War Diary

Pristina, a small town of 10,000 in 1945, has grown into a modern city of 300,000, losing its beauty in the process, another victim of urban renewal. Behind the Grand Hotel, where the world press and TV crews and their hopefully bulletproof vehicles congregate, rises a sports center, an evil-looking thing whose roof is crossed by gigantic copper-colored earthworms. In the next star wars movie this could be cast as the imperial palace-or tomb. Thousands of crows congregate here, swooping about the spires of the Darth Vader mausoleum.

At the hotel, into the smoke-filled halls of the Media Center rushes a young reporter, to file her story. She is quite out of breath, and must be known for her daring, because other reporters seem concerned that she may be taking too many chances, under combat conditions. She has just saved a child, lost or wounded, I can't hear. The soldiers allowed her to take the child across their lines. A European reporter, who has seen quite a few conflicts, comments: "Very clever. The KLA goes on the offensive. The Serbs fire back. The refugees pour out. Some children are hurt. We must go in and save them. The old baby trick."

Of course. Now I recall, it was tried in 1975. Hundreds of Vietnamese children, orphaned or separated from their parents during the chaotic retreat to Saigon, were grabbed and shipped off to the U.S. The Ford administration hoped that out of compassion for the lost children, a mood to "do something" could be created and that the congressional ban on U.S. military action could be put aside. It did not work then. This time, in 1999, it seems to be working.

Outside, in the streets and coffeehouses, people are tense and worried. A Serb tells me that his good neighbor, an Albanian, has warned him that the KLA wants all Albanians to be home before 7pm, so that all who are still out may be considered fair targets. Obviously a paranoid person. Nevertheless, I have noticed that since December 14, all seven attacks on coffeehouses have taken place after 6:59pm. The method is either to spray the patrons with automatic fire from the doorway or to toss in a hand grenade. Four of the attacks were on Serb establishments, one was intended for a pro-government Albanian. The two cases of attacks upon Albanian coffeehouses were either revenge actions by Serbs or feuds amongst Albanians. There has been conflict between KLA factions. All of the five random bombings, in which explosive devices were placed at the market or in garbage cans, were obviously Albanian jobs, since the Serbs have nothing at all to gain from a strategy of tension. They showed on television a clip of a British mercenary giving instruction in bomb making to a KLA student . The KLA is a wealthy organization which can afford to pay well its soldiers, and it can also afford to pay very well western or islamic mercenaries.

I am writing in the computer room at the public library in Belgrade, when a university student who works here very calmly reads aloud from a report on the CNN internet site. "American planes have left Aviano base in Italy, explosions reported all over Yugoslavia." So it has started. Students and staff crowd around the computer. Everyone seems rather detached, as if the bombs were falling on another country. A library employee announces, with an apologetic smile, that in view of the situation the library will close an hour early tonight, at 10p.m. A while later, I am walking by the subway station, where there is a small crowd of young people. They are students who live in university dormitories across the square, they recognize me as a foreigner and we start talking. "Well, a foreigner still in town, how odd. Ain't you worried. What are you doing here, and where are you from anyhow?" An American, now that's pretty shocking. Still, almost everyone is still smiling, they want to talk and find out my opinion on this goddam war. These are the questions pre-eminent in their minds: "Why does your government hate us so much, when we have always been your friends and allies? Do you know that we saved 600 of your fliers during WWII, and look at what you are doing to us in way of thanks. Why do Americans want to take our land away and give it to the Albanians?" All believe that the U.S. autonomy plan for Kosovo would deliver Kosovo to terrorists and that all the Serbs would have to run or be killed. In view of the way in which Serbs were treated when Albanian nationalists were in control in Kosovo, 1875-1912, 1941-1944, and 1976-1989, their fears do not seem to be of a paranoid nature.

Asked by a young woman what am I doing in Belgrade, I tell her that I came here to write. "I don't believe you," she laughs, "I bet you are one of those pilots we shot down." Everyone laughs, we say good-bye, but as I am walking away, the sirens go off. Glancing at the sky everyone walks briskly to the subway entrance. Down the stairs we go, into a palatial marble hall, absolutely clean, down another staircase, to an escalator, the longest I have ever seen. At the bottom, on the train platform, are hundreds of people. So this is war. Just like I remember it when I was a child. A mother sitting on a blanket reading a book to her three children. Many parents holding children wrapped in blankets. Two Romanians with big bags full of clothes they brought to sell: this war they sure did not expect. A large gypsy family sitting against the wall. Old folks have brought portable chairs, bottles of water, thermos of hot coffee. One thing I do not remember seeing in WWII shelters are dogs. A white-haired lady with her Pekinese, and even some big dogs. All are very civilized, very tolerant. Your dog has rights too, and no one suggests putting the American out for his bombs.

Now I understand the meaning of the night greeting. By day you say good morning, good day, good evening, like in English; but at night, upon leaving, you say "Laku noch", "May you have an easy night". An easy night, without the Turks, Albanians, Germans--or the Americans?-- coming to burn your house down. A Serb poet wrote a satirical piece about the unfortunate fact that all the Serbs built their houses in the wrong place: just move those houses a bit and there will be no more problems.

When after an hour I go upstairs, the sirens sound again. Back down we go to the subway platform, but a couple of minutes later the all-clear announcement. Applause. People smile again, they hug, and then crowd to the escalator. Out on the street cabs have immediately reappeared. Life goes on.

It is Friday, about 10pm, and with two Romanian photographers I drive towards the nearest subway station, on Boulevard Revolucije. It's odd how in wartime you become an expert guide in three days. Except that in the darkened city I cannot read street names. As soon as we have gotten out of the car, the cruise missiles hit, pretty close this time. We hear a crack, and then explosions. We rush into the lighted subway to get our cameras ready. As we come out of the western exit, crowds are coming out of the apartment houses, pouring into the eastern exit. No one runs, they just walk briskly, in silence, many holding children in their arms. After a while, some kind of gunpowder smell seems to be in the air, and people are concerned a chemical factory may have been hit. They hold handkerchiefs to their noses. One guy pulls out a gas mask and puts it on Back into the subway. Now old folks are coming, an old woman on crutches, aided down the steps by two men. Down the escalator to the train platform. Very crowded tonight. Mothers holding children wrapped in blankets. They are the only ones who seem worried. Men and childless women do not seem worried, there is a continuous going up and down the escalator of people going up for a smoke. Is this the only place in Belgrade where smoking is forbidden? Neither police nor subway workers try to stop you from going up into the street

In contrast, I remember those idiotic nuclear attack tests in New York forty years ago, when anti-nuclear activists who refused to "take shelter" in the basement(?!) were arrested. The only place in Belgrade where this kind of public safety and public order mentality has spread to is the Hyatt Hotel, in New Belgrade, across the Sava River, where western reporters live isolated in eastern splendor and luxury. After midnight on Saturday morning, the management orders the evacuation of all guests. "Out of your bed, children, and into the basement!" Since battle-hardened reporters ignored the silly order, breathless staffers armed with walkie-talkies are dispatched to inspect every occupied room to enforce the order of the definitely western-trained disciplinarian management of the hotel.

I do not know whether most missile attacks take place at night for tactical reasons or just to cause a bit of panic, depression, and nervousness through lack of sleep. Still, mothers are the only ones who appear to be really affected. Earlier, in the afternoon, I was near a site that had been bombed Wednesday. A siren sounds in the distance and of course my Serb host and I go to the window to watch for cruise missiles. Another siren, closer this time, goes off. Looking from the window, it appears that people are still going about their business. Children are still playing. Now the local alarm goes off. I must admit the howling of the sirens does sound really scary, distant sirens answering each other like wolfs, getting closer. So the children go into the houses, they must have their orders. But over there, in a green space between the buildings of this project, there is a picnic table, surrounded by a group of men who are watching a chess game in progress. Players and spectators are absorbed in the game. No one gets up. No one moves. The chess game continues

Sunday morning, some time after seven, the sirens go off. It is the first morning raid yet. Did Mr. Clinton decide that the people of Belgrade should not be allowed to sleep late on Sunday, or is it my fault that I have not learned as yet the difference between the alarm siren and the end of the raid sound? I would have to ask someone at the library, since my Serb is not good enough to understand the TV when it explains the difference between an alarm and the all-clear.

I think of going to St. Sava church. At the terminal, where a number of bus lines end, I ask some trolley bus drivers for the number to take, but they tell me that the bus I need is not there and they do not know how long I will have to wait. So I start walking in that direction. I have walked a block when a trolley bus stops across the street and a driver beckons me to come over. He will take me part of the way. Lawyers and their rules and regulations have not as yet grabbed full control in this country. The driver does not think: "If I stop here where there is no bus stop, it's against regulations. All the other drivers and the timekeeper can see me, someone is going to report me. And what if this foreigner falls and breaks a leg? I am going to get sued, I am going to get fired. And what if he is a spy? Don't get involved." No, he just thinks that he is a bus driver and that his job is to take people around town and here is a guy who needs a ride, so it's not a big deal to make an extra stop. I try to get my ticket stamped by the orange validation machine, but he gestures that I should ignore it. Of course, I know that, I have not yet seen a validation machine that works, but I am a guest here, so I have to go through the motion of canceling my ticket. It costs 20 cents to ride the bus or streetcar in Belgrade if you wish to pay for it. There are many private buses, and they all have a ticket taker. A policeman with a blue steel helmet under his arm, gets on board. Neither the bus driver nor the policemen make inquiries as to where this enemy alien is from, although everyone can easily tell that I come from a western country. Saturday night I was stopped by police while taking pictures. After a brief inquiry and some note taking regarding my passport and the hotel where I am staying, they let me go.

St. Sava is a gigantic, empty, cavernous church, still under construction since the 1930's. There is no one inside. On my way out I am stopped by the priest, who inquires about my purposes here. I explain my presence well enough, so nema problema, no problems. Off to Kalemegdan Fortress, which overlooks the Sava River; a crowd surrounds three old men with a cello, a violin, and an oboe. When they start to play, twenty old men and women form a line, and then a circle. This is the kolo, the national folk dance. On a bench nearby an old man wearing a soldiers cap is holding an ancient-looking instrument, a type of lute. His white moustaches fall down to his chest. Then he starts playing and singing in a monotone. This is an epic poem on Prince Lazar at the battle of Kosovo Polje; so this is what Homer must have sounded like.

A rock concert in Trg Republike, Republic Square. Some young people are passing out five-inch targets, and many people are attaching them to their clothes, over their hearts or on their backs, "to make NATO 's good work a little easier." At the public library where I am writing, the staff thinks of changing the book displays in the windows. Books on the ancient Serb monasteries, churches and frescoes are displayed, and each book is marked by a target. The first stealth plane ever to be shot down came down yesterday over Serbia. So the joke goes that there is a new Yugo car being produced, called Yugostealth. It is invisible to police radar. "Thanks to the Lockheed Aircraft Corporation for their contribution of technical details."

Another big concert on Republic Square. Young people are pouring in from the open market area, where local and long distance bus lines converge. The mood reminds me of anti-war rallies or concerts in the sixties, before the police charge. The only organized thing is the performance, there is no distribution of approved posters, everyone makes her own nasty little sign and proudly displays it. There is no control of what flag you choose to wave, some prefer the standard Yugoslav red white and blue, some wave the flag with the red star that Tito's partisans carried. Some army flags with the two-headed eagle, a jolly roger, and a big Macedonian flag, whence three US soldiers blundered into the hands of the Yugoslavs. Kneza Mihailova, the wide pedestrian mall next to the concert site is crowded with newspapers and political button peddlers. The most popular button is a shooting target, available in two convenient sizes: an in-your-face three incher and a discreet one-incher.

Today some of the performers are in army uniforms, also with their targets pinned on. In between acts is heard the rallying cry, "Ne da-mo', Ko-so-vo'". "Kosovo, we are not giving it up." Yugoslavs seem quite united on this, except that some complain that "we should have started to fight in 1991", before the country lost so much Serbian land and before it was weakened by years of blockade. Still, the mood is not one of compromise. Such must have been the mood of their great-grandfathers, who would not bow to the Kaisers of Austria and Germany in 1914, and of their grandfathers who challenged the new master of Europe in March 1941, and his "New Order". In an historical parallel, they see themselves as resisting the "New World Order." The problem is that they really mean it.

They heard that NATO threatens to bomb downtown Belgrade. So they tape shop windows to avoid flying glass casualties, or leave the windows open. They are evacuating children. Preparing for long term resistance they have imposed tobacco rationing. Of course you can still buy black market tax-free cigarettes from the Gypsies, usually women at the market, just as you can in Athens or Skoplje.

April Fool's Day, there is a good practical joke: they have hit a major bridge and the water supply for the nation's third city. Yet, nobody's is thinking of giving up. It will take two, four, eight divisions to secure Kosovo. How many divisions to secure the border areas and to pursue the guerrillas into their "sanctuaries and staging areas" in Serbia and Montenegro? Will the president soon report that he sees "light at the end of the tunnel"? It appears that the Yugoslavs are quite willing to provide the tunnel. The open air cafes on Kneza Mihailova are quite crowded. The sirens sound. No one runs. No one gets up.

We leave the press agency office in New Belgrade after 4am. A beautiful spring night, the moon is shining. No cabs to be seen tonight, so we walk. As we approach the Hyatt Hotel an antiaircraft battery opens up. Some ordnance explodes in the sky, but there is no hit. More antiaircraft fire. I open my bag to pull my camera out, but John, my guardian angel, asks, "Have you applied for permission to cover this?" Obviously not, so we keep walking, the camera safely in the backpack. Now we are at the approach to the bridge, the occasional car drives very fast. There is no more speed limit on this bridge, if there ever was. Bridges make easy targets. Should we wave our NATO passports and press cards while we cross? Just then we hear a jet plane in the sky above.

A few seconds later we hear missiles. They sound very close, close enough to make it seem wise to duck. I crouch by a traffic sign, that might give some protection from flying debris if the bridge was hit. They pass overhead, heading towards the Hyatt Hotel. There is a hit behind the hotel. A very large explosion throws burning material much higher than the hotel. More missiles overhead. We look at the clear sky but see nothing. The windows of the Hyatt seem to light up. Did they get hit? No, it's just a reflection. The crows who nest in the tall trees by the road have all awaken, screaming in terror. One more missile. More explosions.

We turn around and walk back, past the Hyatt, towards the scene of the fire. It's the thermal station that provides heat for Belgrade. A really big fire. Black smoke rises, now it obscures the moon. Firemen rush to the scene. A few men come out of the houses and walk towards the fire. John starts talking Serb. I agree, "Da, da." No need to cause difficulties by advertising that we are enemy aliens now. We get close enough not to want to get any closer. Have we cleared covering this story with the Army Press Center? No, so it's best to head back towards the bridge. The soot in the air is making breathing uncomfortable. The first streetcar of the day. The second. The third? No, they are evacuating all streetcars from the depot, in a never-ending procession.

Back at the hotel at 6am. For the first time since the bombing started I shut the window: the air is too acrid to tolerate.

My visa has expired and I have to leave Yugoslavia to reapply for a new visa. I get to the railway station in Belgrade with an excellent lead, for me, of fifteen minutes until the train. At the ticket counter the lady laughs: "No more trains. American will have to stay with us." Then I see that I went to the wrong window. International tickets are on the other side, and they do sell me a ticket for Zagreb, Croatia. Just then another woman walks in, and reports the latest news: kidding aside, there are no trains for Zagreb. No trains for Budapest either. So I get a refund. "Thanks." "No, thank NATO!" Off I trudge to the bus station, where I buy a ticket to the border. Two plainclothes policemen check my ID. Very politely they inform me that my papers are in order. I am definitely the only American tourist with large backpack in this bus station. I wait a few hours at the fast food joint, visit the men's room--I have to buy a token to get in--and off I go to my bus. Not so fast, boy. The bus departure area is surrounded by a fence. I have to circle the entire area to find the entry turnstiles, but this time the token comes free with the ticket. If you wish to see someone off, it's a couple of dinars. An ancient system of replenishing the sultan's treasury with nasty little fees and taxes.

The bus staff--driver and ticket-taker-- seem a bit concerned about my US passport. I certainly am not. My only worry here has been that I might do something stupid and get kicked out. Anyway, we take off, fifteen minutes late. After we have left the city, I see a continuous line of buses, parked on the side of the highway. Hundreds of buses. They have emptied the depots so they won't lose everything when the top gun boys hit them next. On the bus there are maybe twenty-five people, including some young guys maybe trying to avoid the draft. We travel through fertile plains, everyone is plowing their fields. Some farmers are turning the soil with shovels, but mostly it is tractors doing the work. I see no ox teams as I had seen on the way from Kosovo.

At the border, we wait for fiften minutes. Then the order comes: everyone leave the bus and bring your baggage to the examination tables. Half an hour, then it is my turn. Well, well, look at that US passport. Quite rare, these days. Another officer is called. Excellent English, a nice chat. Goodbye, and have a good trip. A very perfunctory look at my bag. I pick up my bag to put it back on the bus. Not so fast. "Please take your luggage and come with me. This room please. Sit down, here." Uh-uh. Well, it's the chief's office, and it seems that all he really wants to do is talk politics for a while. When I get back to the bus everyone is on board waiting for me. I apologize for the inconvenience. We drive to no-man's land and stop. A bus arrives from Croatia, makes a u-turn, and we transfer our bags to the new bus. Finally we pull up to the Croatian checkpoint.

The Croat policewoman collects all passports except for mine, and takes off. There is a couple in their late seventies. He is wearing a grey fur hat, a very friendly old man with a white moustache, he tried to chat with me earlier. She is all dressed in black, black kerchief, slightly stooped. He is called out to the office, then she is. As she is getting down the steps she says, "I am going to kill myself." "No, no," say the other passengers. Another old man, who is going back to Austria, explains to me, in German, that they are Serb refugees from Croatia trying to go back. He somehow got his papers together, but she couldn't. His visa from Croatia was expiring today, so they decided to take their chances. The Yugoslav border guards let her go through without papers, but the Croats won't. Sacks on their backs, holding a large bag by the handles in between them, they slowly start to make their way back to Yugoslavia.

The Croat policewoman reads from the passenger list and everyone gives their nationality, not citizenship. Most of the passengers have Croat passports, but they answer "Srbin". One answers "Hrvat," Croat. Now they check the bags in the luggage compartment while we stay on the bus. There is a problem with somebody's luggage. Another old farmer answers that yes, that is his bag. " What is the meaning of this?" A plastic bag with a few chunks of home-cured bacon is held out. "You are only allowed one kilo." He goes into the office with his bacon and comes out without it. I guess that as punishment for trying to sneak bacon into Croatia they won't let him keep any, not even his rightful kilo. As for me, it's the VIP treatment. No baggage trouble, not even any perusing of my passport. No question, no "where have you been, how long and why." The policewoman just comes over with stamp in hand, opens my passport, stamps it on the first page she has opened, and wishes me a good trip. Civilization. Why complicate things, Croatia is ready to join the European Community. Still, it took three hours to cross this border, the time evenly distributed on the two sides.

The next excitement comes at the Slovenian border. Waiting for the train in Zagreb I meet a Greek couple and an Italian young woman, all art students in Bologna, whocame to Zagreb for the Easter holidays. The Italian girl has a medium-sized dog with her. I am impressed. You can bring a dog on the train?! How civilized! Yes, she is also very pleased with Croat train regulations, she does not have to hide her doggy, in Italy she would have to pay half fare. Anyway at the border the guards are not pleased with the Yugoslav visa on my passport and decide to go over my luggage with a fine-tooth comb. First, though, they ask the students to get off the train. Two Slovenians guards go through everything, including books and pictures, for about twenty minutes. When they leave, I go to my new new friends who are still standing there, freezing on the platform. It's really cold, it's around 2 a.m., and I tell them to come back in, the guards were really just interested in me, and they wanted to have room to spread all my stuff around the compartment. Wrong again. Back come the guards, and the three students have to follow them out of the train once again. An hour later they come back, relieved. Even if you are carrying no drugs, can you be sure that they will not drop a joint into your bag if they don't like you?

At the Italian border the students are ordered off again. I tell the Italian police, smiling, that the Slovenians already took them off the train and messed with them for a whole hour, but it's no use. "Mind your own business." They are back after only half an hour, the Italians are really sweet. Anyhow, what is the reason for the special treatment? I, who had traveled to enemy territory, got my bags checked in the warmth and comfort of the train. But the students were taken out of their cozy temporary home, the train compartment, and marched off under guard as if they were under arrest. Why were they selected for special attention? The girls have colored hair, they have rings in odd places besides their ears, and the custom officers figure they are fair targets. Welcome to the European Community, welcome to the Free World, welcome to the New (World) Order.