Land of Slaughter

By Jill Smolowe

When war first broke out in Croatia a year ago, Americans dismissed the senseless violence with a regretful tut-tut, while Europeans clung to the hope that people would soon come to their senses. But as the fighting has spread south and east, igniting Bosnia-Herzegovina and threatening to engulf other independence-minded regions of the former Yugoslavia, hope has evaporated that sanity will prevail. The toll is terrible: more than 12,000 people dead, tens of thousands missing and wounded, 1.5 million men, women and children forced to flee their homes. Those numbers only begin to hint at the horror, which U.S. Secretary of State James Baker characterized two weeks ago as a "humanitarian nightmare."

From Bosnia come daily tales of gut-wrenching savagery, few more appalling than last week's butchery in the capital of Sarajevo. Civilians were lured from their homes by a lull in the fighting to line up for bread and ice cream, when three 82-mm mortar shells smashed into the crowd. At least 25 people were killed and an additional 100 injured. While the brutality may have startled outsiders, Sarajevans were not surprised. Just the night before, shells had slammed into a maternity hospital, killing three newborns.

In Muslim towns along Bosnia's eastern borders with Serbia and Montenegro, Serbian guerrillas have been waging what amounts to an "ethnic cleansing" campaign since early April. Last week the village of Turalici took its turn. "They encircled the place and cut off communications," says Nijaz Rustemovic, 36, a Muslim engineer who lives in nearby Kladanj. "They went door to door and expelled the people who hadn't already fled. Then they spilled oil all around and lit the village on fire." Other cleansings have reportedly included executions of scores of people. In Croatia, Serbian irregulars continue to expel Croats from areas near the Danube where Serbs predominate, despite the presence of U.N. peacekeeping troops. There are reports that Croats and Muslims have responded in kind against Serbs.

Americans and Europeans can no longer wish the Balkan problem away. "This is no ordinary war," says Sylvana Foa of the office of the U.N. High Commissioner for Refugees. "We are hearing stories about families having to watch fathers and sons walk through minefields, and summary executions for the hell of it." While comparisons to the international disbelief, blindness and indifference that enabled Hitler to carry out his "final solution" are overblown, Baker hinted at such a parallel on May 24 at an international conference in Lisbon. It was just bracing enough to renew Western determination to halt the slaughter.

Humanitarian considerations aside, Europeans have a keen self-interest in seeing calm restored to the Balkans. When people run for their lives across not only internal borders but international ones as well, the financial consequences are heavy. According to the U.N., 1.25 million people, most of them Bosnians and Croatians, remain within the boundaries of old Yugoslavia. An additional 250,000 have sought sanctuary, mostly in Western Europe; tens of thousands more have probably slipped over borders illegally to stay with relatives. Already the largest forced movement of Europeans since World War II, this flood may be just the beginning. The UNHCR fears that if the fighting in Bosnia is compounded by an eruption of hostilities in Kosovo, yet another ethnically divided territory about to explode, the number of people in flight could rapidly escalate to 3 million.

The tide of people leaving Bosnia is not just a consequence of the war; it is an objective. Serbs, who lay claim to one-third of Croatia and some 70% of Bosnia's territory, hope that enforced ethnic homogeneity will ensure their lock on seized areas. Many are willing to go to almost any length to realize their dream of a Greater Serbia. Abdulrahman, 26, a Bosnian Muslim who fled from Zvornik, describes how he and two friends were on their way to the bakery to buy bread when they were nabbed by Serbian soldiers of the federal army and subjected to a night of abuse. Threatened with beatings, they were forced to kneel, butt their heads against a wall and sing songs impugning the virtue of Muslim women. "We sang," he says, "but they beat us anyway."

Serbs, Croats and Muslims are fleeing Bosnia not only out of fear but also because they cannot get enough to eat. The food shortages hardly approach the crisis in Somalia, but for people accustomed to a steady diet, the diminishing supply is a hardship. "On even days we have beans," says Vladimir Pozek, a software analyst in Sarajevo. "On odd days, macaroni." Little relief is in sight. Both the UNHCR and the Red Cross suspended operations in Bosnia two weeks ago after workers were repeatedly threatened and a Red Cross official was killed while leading a convoy of goods.

Those who make it to other republics fare better. In Croatia most of the displaced are put up in private homes. People who have been relocated within Croatia qualify for state aid; those who come from Bosnia rely on relief supplies from international aid organizations. The majority of the almost 40,000 Bosnians who have sought refuge in the Serbian capital of Belgrade have also been placed in private homes. While many of these newcomers are Serbs, there are also large numbers of Croats and Muslims. "No one so far has specified that they'll only take a Serb or a Croat or a Muslim," says Vidanka Misic of the Red Cross. "The people who want to help don't care whom they help." No action has been taken against these Good Samaritans by the nationalistic government of Slobodan Milosevic. Presumably he views these resettlements as part of his divide-and-conquer strategy.

To handle fresh arrivals, international relief agencies have opened shelters in hotels, schools and public buildings. As these facilities rapidly fill up, tent cities are being planned. But as more of the Balkans is consumed by ethnic strife, safe havens may become harder to find. "Many of the Croats who sought shelter in Bosnia are now paying for it," says Foa. Last week 2,000 Bosnians who had fled to Belgrade were packed off by the Red Cross to Kosovo. These people may soon be on the move again: the territory's predominant Albanian population recently voted to secede from Serbia, raising the prospect of armed conflict there next.

While the war is ripping apart the intricately entwined ethnic mix of the old Yugoslavia, the makeshift arrangements of the dispossessed sometimes forge new bonds. Jelena Pekez, 27, a Croat from the Bosnian town of Jajce, is married to a Serb. Vesna Gacic, 29, a Serb from the Bosnian town of Mostar, is married to a man of Croatian and Muslim descent. Both women fled to Kosmaj, south of Belgrade: Pekez left just ahead of a total blockade of her hometown, Gacic after a frightening 20-day stay in an underground shelter. When the two women's paths crossed at a center set up by the Red Cross, they kept their distance. But the things they held in common -- a loss of home, a hatred of the violence -- drew them closer. Now they operate the center together, coordinating the lives of 79 residents, almost half of them children. When one woman grieves, the other supplies the strength. There are more bad days than good. "I've lost my identity," says Gacic. "I'm no one now."

Both Pekez and Gacic are lucky in one respect: they have their husbands with them. It is far more common for the men and boys to stay behind to protect their homes and fight. Aida Catovic, 32, left Sarajevo on May 18 with her two small children. They escaped just in time: the next convoy out was detained by Serbian gunmen, who took 5,000 people hostage for three days. After taking the grueling bus ride to Split in Croatia, Catovic flew to Zagreb. Now living with distant relatives of her in-laws, she waits anxiously for the daily call from her husband in Sarajevo. "The only question I ask is, 'Are you all still alive?' " she says. "And every day I worry what the answer will be tomorrow."

Families are not always in agreement about whether they should separate -- and they do not always have a choice. Desanka Blacic, 36, a Serb, turned up hysterical and penniless in Belgrade last week with her three-year-old son, having fled the Bosnian village of Kastilj. Her husband, a member of a militia protecting the self-proclaimed Serbian state within Bosnia, had told her, "Just get out, go anywhere." She tried to compel her 13-year-old son to leave with her, but he refused. "If Father is killed here," the boy said, "I want to die with him." Just recounting that story reduces the woman to tears.

Marica Josipovic, by contrast, is dry-eyed when she tells her tale. A sturdy, hard-faced Serbian woman of 50 years, she fled to Kosmaj from Prud, a predominantly Croatian town in Bosnia. Her husband remains behind, not by choice but because he was forced by a Serbian militia to fight. Josipovic says neither she nor her husband has any interest in killing neighbors with whom they have lived harmoniously for years. Before Josipovic left, she was on comfortable enough terms with the Croatians next door to ask them to mind her goats. She says conscripts on both sides of the conflict sneak home at night to guard their own property, often standing shoulder to shoulder; when the sun rises, they report for duty in opposing camps.

Such accounts speak to a reality that the current carnage obscures: in many villages, ethnic groups have coexisted peacefully for centuries. Probably they would have continued that way had it not been for the zealous ambitions of their nationalist leaders. Serbia's Milosevic is not the only one to whip up ethnic hostility. Croatian President Franjo Tudjman, no less brutal a dictator or ardent a nationalist, used the fighting in his republic to pummel Serbs and attempt to impose total control over any who stayed in Croatian territory. Now Tudjman is taking advantage of Bosnia's war to occupy areas settled by Croats. His government has reportedly negotiated with Belgrade to carve up Bosnia between the Serbs and Croats, leaving the Muslim population with next to nothing. It is an open question whether citizens will be able to set aside their anger and return to their neighborly habits when the guns are silenced.

As it is, few can hope to return to their homes in the foreseeable future. Most know that the lives they built have been razed to rubble. Red Cross personnel have noticed that when children first arrive at temporary shelters, they speak of coming from Croatia or Bosnia; within a few weeks, however, they identify themselves as refugees. Adults are also relinquishing former ties. "I grew up with Serbs. We chased women together when we were young," says David Becirovic, 35, a Muslim businessman from Sarajevo who now camps with his wife, two children and 100 other people in a sports hall in downtown Zagreb. He says the drumbeat of Serbian leaders, who declare that any Serb who doesn't join the battle is a traitor, has made Sarajevo an alien place. "I used to have the feeling I knew half the city," he says. "Now that's gone."

Not surprisingly, some of the homeless have concluded that a more promising future lies elsewhere in Europe. But the E.C. countries, their economies already strained by recession, are not eager to be swamped by refugees who will need housing, jobs and welfare benefits. Germany has been particularly responsive, shelling out $51 million this year in refugee assistance and taking in 115,000 refugees -- almost twice as many as Hungary, which has the second largest influx. Germany's appeal owes much to its 800,000 guest workers of Yugoslav origin. "Practically everybody has a relative or a friend living in Germany," says Wolf Oschlies, a Yugoslav specialist at Cologne's Federal Institute for Eastern European and International Studies.

Bonn made one feeble attempt to stem the flow in early May but backed down when an international outcry ensued. Understandably, Germans are a bit irked that other countries should be so quick to criticize and so slow to act themselves. Many countries haven't even paid their full portion of the UNHCR'S $140 million aid program; as a result, the organization has received only about a third of the funding. Germany fears that the incoming refugees could reach 1 million. "Why would they go back?" asks Oschlies. "All they have there is inflation, unemployment and war, and many of them have no homes to go back to."

For many of the homeless, this is all just so much dithering. Becirovic, who would like to move abroad, has been on a wild-goose chase since late April. First, he tried to make his way to Germany, where a generous asylum law enables refugees to stay for an extended period. But the Austrians wouldn't let Becirovic and his family across their border without German visas. Then he turned to Western embassies in Zagreb. "The Americans refer me to their embassy in Vienna, but I can't get there without a visa," he says. He has run up against the same problem with the Swiss and British. There was a bright moment when he secured a visa from the Swedes -- but once Bosnia received Western recognition as an independent state, the Swedes were at a loss what to do with a Bosnian who has a Yugoslav passport. "It's a vacuum," he says. "No one knows how to treat us."

Europe is beginning to devise a plan. At a meeting two weeks ago in Vienna, representatives from 10 countries, the UNHCR and the Red Cross adopted a strategy to offer displaced persons on-the-spot shelter from the conflict rather than asylum in other countries. While the message can be read as "Stay out," the plan is not entirely cynical: most displaced persons would rather stay put anyway. Fully three-quarters of a group of 2,000 refugees who fled from Dubrovnik to the Italian border province of Friuli last November crossed back into Croatia within three months.

The question is whether there will be anything to return to when and if Croats, Muslims and Serbs end their fighting. So far, property damage is estimated as high as $100 billion. For the youngest generation, home has become a threat, not a refuge. Last week at the center in Kosmaj, four-year- old Natasha ran up to her mother in tears. A boy had taunted Natasha, saying she had to return home to Mostar in Bosnia, where the girl had recently spent three weeks underground. "Don't worry," her mother soothed. "We won't ever go back to Mostar again." When the little girl smiled, the mother looked as though she would cry.

CHART: NOT AVAILABLE

CREDIT: TIME Graphics by Nigel Holmes and Paul J. Pugliese

[TMFONT 1 d #666666 d {Source: PlanEcon, U.N. High Commission for Refugees}]CAPTION: THE BALKANS: AN ETHNIC PATCHWORK

REFUGEES

DEATHS IN OTHER ETHNIC CONFLICTS

With reporting by Bruce Crumley/Paris, James L. Graff/Zagreb and John Moody/Belgrade