THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Wednesday, October 18, 1995 TAG: 9510180362
SECTION: FRONT PAGE: A1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY SANJA OMANOVIC, CORRESPONDENT
DATELINE: SARAJEVO, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA LENGTH: Long : 101 lines
The Miljacka River courses through this war-torn city. Bridges connect its two banks, but some of them haven't been crossed for almost four years. In essence, the river divides the city into two parts - one Bosnian, the other Serbian.
Since the war began, many Sarajevans haven't seen their dearest - their mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters - because they are on the other side of the river. Although a fragile cease-fire exists today, the siege of Sarajevo continues.
``You see that green building over there?'' said Miroslav S., 32, pointing across the river. ``That was my home before the war. I am here . . . on the front battle line, in this building - the Hotel Bristol. My older brother Marko is in that building across the river, on the Serbian front line.''
Miroslav, a soldier in the Bosnian army, is a Serb. He is not the only one whose relatives are on the other side in the Bosnian war.
At the beginning of the war he ran away from Grbavica, a part of Sarajevo under Serbian control. Grbavica is separated from the rest of the city by the river, and that's why the front battle lines are in the buildings nearest to the banks.
``I didn't hesitate then, three years ago,'' Miroslav said. ``When I saw what was going on, with barricades and the shelling of the city, I decided to go to what I thought was a real town. Grbavica is part of it, and I spent almost all my life there, but it is not Sarajevo. All my friends were here, in the downtown.''
Miroslav didn't want to talk about his brother at first. Finally he agreed, but asked that his surname not be used.
``You know how it is,'' he said. ``I am afraid that something will happen to him if I talk.
``I know that my brother is shooting at me. I am probably shooting at him, too. It is war. I have heard that he was wounded recently. I hope it wasn't my bullet.''
As Miroslav talked, the look on his face changed. There was anger, sadness, resignation - but his eyes were cold.
``I am trying not to think about that,'' he said. ``The two of us, me and my brother, had a happy and usual childhood. He is two years older, and we fought from time to time, but never too much. When we grew up, we used to go out together, but still he had his own friends and I had mine. We lost our father when we were kids, and because of that we tried to take care of our mother as much as we could.''
But the war changed things. Miroslav's and Marko's mother stayed in Grbavica with the older son. Miroslav escaped after refusing to join the Serbian army.
``Marko invited me to join him in the Serb units,'' Miroslav said. ``He argued that the Serbs had to defend themselves. I asked him, `Defend against whom?' He said, `Against the Muslims.' I thought, `Well, how come? The Muslims are my friends.' I didn't want to fight against them.
``Marko and I argued for some time, and finally I made the decision: I am going to cross the river.
``I didn't tell anybody. It was very hard not to say goodbye to my mother, but I didn't dare. I was afraid that she would stop me.''
It wasn't a matter of just walking across the little wooden bridge that lay between the banks. Miroslav had to pass the Serbian soldiers' lines first.
He crossed the bridge at night. Even then, he couldn't be sure that Bosnian army soldiers wouldn't fire on him as he approached from enemy territory.
``That's why I called their names - very quietly, because the Serbs could also hear me and shoot,'' he said. ``Fortunately, some of my friends were there. They knew me and they were expecting me to come. I think that saved my life. You know that many people have died while they were trying to cross the river.''
When he joined the Bosnian army, Miroslav asked to be put on the line near Grbavica. It was like a game in the beginning, he said. The opposing soldiers knew each other, and many times they would call out each other's names from one side of the river to the other. But sometimes it was more than calling out names.
``We used to take a rifle grenade, fire it and shout, `Catch it!' and then call one of the Serbs' names. They did the same to us. I've told you, it had been like a game. But it's different now.''
Now, Miroslav speaks of the Serbs as enemies. But he is also thinking about the end of the war.
Except for sporadic fighting in northwestern Bosnia, the guns are mostly silent now and peace talks are scheduled to begin Oct. 31 in the United States. But the Serbs want part of Sarajevo in any peace settlement, and have not fully lifted their siege of the capital. The Muslim-led government says the city cannot be divided.
``If I survive, and if it's possible to go to Grbavica, I am not sure that I would like to see my brother,'' Miroslav said. ``What can I tell him? And, what is more important, what can he tell me? At least, I am sure that I am fighting for the right thing. What about him, after 10,000 people killed in Sarajevo?
``I am not even sure that I would like to call him brother anymore.''
The Miljacka isn't an ordinary river anymore. It is a river that separates human lives. ILLUSTRATION: Color photo
Sanja Omanovic, a Bosnian journalist, was a National Forum
Foundation visiting fellow at The Virginian-Pilot.
KEYWORDS: YUGOSLAVIA CIVIL WAR by CNB