The story is not all happiness, however. In 2005 the remains of Hasib’s son were identified by the International Commission for Missing Persons, using DNA identification techniques, as one of those killed in the Srebrenica massacre. I attended the Srebrenica memorial service on 11 July that year when Hasib’s son was buried. Here is my diary entry for that day:
Before the ceremony I bumped into Hasib in the huge crowd. He told me that his son was amongst those to be buried today. He was trying to be stoic, as a man should, but his big round eyes filled with tears that wouldn’t keep back. And Fatima and Fadila, who were with him, were weeping uncontrollably
After the ceremony, I asked Darko [my interpreter] if he would go and ask Hasib and Fatima if they would mind if I came down and helped him fill in their son’s grave.* He came back and said that I would be very welcome. So, as the VIPs dispersed around us, we broke off and made our way across the mud, pressing through the vast crowds of mourners. Everywhere there were small groups standing by open graves waiting for the coffins to arrive. People were amazingly kind, stretching out and shaking my hand, asking for my photograph, and saying how much they wanted me to stay. One woman said that I was their Tito; please would I not go? Although another, a lawyer from Travnik, gruffly told me I should be doing more to catch war criminals.
We made our way down through the mud and the crowds to the end of the graveyard where Hasib’s son was to be buried. By now the coffins, each covered in green cloth [the Muslim colour of mourning], were arriving, passed from hand to hand in a long column over the crowd’s heads to the terrible shrieking and wailing of the women. When I came up to grave number 83, there was Hasib standing erect, his arms around Fatima, and Fadila, who were pressed against him as tight as wrecks cast up on a rock. As the coffins came, dancing on outstretched hands towards the little tableau, like frail green barques tossed on a sea of grief, I watched Hasib, his big brown face now broken with sorrow and streaming with tears, craning his neck for the first sight of coffin number 83, which would bear the remains of his beloved son to him at last. I thought of what he had told me the first time we had met; he had parted from his son there, at the corner of that field, Hasib had said, pointing. He had told the boy that he would go through the woods. His son had replied that he would take his chances with his friends and flee along the roads. They had then shaken hands, wished each other good luck and parted. Hasib had watched the boy until a bend in the track hid him from view and had replayed this last image in his mind a thousand times since. He had only come back to Sutjeska because he knew that, one day his son would walk over the hill and join him again in the place where they had parted. And now, instead of scanning the horizon for his son coming over the hill, he was searching for coffin number 83, which would bring him the last few shards of bone that were the only remains of his beloved boy.
As coffin 83 was born up to him, Hasib leapt into the grave, in Muslim fashion, to prepare the bed on which the coffin would lie and, with infinite gentleness, guided it as it was slowly lowered in. I moved towards the mound of earth to help the friends fill the grave, only to find Fadila already there, spade in hand. I gently took the spade from her (women aren’t supposed to do this), and started digging furiously to hide my tears. In due course someone came and took the spade from me so that they could take their turn at filling in the grave. I pressed past the mourners to put my arm around Hasib and mumble something unintelligible about there being no words to express my sorrow, and Jane’s too. He mumbled some reply between bitter tears.
As I looked back there was Fadila on top of the mound again. I was afraid she was going to throw herself into the grave, so I moved back towards her and, as I approached, she threw herself at me, crushing herself in my arms, and weeping uncontrollably as great waves of sorrow mixed with anger wracked her body. So, I confess, did I. I just cannot imagine what it must be like to have to bury your own kith and kin in such circumstances.
We made many, many good friends like Hasib in Bosnia.
But I made quite a lot of enemies, too. The Serbs mostly disliked me because they knew I was trying to build a state, and this meant reducing the powers of the state within a state which they had created in Republika Srpska. The Bosnian Muslims liked me for much the same reason, but they also disliked me because I refused to allow them to name Sarajevo International Airport, which represented all ethnicities in the country, after their wartime leader (and my friend) Alija Izetbegović. The Croats disliked me because they knew I would resist their attempts to create a breakaway mini-state in the south and because I removed their directly elected President when he was indicted for corruption. The crime kings and war-criminal-protection networks of Bosnia, of whatever ethnicity, all hated me because we mounted a determined attack on their structures and businesses.
Nevertheless, and despite many really frightening moments when I feared I had got it wrong, I am proud of the job we did in Bosnia. By and large, the Bosnian people showed incredible patience with my faults and unwavering generosity and hospitality to both Jane and I, and for this I am very grateful to them.
We also had some very good times and made many good friends. Here are some more of Jane’s emails home which give a flavour of our daily lives, our Bosnian friends and the rhythm of the Sarajevo seasons:
17 June 2002
Hi,
We really are now settled in. You can get everything here, except mango chutney (even Marmite and Branston Pickle).
Our home is now complete with curtains scrounged again from the Brits; they seem to have a cavern filled with things people may need. Anyway I now have their curtains, lengthened, shortened pulled and persuaded to hang at the windows. The weather is hot & sticky, but pleasant. We have a family of magpies in our garden. I think they will be the only ‘pets’ as yet. P is very well. Relaxed but working hard. I still have no wheels, which is frustrating, and have blisters from walking to market!!
23 March 2003
I am sitting at Paddy’s desk, overlooking the bowl of the city of Sarajevo. On the mountain opposite there is just a smidgin of snow lying. It has all gone very quickly this year, probably due to the fantastic weather we have been having in the last 2 weeks. The winter pallor seems to have left people’s faces, the tables & chairs have appeared on the streets, & people are now strolling around enjoying the warmth, sitting out drinking coffee – which is a really serious thing here, & can last for hours.
24 April 2003
Well, the gentle rain falleth from the heavens, now all we need is for a little bit of sun & warmth & we will be O.K. I am slightly encouraged today, as I found that some of the feverfew seeds I bought from home had germinated. Now I shall have a garden full of them!! This w.e. we are going to be able to plant the bottom bit of the garden at the house we have just purchased on the shores of Lake Jablanica about an hour from Sarajevo. I have decided to plant ground-covering roses & conifers. I’m also going to try to find some grass seed with wild flowers which I am told you can get, for the bottom of the garden, which is planted out with fruit saplings. Plums for svlivović, of course.
3 June 2003
The countryside is looking absolutely fabulous. The blossom received a kick in the teeth late in April, with a series of late frosts, which did no good to the poor fruit-growers in Herzegovina. But since then things have got greener, & what with the false acacia trees, of which there are many, the gorse & the 40 shades of green the countryside looks fantastic. The snows have melted on the mountains, & the lakes have all filled, nearly to their summer levels, & the rivers have swollen a good deal, with all the rain we’ve had.
21 September 2003
Life continues at a pace, Paddy is still herding Bosnian and international cats with a vengeance. Sometimes he looks so tired I want to weep, but nothing that a whisky & a good night’s sleep doesn’t put right.
Last evening we spent with friends in an orchard they own, overlooking Sarajevo. It was really lovely. I got there about 5, & Suzanne & I picked apples, o
f which they have 1,000’s. Then when Paddy arrived, about ½ hour later, we settled down to pre-barbeque gins & tonics, under the trees. Mirza, who owns the land with his 2 uncles & a cousin, has a workshop on the land, & the uncle lives in the small house. It’s quite a spread, right down to the big cemetery on the edge of the city. The uncle explained that the neighbours (the cemetery) were very good, quiet neighbours, & caused no problems!! Mirza was here through the war, caring for his sick mother, who has since died. He said most of his friends now live all over the world, as they left during the war, & he is rather warier of making new ones, as all they do is leave. He sounded sad & a bit lonely. His wife & child (daughter) went to UK & now still live in Cambridge. but that’s the way of it here.
21 October 2003
Dear Sally,
We woke up to snow, on the ground & falling from the heavens on Monday morning. I hate Mon. morn any way, but that made it worse. It fell nearly all day, but today (Wed) it’s nearly all gone, & it’s really lovely out, bit misty. The trees are something else. The colours are absolutely breathtaking. I felt like a small child with its first Christmas tree, with all the ohhs & ahhs!!
8 January 2004
We are back in Sarajevo, where we have heavy snow, & a temp. of minus 9!! All the cats are fluffed up, and determined to find a perch which gets their feet off the cold ground. Looking out on the white city, it seems hard to imagine the heat of summer. Bare trees with shivering birds in the tops of them, white roofs, & general grey & white. My poor little garden looks dead, but when you come I hope it will be full of roses! I’m off to Mostar with P tomorrow for a bit of an adventure. Actually I’d better not use that word to him, as I told him I’d had enough of adventures!!
Love from us both, Jane XX
29 January 2004
I will swop your sprinkle of snow for our large dump any day, though I can’t say P. will agree. It’s feeeeeeet deep on everything. Balancing in heaps like icing on trees, chimney pots, phone lines, & TV aerials. I do not like it one bit, though I have to confess it looks quite pretty!!!!
XXXXXXXXXXXX
8 February 2005
Hiya! Cold bloody greetings from Sarajevo, where the temperature is hovering around a cool minus 20!! Minus 25 last week! After about 10 mins outside you begin to realise just how bloody cold it is, as the cold intrudes between the seams of your clothes, & settles in the most unexpected of places! Hard to believe we were sweltering in 43 in the shade not 6 months ago. We have been back but a few days to the snowbound wastes (actually rather beautiful in the evening light, as long as you’re inside!) of Sarajevo, after a lovely break at home.
Jane and I were the first members of an international organisation to invest in the country, buying a house on the edge of the very beautiful Lake Jablanica outside Sarajevo, where we spent many weekends and where our children, grandchildren and friends came to visit us each summer. My other summer passion was walking on Bosnia’s incomparable mountains. Together with friends and with the help of a Bosnian mountain guide, Fikret Kahrović, I climbed all Bosnia’s highest peaks, as well as Durmitor, the highest mountain in neighbouring Montenegro.
In the winter we skied. Winter sports in Bosnia, the home of the 1984 winter Olympics, are rather more rugged than most pampered Alpine skiers would be prepared to accept. But it was good fun and challenging in equal measure, especially when combined with a long Bosnian lunch and a hefty helping of šlivović. Her Majesty’s Government decided at the start of my tour that I should have full-time protection while in Bosnia, and this was provided by a team of (usually eight) Royal Military Police, who came out for six months at a time. They went everywhere with me and even lived in our house, where they became, for Jane, a rotating collection of sons and daughters who joined our family every half year. They were outstandingly professional, and I grew to rely on them utterly. When it came to the winter team, however, they had to be able to ski, or learn very quickly indeed. This they did with variable success and some casualties along the way. During the 2004 winter season no fewer than three of them broke bones while skiing with me, and I was abruptly instructed by their headquarters that they were running out of replacements, and please would I be more careful with their soldiers in future.
Nor was their job unnecessary, for there were, I was informed, three death threats against me which the teams took seriously. One was apparently a contract let out to the Chechens for two million Euros – which I thought insultingly cheap, all things considered. The upshot, though, was that, when we came to leave after nearly four years, I was strongly advised that we should sell our beloved house on the lake; there would be no means of protecting it after we left, and it would be bound to be blown up or burnt. It broke our hearts to do this (and didn’t help the bank balance either, for we had to sell at a heavy loss) but there was no alternative.
Mostly, events in the outside world passed us by during my years in Bosnia. In part this was because my position as an international civil servant precluded me from getting involved in politics, but the main reason was that all my energies and all my focus were directed on my Bosnian mandate. There were two exceptions, though.
The first was the Iraq war, which placed me in a delicate situation in Sarajevo. My job was to hold together an international coalition upon which all the resources and all the support I needed to get things done in Bosnia depended. The problem was that this coalition (which included, of course, all the major European countries and the US) was deeply divided over the wisdom of launching an attack on Iraq. I decided that my duties to Bosnia had to come before my desire to make my views on the subject public, so I kept silent. But I did write a private letter to Tony Blair on the eve of the conflict, saying I thought he was right to go ahead. Supporting the Iraq war now looks like a major error of judgement on my part – and one not much diminished by the fact that, like most others, I believed what I had been told about weapons of mass destruction, nor by the excuse that the war phase of the Iraq intervention was actually a success. It was what happened afterwards which turned it all into a catastrophe.
With a few months to go before the end of my tour, the Liberal Democrats swam back into my life again, too. Jane and I had gone home to the UK for Christmas 2005, returning to Bosnia by car on the very day my son’s partner had our second granddaughter, Annie Rose, born on 30 December 2005.
While we were in the UK, there was much gossip and chatter about Charles Kennedy’s leadership. Back in Bosnia, on 5 January 2006 I was telephoned by my successor in Yeovil, David Laws, speaking, he said, on behalf of a number of MPs especially from the new intake after the 2001 elections. Things were becoming intolerable with Charles. If he did not stand down by the following Monday (i.e., in four days’ time), then David and twenty-two other key MPs would sign a public statement resigning from the front bench. They would then support Ming Campbell as the new Leader. Did I have any thoughts on this? I told David that I thought the timing was wrong – it would be mistaken by the Press and public as a panic reaction to the recent successes of David Cameron (by then elected leader of the Tories). Better to wait till later in the year. Moreover, I was not at all sure that this would be right for the Party, or for Ming. His age would be a real problem. I was, as he knew, a great Ming fan and had hoped he would stand when I had stood down. But the Press would now have a field day with his age, which would make it very tough for him, and probably uncomfortable for the Party too. It would be better, I suggested, to skip a generation and go for Nick Clegg. David replied that, if Nick stood then a number of the other younger MPs would stand as well, and this would lead to an unholy mess. They needed something clean, and Ming would make an excellent bridge to the next generation of younger MPs with ambitions (of which David made it clear, he was not one), giving them time to sort themselves out. I thought, but did not say, that this appeared to me to be a classic example of the old political adage that young Cardinals always vote for old Popes. ‘Bridge’ leaders hardly ever worked, I commented, unless they used the p
osition to make themselves permanent (like Mrs Thatcher), and Ming, for reasons of age, could not do this.
In the next few days it became clear that delaying was not an option, and Charles stood down as Lib Dem Leader very soon afterwards. On the day of Charles’s resignation, I spoke to Nick Clegg and told him that, if he stood, he would have my backing, adding that this was the one time in his life that he could lose without losing; he was young enough not to win without that damaging him, and, even if he lost, he would still have succeeded in marking the card, showing that he was ambitious for the job in the future. If he did not stand, however, then I would back Ming. Nick decided not to stand, for reasons I fully understood and which, with the benefit of hindsight, I think were probably right. (Though I do wonder whether, if he had stood, he might not have won – for in the end the contest between Ming and his opponent Chris Huhne was a very close one.)
After my conversation with Nick I rang Ming and offered him my support if he decided to stand, but warned that, for the reasons given above, I was not at all sure this was the best solution for the Party, and that it would be neither easy nor fun for him either.
As the end of my mandate in Bosnia approached, the international community made a determined attempt to persuade me to stay on (they had already persuaded me to extend my time in Bosnia twice, from two years to nearly four). By now, however, Jane was increasingly keen to get home, and I was certain that my effectiveness was decreasing, that I had done my best work and that it was time to hand over to someone else. But our international masters delayed and delayed about finding a replacement, so prolonging the final date for our departure. Once again, Jane’s emails illustrate our feelings as we drew closer to our departure date:
A Fortunate Life Page 48