.

This is a scenery observed at a glance, immediately after entering the camp near Vojnic, inhabited by 53 thousand people from "Daddy's (Fikret Abdic's) Republic" (a phrase often used by the inhabitants of the camp), down a five-kilometre long road towards the border with the Fifth Corps of the Army of B&H, to which "Daddy's corps will not give itself up alive" (as we were told by a ten-year old child).

Fikret's people (as they like to call themselves) are unusually cheerful and in love with their Daddy. In the best tradition of like-minded persons, they all think the same. They even utter the same sentences, their movements and curses are similar, they walk in a similar swaying gait down the dusty 5-kilometre promenade. Their destiny is similar too.

• Like Palestinians, someone said in the beginning of the camp, on the Croat side, at the so-called 10th point.

In the first improvised inn made of wood, similar to a healthy food store, while drinking a glass of something and nibbling smoked meat, we heard the first story. A man without a name who does not believe newspapers tells it. He is from Kladusa and has not been in the army. He lives - so and so. He drinks - a lot. Where did you get the drink? - From the Croat Army - he whispers. He is single. - We are going back soon, before winter, Such as we are, we will not survive. Without water, without heating, without anything. When the Corps leaves, we shall go back. Sure we will. If it does not leave, I am not going there alive. Neither I, nor anyone from here. I'd much rather go under tanks or die right here than live under their rule. If it wern't for Daddy, we would have been poor for ever. That is why we love him. Daddy is everything to us, do you understand? The hell you do! What do you want to drink?

After a minor incident with alcohol and the sun, called sun-stroke, in the midst of a conversation with the inhabitants of the shanties, your journalist was offered coffee and hay. The hayloft popularly called the barn where he had gone to lie down, was soon filled with people who spoke about their lives. With inspiration.

• To hell with Alija and the very germ which conceived him. You know, lad, our truth will come out in the open from the dark some day, we just need patience. We will go back, of course we will. But the Corps must leave. We wish all three nations to live together in Kladusa. Do you understand? All those who wish can come, but under our - Fikret's rule. We only want him and our republic. Let anyone, a Gypsy, Tudjman, God or Devil rule, just not Alija".

The hostess of the hayloft used to be a school teacher before the war. She is here with her husband. Their daughter lives in Rijeka. The two of them are waiting for a better future. With Daddy, of course.

• We don't care whose flag it will be, what it will be like and what the name of the state will be. The important thing is peace, that we have enough to eat, to have jobs and freedom. We don't want strangers, the only one who can claim us is Daddy. Alija will get a state he will be able to cover with his fez, and we do not want to be under that fez. Alija can never love Kladusa like Fikret does, because he had created it.

• Does everyone think so? - I asked.

• You may ask anyone, from point to point, whether they would return under Alija's rule, they will all answer that they would rather all be soldiers in a jihad. They rob and rape. So far they have raped 40 women in Kladusa. The wife of Fiko Corina gave birth to a small member of the Corps. The people all wish the same and they can be represented by our Fikret alone - Jutel explains.

Everyone around is a veteran in fleeing from home. They have left their homeland at least twice. A man standing close to the entrance brags that he has left four times. If he goes back again, he says, and if they do not let him live freely - "I'll leave again".

• We just want Fikret to lead us. We don't want a jihad state - Jutel speaks again, who is a veteran of the war for "defence of what is one's own" and whose brother fought for Alija.

• He had to, there was nothing he could do about it. They caught him and he went with them. Then we took him prisoner. Then they took him prisoner again and shot him together with 6 Serbs. Dudak ordered it, curse him.

We talked about some leaders who find it easy to seduce people. We were silent for a moment. Then they started telling their story. I don't remember who was telling it.

• In the beginning we were all in the Corps, but that rule did not suit us. Fikret offered us peace and work, because that is what we lack. The people wished it, noone forced them. Do you understand, should there be no Fikret, there is no freedom, no us. They say that Daddy manipulates us. That isn't true. We know what we want, and Fikret did not in any way tell us to go and wage war. We just went with him. We are nothing without him, and he is nothing without us. He has never let us down, never done us any harm. My dear brother, deeds speak in his favour, not words.

• What about Bihac?

    - Dear me, lad, you don't believe us either, do you?
    - How could he believe us, when he wasn't there with
  

  us - someone remarked.

• Whether he has or hasn't, now he will hear the whole story - Jutel says. - This is how it went. We did not attack Bihac together with the Serbs. We were 50 kilometres from Bihac. That is where our borders were. We stood no chance to reach Bihac. It is also a lie that we attacked Bosanska Krupa. It was all done by Serb forces. We had enough men to defend our municipality. We need neither Bihac, nor Krupa, nor Cazin. All we want is what is our won. Majority of the people from Cazin are on our side. And something else, we have neither fought against the Serbs, nor against the Croats. We lived well with everyone, went to the same schools, prayed to the same God, we were neigbours, we married each other, lived right next to each other.

It felt better after coffee, so we went out in the sun, on the Bosnian promenade. We went to find the hospital. Some ten meters before we reached it, on the left-hand side of the road, a stand with some food and drink was put up. More like a bar. In front, leaning on the wooden bar in a mist of tobacco smoke, Igo and Esad are chatting. We join them. Rasim, Fatima, Meho and Muhamed join us, too. More people gather around, each one with his own name and his own misery.

• They say you are doubledealers. Everywhere, but perhaps in Croatia most of all - I provoked.

• Let them say whatever they want. We know what they think - they answer all together. - Everything we have, Daddy has earned it for us. He gave us all work, young and old, big and small, strong and crippled, all. He is the man to be wished for, not Alija, he brought us war. Daddy has made 56 factories, by God, Alija has not made that many cog teeth. Everything Daddy made, he made for us. We will die for him, if necessary. We won't let anyone say anything against our Daddy, Do you understand?

• You obeyed him, and now you are here, without anything, in the cold and in the rain - I continue. Rasim or Meho respond, I don't know which.

• It's not so bad, we are alive, we are well. When Daddy comes, we are even better. It is not his fault, but that bandit's Alija. He refers to Islam, to mosques. You can't even say hello, but Selam aleicuum. There is no short skirts either. The only man capable to lead these people and live for them is Fikret. First he made a deal with the Croats when the Serbs were all around us, and then with the Serbs. He thought of everything, he was kind to everyone. And all that for the sake of the people. We were not afraid of the Croats. When we came here, we knew that the Croats would accept us and that they would not send us away. How could they. They couldn't have forgotten '91, when about 13 thousand of them from Slunj, Cetingrad and the surrounding villages came to us. They slept in our houses, as the closest of kin. They came home with our identity cards. Fikret and these people saved their lives.

Fatima spoke about pride. That is when Rasim got mad. Not with her, but just mad.

• What's the use, man, if I go back there under their rule, to live ten years like a slave, when I can live honourably for a year like a refugee, let me even die a refugee. I've fought for my rights, let me die for my rights.

• Men must be men, and not just jihad fighters, put a green ribbon around your head and say you are fighting for Bosnia, united and God knows what - Meho contemplates.

• What have they got in the end? - Rasim concludes. - They got my ass. We demanded Autonomous Province of Western Bosnia, as a separate autonomy inside Bosnia & Herzegovina. They got a canton, but by fighting. And thousands of Muslims were killed on both sides. How many houses were destroyed, how many disabled people, how much hatred among the people. Will it ever end? Will a neighbour ever look at his neighbour again? Fifty people were killed in the village of Lucka on both sides. Will ever again in that village a woman be able to look another woman in the eye, or a man another man? In my village it happened that almost every day an only son of a mother was killed. When will this ever end?

• People over there (in Bosnia, I guess) have a lot of caps, but let them be aware that they have only one head - Fatima adds.

Muhamed stood at a distance from the rest and confirmed what the others were saying. But, then he stood in front of us, pushed his hands deep into his pockets, raised his head, and said in an excited, fatalistic voice:

• There is one thing they (the team from the 5th Corps, I guess) do not wish to understand. Bosnia simply does not exist any more, it simply does not exist. Let them fight for whatever they want, for st. Alija if they wish, but Bosnia does not exist. We know it. And anyone who believes that he can force us to return under his conditions, is wrong. We will much rather die than go and live under their rule.

• Has anyone wondered what the gentlemen from the 5th Corps are doing in Kladusa, when it is our houses, our places over there. They have their Krupa, their Bihac, their Cazin. What are they doing in Kladusa, when 90 per cent of the people are over here. And the remaining ten per cent would join us if they let them - someone said, perhaps it was Rasim.

The party started to disperse, it was time for lunch. Fatima and a few others remained. The news photographer was pulling my sleeve, wanting me to look up doctor Hasan. But, Fatima wished to say something.

• I have to tell yopu something. Will you write about it?

• May be I will.

• You know that we have no money. And those who are guarding us, they are not letting our people from abroad enter the camp. To leave us some money. Even if someone does enter, they charge them 100 German marks an hour. And it's impossible to find your own in two hours. The authorities don't know that. Individuals are doing this. But there is a lot of them.

• Are they involved in any other such "services"?

    - Of course they are. Some of our people have tried to
  

  reach Zagreb. They pay up to 1500 marks to get there.

• Who do they pay to?

    - Your army or police, who else. Instead of in Zagreb,
  

  they all end up in Kladusa. There is the example of Muhamed Babic who had given 1500 marks to get to Crnomelj. He has a earned a pension in Slovenia. They put him in a car, covered him up, took him to Kladusa, took off the cover and told him to get out! Now he is in jail, and he is 60 years old.

• Is there anything else. Is that all?

    - No. Your men sold some of our young men for 200-300
  

  marks to the 5th Corps, like slaves.

We will the company. A few steps from the hospital. We ask for Hasan. We sit down in a space next to the room where the wounded are. Here comes Hasan. He is wearing a a Unicef shirt. We offer him a cigarette. He does not smoke. The photographer takes pictures, we talk about this and that. We hear voices in the room where the wounded are, they have visitors. They even have chocolate. We ask him about the recent quite bloody incident in a village near the camp.

• The greatest tragedy happened on August 25 when three young men went to the near-by villages to ask for clothing, shoes... They were caught after they had left the camp and ordered to lie down. When they put their hands above their heads they asked them whether they were right or left-handed. When they answered they were shot at the right hand. Two of them were temporarily in the hospital in Karlovac, and the third is still over there. That same day another group of people came back, shot in the legs. It was done by the same people. They wore uniforms of the Croat Army. We heard that they were Muslims born in Doboj. Our men came to the conclusion that they were not Croats by their accent.

We wandered through the hospital for a short while, and then went out and made a tour around the camp. We were looking for Zinad, Fikret's brother. We were told that he was in a large green tent of UNHCR. The tent was closed. We did not knock. We rested with a beer in a small wooden inn called "Sejla", next to the house with a hundred children. We sat in the car and left. We left behind 53 thousand small figures in a crazy performance on which the curtain fails to fall.

ALEN ANIC