Source: Lupiga.com
This was before the coronavirus epidemic flipped the switch on life in the region and made people stay at home. It now seems as if it were an eternity or two ago, and not just recently, in the days when the virus was first appearing in Slovenia and Croatia. The scene of events was southwestern Serbia, Mount Zlatar, to be precise, in Sandžak, not far from Nova Varoš and Prijepolje. At the end of February, war veterans from once warring armies gathered there, having since become a group of friends happy to see each other again. Their lit-up faces, as they sit around a few tables haphazardly pushed together, clearly show their contentment. The main problem was whether to use the two or three kisses greeting. Sitting next to each other were veterans of the Croatian Army, the Republika Srpska Army, the Army of BiH, the Yugoslav People’s Army and the Croat Defence Council.
This text was never actually supposed to be written. Lupiga went to Sandžak to record material for a documentary on people who do not want to spend their lives eaten away by hatred and intolerance towards others, just because it may sometimes appear to be the easier option. As the days went by, and no single day had gone by – despite the general chaos surrounding the epidemic and the significant changes to daily life in the absence of good news – without us remembering these people, so we decided to write about them.
Why did these war veterans meet in Sandžak, which had never been the site of battles, nor had any of the veterans ever gone there during the war? The reason is one of the more horrific episodes from the past war. Namely, Prijepolje lies only some thirty kilometres from the border with Bosnia and Herzegovina. At the start of the 1990s, this town had a population of some fifteen thousand people equally distributed between Serbs and Bosniaks, known as Muslims at the time. Passing through it was, and still is, the most important rail line in Serbia, the one from Belgrade to Bar in Montenegro.
Crime without Punishment
For the train to reach Prijepolje and Bar from Belgrade, it must pass through a small stretch of Bosnia and Herzegovina. About ten kilometres of rail line. That’s where the criminals seized their opportunity.
At the only place where the Belgrade-Bar train could stop in Bosnia and Herzegovina, at the train station in Štrpci, on 27 February 1993, train No. 671 was intercepted by armed soldiers under the command of Milan Lukić, who would later become known as the “butcher of Višegrad”. In half an hour, the solders had combed through the compartments, looking for people who had the misfortune of bearing Bosniak names. They found 18 and took them off the train.
“When they took them off the train, they put them on a truck and took them to a village near Višegrad, to a school building. There, they tied them up and beat them. They stripped them bare and robbed them, then they took them to a burnt-out house. They would take them off the truck in pairs for liquidation,” Nail Kajević from Prijepolje tells us. His brother Nijazim was one of the people taken off the train.
Today, Nail knows the monstrous details and lives with them every day. It took him years to put the pieces together about the last moments of his brother’s life, hoping to find his remains and give him a proper burial. He spoke with the passengers from the train, the railwaymen, lawyers, members of armies and paramilitary formations, priests, train ticket collectors, Slobodan Milošević… He even met with criminals who had ties with the abduction and had information he desperately needed. Through the search that has never come to an end, he organised with the families of the other victims and has been their representative for years.
The spasm of pain that passes over Nail’s face as he speaks about this is impossible to miss. But speak he must. He struggles against the pain as if he had given himself the task of speaking about this to his last breath, or until all those responsible for the crime are punished. Unfortunately, the latter is but a dream, because, by all accounts, this was not a rash action by a group of criminals gathered around Milan Lukić and his “Osvetnici” [Avengers], but a carefully organised state directed assignment.
Lupiga’s correspondent and columnist from Belgrade Bojan Tončić, who has been writing about this crime and its epilogue for years, had this to say: “It is one of the most monstrous crimes committed by Serbia in cooperation with Republika Srpska, its satellite over the Drina, and with the acquiescence of Montenegro. It was well planned by the highest ranks of the Serbian police and the Yugoslav Army, with the participation of the Belgrade Railway Transport Company.”
Our interlocutor agrees.
“The train was running late by half an hour already when it set off,” Nail says with a heavy sigh, then takes a deep breath in order to go straight to the point: “The abduction was not an act of revenge cooked up by some individual, as they used to say, it was a planned and coordinated action.”
(“They say a deathly silence had descended on the train.” – Nail Kajević (PHOTO: Lupiga.com))
There are documents showing that the “abduction”, as this atrocity is referred to in the media, was arranged beforehand. Despite this, the judicial bottom line is shameful – only two people convicted and a trial that a whole of 27 years after the fact is still ongoing at the court in Belgrade. The commanders, and those from the very top, those who arranged the logistics, will never be touched by the hand of justice.
“They beat this one fellow, Zvjezdan, the most,” Nail shares his insights with us. This was Zvjezdan Zuličić, a young man from a “mixed” marriage who had escaped from Sarajevo and was on his way to his mother who lived in Nikšić. A total of 20 civilians from the train were executed. Nine of them were from Prijepolje.
The Croat who Refused to be Silenced
In addition to 18 Bosniaks, and the perpetrators counted Zvjezdan among them, a black man whose identity has never been established was also taken from the train, as was one Croat, Tomo Buzov, a retired JNA captain originally from the Split region who had remained living in Belgrade after retirement. It was not his nationality that cost him his life, because the murderers could not tell what nationality he was based on his name, it was his humanity. Namely, Buzov was one of the rare few among more than a thousand passengers on the train to openly stand up against the abduction of innocent people.
“The passengers from the train told me that when Buzov saw what they were doing, he stood up and said, ‘Shame on you, what are you doing, leave those people alone’… He knew what would happen to them… They say a deathly silence had descended on the train… Then they took him away too… I’ll never get a chance to thank him for his humanity…” Nail said softly, and then he seemed to want to say more, but instead he just cast his eyes down.
His brother, who was thirty years old when he was killed, had gone to Belgrade to attend the christening of his friends’ child, as he had been the best man at their wedding. The friends were Serbs, if anyone cares to know.
“He was so happy to go. When he got a day off work, he hugged his boss. And then on his way back…” Nail says, and once again stops short because he cannot find the words to describe what happened.
To this very day, he still has the same mission – to find the body of his brother. He set off with this in mind already a few weeks after the murder. And it seemed, as he said, that he would succeed, because the families of the victims had got all the way to Slobodan Milošević himself.
“Milošević flew in by helicopter to Prijepolje almost immediately to calm things down. He publicly said he would leave no stone unturned to find the people, be they dead or alive,” Nail remembers. He explains how the atmosphere in the town was very tense after news of the “abduction” broke. Today, he is convinced that the “abduction” was just an excuse to try to spread the war to Sandžak, and if that had happened, it is clear how the Bosniaks that make up the majority of Sandžak’s population would have ended up.
(Monument to the nine victims from Prijepolje (PHOTO: Nenad Vukosavljević))
In the months after the crime took place, Nail travelled to Belgrade four times to attend meetings about finding the victims. On one occasion, he and a few more members of the families of the executed civilians spent 53 days staying in Belgrade hotels.
“We believed Milošević when he said he would help us. If he had told us to jump off a building in exchange for finding out what happened, we would have jumped. Then, at one point, I realised he was lying to us. This turned out to be true in the end. He lied to all of us,” Nail tells us.
Still, he does not believe Milošević was responsible for what happened.
“Personally, I don’t think he knew about the abduction. I think it was orchestrated by another power group, the one led by Dobrica Ćosić. The only thing I know for certain is that it was all planned in Belgrade offices,” Nail is convinced.
The morning after the “abduction”, Serbian media reported an agency bulletin saying that “Alija’s fighters” were found on the train. The families were soon contacted by an Orthodox priest originally from BiH who was serving in Sandžak. He claimed to be in contact with the soldiers holding the abducted passengers and demanded that the families reach Sefer Halilović, who was originally from Prijepolje and was at the time a general in the Army of BiH, in order to arrange for an exchange for some captured soldiers of the Republika Srpska Army. Today, it is clear that the priest was lying and that the victims had already been liquidated at that point.
(Most of the families of the victims do not live in Prijepolje anymore (PHOTO: Nenad Vukosavljević))
“I was particularly struck by the tragedy of one woman, the mother of Safet Preljević. Her Safet was an only son and he was abducted when he was 21 years old. He was coming home from working in a construction company. She kept going to the municipality to get the truth, and she had a heart condition. Everyone started avoiding her bit by bit, and at the end she could not afford her medication. I ran into her one day and gave her money for medicines, but she never managed to get them, she had a stroke and died that day, aged 53,” Nail tells us, then humbly adds, “Don’t put that in, I don’t want it to sound like I’m trying to make myself look good.”
He tells us that most of the families of the victims from Štrpci no longer live in Prijepolje. The crime destroyed their lives and now they’re strewn across the world. None of them have been given the status of civilian war victims. The reason is very bizarre. Namely, the law says that the status of civilian war victim is available only in cases of crimes committed by an enemy army, and the liquidation was not committed by an “enemy army” of Serbia, but by the Army of Republika Srpska, which Serbia does not recognise as an enemy force.
The remains of only four victims have been found to date. The discovery was made when water was being released from the dam at Lake Perućac in Bosnia and Herzegovina. It is believed that the bottom of this beautiful vivid green lake hides the bodies of the other victims as well. Every few years, this lake, which is one of the biggest tourist attractions in the area, reveals the scale of the monstrous crimes from the past war. Ten years ago, the bones of over a hundred people were found there and three years later numerous new human remains were discovered…
An Archetype of Evil
The youngest victim from Štrpci, Senad Đečević, a pupil from Bar, was just 16 years old. His remains were never found. Zoran Milekić was in the same compartment with him and he later related how the boy had fallen asleep as soon as he sat down. He was woken by the soldiers who asked him his name. When he told them his name, they took him off the train. As Senad’s fellow passenger, Milekić protested, saying to the solders, “Let the child go, what’s he done to you?” to which they replied, “Who asked you, you want a bullet yourself?”
Nebojša Ranisavljević, one of the soldiers who intercepted the train at Štrpci is also one of the only two individuals convicted to date (he got 15 years at the court in Bijelo Polje, Montenegro). He gave testimony about how the action was carried out. He gave an account of how at the school building they asked each of the abducted civilians for their name once again and then gave them Serb names and made them kiss the “Serb cross”. Then they beat them and kicked them for about an hour. Milan Lukić used a knife to torture one of the prisoners, and then, when they’d gotten bored of the torturing, they loaded them up on the truck and took them to a house right by the Drina river. Lukić took them in small groups to the garage at the floor level of the house and after telling them lie face down on the floor, he shot them in the back of the head. Ranisavljević testified how one of the passengers tried to escape, but he shot him. The wounded man had fallen to the ground and started crying for his mother. Lukić went up to him and cut his throat with a bayonet. He instructed his soldiers with the words, “This is how you do it.” For this action, Lukić “rewarded” each of his soldiers with a hundred marks they had looted.
Milan Lukić is the archetypal embodiment of evil that walked the earth. At present, he spends his days at a comfortable Estonian prison. Not for the crime in Štrpci, though. He is serving a life sentence imposed by the Hague Tribunal for other crimes. According to the judgement, he was found guilty, among other things, for burning more than one hundred women, children and the elderly in Višegrad in 1992. Up until 2005, he had been a fugitive in Argentina, and only a few months ago an indictment was raised against him for the crime in Štrpci. The indictment was raised in BiH.
So, it was this crime that brought the war veterans to Prijepolje to pay their respects to the victims. But they could not get to Štrpci. The station where the train was intercepted is a forbidden zone, located in a thick forest on a hill, some kilometre and a half from a dirt road that leads from the Serbian border to Višegrad. Access to the station requires approval from the Railway Company, and those who tried to mark the site of the crime or make a video there had some rather unpleasant experiences. It was therefore not planned for the veterans to go to the station, but just to the commemoration that is held each year in the centre of Prijepolje.
It is a sad event. Not just because it is a reminder of the atrocity and of the kind of monsters that walked and continue to walk among us, but also because it is completely high-jacked by politics. Worth noting here is a truly incredible detail. We were unable to verify it, but when the war veterans were preparing for this visit, they contacted the mother of one of the victims from Štrpci. She told them it was the first time that someone had contacted her about the commemoration.
The Mufti’s Political Theatre
That day, traffic was cut off in the centre of Prijepolje. A crowd of people had gathered in front of the culture centre where the commemorative assembly was organised by the Islamic Community in Serbia and the Bosniak Cultural Community. Fervent speakers took turns addressing the gathering. The most impassioned among them was Muamer Zukorlić. Remember him? He was the “mufti” who arrived to the commemoration in Srebrenica ten years ago in a column of luxury white BMW SUVs with “MUFTI” written in large white letters on their windows, or maybe you remember his other BMW, the white limousine with “mufty” on the licence plate, so that everyone would know that the vehicle belonged to the head mufti of the Islamic Community in Serbia, the Sandžak mufti.
But the call of politics was evidently stronger for the mufti than any other calling, so he decided to leave the Islamic Community. Today, he is the president of the Bosniak Party of Justice and Reconciliation and it seemed to us that he had taken the commemoration in Prijepolje for an election rally. This was before anyone could have known that the elections scheduled for April would be cancelled because of the coming pandemic.
We were particularly impressed by Zukorilić’s theatrical entrance and even more spectacular exit from the hall. Namely, Zukorlić does not move alone, but with a large entourage of about a dozen imams. The start of the ceremony was running ten minutes late, though everyone had already taken their seats twenty minutes before. We were waiting for Zukorlić and his entourage. We realised this when the double doors of the side entrance to the hall swung open. As if in a movie, accompanied by applause, practised and uniform, with an almost military step, Zukorilić and his entourage marched in.
(Everyone waits for Zukorlić and his entourage to take their seats in the first row (PHOTO: Nenad Vukosavljević))
The first to “appear” on stage was Samir Tandir, vice-president of Zukorlić’s political party, who was known for referring to Zukorlić as his teacher. Here are a few of his words from the commemoration: “What changed is that Bosniaks finally have authentic representatives who always stand by their people. For the sake of truth, I want to point out that only one party president is always with us, every year, despite all other duties, and that is academician Muamer Zukorlić, the Mufti.” After him, the “new” mufti of the Islamic Community in Sandžak and Serbia Mevlud Dudić took the stage. Incidentally, he is also originally from Tutin, just like Zukorlić.
“Those times when politicians were allowed to destroy our Islamic Community are past. Those times are gone and they should know they will never be able to do that again. I am glad to see academician Muamer Zukorlić here in the first row, a man fighting for the interests of the Islamic Community in parliament. This is the kind of politician we need – someone who will defend us, not destroy us. We say to certain Bosniak politicians that they will never be able to do that again. Whoever strikes against the IC will end up like the Titanic,” were the words mufti Dudić thought fitting for the commemoration. His speech was generally in poor taste, he even went to so far as to say that not only would the “executioners” be humiliated in both this world and the next, but also their offspring.
(The “new” mufti Mevlud Dudić said the people needed politicians like Zukorlić (PHOTO: Nenad Vukosavljević))
And then for the grand finale, Zukorilić himself, unaccompanied, slowly ascended to the stage.
“The normal state of a people that leads it in the right direction comes when it is mature enough to let the right people, both politically and culturally and in all other ways, lead it. Otherwise, just like at home, if the strongest does not have the final say, then everything falls through,” Zukorilić said. What followed is something that the author of this text has never witnessed in his long career as a reporter.
As soon as he had finished his speech, without a pause, Zukorlić headed for the exit. At the very same moment, his entire entourage got up from their seats in the front row. Like some perfectly choreographed dance troupe, in strict formation, equidistant from each other, they headed towards those same double doors through which they had entered as if they had been ushering in the fighter to some spectacular boxing match. They reached the stage steps at exactly the right moment for Zukorlić to join them, walking quickly and confidently and taking up his position at the helm to lead them outside.
27 Years of Hope
In keeping with the commemoration programme, the procession then started towards the memorial to the nine victims from Prijepolje where a second commemoration was to take place, organised by the Prijepolje Municipality.
The war veterans on whose account we had come here were among the few hundred participants in the procession, though this story had taken us a bit away from them. They had also been separated and were looking for each other so that they could reach the memorial together.
(Zukorlić led the procession all the way to the memorial (PHOTO: Nenad Vukosavljević))
“Where are the rest of us?” a strange sounding question from four of the veterans. We know them from before. One had worn the uniform of the Army of BiH, another of the Croatian Army and two of the Republika Srpska Army. Once direct enemies had become “us”.
It is actually easy to recognise “us”. Even in a crowd, because many walk with a limp or with the help of crutches on account of being wounded during the war. Without saying a word, we see on their faces that what just transpired at the Culture Centre left its mark.
“At one point, I felt like walking out, but I held back,” Amir, who spent the whole war in the Army of BiH, tells us as we walk. Another two veterans, walking directly behind us, just nod their heads in agreement.
The night before, they had met with Nail Kajević at their hotel and he had told them everything about the atrocity in Štrpci. For almost an hour, without interruption, he related the account to the smallest detail, and they listened with focused attention. Not one of the thirty or so veterans uttered a word that whole time.
(Nail with the veterans (PHOTO: Nenad Vukosavljević))
“I was struck by misfortune and to me it is the greatest misfortune, because it is mine. I wanted to relate to you my tragedy, because I believe you will understand me,” Nail told them at the very beginning, not wanting to cause any offence to any of the thirty or so veterans and their war suffering. And as far as we could see, they understood him. We saw a weight fall off Nail’s heart as well, because he had told them everything that had been tormenting him and, as he said, it brought him a sense of relief.
His greatest wish was to finally find his brother’s remains and give him a proper burial.
“Hope dies last,” were his words of farewell to the veterans, a man who had spent all of 27 years searching in vain and hoping still.
That same night, we found out that the world is truly a small place, when one of the veterans, Đoko Pupčević, revealed that he also happened to be on that same train that fateful day, 27 February 1993. Đoko is from Bosanski Šamac. He was a soldier in the Republika Srpska Army in whose uniform he was severely wounded in late 1992.
(Đoko Pupčević was on the 671 train from Belgrade to Bar on that fateful day (PHOTO: Lupiga.com))
“I was sent for rehabilitation to Serbia, to Ivanjica. Since we didn’t receive treatment over the weekends, and I had already recovered a bit, I decided to visit my aunt in Podgorica. The train was running a bit late, about half an hour, 40 minutes, I’m not sure, it was a long time ago. I got in the fourth or fifth car. The train was packed. It was just before dark when we reached Štrpci. I could tell we were stopping longer than normal. People in uniform came in and started looking at our IDs. I showed them my personal ID, my army ID, my hospital discharge paper. ‘Goodbye and good luck,’ one of them says to me. After about half an hour, we moved on, the ticket controller came round and we asked what had happened. He told us they had taken people off the train. I thought they had maybe been looking for deserters, and it was only once I got to Podgorica that I saw on the news that Bosniaks had been taken from the train,” Đoko told us. As he spoke, we could sense he had a feeling of unease that fate had put him on that train at all.
A Scene Few Witnessed
Đoko would also be part of the veterans’ delegation to lay a wreath in front of the memorial with a striking white ribbon bearing the names of all their armies in gold lettering.
The laying of flowers and wreaths was another incredible story. After some new faces had their speeches, including the president of the Prijepolje Municipality Dragoljub Zindović, delegations were called on through the loudspeakers to lay their wreaths. One by one, but not our veterans. Only after all the delegations had laid wreaths by the memorial, we heard “permission” being given from the loudspeakers that “now everyone else can come lay flowers”. The only ones left were the veterans. Đoko, Amer, Zvonko and Suljo walked up carrying the wreath. Two crossed themselves, each according to his faith, two said the Al-Fatiha… But few witnessed this scene, because the commemoration was already over and most people were leaving.
(Prayer in front of the memorial to the victims (PHOTO: Lupiga.com))
The memorial bears the names of the victims from Prijepolje beneath and inscription that reads: “Who forgets 27 February 1993 in this country and the station in Štrpci has given up on its future.” It is a message worth remembering.
After the commemoration, when almost everyone had left, we saw some of the veterans go up to the memorial in silence. They seemed to be praying, but silently, so as not to be noticed. Speaking to them later, it became clear how disappointed they were that their visit ended without anyone so much as mentioning them.
“People don’t understand, it’s as if they shun us. They don’t see that we are not here to glorify anyone or belittle anyone. We are here to honour the victims,” one veteran from the group standing in front of the memorial tells us. Another adds, “We’re just a burden and a nuisance for the organisers.” Still, they agree that, despite everything, they did what they came to do, they paid their sincere respects to the victims.
(The wreath bearing the names of once warring armies (PHOTO: Nenad Vukosavljević))
They were also united in their outrage at the politicisation of the commemoration.
“I hope in the future they toss out the politics and introduce something human into these events,” Zvonko Lucić, a veteran of the Croatian Army from Zagreb, tells us. At a meeting where they exchanged opinions, more strident criticism was heard.
“Now, people, I think we still managed to make our mark here,” Aleksandar Sokolović from Kruševac will interject and the discussion will turn back to the atrocity in Štrpci.
“For me, this case is so confusing and inexplicable, that the state abducted its own citizens. To this day, we are still unaware of all the things that went on back then,” says Novica Kostić, a JNA veteran from Vlasotinac whom we had met already last year in Jajce.
(“To this day, we are still unaware of all the things that went on back then” – Novica Kostić (PHOTO: Lupiga.com))
“I was ashamed, because this happened in my country. I’m ashamed that 27 years have passed since innocent people were executed and we are still at the beginning. The Second World War ended in 1945 and in 27 years, by 1972, the country had been rebuilt, whereas we can’t find the people who were killed 27 years ago,” added Goran Nikolić, Novica’s colleague, also from Vlasotinac.
One of the veterans who laid the wreath in front of the memorial was Amer Delić, a veteran of the Army of BiH. He explained the aim of their coming together like this.
“We, who used to go to war against each other, wanted to come here together and honour the victims and show our societies how things can be different – how we can build a future together,” Amer explained.
We also spoke with Katarina Milićević from the Centre for Nonviolent Action Sarajevo-Belgrade who has been working with war veterans ever since 2000.
“Attending a commemoration like this, ten years ago this was something we could only dream of. And we did dream. And this is what happened. All this pain is our common pain. Štrpci, too, are common to us. It is our common legacy. And not the only one, unfortunately. We have to think about what we’re going to do with all these legacies,” Katarina tells us.
Enemy Transfusion
Not all these “enemies” were enemies throughout the war. Over two days with them, we heard all sorts of stories, such as when members of warring armies would come out of their trenches to meet those they had just been shooting at, in no man’s land. One side had brandy, the other cigarettes, both wanted to have a chat with the others. Today, these people literally donate blood to each other. No, we’re not making this up.
Novica Kostić had a very short stint in the war. In 1991, he was sent to Karlovac and what happened a few days later, as the army was withdrawing from the Karlovac barracks, would mark his whole life. A JNA recruit was wounded in an exchange of fire, a greenhorn lad of 19, as Novica says. When Novica ran in to pull the young man out of the fray, he was hit by a Malyutka. The next thing he remembers is lying in a hospital bed in Sarajevo, his leg amputated and his body full of shrapnel. This was ten days later. Since then, he has undergone at least one and sometimes two minor or major procedures a year at the Belgrade Military Medical Academy. Last year, the doctors asked him to prepare three blood transfusion doses for the operation.
(“I was completely enraged and I said, ‘I’ll donate the blood myself.’“ – Katarina Milićević (PHOTO: Lupiga.com))
“I accidentally found out they were asking him to provide blood and I lost it. I don’t know what else Novica Kostić is supposed to give this country. How much more blood is Novica Kostić meant to give? His whole life has been turned upside-down because this country sent him into war. I was completely enraged and I said, ‘I’ll donate the blood myself.’ Because Novica Kostić is emblematic of all war veterans. If there are people I consider heroes, then they are precisely the people we cooperate with. Because, to go to war against someone, to lose a limb, years of your life, and then to step back and realise that war is evil and devastating, for me, that is heroism,” remembers Katarina, who has known Novica ever since 2003.
Her colleague from the office wrote a Facebook status and it snowballed from there.
“I was moved to tears when I started hearing from Novica’s colleagues, war veterans, people we work with. They contacted us from all countries of the region, veterans from different armies. They all wanted to donate blood for Novica. It was truly touching. They had overcome the hatred they once felt towards these others, and today they are ready to give blood for each other,” Katarina says in one breath as our photographer listens incredulously, turning around to see if he can spot Novica. And she did donate blood. And not just her.
(Katarina and Novica embrace (PHOTO: Lupiga.com))
“When I came for the operation, I had brought three blood donors with me from Vlasotinac. We made the 300 kilometres trip. When we arrived, the doctors said, ‘But there’s no need, 14 have already donated blood for you. This was a proud moment for me,” Novica says, smiling broadly.
Playful Warriors
The surgery was a success, but he still needs to recover. On the eve of the commemoration, he had some bleeding through his stitches. His wartime friends and enemies were worried whether he would be able to walk in the procession, so they kept asking if he could manage and if everything was ok. Novica would just wave away such questions, as if it was nothing.
In the meantime, while we were talking with Novica and Katarina at the hotel, it started snowing outside. Within just half an hour, there was already twenty centimetres of snow on the ground. Everything was white as far as the eye could see. The winter idyll made veterans’ spirits rise and there was talk of organising a snowball fight.
“But how will we split up,” one asked.
“Well, no matter how we split up, you’re about to see what a good shot I am,” another answers quickly.
“Just you wait for this blizzard to ease up and I’ll show you what’s what,” the first one readily responds.
“No cameras, though, please, we don’t want it to seem like we’re messing about here,” a third veteran laughs, looking at us.
(Instead of a snowball fight, it was time to dig out the cars (PHOTO: Lupiga.com))
By the next morning, there was half a metre of snow, the cars were buried and it was almost time to head home. They quickly organise and help each other clear the snow. Someone from the group jokes how this is good for their PTSD. A good many of them have been struggling with this disorder for years.
“It’s hard to live with. You have to be strong to deal with it,” Jasmin Osmankić explains. He is a veteran of the Army of BiH from Bihać and president of the PTSD association of the Una Sana Canton. He tells us how beneficial these get-togethers have been for him.
“But it’s still hard. Our association does a lot of work on suicide prevention for veterans, but it’s tough… Just the other day, we had a veteran from Bužim attempt suicide…” Jasmin shakes his head, lost for words.
Socialising as Therapy
Zvonko Lucić from Zagreb, a war veteran of HV, agrees that these get-togethers are therapeutic.
“This really is a form of therapy. It was this that made the war end for me,” Zvonko says calmly. He has long since given up on defenders’ associations in Croatia, after being an active member for years. He says how it seemed to him that nothing was being done in these associations to help their membership and that their only purpose was to provide politicians with supporters who could be activated when needed.
The situation seems to be similar in Bosnia and Herzegovina, at least according to Edin Ramulić from Prijedor.
“There isn’t so much as a harsh word here, but I have no illusion that it’s the same ‘outside’, outside this company, because I see how things are in my community. Those that are loudest still get the most room, out of various interests, but mostly to defend the benefits they inherited from the war,” Edin says openly, despite the fact that such words can cause trouble for him in his home town.
(“The loudest get the most room, mostly to defend benefits inherited from the war.” – Edin Ramulić (PHOTO: Lupiga.com))
Edin’s story is quite different from those of the other people here with us. In 1991, he refused to be sent off to war in Croatia, and when the war spread to BiH, once again he refused to take up arms. He was a steadfast pacifist, he said. Ultimately, he ended up in the notorious Trnopolje prison camp near his home town. After a prisoner exchange, he was “thrown” somewhere into central Bosnia where he finally took up the rifle and was subsequently severely wounded.
“Soldiers took me to the camp, soldiers killed my loved ones, my father and my brother, my school friends. I became a soldier myself. Soldiers wounded me, soldiers killed my soldier friends, but when the war ended, I immediately stopped having any animosity towards any soldiers, except those who committed war crimes. Since the war, I have been trying in various ways to establish communication with people who were on the other side, because I want to know their reasons and how they fared in the war,” Edin tells us serenely, as if the whole thing happened to someone else.
His way of thinking has elicited judgement from his once fellow fighters who say, “You’re not the same Edin anymore.” He responds, “Well, of course I’m not, how could I still think the same way I did in 1994.”
Privilege to Spread Hatred
“Many are still stuck in 1995. As if the war ended just yesterday, instead of 25 years ago. They’re not at the same level as the people here. Many still sow animosities from their associations, poisoning the space around them. They are continuing the war with other means. Just because they get privileges and benefits for it. Their influence is much greater, there are many more of them than us and it’s very important for them to keep spreading that story. We’ll probably have to wait for them to die off before this society can finally take a different attitude towards the past war and all other wars,” Edin from Prijedor is not very optimistic. He is not a member of any veterans’ associations because he does not want to give them the legitimacy to “be the extended hand of politics and continue their hate mongering.”
“But this here, this is another story. Maybe the first time I met them, it was strange, but already the second time I was hugging people who were in the other army, let me be clear – they used to be enemies. This does not just annul hostility, it creates friendship. When I pass through their home towns, I always stop for coffee, because I like talking with them,” Edin reveals.
Zvonko has similar sentiments.
“I think I now have a better connection with some people here and a better understanding than with some of the people I shared a trench with,” Zvonko says and adds that not all war veterans, either “ours” or “theirs”, can accept this.
(“I have a better relationship with some people here than with some of the people I shared a trench with.” Zvonko Lucić (PHOTO: Lupiga.com))
“Conditioning is no good. If you’re wanting something from someone, it’s no good,” Zvonko concludes.
He tells us how when he just started coming to these meetings and commemorations for “their” victims and “our” victims, he would sometimes just sit and watch the people around him. Sometimes, he says, he saw them as ordinary people and sometimes as wearing their different uniforms.
Jasmin Osmankić puts things this way: “My reason for being here is to show young people that there is no room for hatred and that we are all victims of the past war. People were conned with promises that things would be better. I see they’re not better today. I talk to veterans all the time, it’s not better for any of them!”
“The more we came together and the more honest we were in our approach, the more our humanity came to the forefront and the stronger our bonds became,” Zvonko adds.
(“People were conned with promises that things would be better.” – Jasmin Osmankić (PHOTO: Lupiga.com))
Then some bad news comes. Hamdija, a veteran of the Army of BiH that most of the veterans here know, did not come, though he said he would. He called just then to say that the reason he could not come was that his wife had just been diagnosed with cancer. After a brief silence, someone was quick to speak up, “We should do something.”
“Let’s show some solidarity,” Đoko was quick to suggest.
“That’s right, I know what he’s going through, we have to help,” someone from the next table over piped in.
They soon agreed to each contribute some money that one of the veterans who lives close to Hamdija would collect and take to him with their good wishes. In no time, there was a hefty amount on the table in all currencies – kunas, convertible marks, euros, Serb dinars.
The Hidden Ties that Bind
There is something incomprehensible to “ordinary” people here. For instance, when a BiH Army veteran, who had been severely wounded in the war and was suffering from PTSD, was telling us, his voice almost cracking, about how disappointing it was when they came to a town in Republika Srpska and were not allowed to lay a wreath for the killed fighters of Republika Srpska because the inscription on it included the “Croatian Army”. And then, continuing his account, there is a turnabout. His voice transforms from despondency to a kind of pride. We see it happening with each new word. Finally, his face is glowing as he tells us the end of the story, how the local politician who was barring them from laying the flowers was approached by his wartime commander, an officer of the Republika Srpska Army who said, “You have no right to ban anyone, I was the commander here, not you, and I will allow these people to lay their wreath.”
We also asked Đoko Pupčević how he decided to sit at the same table as his former enemies, maybe even the very ones who launched the shell that landed him with an 80-percent category four disability status.
“I’m a forgiving man. We cannot be at war our whole lives. When you put the pieces together in your head and you see where you are today and what has happened, you ask yourself, why couldn’t we live as we did before the war, why couldn’t we sit together and talk,” he says to us. “There are still people in my village today who are openly against what I’m doing. They keep telling me, ‘They wounded you, they killed your cousin…’ I understand all that. But we also killed someone somewhere, didn’t we? But the war is over. And we need to live together and in harmony. We are just ordinary people.”
(“Army of BiH” and “HVO” embrace (PHOTO: Lupiga.com))
He is sure he has not need for hatred in his life and, unlike some people he knows, he does not want to live in hatred to his last day.
“I committed no crimes. If I didn’t help someone, I didn’t make it worse either. I see a man as a man,” Đoko underlines.
We wanted to know whether there were ever any tensions or heated debates among them, not to say fights.
“Never!” Đoko says without skipping a beat and with an impish smile.
We get the same response from Edin “I’ve never seen any disputes here.”
Jasmin mostly agrees.
“Are there discussions? Well, there are and there aren’t. There is sometimes when one guy is shouting, it was like this, and another shouts back, no, it was like this. But it’s all in friendly tones and with lots of laughter,” Jasmin assures us.
We put the same question to Katarina Milićević.
“I sometimes think their jokes are quite harsh, but I’ve never seen any quarrels among them or heightened tensions,” Katarina tells us, while at the next table over there is a noisy debate going on, interrupted by peals of laughter.
The veterans stay together outside the planned programme, during their “free time”, and these gatherings can go on until the wee hours, but interestingly, few are drinking beer or other alcoholic drinks, as readers of this article might be expecting. It’s mostly coffee, tea and juice.
On the day of the commemoration, we find Amer Delić having coffee. He is from Zavidovići, one of those places in BiH where everyone was at war with everyone else, and today he works at the Centre for Nonviolent Action in Sarajevo. He briefly tells us how these veteran initiatives originated.
“It was already at the beginning of the 2000s that we started getting together, and it was a big thing for former enemies, people from armies that were directly at war with each other, to sit at the same table. We later took it further and we got to the point where we go to each other’s commemorations. I think this gives our societies a new way to understand that the war is over and that we have to deal with what happened and we have to constructively work on dealing with the past. And we want to show that as former warriors, we can make a positive contribution to the future of society,” Amer summarises the aims of the initiative.
(“We got to the point where we go to each other’s commemorations.” – Amer Delić (PHOTO: Nenad Vukosavljević))
Katarina, Amer’s colleague from the Belgrade office, believes it was important to get veterans involved in peace initiatives, because reconciliation, dialogue and peacebuilding are not possible without the involvement of veterans as the direct participants in wars. Though their motivation is clear, still they are constantly met with distrust, which was probably also true in this case, in Prijepolje. Katarina thinks this distrust is normal, because you have a large group of people coming to a relatively small community, so it takes time to build trust, but often those who were initially distrustful end up joining the group.
“All politics relies on a simple principle – ‘we’ are united, ‘they’ are the enemy. There is no room for grey areas. Politicians use the word reconciliation only when they need to score some political points. They take this ‘reconciliation’ and they pretend to want to do something with it, but they never actually do anything official or significant. It would be great if our powers that be were responsive, if they would hear us out, find out what we’re doing and how. But we don’t fit into their agendas,” Katarina concludes.
“They are using the war to keep themselves in positions of power. I think we have a responsibility to society. To show future generations how wrong war is, how everything we ‘conquered’ was meaningless,” Edin is critical. He is aware that today he is an outcast from his “own” people, because he socialises with the “others” and publicly criticises the anomalies of Bosniak politics.
At the end, we ask Katarina whether it is the aim of politicians in our countries here is to keep us eternally unreconciled. Her answer is as much as we expected.
“I think it is.”