Rose of Sarajevo

by Ayşe Kulin

  There was no sign of him among the journalists from Zagreb arriving at the hotel, and she didn’t dare ask anyone. In this overwhelmingly Albanian province, tens of thousands of Serbs had appeared out of nowhere, gathering in front of the cultural center where Milošević was scheduled to make a speech. It was as though they’d been lowered from the sky in baskets. The Serbs pressed against the door of the center, and police officers armed with truncheons tried to force them back in an attempt to protect Milošević from the boisterous crowd. There simply wasn’t enough room inside for a crowd of this size. As the police called for calm on their megaphones, stones began raining down on them from a truck parked in the street. While the officers attempted to respond to both the Serbs and the hail of stones, people began chanting, “Killers! Killers!” The doors to the center had been secured, and the members of the media were jammed into the lobby of the building, where they could hear the uproar outside but had no idea what was going on.

  After looking on for a time from his perch on the balcony above, Milošević came down and made the speech that would change the course of his life. At the first glimpse of him, the Serbs who had been chanting, “Killers! Killers!” at the police and government began chanting, “Slobo! Slobo!”

  The president had dispatched Milošević to Kosovo not to further inflame the Serbs but to placate them. Furthermore, there were no incidents of Serbs being beaten or anything of the sort. But Milošević already understood how far the winds of Kosovo Serbian nationalism could take him if properly harnessed. Ultimately, it didn’t matter that the words leaving Milošević’s mouth were a fabrication. It only mattered that they were designed to inflame.

  Nimeta was among the journalists packed into the lobby so tightly that they were in danger of suffocating. It was the speech being delivered by Milošević, however, that left them breathless and stunned. They could easily see where fiery rhetoric of this kind would take the already enraged Serbs.

  Ironically, even as Milošević was assuring the Serbs that “on these lands nobody can dare to mistreat you,” each and every Kosovo policeman on duty that day was being pummeled, stoned, and abused by Serbs.

  Not to be outdone by Milošević, other attendees at the rally delivered speeches, demanding that the autonomous status of Kosovo be revoked immediately, and leveled accusations against their Albanian leaders. A dramatic appeal for help was made to Belgrade by the ethnic Serbs speaking at the cultural center, and Serbs were said to be in mortal danger from their neighbors of Albanian descent. Even as the journalists on the ground floor of the cultural center fought for a glimpse through the windows of the events taking place outside, they had already heard enough to know that something momentous had happened.

  “This has gotten completely out of hand, Nimeta,” Mate said. “Let’s try to go up to the next floor and get some footage from the balcony.”

  “What? I can’t hear you!” Nimeta shouted.

  “Let’s go up one floor. I want to shoot from the balcony.”

  “You go first. I’ll follow.”

  Nimeta pushed her way through the crowd toward the stairs but couldn’t see Mate anywhere. Thinking that perhaps he’d taken the elevator, she pressed on. By the time she reached the stairs, she felt as though she’d been torn to pieces. The stairwell was relatively empty, and she took advantage of the reprieve to catch her breath. Someone came running down the stairs. Thinking it might be Mate, she craned her neck for a better view and found herself unable to breathe once again.

  “Nimeta!”

  “Stefan! What are you doing here?”

  “I’m a journalist, aren’t I?”

  “I thought you were in London.”

  “I came back two months ago.”

  “Two months ago?” The hurt in Nimeta’s voice was clear.

  “I didn’t call you because—”

  “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

  “I’m not explaining, I’m just saying I didn’t call you because—”

  “Stefan, I’m not interested in why.”

  “Aren’t we friends, Nimeta?”

  “We’ll always be friends.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Stefan said. “Are you all right now? Have you completely recovered?”

  “Recovered from what? Are you asking about the alcohol, the insomnia, or the depression?”

  “Was I so bad for you, Nimeta?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Stefan. Anything good comes with a steep price tag. I no longer have a drinking problem. I’m not depressed, and if I have trouble sleeping, I take a pill.”

  “I’m so happy you’re healthy again. Is your husband okay?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “And Hana?”

  “She’s fine too.”

  “How’s Fiko?”

  “Fiko’s fine . . . so is my mother. Mirsada, Ivan, and Sonya are all fine too. Even Bozo’s fine. Bozo’s our cat, remember?”

  Stefan hesitated as they descended the stairs, uncertain for a moment what to say next.

  “Do you want to go get something to eat after this horrible demonstration is over?”

  “How can you ask me that? Weren’t you the one who didn’t want to see me?”

  “A friendly drink in memory of old times . . .”

  “We’d better not, Stefan. The happiness of everyone at home, including the cat, depends on my staying away from you.”

  Stefan stopped two steps down and looked up at Nimeta. He reached out his arms and pulled her toward him. He rested his head against her stomach, and they remained like that for a moment.

  Then he slowly said, “I understand. Good-bye, Nimeta.”

  He raced down the stairs and was gone.

  Nimeta sank down on the step, too weak to continue climbing them. Whenever these damn Serbs go on a rampage, a storm also breaks out inside me, she thought to herself. The wound in her heart started seeping blood again.

  A week later, as she was preparing the following day’s program in the newsroom, Milos called over to her from his desk. “Nimeta, your call’s been mistakenly put through to me. They’re calling from Zagreb.”

  Nimeta went weak at the knees. Struggling to control her voice, she asked, “Who is it?”

  “I have no idea. I’ve put it through to you.”

  Nimeta let the phone ring a few times as she composed herself. Then she reached over and picked up.

  “Hello.”

  “Nimeta, it’s me, Stefan.”

  The quaver in her voice got the best of her. “Ah, how are you, Stefan?”

  “I wanted to share some information with you.”

  “What information?”

  “It’s about Milošević’s speech in Kosovo.”

  Nimeta sat upright on her chair. “I’m listening.”

  “I don’t want to bother you, but I thought you’d want to hear this.”

  “Go on.”

  “That speech we all thought he’d ad-libbed . . . Everything had been planned four or five days before, Nimeta, from the crowd and the truck full of stones to the assaults on the police force. The whole thing was carefully orchestrated ahead of time, Nimeta.”

  “Who . . . who planned it?”

  “Milošević, of course. Who do you think benefited most from the events of that day? I just wanted to let you know. You can use this information any way you choose. If they ask for a source, say it’s from Belgrade. I can vouch that it’s trustworthy.”

  “Thanks, Stefan,” Nimeta said. “I’ll talk to Ivan.”

  “Good-bye. If I come across anything else juicy, I’ll let you know,” Stefan said.

  After she hung up, Nimeta felt a twinge of disappointment. He’d addressed her as he would any colleague. She lit a cigarette and waited until she’d smoked it all. Then she went to Ivan’s office.

  “A report
er friend of mine just passed on some information from Belgrade that he heard on the grapevine,” she said to Ivan.

  “What is it? And why’d he tell you?” Ivan asked.

  “I’ll tell you what he said. As for why, let’s just say he owes me one,” Nimeta replied.

  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 Pavlović . . . 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?”