“Samo da ne bude rata – as long as
there's no war”*
Delusion and confusion exploring
former Yugoslavia
My family stuck
out like a sore thumb in the German village where I grew up, my father being
Turkish and my mother originally from Berlin, I never really associated myself
with this small township. Luckily, I found an exotic comrade in this
traditional environment when I started elementary school: a boy whose family
had fled from the war in Bosnia. We were best friends for four years, until his
family unfortunately got deported in 1999 when Germany deemed the situation in former
Yugoslavia safe enough for them to return to the ruins of what they had once
called home.
Of course his
departure was sad for me, but entering a higher school in a bigger town in
addition to the general transitory nature of a child’s mind, I more or less
forgot about my childhood friend and went on with my life. A strong desire to
travel, always nurtured by my venturesome parents drove me to some remote
corners of the planet, but it was not until I had to decide what I wanted to do
after high school that I was unexpectedly confronted with my old friend’s home
country, or more precisely, home region – the Balkans.
The combination
of a merciless German admission system for medical school and my everlasting
hunger for new cultures and experiences can be considered the reasons why I resettled
in Belgrade, the former capital of Yugoslavia. The country that I had
continuously heard tragic stories about on the news during the 1990s but never
really understood why people were waging war with each other and why the NATO was
bombing it.
To be fair, there still is a great deal of details that I do not
understand, but I have done my best in the last two years to investigate,
taking as many perspectives of the conflict into consideration as possible.
Even though I study in English, the majority of my fellow students are children
of families who escaped from the war. They were born in different parts of this
once huge country and grew up all over the world. The thing they have in common
is that no matter where exactly their families were from, they consider
themselves ethnic Serbs and Serbian orthodox Christians.
Speaking to
these people, as well as to people who grew up in Belgrade and did not escape during
the war, the image I got of the conflict was probably as one-sided and
unrealistic as the one I had beforehand. In popular Western media, the Serbs
are largely blamed for everything that went wrong, they are portrayed as a
cruel, ferocious people who mercilessly slaughtered people of different beliefs
and tried to take away as much of their land as possible.
Bearing this in mind, I was surprised
at the friendliness and openness of the Serbs that I encountered upon my
arrival in Belgrade and was quick to believe their stories of how the war was
mainly caused by Americans and big European nations who were shivering in the
face of a supposedly strong Yugoslavia, which could have theoretically dominated
the continent if it had further progressed after Tito’s death. So, according to
many Serbs, naturally those scared big nations tried to kick up a breeze to
manipulate the extremely multicultural Yugoslavs into killing each other and
destroying almost everything that had been built up in this region for
centuries.
After two years
of living in Belgrade, I have visited practically all the shattered pieces of
the former Yugoslav republic. It may be a coincidence that my own background –
German and Turkish – is in some way a reflection of the main influences that
have clashed on the Balkan long before Yugoslavia was even founded. The Western European, mainly Austro-Hungarian
and middle Eastern, former Ottoman empires shaped these regions culturally and
architecturally which is still apparent while walking through any city center
in this region today, no matter how relentlessly they have been battered by the
First and Second World War, the civil wars as well as the NATO intervention in
1999.
Riddled with
countless other cultural influences, the metaphor that comes to mind is a
puzzle, and looking at a current political map of the former Yugoslav countries
it seems miraculous that they were once united under the same flag. As
different as for example Ljubljana and Pristina may seem at first glance, I
could not help but see far more similarities than differences between all the different
people I have met on my travels. For one thing, most of them share a grammatically
complex but beautiful language rife with consonants.
Furthermore I have found all people to be
warmhearted, hospitable, curious, and polite. Not once did I come across any
hostility, not when I told the people in Kosovo that I study in Belgrade, not
when I talked to Croats and Bosnians in my broken but obviously Serbian Serbo-Croatian,
never when anyone heard that I am German, Turkish, and non-religious. The
attitude that I was constantly greeted with was genuine interest, about why I
would leave Germany to live here, what I thought about the Balkans, and which
my favorite type of Rakija was. Approval is the general reaction I received
whenever I mentioned how beautiful I think all Balkan countries are.
Perhaps war is
the expectable outcome of centuries of heteronomy, multiculturalism and a long
period of soiling picturesque scenery with brutalist buildings, but this case
seems exceptionally tragic to me because of how recently it happened. In
Germany we are constantly reminded of the dark history of our country, but very
rarely do we encounter any people who remember the times. When we meet them,
the age gap is so significant that it is hard to grasp their sentiments about
the Second World War. For me it is unimaginable what people my age may have
lived through here.
To the
astonishment of anyone who enters Belgrade for the first time, there is a big
ruin towering over one of the most central streets. It is the remnant of the
ministry of defense that was bombed by the NATO in 1999. After the NATO had
already taken action in Bosnia in 1995, they thought it was a good idea to
intervene once again four years later to stop the Serbian rampage in Kosovo.
The German foreign minister at the time made claims of having seen
“concentration camps” in one of the football stadiums of Pristina, but
diplomats and journalists in Kosovo at the time denied all such claims.
Media
coverage in Serbia at that time was rather secretive, so the bafflement of the
general population when they first heard the sirens is imaginable. Only strategic
points were bombed (and yet around 500 civilians died through this campaign)
but what I find particularly interesting about this is, that the NATO
conference in which the mandate for this intervention was concluded, was held
in in April 1999, but the first bombs hit Belgrade on March 24th.
Parts of the
ruin of the former ministry of defense are visible from my balcony. How many
times I sat on this balcony, wondering who sat there the day the bomb dropped
and the impact the explosion must have had in the whole neighborhood. I also
wonder where this person is now. Every single individual here has a story to
tell, and what gives me hope is that there seem to be more and more people
willing to listen to these stories.
My impression is
that people on a global scale seem to have accepted that the Balkan war was a
messy affair on all sides, that not one party can be blamed for everything, but
above all, that these countries have not been irrevocably havocked by this
absurd decade at the end of the 20th century. This is evidenced by
the increasing number of tourists that flock to all former Yugoslav countries,
of course most to Croatia, especially now that it entered the European Union,
but I have met a fair number in every country, even in Kosovo. It is inspiring
to see that people are focusing on the bright sides of these countries and that
they are finally not so isolated anymore. I am especially happy that around 60
Erasmus students have come to live in Belgrade for one or two semesters for the
first time this year. They are all as enchanted by Serbia after their first two
months as I still am after two years.
One of my best
friends now is another Bosnian who was born in Sarajevo a few days before the
siege started in early 1992. The haunting image I get when I think of his
family’s refuge is of his mother running away from gunshots with a crying baby
in her arms. He lived a comfortable life in Sweden but never wants to go back
to Sarajevo because of what happened to his family, which I can hardly blame
him for. The least I felt I could do to pay some sort of respect when I went to
Sarajevo was to visit the synagogue, because my friend’s family is Jewish and
his great grandfather was a famous Bosnian author, Isak Samokovlija.
As I walk from
my backpacker lodge in the buzzing part of the old town towards the river
Miljacka, crossing it via the Latin bridge next to which Franz Ferdinand was
assassinated in 1914, I am again haunted by the thought of the five year-lasting
siege. I get goose bumps when I look at the hills covered in forest surrounding
the city, knowing that shots were being fired onto almost every house in the
city from up there, which is creepily evident by the bullet hole covered façades
of almost every building.
The woman in the
synagogue is surprised when I ask her about Isak Samokovlija and smiles warmly
after I explain my interest. She is touched by the fact that two people can be
best friends, in spite of their families being German, Turkish, Jewish and
Serbian respectively. She points out of the window on the first floor, back across
the river towards the city center and tells me to look for Isak Samokovlija’s
statue in front of the Serbian Orthodox Church. When she hears that my next
stop is going to be Višegrad, she
writes down this Samokovlija quote for me: "Drina je za me jedan od najdubljih doživljaja. Zanosila me je kao
neko živo, božanstveno biće.", roughly translated: “The Drina is for me
one of the most profound experiences. It swayed me like a living, divine
creature.” (Drina: a river that forms part of the modern border of Bosnia and
Serbia, site of many battles throughout history)
Slowly crawling up and down the hills to Višegrad in
my old car the next day, the
view constantly blocked by trees, I am enthralled when we finally make it over
the last hill and descend into the valley of the Drina. I am not sure if the
people here are so attached to their land because they are not nomadic half
casts like me, or if Samokovlija was right in his quote, but this valley really
is one of the most beautiful places I have seen in the world. The hills still
lightly covered in snow, while down by the river life has been set in motion by
the timid spring sun. The water clearer than glass, the meadows full of bees
and the air smelling of flowers, there are few audible sounds except for the
tender purl of the river and the joyful chirp of the birds. It is somehow
ironic that I consider this the most peaceful scenery I can imagine, when you think
of how much blood must have blurred this river and of the brutality it has
witnessed.
Stirred by the beauty of my surroundings, I get upset at the misleading
information and rumors about the region that are circulating in Western Europe,
I shake my head vaguely remembering my politics teacher in high school
blathering about concentration camps, I think of the German government that is
currently trying to blackmail Serbia and Kosovo into resolving their conflict
at the cost of their respective interests, even though nobody, including me,
really understands the conflict. Of course a puzzle is not going to solve
itself by letting the pieces fight each other endlessly, but neither is it
going to be solved by some outsider, who crams unsuitable pieces together like
a colorblind person with no sense for shapes.
These thoughts
fade at the sight of the Mehmed Paša Sokolović bridge in Višegrad. Regardless of the fact that it was once the site of a massacre in
a civil war and destroyed and rebuilt in both World Wars, this quote by Ivo Andrić now seems more meaningful
to me than ever: “And the bridge stood still, as it has
always been, with his eternal youth and perfect ideas of good and great human
acts that do not know what is aging or change and that, so it seems, to share
the fate of the transient things of this world." (Bridge on the Drina**)
Me in front
of the statue for my friend’s great grandfather, Sarajevo 2012
After a NATO bomb hit Novi Sad, 1999 (from Wikipedia)
Mehmed Paša Sokolović bridge in Višegrad (from Wikipedia)
Former ministry of defense in Belgrade, bombed by the NATO in 1999 (from Wikipedia)
*Samo
Rata Da Ne Bude (So long as there is no war) by George Balasevic.The song was
an urge to the people of Yugoslavia by the popular singer of Serbia not to go
to war. He begins by showing a haunting picture of nationalism and war:
"Drunk boys march down our lonely streets, behind them follow weeping
girls. Don't you know? They are headed for the army. Just let there be no
war". He uses extreme examples of possibilities to imply "Even if the
worst of the worst could happen, it is still better than war".
** А мост је и даље стајао, онакав какав је одувек био, са својом вечитом младошћу савршене замисли и добрих и великих људских дела која не знају шта је старење ни промена и која, бар тако изгледа, на деле судбину пролазних ствари овога света.“
Ivo Andrić, 1945 in Bridge on the Drina