Rose of Sarajevo (5 page)

SEPTEMBER 1987

In 1974, Tito granted certain rights to the ethnic Albanians who made up the overwhelming majority of the population of Kosovo. As a result, a number of Albanians held important posts in the national government. Although Kosovo wasn’t a federal republic, it was an autonomous region within the Yugoslavian republic of Serbia. Growing restive after Tito’s death, the Serbian population of Yugoslavia maintained that Kosovo belonged to the Serbs, even though they accounted for only 10 percent of its population.

Serbs who subscribed to this view developed an insidious plan to deprive the majority of Albanians of their rights and to treat them even worse than a minority. To help them achieve their goal, Serbian television broadcast a constant stream of propaganda alleging that the Serbs were under threat from the Albanians, that their lives were in danger, and that their wives and daughters were being raped. The main actor in the broadcast of these false accounts was Dušan Mitević, one of Milošević’s top flunkies.

On September 1, 1987, the news agencies in all the Yugoslavian republics received a faxed message from Belgrade.

At the Paraćin barracks, in central Serbia, a private of Albanian origin had shot and killed several privates of Serbian origin as they slept; his own body was later discovered about half a mile from the barracks. It was said that Aziz, the Albanian soldier, had most likely committed suicide.

Later that same day, Mirsada rang her colleagues from Belgrade.

“Do you have any idea what’s really behind this so-called massacre of Serbs?” she asked, her voice shaking with emotion.

“Why do you think we sent you there?” Ivan said. “You tell us, Mirsada.”

“The private who shot the four soldiers is an ethnic Albanian. That much is true. But of the four soldiers, two were Muslim, one was Croatian, and one Serbian.”

“Are you sure?” Ivan asked in a strangled voice.

“Of course I am. I’m calling from military headquarters,” Mirsada said. “And there’s one more thing. The body of the assailant was reportedly discovered half a mile from the barracks. A suicide, apparently.”

“What are your sources?”

“Military officials. The army won’t give us permission to see the body.”

“So we’ll never know if it was suicide or if they had him eliminated.”

“No, we’ll never know. But I can confirm that the Albanian had some kind of nervous breakdown and killed his fellow soldiers.”

“Anything else, Mirsada?”

“There is one more thing, Ivan. The other families have already come to claim the bodies and have buried their sons. But the Serb’s funeral is being held tomorrow. Let’s see what they get up to.”

Mirsada had been living as a correspondent in Belgrade for ten months. After separating from her husband, she’d taken Nimeta’s advice to get a change of scenery and applied for a transfer outside of Bosnia. A system of rotating posts was already in place, and she was sent to Belgrade shortly thereafter. She’d settled into a flat near her office and found herself a lover, who was a fellow journalist. Relationships with nonjournalists tended to fall apart, so it was just as well. While irregular hours and chaotic schedules were acceptable for a man, there was much less tolerance for women who worked in the media. A man in the same industry was generally more inclined to forego a homemade dinner and spotless home in favor of a woman racing from location to location with a camera dangling from her shoulder.

Mirsada’s husband had wanted an orderly life and children, and her career had ended her marriage. Having suffered three miscarriages already and finding herself at a critical juncture in her career, Mirsada wasn’t willing to risk another pregnancy. When they’d finally separated, her husband had kept their home, and Mirsada had squeezed a few possessions into a suitcase and embarked on a new life in Belgrade, where she soon met Petar.

Petar was a handsome Serb from a political family. Thanks to him, Mirsada had acquired a group of Serbian friends who would tip her off on political developments. Life was good.

She was in fine spirits as she set off to attend the funeral of the slain Serbian private. It was a great opportunity for a political analyst. But her mood would soon sour.

While the other bodies had been transported to their hometowns and buried without fuss, this funeral was as crowded as one held for a prime minister. A throng of thousands pushed and shoved, prayed as one and heaped curses upon their enemies, transforming the ceremony into a show of force. The young man’s weeping parents begged the crowd to disperse out of respect for their son. But this ceremony was no longer focused on honoring the tragic death of a private who’d been randomly shot and killed. This ceremony had turned into a demonstration against Albanians by enraged Serbs who rejected the Albanian presence and the Albanian leadership in Kosovo. Milošević’s devotee Mitević ensured that incendiary footage from the funeral aired for days, whipping the Serbs into even more of a fury.

Petar had proposed to Mirsada shortly after moving in with her, but she’d only recently gotten divorced, and was enjoying her freedom. They had a wonderful life together. Weekdays, they worked until all hours of the night, while on weekends they played until all hours of the night and slept in till evening. They shared similar views and tastes; they both enjoyed a drink, travel, and raucous good fun, and neither of them had any tolerance for racists and ultranationalists. Petar’s elderly father was a huge fan of Tito, and Petar had grown up being told that all Yugoslavs owed him a debt of gratitude. In his eyes, Yugoslavia was a colorful mosaic and must always remain that way. So it was with great alarm that Petar and Mirsada watched the events unfolding in their country. Like all reasonable Serbs, they had much to concern them.

Fifteen days after the funeral, Mirsada called Ivan on his private line to tell him that she had obtained some leads through highly confidential sources.

Belgrade Party General Chairman Dragiša Pavlović had summoned the owners of Belgrade’s newspapers to a meeting two weeks after the funeral and requested that they tone down their coverage. Events were spiraling out of control. Far from easing tensions over Kosovo, the press was fanning the flames. By inflaming nationalist and racist sentiments, the architects of recent developments were plunging Yugoslavia into a game fraught with peril. It was time to stamp out the flames they had ignited. While the general chairman hadn’t named names, it was clear to everyone that he was referring to Milošević.

“Do you recall Dragiša Pavlović’s sternly worded warning, Ivan?” Mirsada said.

“Yes. What of it?”

“Two days later, one of the papers ran an item lambasting Pavlovi
ć . . .
He was portrayed as an enemy of Serbs and the Yugoslavian Federation. You remember it? Even President Stambolić was said to have thought it went overboard.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Do you know who wrote that piece?”

“One of the paper’s columnists. It was signed.”

“That’s what you think,” Mirsada said. “That piece was written by none other than Milošević’s wife, Mira.”

“You’re kidding! How did you find that out?”

“I can’t reveal my sources. But I can verify its authenticity.”

“So you’re saying Milošević is launching an offensive against Stambolić?”

“He’s already done it,” Mirsada said. “And if what I’ve heard is true, he’s done all his maneuvering behind the scenes just as he always does, and will emerge victorious. You’ll soon see.”

Milošević gradually implemented his plan by using his team to plant misinformation, and by relying on the television network under Mitević’s control to gain him supporters. In a two-day session of parliament in September, he emerged with a stunning political victory. He’d managed to plunge a knife into the back of Stambolić, the very friend who had engineered his own rise.

A short time later, Mirsada too felt as though she’d been stabbed in the back. Petar was deeply troubled by the shifting balance of power in Belgrade. Beginning to fear Milošević’s swift ascent and objectives, he’d rented a house with a garden outside the city and announced that he’d like them to settle there. Mirsada thought it was ridiculous to give up their home so close to work and move out to the sticks. She linked Petar’s desire to move to his distress over the political climate and expected him to soon change his mind. But when Petar grew more insistent—the house he’d found was so spacious, with such a large garden—she’d finally given in.

There were other ways in which he began acting strangely. He’d started calling Mirsada “Miza.”

“Why are you changing my name?” she asked one day.

“Miza’s short for Mirsada,” he said.

“No, it’s not.”

“What’s wrong with my calling you Miza?”

“There must be a reason for it. Has my being Muslim started bothering you?”

“Mirsada,” Petar protested, “you know me better than that. I just want to protect you.”

“Protect me from whom?”

“Don’t put me in a difficult position, Mirsada.”

“Protect me from whom?” she insisted. “If I’m in danger, I need to know.”

“I’m just taking precautions. Those damn racists won’t listen to reason. I’m not talking about our close friends or colleagues, of course. But in our new neighborhood, it might be better to introduce yourself as Miza.”

“What are you going to do about my surname?”

“You can use mine. It’s not like anybody’s going to ask for your ID.”

“So I’ll be Miza in the neighborhood and Mirsada at work?”

“Just so nobody bothers you, Mirsada.”

“And who are they, these people who would bother me?”

“Darling, Yugoslavia is changing fast. I have no way of knowing how people will be acting a few weeks or months from now. I’m not asking you to change your name. It’s your safety I’m worried about.”

“We’ve lived openly with our different backgrounds for years in this country. There’s never been a problem. Do you think people are going to change overnight just because a madman is taking the reins of government?”

“Nobody could have predicted that reasonable Germans would stand by as their Jewish neighbors were rounded up and exterminated. But when that madman came to power, everything changed, and reasonable people did nothing to stop it. They all tried to save their own skin first and foremost.”

“That’s very sensitive of you, but I’m prepared to resist to the end. Besides, since you brought up Germany, do you really think humanity would allow a new genocide? You’ve become paranoid.”

Though her words had been defiant, something started gnawing at Mirsada. Was Petar hiding anything from her? Was she ignorant of new developments in Belgrade? But she was too distracted by the move to brood on these and other questions, and they were both relaxed and happy as they picked out new furniture and gardening equipment. For a moment, Mirsada even regretted having turned down Petar’s proposal of marriage. But it was too late now. He was unlikely to propose again after she’d replied with such an unequivocal no. He’d never brought it up again, and Mirsada was too proud to tell him she had changed her mind.

Mirsada and Nimeta spoke on the phone several times a week. They’d been confiding in each other since childhood, and when they were unable to phone, they wrote long letters. This baring of their deepest secrets was a form of confession—and therapy. When Nimeta was in the clinic, Mirsada had called her every day and come to Sarajevo several times to see her friend. She did all she could to offer her support, even though Nimeta’s own mother was there.

Raziyanım had always resented Mirsada’s access to her daughter’s private world. Whenever anything bad happened to Nimeta, she tended to blame it on her best friend, and Mirsada knew this. In her eyes, Raziyanım was an oppressive, tyrannical mother who discouraged her daughter’s talents and narrowed her horizons, and Raziyanım knew this. And yet nobody could come between these two women, who had shared so much since childhood.

In her most recent letter to Nimeta, Mirsada had written, “I don’t know how everyone else celebrated Milošević’s victory, but Petar and I had quite a wild night. We were so worried about that Serbian madman, we drank ourselves silly. Some might have reached for the bottle to toast him, but we drank out of sheer terror. We must have visited every nightclub in Belgrad
e . . .
It was great while we were actually knocking it back—and, of course, afterward in bed together—but the next morning was a disaster. That was days ago, and I’m still feeling muddleheaded. You’re such a slip of a thing, how ever did you manage to put away so much plum brandy back in the day? Milos brought me the sweater and scarf you sent. Thanks, sweetie. You picked out the most beautiful color. I’m told you’ve put on some weight, cut your hair, and grown even prettier. Whatever you do, don’t go and fall in love again. At our age, it can only mean trouble.”

Nimeta folded the letter and put it in the drawer. Ah, to be in Mirsada’s shoes. She’d put an end to an unhappy marriage and gone off on her own. But when God had created the same opportunity for her, she’d chosen depression over a new life. Yes, she’d gained weight and cut her hair. But for whom? For what?