Throughout 1992 and 1993, Bosnia became a frequent destination for the reporter. War in Yugoslavia
was to pre-occupy European policy makers for all of the decade. A journey in the spring of 1992
revealed first hand the start of ethnic cleansing, foresaw the rape and pillage which was to grow
worse in the years ahead and provide some insight into the character of the Serbs, who while not
the only aggressors in the Bosnian conflict, must be credited with much of the hardship and bloodshed.
Monday May 18, 1992 - The Road to Kalesija (broadcast on "Perspective" ABC Radio May 23, 1992)
"If you go down that road," said the ill shaven Serbian gunman with the smell of Slivovitz liquor
on his breath, "you'll be shot like rabbits."
It was supposed to be a simple trip from Belgrade to Tuzla. If the road was good, then maybe on to Sarajevo.
The war in Bosnia, now less than two months old, has driven more than 600,000 people, Moslem, Serb and Croat,
from their homes.
Six of us, (American TV teams used to operate in large numbers) our camera team escorted by Alex and
Dimitri, our interpreter/drivers, set out across the Drina River which forms the natural frontier between
Serbia and Bosnia.
The two rental cars clattered along a rickety railway bridge. Rusted steel girders supported rotting wooden planks
on a structure dating, locals say, from Turkish times and the Ottoman occupation of the last century.
On the opposite side, a sign with freshly painted Cyrillic letters welcomed us to "the Serbian Republic of
Bosnia-Herzegovina," the Serb enclave carved out of newly independent Bosnia by force.
I had heard that convoys of refugees were moving on the road to and from Tuzla in the largely Moslem center
of Bosnia. From Bijeljina in the northeast which is controlled by Serbian forces, a good road stretches
90 miles (127kc) to Tuzla. British television teams had traveled there only the day before, without
incident. They reported on the tragic movement of some 25 thousand refugees.
The roads of eastern Bosnia are dotted with Serbian roadblocks, manned by highly unpredictable
Serbian irregulars who brandish Kalashnikovs with a confidence and swagger enhanced by love of
that powerful Serbian plum brandy known as "Sljivovica."
At one such roadblock, a few miles outside Bijeljina, we were halted and turned around by a particularly
aggressive sentry who muttered, "I don't want to see your faces again."
An alternate route to Tuzla took us south, along the Drina, and then winding west deeper into Bosnia.
Eleven roadblocks later, we approached the villages of Caparde and Kalesija, and I began to feel we were
entering more sinister terrain.
The gleaming white minarets of several Mosques lay off to our right, highlighted against lush green hills.
While the Mosques remained intact, nearly every farm house along the road had been burned: the
ashes newly cooled by a sudden spring rain. Dozens of houses were gutted, one after another; Homes of
a lifetime, their contents thoroughly looted. Cows and chickens wandered untended. Fresh tank
tracks could be seen in roadside dirt.
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In Kalesija, gunfire could be heard about a mile away. A nervous Serbian soldier allowed us to
photograph a small restaurant, flames still pouring from its roof. The building's framing crumbled
as we watched. The soldier told us the restaurant fire was started by Moslim guerillas in reprisal for
Serbian attacks on Moslem positions. It is a war of reprisals, one bigger than the last. |
| Serb soldiers in
Bosnia - 1992 |
At this point the rear right tire of one of our two cars succumbed to the torture of Bosnian
potholes and went flat. The last thing you want on a dangerous road are bad
tires. With the tire changed and the warning of being "shot like rabbits" ringing in our ears, we decided that a strategic
retreat was our wisest course.
For me, all this was rather too much a reminder of my days in Cambodia in the early 1970's.Then,
road running from Phnom Penh, in search of battles was a daily obsession. That
obsession took the
lives in 1970 and 1971 of six foreign reporters and photographers whom I had known.
Our strategic retreat was interrupted by the sight of two forlorn looking Moslem women by the
side of the road. I could not resist stopping to talk, an act that landed us in further trouble.
Tears rolled uncontrollably down the face of the younger of the two women. She told us that much
of Capered had been torched by Serbian troops.
"I have been married only three months," she said, "and yesterday my husband and I were working in the
potato fields. Without warning gunmen grabbed my husband and took him away. They didn't even let
him put his shoes on."
We had heard similar stories earlier. The day before, further south along the
Drina, we stumbled across several hundred angry and frightened Moslem men, women and children, being loaded into
open trucks and buses.
"We are from the village of Mala Daljegosta and we don't understand why they are doing this," an
old man told us. "They searched our homes for guns but found none but our hunting rifles."
"Then the gunmen came into our homes and ordered the entire village, 503 people, to gather in the
center of the village," the old man continued." They told us to bring the keys to our houses and
provisions for two days. They took our keys. Even gave receipts. Then we were trucked away. To
where? I don't know. They say maybe Tuzla. Who will take care of my cows and chickens?"
They were about to join the rising volume of refugees in Bosnia, adding to the worst crisis of
displaced people in Europe since the Fascist atrocities of World War Two.
The army commanders call it "cleaning an area." It is a principal aim of this war where the
creation of refugees is not merely a tragic by-product of war but its objective.
"The whole logic of this conflict," Judith Kumin of the United Nations High Commission for
Refugees in Belgrade explained, "is to create ethnically pure areas. Military actions are aimed
simply at moving people from one area to another."
It is a particularly cruel logic in a place where over the past fifty to sixty years, Muslims,
Croats and Serbs had been thoroughly integrated. Their lives are now being torn apart in the
name of nationalism and ethnic purity.
Alongside the road in burnt out Caparde, I found myself faced with two women whose families too
were being torn apart.
"Along with my husband," said the young Muslim newly wed, "my father-in-law is also missing."
Choking with sobs she added, "I have no idea where they've taken them."
Just then, the woman's eyes darted fearfully up the road, and the two hurried along into a single
undamaged brick house.
Up the road a half dozen men emerged over the horizon and headed purposefully down the
hill. They were farmers brandishing hunting rifles.
A "Citizen Boskovic," his strikingly angular face dominated by bulging eyes seemed to be the
senior group leader.
"What are you doing here? Who gave you permission?" he demanded. "You Western reporters, you
always distort the truth and blame us Serbs. Now you will have to see our 'crisis committee."
With that Citizen Boskovic, his men blocking our exit, called for backup.
Minutes later a green Mercedes Benz bread truck, its license plates covered over and sideboard
lettering scraped off appeared, and screeched to a halt. Doors flung open and half a dozen
heavily armed men jumped menacingly out the rear.
"My duty has been done," cried Citizen Boskovic, "I have captured the journalists!"
The ride to the headquarters of the "crisis committee" under military escort took us higher into
the splendidly rugged mountains along a winding road to the largely Serbian town of Sekovici.
We enjoyed the hospitality of Sekovici for the next five hours.
Our interpreter/drivers, Alex and Dimitri argued constantly and vehemently on our behalf.
The self styled "police commander," his dirty blonde hair borne atop a pock marked face
permanently fixed in an ugly scowl, refused to provide his name. He conveyed the wishes
of the "committee."
Although, I thought the dirty blonde would have preferred for us a firing squad at dawn, the
committees ordered that our two cars, camera equipment and tapes should be confiscated,
and the six of us should be dumped unceremoniously on the banks of the Drina River, though
fortunately for us NOT IN IT. We would be left to make our way back the 100 miles (155kc) to Belgrade any way
we could.
Further pleas to the "committee" were to no avail. In fact the "committee" wouldn't see us.
We were told it was too pre-occupied with the "Muslim problem" and the fear of a further counter
attack.
When Dimitri approached the entrance to their offices in one last attempt, a grenade slipped off
the belt of a dozing "committee" guard, awakening the guard with a thud as the grenade rolled down
the hall.
As darkness approached, a receipt was issued for our confiscated possessions and we were bundled
into the Mercedes bread truck for the winding journey to the river.I remembered that the villagers
of Caparde had also been issued receipts.
Our companions in the bread truck were a shabby collection of Serbian "good ole boys" sitting along
side us on hefty cases of Yugoslav beer fingering their machine guns. One
called himself "Paraga," which
is actually the name of a Croatian death squad leader. "Paraga," with near shoulder length hair kept back
with a head band, displayed great pride in his uniform and weapons as he threatened.
"I'd like to kill all the Muslims here," Paraga said, "but I'd like to have my way with all of their women
first." The other gunmen had a good laugh over that one.
I thought of the young woman, a bride of three months. With nausea in my
gut, I reminded myself
that the "committee" had the videotape of my interview with her.
With the kind of involuntary gratitude released prisoners often feel, I said, "thanks for the lift,"
as we reached the far bank of the Drina. Safe in Serbia, we thought. Not quite.
We had been left to flag down passing motorists. While the luckier three among us got ourselves to a nearby
hotel without incident, hitchhiking proved more hazardous for our camera crew, now alas
CAMERA LESS.
They flagged down the wrong motorist. Despite Dimitri's loud protestations, they were suddenly
spirited off to a local military barracks. The strange foreigners then drew an angry crowd of
Serbian reservists who had just served time on the frontlines and seemed outraged by the condemnation
of Serbia by Western nations.
As the crowd grew, someone shouted, "what shall we do with them?"
"Kill them," cried one man. "Kill them," the crowd of reservists chanted in unified reply.
Fortunately for all, the reservists were bent not on murder but only on macabre
chanting. The moment passed and with the help of a police escort, Dimitri led our camera team back to
us. By nine that evening we had found transport and were speeding back to the comfort of
Belgrade.
The adventure ended happily enough for us. The following day, Alex, Dimitri, a well connected
Serbian photographer named Sergei and an armed guard ventured back to
Sekovici. They were armed also with a letter from the Interior Minister of the "Serbian Republic of Bosnia-Herzegovina,"
ordering the "crisis committee" to return our cars, equipment and tapes. It
worked.
A happy ending of course eludes hundreds of thousands of Muslim, Croat and Serbian civilians who
have lost loved ones and are being made homeless by the insanity of the armed Serbian thugs who
now roam the beautiful countryside of Bosnia, bent on "ethnic cleansing," burning, and rape and
impervious to international opinion, sanctions, discipline or simple decency.
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