A Mighty Purpose

by Adam Fifield

  In one room they saw a little girl with trichinosis. Maybe two years old, she sat by herself in a metal crib, wailing and hiding her face with a blanket. She wore pink tights and, for some reason, was tethered to the side of the crib. A nurse told them that the hospital didn’t have enough drugs for cases like hers. Trichinosis can normally be treated, but if it is not, it can be fatal.

  In the oncology ward, they met a small, frail, bald boy who had leukemia. He was drinking out of a tin cup. Hospital staff explained that without electricity, the boy could no longer receive treatment and that his life was in immediate danger. Grant stood there listening, his eyes blinking rapidly, as the boy’s condition was described.

  The group was led to a small lobby area where young orphans were camped out on chairs surrounding a small, low, round table, eating a breakfast of jam and bread. They were in their pajamas, smiling and giggling—like kids anywhere. One girl wore a pink bathrobe. One little boy had on a purple sleeper. A doting, smiling nurse sat and chatted with them. Despite their jovial appearance, these children were deeply traumatized, the group learned. Their parents were gone. They cried themselves to sleep every night.

  Outside, returning to the armored personnel carrier, an unsmiling Grant was handed a flak jacket. He hoisted it on with a grunt. Then he said, “I’m looking forward to the day when we no longer need these.”

  Their next stop was a meeting with the people who were causing the misery they had just witnessed.

  The man most responsible for the atrocities in Sarajevo—the bushy-maned, double-chinned psychiatrist turned rabid Serbian nationalist, Radovan Karadžić—was not available to meet Grant. But Grant could, he was told, have an audience with Karadžić’s deputy, a woman known as Serbia’s Iron Lady. Biljana Plavšić was a biologist and former professor at Sarajevo University. She also happened to be an enthusiastic supporter of “ethnic cleansing” and reportedly harbored views so extreme as to even unsettle Milošević. After the Dayton peace accords in 1995, Plavšić would become president of the Bosnian Serb Republic and would later plead guilty to crimes against humanity at the International Criminal Court in The Hague (she would receive an outrageously light sentence of eleven years, probably less than the punishment for stealing a bike in some countries).

  They sat on a patio in an elaborate alpine resort that had helped play host to the 1984 Olympic Winter Games a mere eight years before. It was a bright, crisp, cold morning in Pale, the Serbs’ mountain headquarters. The view was dramatic and tranquil—green, snowless ski slopes meandered amid rows of tall, serrated evergreen trees. If not for the circumstances, it would have been a moment of respite in the rejuvenating mountain air.

  Turkish coffee was served in small white cups with red stripes. They gathered around a skinny wooden table that was barely wide enough to hold the cups and saucers. Rohde, Court, and most others, including two of Plavšić’s aides, sat on a long bench. The haughty military leader sat with her guest, Jim Grant, on pillows on the edge of a stone wall opposite the bench. On the other side of the wall was a drop of maybe six feet.

  Wearing red lipstick, a voluminous whorl of hair, and big sunglasses, Plavšić looked like a fussy, wealthy, high-maintenance eccentric—she did not look like a genocidal killer. Grant, who wore his trademark blue suit and a tie with little hearts on it, made an apparent attempt at small talk. He told her he had recently visited Somalia (another placed gripped by gruesome violence and famine). Her demeanor was cordial. She spoke English fluently and did not need an interpreter.

  Then, says Court, ensued “a ninety-minute discussion between Plavšić and Grant, and I have never seen the like.” Grant leaned forward and focused so intently on his host, “it was like Jon and I weren’t there,” Court adds.

  When Plavšić began spewing bigoted bile, she spoke calmly. She did not yell or rant. She sipped coffee all the while.

  She started telling Grant how dreadful the Muslims were, how they were completely undermining the Serbian way of life.

  “They are like vermin,” she announced. “And they need to be exterminated.”

  As if any UN official would ever agree with such a disgusting statement. She may not have been seeking his agreement; she may have been trying to rile him up, goad him into a confrontation. She went on verbally savaging Muslims, but Grant didn’t bite—he knew that wouldn’t achieve anything. It would do no good to tell her that she was a repellent troll. He just listened.

  His objective was threefold: get her to stop shelling the hospital (she was the one directing fire into Sarajevo), persuade her to restore electricity and water in Sarajevo, and win her support for his proposed week of tranquillity.

  Rohde recalls that Grant did gently jab her, telling her that whatever policy the Serbs were following—whatever was happening down there in Sarajevo—there was simply no excuse for targeting children. He likely smiled as he said this, making sure that he sounded friendly, that his voice had no edge.

  Grant also made a quick reference to Plavšić’s boss, Radovan Karadžić, according to Rohde. Karadžić was a psychiatrist, which means he was a medical doctor. Grant told Plavšić that he didn’t see how a doctor—how someone bound by the Hippocratic oath—could ever put children in harm’s way.

  None of these statements seemed to sway a woman who, says Rohde, “could have bit nails and chewed them and spit them out.”

  What did sway her, says Court, was a question repeatedly posed by Grant: What would it take?

  What would it take for you to stop shelling the hospital? What would it take for you to stop shooting the linemen repairing electrical lines? What would it take for you to restore gas and electricity?

  In answer to the first version of the question, she said that the Muslims should stop using the hospital grounds for firing mortars at the Serbs (the mortar bombs may have been coming from a schoolyard next to the hospital). Based on that complaint, says Court, a rough deal was sketched out. The back-and-forth went something like this:

  “They need to take those mortars away,” she said emphatically. “Can you make sure those mortars leave?”

  Grant pressed her: “Will that stop you shelling the hospital?”

  “Yes.”

  Grant swiveled to Court. “You’ll take care of this when you get back to Sarajevo, won’t you, Alan?”

  Court said he would.

  Then he pivoted back toward Plavšić. “And then you’ll stop immediately?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you won’t fire on the hospital, unless you’re fired at from the hospital?”

  “Yes.”

  They went through the same process of affirmation and reaffirmation on the other issues, with Grant carefully extracting yeses. He also secured her support for the week of tranquillity.

  Reflecting on the exchange now, Court still marvels at how Grant toppled her obstinacy. “It was amazing,” he says. “It was a master class in how you take somebody whose position is diametrically opposed to yours and find common ground … it was really finding the quid pro quo, the tit for tat.”

  Within a week, Court persuaded the Bosnian forces to stop shooting mortars from the hospital vicinity. And in turn, he says, the Serbs stopped shelling the hospital. But the resulting peace would not last long. The hospital would eventually again come under fire.

  “A real dour son of a bitch.”

  That’s how Alan Court describes Slobodan Milošević. After traveling to the Serbian capital, Belgrade, Grant and his delegation met the president in a large, ornate, ostensibly ancient room. Twenty people arrayed themselves around a massive table. At the head of it, like a statue—like a part of the room itself—brooded a man who had brought death to scores of innocents. He was stiff, blank-faced. Completely unreadable. What Rohde recalls most vividly was “the huge head this guy had.”

  The dynamics of the meeting were not favorable to Grant. He liked one-on-ones. He liked being able to lean toward a person, reel them in with his eyes, feel out their weak points. Bu
t Milošević was too far away. And he was surrounded by his stone-faced sentries.

  “The whole meeting was tense in a way I don’t know how to describe,” says Court. “You came out of that meeting glad you were out of it.”

  They communicated through interpreters. Milošević said that Yugoslavia must remain united. It is a shame, he said, what is happening. For too long, he lamented, the Serbs have been under the yoke of the Croats. He said that Marshal Tito, the Communist founder of post–World War II Yugoslavia, was a Croat (Tito’s father was from Croatia, but his mother was from Slovenia). Now, Milošević added, it is time to assert our national identity.

  But the Serbian president wasn’t speaking to Grant. It didn’t seem to matter who sat across from him. “Milošević was talking to the air,” says Court. “Talking to an audience.”

  Grant made a straightforward appeal. He told Milošević that his influence in Bosnia and his backing would be critical to the week of tranquillity. He explained what he had in mind—the principle of “not firing first.”

  “We want to help children get through the winter,” Grant said earnestly. “We need to get clothes and food to them.”

  He made sure to clarify: “This is all children.”

  Appealing to Milošević’s quietly fulminating ego, he lacquered on some flattery. He praised the Serbs for how they were handling refugees from Bosnia. (“Most of the refugees were probably Serbian,” notes Court, “but that didn’t matter—the point was, they were refugees.”)

  On behalf of the UN, he thanked the Serbs for taking care of refugees. Noting that the Serbs had integrated some refugees into towns and villages, rather than building big camps, he lauded their “excellent processing.” (Praising the Serb leaders must have put a knot in his gut; but Grant would say what he had to say.)

  When Grant finished, Court recalls that Milošević may have nodded once—just once. He then said simply: “We will support this.”

  Whether he could be trusted—whether his brusque assurance meant anything at all—was a big gamble.

  Back at the hotel in Zagreb, Croatia, where they were all staying, Court went to Grant’s room around one in the morning. He needed to discuss travel plans—Grant was due in Geneva the next day. He knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” Grant hollered. “I’m in the bathroom.”

  Court made his way to the bathroom. Jim Grant was standing there in a T-shirt and boxers. He was washing his blue suit in a big, broad sink. Most people would probably have asked a guest to come back in a few minutes while they got dressed. But Jim Grant was not like most people.

  He began to talk about his plans for the next day in Geneva. Grant had already secured support for the week of tranquillity from all relevant leaders in the region, including the presidents of Croatia and Montenegro. Now he had two more people to convince: both of them high-level UN officials.

  He asked Court to go with him to Geneva. He wanted all the help he could get.

  “Well, how will I get back?” Court asked.

  “We’ll figure that out.” Grant said.

  At the Palais des Nations, the UN’s sprawling compound near Lake Geneva, Grant and Court strode the halls until they came to Sadako Ogata’s office. Ogata was the United Nations high commissioner for refugees. She was also a friend of Jim Grant’s. Without her, in fact, he may have never gotten his job. The soft-spoken Japanese diplomat and academic had chaired the UNICEF board when Grant’s nomination was up for consideration and helped break a political logjam that had stood in the way. They walked into Ogata’s office. Court recounts the series of events that followed.

  “Sadako! How are you, my old friend?”

  “Jim, so nice to see you!”

  Grant sat down. “Sadako,” he said. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I’m trying to push for this week of tranquillity for the first of November, and I’m wondering if I can get your support.”

  Ogata, wearing a green suit and pearl necklace, said she had already heard about it from her staff in Sarajevo. “It’s a good idea,” she said.

  Grant must have known he already had her imprimatur in the bag. She didn’t take any convincing. Then he asked for a second favor.

  “I’m going to see Cyrus now and present this to him … why don’t you come with me?”

  Cyrus Vance was the secretary general’s special envoy to Bosnia-Herzegovina. The former US secretary of state under President Jimmy Carter, he had also served in the Kennedy administration at the same time Grant had.

  “No,” Ogata said. “Jim, this is your idea. You go.”

  “No, Sadako,” Grant quickly shot back. “I think it’s better if it’s our idea. Your people are doing such great work on the ground,” he continued. “It’s absolutely fabulous what your people are doing. You’re keeping the thing going completely for the UN. I think we should do this together.”

  She demurred, but Grant wore her down. As Court recalls, he looked at her, his face at an angle—a slight, sidelong expression that conveyed a naked, heartfelt certainty and was somehow more potent than a straight-on stare.

  “You must come, Sadako,” he said. “Let’s do this together.”

  She gave in. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  They marched to Cyrus Vance’s office.

  When they burst in, Vance was behind his desk, piles of paper all around him. His discerning eyes floated over the rim of his half-glasses, measuring the clutch of people in his doorway. His hair was white, and his ears stuck out as noticeably as Grant’s.

  “Uh-oh,” he said. “What have you guys cooked up?”

  Grant spoke first. “Sadako, why don’t you tell him?

  “No, Jim,” she said quickly. “It’s your idea.”

  “Sadako, you’re really behind this,” Grant lied. “You tell Cyrus. I’ll fill in later.”

  Put completely on the spot, Ogata began to explain the concept of the week of tranquillity to Vance. Grant said nothing.

  Vance leaned back and took off his glasses. “You know, you guys have got something cooked up here,” he said. “What can I do? I can only support you.”

  Later, walking in the hallway, Court asked why Grant had let Ogata pitch Vance. “Why didn’t you do it?”

  “You know,” Grant said. “We’re all good at trumpeting our own ideas, but it sounds so much better when other people do it for us.”

  Ogata had helped provide a facade of consensus. If he had walked into Vance’s office alone, his idea would not have seemed as urgent or as good. How could Vance say no to both of them—especially when they both appeared so enthusiastic?

  After days of meetings with politicians and murderers and diplomats, the week of tranquillity was a go.

  One of the men Grant had been unable to meet—one of the worst killers of all—bumped into him in a corridor at the Palais des Nations. Radovan Karadžić, a burly, six-foot-four-inch behemoth with the girth of a walrus, greeted Grant with a wide smile.

  But Grant was not smiling. In a photo of the encounter, Grant looks uncharacteristically stunned, stricken, as though he had found himself exchanging pleasantries with the mass murderer Jeffrey Dahmer (Karadžić was way worse, judged by body count). The two men stood side by side, posing for the camera. Karadžić, in his vast, loose gray suit, was grinning over the swell of his double chin. Grant’s face was clenched, as if saying, Please, just take the damn picture already.

  Grant was usually careful not to disparage leaders he met, even those who were unquestionably brutal and corrupt. But he made an exception for Karadžić. He told Mary Cahill that he refused to shake the man’s hand (though, in one photo, Karadžić appears to be gripping Grant’s hand; it’s unclear if Grant is willingly reciprocating, but it’s also hard to imagine the UNICEF chief would risk alienating someone who could torpedo his “week of tranquillity”). Cahill also heard her boss openly express his disgust for Sudan’s Omar al-Bashir, calling him a “bastard.” “We have to work with these bastards,” he said of Kara
džić and other Serbian leaders, his voice taut with contempt. “We have to go above them, around them, or beneath them—but we have to work with them.”

  The day before the week of tranquillity was set to begin, Serbian bombardment killed as many as twenty-nine people in Sarajevo and wounded as many as 119. Not a promising start. Bosnia would indeed be more daunting than El Salvador or Sudan.

  Would the violence really cease within the next twenty-four hours? Could the Serbs be trusted to keep their word?

  Not on the first day, no. As the deadline on Sunday, November 1, came and went, the sound of gunshots and shells delivered a mocking rebuke. The fighting flared unabated. Not only that—the convoy Grant was leading from Belgrade to Sarajevo got lost. “They managed to get drivers who didn’t know the way to Sarajevo,” Court recalls. “They kept driving west. They would have driven straight into Croatia” if others hadn’t intervened and altered their course.

  This was more of a PR debacle than a humanitarian headache. The convoy was largely symbolic—“the show part of it,” says Court. Most of the relief—clothes, blankets, vaccines, and medicines—was distributed separately. Once he arrived in Sarajevo, Grant opened a children’s art exhibit at a cultural center; during the event, gunshots rang out next door.

  Grant was annoyed and disappointed. He complained to Court: “I thought we were going to stop this.”

  “Patience, Jim,” Court said. “We will.”

  And later that day, says Court, they did stop the shooting.

  Another snafu snarled part of the delivery in Sarajevo: a minister from the Muslim-led government initially rejected the winter clothing because it was manufactured in Serbia. He said it was insensitive and insulting to hand out Serbian goods to Muslim children. In the end, the goods were accepted.