Sarajevo Under Siege. Ivana Macek

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       Preface

      In the summer of 1991, war broke out in the former Yugoslav Republic of Slovenia. On my television set in Uppsala, I watched tanks belonging to the former Yugoslav People’s Army (Jugoslavenska narodna armija [JNA]) tear up the lawns in the parks of the Slovenian capital, Ljubljana. I realized that something entirely beyond my comprehension was happening. I knew about wars in the past and in other parts of the world, but I had been taught that the Second World War was the last war there would ever be in Europe. Now, a new war was here. I did not know what it meant or what forms it would take, but I was sure that my understanding of the world would never be the same again.

      The next shock came at the end of the summer: the war started in Croatia. I listened to a Swedish radio reporter saying that the air raid alert had just been heard in Zagreb, my hometown. He sounded very agitated, reporting from his hotel room near the railway station. The streets were empty as far as he could see, peeking through his window despite the warning to keep away from the windows. Journalists were cautioned not to use cameras, as snipers could easily mistake them for weapons. On television, I saw young armed men in black and camouflage clothing, mixing military and civilian garb, with black bands around their heads. Someone called Crni Marko (“Black Marko”) was giving an interview to the Swedish television network. With an air of self-satisfaction, he identified himself as a unit leader in the new Croatian army and explained that they were fighting for the long-awaited sovereignty of Croatia and freedom from Serbian hegemony. At the end, with a wide grin, he sent greetings to all the lovely Swedish girls. It was strange to see these big Rambo-like boys standing there as representatives of my own people and country.

      I was even more deeply disturbed when I heard that one of my best friends had volunteered for the Croatian army. This young man had a genuine pacifist temperament. The year he did his obligatory military service he developed a nervous ulcer, not only because of the meaninglessness of his duties but also because he was an individualist who disliked any form of authoritarianism. He spoke four European languages, loved to travel, and relished mountain climbing, spelunking, and skiing in loose clothes which would flutter in the wind, giving him a sense of freedom. He had introduced me to Bob Dylan and Jimi Hendrix, Friedrich Nietzsche and Erich Fromm. I simply could not put these things together with what I had heard. I could not believe that he had turned into a Crni Marko.

      Like many young people in the former Yugoslavia, I had believed that conditions of life and work were better in the West than at home. Before the war, however, few had the opportunity to leave. I came to Sweden in 1990 СКАЧАТЬ