THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, March 8, 1996 TAG: 9603080549
SECTION: FRONT PAGE: A1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY SANJA OMANOVIC, CORRESPONDENT
DATELINE: SARAJEVO, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA LENGTH: Long : 238 lines
Since the war in Bosnia began, I hadn't seen my parents or my brother. Three and a half years ago, we lived as many other families did. I lived with my husband and visited my parents often. My brother, 18 years younger than me, is almost like my own child. They lived in another part of town, but it was no trouble to get there.
Before the war, I had never thought about the fact that my parents' marriage was a mixed one. My father is Serb; my mother is Muslim. It wasn't important. And I couldn't imagine that there would be a time when things like that would be important.
But such a time did come.
At the beginning of the war, my parents decided to leave Sarajevo. I decided to stay.
When I think about it now, I am glad they left. It was very hard to live in Sarajevo these past 3 1/2 years. It was hard for all of us - Muslims, Serbs, Croats, mixed - everybody. But during the darkest days of the war, I thought: I have to survive. I have to see them again.
I had no idea how to do that. There were no telephone lines, no letters, no communication at all.
Then I heard last month that it might be possible to go to Foca, the town in eastern Bosnia where my parents live now. I had known that one day I would see them, but when that day was close, it seemed unreal.
Of course, I couldn't just take a bus from Sarajevo. Lingering fear and hostility still inhibit freedom of movement between the territory under Muslim-Croat federation control and the territory under Serb control.
But I didn't think about that. I just wanted to see my parents and brother. STOWAWAY TAKES THE PASS BY ARMORED LAND ROVER
My trip to Foca was proof that there are many good people. I had never met the man who helped me get there. I had only spoken to him on the phone. He is head of one of the foreign organizations based in Bosnia. They can go wherever they want.
I asked the man if I could go with one of his assistants to Foca, and he simply said ``yes.'' It was against the rules, of course. Foreign organizations are not allowed to transport anybody except their own employees. I had to go illegally, without accreditation. But I didn't mind. I would handle it on the road somehow, I thought.
There were three of us in the white 4 1/2-ton armored Land Rover that morning - the driver, a young man from Slovakia; an older German man; and me. We agreed that at the checkpoint between Sarajevo and Foca manned by IFOR - the NATO peace implementation force - we would say that I was their interpreter.
Foca is about 100 kilometers (62 miles) from Sarajevo, and I had been there only once. I remembered only that it was a small town with a very green river.
The sky in Sarajevo was gray, and it was snowing.
I knew a high mountain pass was waiting in front of us. I told them it was just a hill.
``Are you afraid?'' asked the German, who I later learned is a high-ranking officer at NATO headquarters in Brussels.
``Why, should I be?'' I said.
``Well,'' he said, ``our real interpreter is always afraid when we go into Serb territory.''
``I'm not,'' I said. ``I'm half Serb.''
We were passing through empty villages and small towns. The houses were destroyed; there were no roofs, no windows. There were only some forgotten dogs that didn't pay any attention to cars passing by.
Our Land Rover started to climb the mountain, and the snow started to fall harder. Our driver slowed down, and I began to feel impatient.
``Can you go faster, please?'' I begged.
``If you want to end up in that canyon, yes,'' he said.
I looked out through the small window. I decided to keep my mouth shut.
Finally the driver said, ``We are very close to Foca now. We just have to get over an improvised bridge.''
The bridge was put in place after the NATO bombing last August. The destroyed concrete bridge is right beside the new one. The NATO pilots had done their job well. The bridge looked like somebody had taken a giant knife and cut it in the middle. The new, small bridge - narrow, steel, military - looked like a toy. ``WE DON'T DECIDE ABOUT OUR DESTINIES''
Our first view of Foca was of a dirty road covered with snow mixed with mud. The buildings looked somehow lifeless.
How could my parents live in a place like this? They had spent all their lives in a big city.
The downtown was a disappointment, too. Some people were standing on the corners, staring at us. I didn't feel so good. But if nobody had stopped us on the road from Sarajevo to Foca except the implementation forces, and if they swallowed the story about me being an interpreter, why should I be afraid now?
The truth was, I could never know what would happen. In fact, that is one of the main problems in Bosnia.
I felt a little bit safer when we arrived at the house that belongs to the organization I was traveling with. I called my mother immediately.
``Hi. This is Sanja,'' I said.
``Who? What? Where are you?''
``Well, I think I'm in your neighborhood,'' I said. Then I explained to her where the house was.
``I'm coming! I'm coming!'' my mother said, excited.
I went outside to wait for her, and at that moment, I felt a kind of panic attack. Would I start to cry on the street? Would I recognize her?
The German told me I had an hour and a half to spend with my parents. What could I tell them in an hour and a half?
Then I saw a figure coming toward me. I recognized that walk.
I had heard that residents of eastern Bosnia are a little bit afraid to be seen with people coming in with international organizations from Sarajevo. So I didn't want to make a scene.
I was trying not to run to her. I must not cry. I knew that if I started, I wouldn't be able to stop. And obviously, she was thinking the same way.
So we kissed each other as if we had only been separated for two days.
Their house was near. She told me my father was at his office, and my brother was in school.
I stood silent. I couldn't believe that I wouldn't see them.
When I looked around the house, I realized that my parents were poor now.
``We don't have anything,'' my mother said.
``Then why don't you come back to Sarajevo?'' I asked.
``First of all, we are afraid for your father,'' she said. ``They (the Muslims) can arrest him.''
``But there is amnesty for everybody,'' I said.
``I'm not sure we can believe anybody anymore,'' she said.
Then I suggested that she come to Sarajevo with my brother. She's a woman; he's a boy. Nobody would harm them.
``We will see. Maybe in the spring when the transition is over,'' she said, referring to the ongoing exodus of Serbs from the Sarajevo suburbs to the newly formed Serb republic.
Suddenly we heard a knock on the door. A young man appeared. I looked at his eyes. This was my brother, but only the eyes were the same as before. I could recognize their gray-green color - nothing else. He is 15 now.
I grabbed him.
``Is this really you?'' I said.
``Of course it is. Who else could it be?'' he said, trying to be cool.
Then I saw a familiar little smile on his lips - a little, childish smile. It reminded me of the days when he was a baby, with the same eyes and the same smile. I couldn't move away from him. I would have liked to hold him forever.
``Don't kiss me so much,'' he complained. ``I'm grown up now.''
``I know,'' I said. ``But be quiet. I haven't seen you for almost four years. I'm your big sister, and I have the right to kiss you as much as I want.''
I was trying to make jokes, but I felt tears in my eyes. I must not cry. I didn't know when I would be able to see them again. I wanted them to remember me smiling.
My mother was trying to find my father. But he wasn't in his office, and I didn't have enough time to try to find him.
Then the telephone rang. It was my driver. It was time to leave.
I promised my mother I would come again soon. While I was saying it, I knew it would be hard to keep my promise. But still I promised. It was easier for her and for me. At least we could hope.
``Good luck,'' my mother said quietly. ``I don't know how to tell your father that you were here and he couldn't see you.''
``Don't worry,'' I said. ``I will see him next time.'' But I knew that ``next time'' could be a month or a year.
``We don't decide about our destinies,'' my mother said. A SMOKE IN A SNOWSTORM, A CHAT WITH ``THE ENEMY''
I was going back with the same driver and another employee of the same organization, a Dutchman who swore like a trooper all the time in several languages.
The snowfall had become a blizzard. But the Dutchman said we were as safe in the Land Rover as if we were in a tank.
You don't know our mountains, I thought. I was right.
There was a long line of cars and trucks on the road, halted by the snow. Some people were standing on the road; others were trying to push their cars.
``Don't worry. This vehicle can pass.'' My Dutch traveling companion was still optimistic.
Almost at the same moment, the driver turned the steering wheel the wrong way and we found ourselves in a snowdrift. Then the battle began.
The driver and the Dutchman tried to push the Land Rover. They activated a mechanism that makes the wheels rotate in different directions simultaneously. They tried to put chains on the wheels.
Nothing.
My companions were already soaked, and soon I was, too. Then I decided I would try to find someone to help us. I looked around and found four truck drivers.
I was wondering what would happen if I told them I had come from the Muslim part of Sarajevo, but I decided not to. To make conversation, I asked them where they were coming from.
``I'm moving out from Sarajevo,'' one of them said. ``You know, the Muslims are coming, and I don't want to wait.''
``Maybe you could stay,'' I said, trying to disguise my Sarajevo accent.
``To stay with them?'' he said. ``Are you nuts? I fought with them for four years. I was shooting at them. What can I expect now? Can I expect them to give me a reward?''
``Where are you going?'' I asked.
``I don't know,'' he said. ``Nobody told us where to go. But the Serbs cannot live with the Muslims anymore.''
Well, I thought: You were just chatting with one of those with whom you said you cannot live. But he interrupted my contemplation.
``Do you have a cigarette?''
``I'm sorry, I don't smoke,'' I said quickly, lying. I'm a chain smoker, but the only cigarettes I had were Drina brand, which are made only in Sarajevo. Only Sarajevans smoke them. If I had given him one, he would have known where I came from.
The Dutchman gave him a Marlboro.
The truck drivers had good advice. So after four hours, we finally managed to move just a little bit. And then the process of putting the chains on the wheels began. It took another half-hour, and there was blood all over the snow from the chains' rough edges. Finally, the Land Rover was outfitted almost like a tank. We were moving, slowly but safely. PEACE IS ELUSIVE WHEN DESPAIR STILL THRIVES
The road from the mountain pass to Sarajevo was choked with cars, trucks and animal-drawn vehicles - all full of Serbs moving out of Sarajevo.
As we passed them, I looked at their faces. They were empty and hopeless. Where were they going? It was obvious that they didn't know the answer.
Fear had made them leave their homes. Some of them didn't dare wait for the real owners of their houses - Muslims who were expelled at the beginning of the war from the Sarajevo suburbs.
``They have the right to choose where they want to live,'' said the Dutchman calmly.
``Don't tell me about freedom of choice,'' I said. ``There is no freedom here. I had to go illegally to see my own parents, and they are only 100 kilometers away from me. Don't tell me anything about freedom. Instead of that, tell me, if you know, when I will be able to go to Foca again.''
``There is freedom of movement,'' he said. ``There is peace now.''
I didn't answer. How could I explain to him that if I didn't have the protection of his white Land Rover, anybody could do anything he wanted to me?
The peace before the war didn't look like this one. Nobody is shooting now, and maybe that's why it can be called peace. But as I remember, peace is something more. It will be peace when my father can come to Sarajevo without fear and I can go to Foca on a civilian bus. Then and only then will I be able to say the peace has come. ILLUSTRATION: Map
VP
Color photo
Sanja Omanovic, a Sarajevan journalist, was a National Forum
Foundation visiting fellow at The Virginian-Pilot last year. This
personal account helps illustrate how fragile the U.S.-brokered
peace in the former Yugoslavia is - and how far from normalcy that
troubled region remains today.
KEYWORDS: YUGOSLAVIA CIVIL WAR BOSNIA by CNB