Balkans Journal

<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0><tr> <td valign="top" rowspan="2" width=210 BGCOLOR="#C0C0C0" TEXT="#080000"> <div> <B>Adventures in the mire of the Balkans -- from Kosovo to Bosnia, with a bit of Lady Di thrown in to grab a few more eyeballs to this page...</B></div> </td> <td valign="top" colspan=2 height=82 BGCOLOR="#C0C0C0" TEXT="#080000"> <div> <FONT SIZE="5" COLOR="#000000" FACE="Copperplate Gothic Bold" ><B>Hanson Hosein's Self-Center</B></FONT><FONT SIZE="2" COLOR="#336699" FACE="Copperplate Gothic Bold" ><B> </B></FONT><FONT SIZE="2" COLOR="#336699" FACE="Times New Roman" ><B>  </B></FONT><B>  </B><B>|</B><B>    </B><FONT SIZE="2" COLOR="#000000" FACE="News Gothic MT" ><B> </B><A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Hanson Hoseins SelfCenter"><U><B>home</B></U></A></FONT></div> <div> <A HREF="id40.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Two Weeks in India 1997"><U>Two Weeks in India 1997</U></A>   |   <B>Balkans Journal</B>   |   <A HREF="id98.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="NYC"><U>NYC</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id70.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="A Month of Sundays"><U>A Month of Sundays</U></A>   |   <A HREF="summer_in_montreal.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Montreal"><U>Montreal</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id36.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Middle East Journal"><U>Middle East Journal</U></A>   |   <A HREF="oregon_tourism.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Oregon"><U>Oregon</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id100.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Montana"><U>Montana</U></A>   |   <A HREF="id108.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Road Trip"><U>Road Trip</U></A></div> <div> </div> </td> </tr><tr> <td valign="top" height=398 colspan=2 BGCOLOR="#C0C0C0" TEXT="#080000"> <div> <B>Balkans Journal</B></div> <div> KOSOVO JOURNAL 1999</div> <bR> <div> March 31, 1999</div> <bR> <div> Driving back from an interview in southern Macedonia right now, I look out the</div> <div> window of our van. It looks like Switzerland: snow-capped mountains, pristine</div> <div> lakes, winding single-lane roads. But it's not, and I'm in the Balkans, and</div> <div> the horrific theater unfolding very close to me continues to remind me of that</div> <div> fact.</div> <bR> <div> How to describe my state of mind after seven days of chaos on the ground since</div> <div> the NATO bombing began? Let's see: I'm exhausted, overwhelmed, nervous,</div> <div> appalled, and wondering if this world has anything to do with the world that I</div> <div> thought that I came from. More metaphorically, when I got up yesterday</div> <div> morning to log in to my computer after four hours of sleep, I saw a small bird</div> <div> perch on the balcony outside of my hotel room. It was fairly close to the</div> <div> antenna of my satellite phone (which looks like an open laptop computer). My</div> <div> first thought was not, 'that's nice, a bird has come to visit me this</div> <div> morning.' It was more like, 'hmmm, I wonder if that creature will be fried by</div> <div> whatever radiation is emanating from that antenna?" Not a positive</div> <div> development in my psychological evolution.</div> <bR> <div> Before coming here, I had just spend an enjoyable four days in Cairo covering</div> <div> the around-the-world balloon landing. Hard work for sure, but it's Egypt, and</div> <div> we got to do a few live shots from the Pyramids, so who could complain? As we</div> <div> were set to take off from the airport to return to Israel, we got a phone call</div> <div> from the NBC Foreign Desk: head to Brussels, NATO was about to attack.</div> <bR> <div> Now Brussels sounded like a good assignment. It had good food, a European</div> <div> dateline, not too much work, and a few of my close friends live there. But by</div> <div> the time we landed at Ben Gurion airport, Brussels had changed to Macedonia,</div> <div> and an easy four hour direct flight had become a nightmarish Tel Aviv-Istanbul-</div> <div> Vienna-Skopje marathon, without guarantee of a hotel room. My stomach</div> <div> dropped. I knew almost immediately that my plans to spend Easter in Turkey</div> <div> had suddenly been cruise missiled, courtesy of NATO.</div> <bR> <div> And what a trip this has been. Upon arrival in Skopje, an attractive small</div> <div> city with a post-Communist world architectural hangover, we entered into the</div> <div> maelstrom of the lobby of the Alexander Palace Hotel -- replete with scores of</div> <div> journalists and international observers. Luckily, our room reservations had</div> <div> held, but Jeff the cameraman and Dubi the soundman were forced to share a</div> <div> bedroom, as Martin and I occupied the "Royal Suite." It was the only room</div> <div> left, but it suited us fine, since we could also turn it into the NBC office.</div> <div> Other journalists were not so lucky, and were forced to go look elsewhere for</div> <div> a place to sleep. I had a gut feeling that if we did not play our cards</div> <div> right, we could be out on the streets as well (the hotel could not guarantee us</div> <div> our rooms beyond the following night), so I decided to ingratiate myself with</div> <div> the wheeler-dealer hotel staff behind the reception desk who knew a gold mine -</div> <div> - a mass of desperate, well-funded foreign reporters -- when they saw it. My</div> <div> charm-laden approach, which included renting mobile phones from a couple of</div> <div> them (at fairly high prices), would serve me well in the days to come as other</div> <div> news organizations lost their rooms, but we were able to hang on to ours, and</div> <div> in fact, get more whenever we wanted them as more NBC personnel arrived. Maybe</div> <div> the Middle East has rubbed off on me.</div> <bR> <div> It's without any trace of modesty that I must say that I now consider myself</div> <div> the King of Skopje Town -- able to procure anything I want, anytime I want. I</div> <div> had to grown into that role. For the first time, not only was I editorially in</div> <div> charge of this operation, but I had to manage the logistics. That meant paying</div> <div> for the hotel, hiring drivers, finding a local "fixer" (a local journalist) who</div> <div> could help us with the language and the story, locate a site for the incoming</div> <div> NBC satellite dish, and arrange transportation for another team that was going</div> <div> to arrive in two days, via Bulgaria (our flight was the last one to arrive at</div> <div> Skopje Airport before they shut it down once the bombing of Yugoslavia began). </div> <div> I had no idea where to begin, and I had relatively little cash on me ($6,000),</div> <div> which also meant that I would have to find a respectable bank so that NBC in</div> <div> London could wire me additional funds (at least $20,000). Overnight, I had</div> <div> become the manager of a small, unruly enterprise.</div> <bR> <div> But manage I did. I lucked out by hiring the best fixer in town. Sasha is</div> <div> actually the true King of Skopje. He knows everyone he passes on the street. </div> <div> He got us a license for our satellite dish from the Interior Ministry in</div> <div> thirty minutes flat. While other journalists were held back by the police, he</div> <div> helped us get right up to the border crossing as the refugees entered. Thanks</div> <div> to him, all the other pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place.</div> <bR> <div> And yes, it was hard not to forget that there was a monumental news story</div> <div> going on as the refugees from Kosovo began to come into Macedonia. No matter</div> <div> how miserable I was, burdened by my responsibilities and stress, nothing could</div> <div> compare to what these families had seen, and given up by quickly packing a bag</div> <div> (if they had the time) and running for the border. </div> <bR> <div> After our hotel was attacked last week by Serb protestors, I began to think </div> <div> that it would be a good idea for me to keep a bag packed at all times as well </div> <div> if I was ever forced to flee, should the situation turn nasty (as it had in </div> <div> Pristina when journalists were forcibly expelled). But since then, things have </div> <div> remained calm here, and Macedonians have been exceptionally hospitable. The </div> <div> question does remain however: how long will this continue, and how long will I </div> <div> be here?</div> <bR> <bR> <div> AIRLIFT, by Hanson R. Hosein, NBC News</div> <bR> <div> APRIL 6: SKOPJE, MACEDONIA</div> <div> A woman sits at the table, writing down names, as a throng of weary refugees </div> <div> file by her. She's wearing a blue uniform, supplemented by a surgical mask and </div> <div> latex gloves. Meanwhile, a Macedonian official briefs the press. The Kosovar </div> <div> Albanians now arriving at Skopje Airport are being flown out to Turkey within </div> <div> an hour. Except, they have not been told where they are being taken, and the </div> <div> Macedonians would prefer it if we, the press, would hold our peace as well.</div> <bR> <div> "Germany, Germany," one young man tells me, before he is shuttled out by bus to </div> <div> the airplane. That's what he's been told that his ultimate destination will </div> <div> be. What will happen once the aircraft door opens and he steps out onto the </div> <div> runway of the airport in Istanbul?</div> <bR> <div> There is no way to finesse it. These people -- many of whom had just spent a </div> <div> harrowing few days in "No Man's Land" on the Macedonian border -- are being </div> <div> deported, from a country that can no longer absorb them.</div> <bR> <div> The Macedonian airlift strategy appears to be to disclose as little information </div> <div> as possible to the refugees. It's a policy that comes from painful experience. </div> <div> Monday, eleven planes bearing over 1,400 refugees took off for Turkey. But it </div> <div> did not take place without a struggle as a few Albanians resisted, fighting </div> <div> with policemen, trying to flee. They did not want to be dragged even further </div> <div> away from their homes in Kosovo.</div> <bR> <div> But today, the Macedonian veil of silence did not quite succeed. Once the </div> <div> refugees boarded the first airplane, they discovered that they were headed for </div> <div> Turkey. Sources told us that they staged a near mutiny. And yet, ten minutes </div> <div> later, the plane is still able to take off. Before the end of the day, another </div> <div> 700 people will have been shipped eastwards, many of them oblivious to their </div> <div> destination point until it is too late to do anything about it.</div> <bR> <div> In the chaotic rush to get these unwanted people off Macedonian soil, families </div> <div> are torn apart. One woman marches compliantly by us, and still manages to </div> <div> explain that she has no idea where her husband is. Perhaps he's still in No </div> <div> Man's Land, perhaps in a NATO refugee camp. Another woman screams and cries at </div> <div> an airport official, imploring him to find some of her children, who somehow, </div> <div> have been left behind.</div> <bR> <div> The Macedonians are stoic and forceful, but not violent. No show of force </div> <div> seems to be needed here to get the refugees on the airplanes. </div> <bR> <div> Despite this sad scene, there are still moments of grace. A recently arrived </div> <div> Israeli medical unit looks on in mute astonishment as the refugees are herded </div> <div> out onto the tarmac. Although they are busy unpacking their supplies from the </div> <div> supply planes, ones Israeli doctor manages to find the time to wander over to </div> <div> the waiting refugees and hand over the remnants of a box of mineral water to a </div> <div> few women and children. He does not have many bottles left, but it is a </div> <div> touching gesture.</div> <bR> <div> And there are the few refugees who try to have the last, silent, word before </div> <div> they step into the plane. Two children wave cheerfully at the press and flash </div> <div> the "V" for "victory" sign. More poignantly, a tearful woman looks directly </div> <div> down at us and crosses her wrists -- a powerful statement that says she is </div> <div> going against her will. And then, she disappears.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> A VOICE IN THE CROWD, MAY 7, 1999</div> <bR> <div> The Queen of England has got nothing on me. I have perfected the stiff wrist</div> <div> wave as I acknowledge the cheerful and sincere salutations of my young</div> <div> subjects who reside inside Stenkovec refugee camp in Macedonia.</div> <bR> <div> "Hello, hello!" they cry out in their make-you-melt childish-pitched voices as</div> <div> I drive by on the dirt road, past their tents. They smile. They run after the</div> <div> van. They're not asking for anything, there's no malice in their voices or</div> <div> false intent. In the daily drudgery of life inside a refugee camp, these</div> <div> Kosovar children just seem to enjoy being friendly to strangers.</div> <bR> <div> If this were India, or New York City, I would not recognize their existence,</div> <div> afraid that eye contact would commit me to some scheme or sale, the inevitable</div> <div> conversation with a catch.</div> <bR> <div> But here, what price a wave in return? Nothing. It's free. I wave back,</div> <div> whenever I can, to as many children as I can. And they look on, and smile,</div> <div> pleased that a big person wants to play their game. It's almost as if the</div> <div> entire under-twelve population of the camp -- thousands of children -- held a</div> <div> must-attend meeting upon their arrival and decided that they would learn how</div> <div> to greet soldiers, journalists, and humanitarian workers in English.</div> <bR> <div> And so it is here that I must admit the following perverse pleasure. Despite</div> <div> the horror of what these children -- and their parents -- have witnessed,</div> <div> despite the hardship they survived in their escape from Kosovo, and despite</div> <div> the barely humane living conditions they have endured as refugees, they have</div> <div> somehow managed to render the time that I spend with them...enjoyable.</div> <bR> <div> Dozens of people gather around us when we are shooting interviews in the camp.</div> <div> But they're just curious. No one interrupts, no one asks us for money, no one</div> <div> complains. Surrounding a well-fed, prosperous, foreigner staying in a four-</div> <div> star hotel, they don't make an effort to make me feel self-conscious about my</div> <div> fortunate lot in life, or the fact that I am mining them for their stories</div> <div> of misery.</div> <bR> <div> But it's more than how they make me feel. There is a quiet dignity here --</div> <div> unlikely anything I have ever experienced. An odor permeates the camp, but</div> <div> it is not a stench. People try to stay clean: they do their laundry, wash</div> <div> their shoes, shave. Inside the tents, the floors are lined with blankets,</div> <div> scarce belongings put to one side.</div> <bR> <div> The Aliou family invites me for coffee. I decide it would be rude not to</div> <div> accept, so I do. Thirty people live inside their tent, but it is still cozy,</div> <div> comfortable, and clean. I take off my shoes outside, they plead with me not to</div> <div> do so, even though all of their footwear is neatly lined up at the entrance to</div> <div> the tent. Mrs. Aliou serves me. The small plastic cup is spotless, the</div> <div> coffee is strong and hot. In passing, she tells me that her family was eating</div> <div> dinner at home when the Serbs came to chase them out. She wonders whether the</div> <div> food is still on the table, waiting for them. She doesn't dwell on that, or</div> <div> the fact that her father died in Pristina two weeks ago -- of unknown causes.</div> <div> Her eighteen-year-old daughter cries softly and often, but I don't dare ask</div> <div> why. Mr. Aliou says it's because she hurt her foot as they fled the Serbs.</div> <bR> <div> The Dalipis have known me for no longer than three minutes, but they're</div> <div> already showing me photographs of their sons who live in the United States,</div> <div> and offering me cookies. They speak calmly to me, unashamed and honestly. </div> <div> They used to own a mini-market in Kosovo, their young son Halil narrowly</div> <div> escaped death when a bullet nearly hit him as they left their house for the</div> <div> last time, they are very proud of what their other sons have been able to</div> <div> achieve in North America. I buy Halil a Toblerone chocolate bar from a newly </div> <div> erected snack bar near the camp's entrance (at a price that most refugees can </div> <div> hardly afford). He breaks off a quarter of it and immediately tries to give it </div> <div> to me. I politely refuse.</div> <bR> <div> An elderly woman asks me, apologetically, if she can borrow my cellphone. </div> <div> Here in the camp, the ability to let loved ones on the outside know that one</div> <div> is safe is almost as crucial as food and shelter. I pass it to her, she gives</div> <div> it wordlessly to her husband who begins to dial a German telephone number</div> <div> neatly written on a scrap of paper. The woman begins to cry, unable to</div> <div> believe that they are finally able to tell someone that they are alive and out</div> <div> of Kosovo. Her husband passes her the phone to say a few words, she can't.</div> <div> Afterwards, she holds my hand and thanks me in Albanian -- smiling.</div> <bR> <div> Tonight, as I drove away from the dusty, overcrowded camp, how could I not help</div> <div> but be amazed that even in the darkest of hours, the occasional flicker of </div> <div> decency and grace can still break through.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> KUKES, ALBANIA: June 7, 1999</div> <bR> <div> Before the Internet and 24-hour cable news, there was short-wave radio. I was</div> <div> almost ashamed when I bought a Sony radio four months ago at the duty-free shop</div> <div> at Marka Airport in Jordan (for other throwbacks, it's the ICF-SW7600G --but</div> <div> made specifically for the Saudi Arabian market which means certain frequencies</div> <div> -- perhaps military and female-run pirate radio stations -- are blocked). But</div> <div> I got the idea when I saw another journalist listening to a play-by-play of</div> <div> King Hussein's funeral as we awaited the arrival of the casket at the late</div> <div> monarch's palace. So in my constant yearning not to be caught unaware, I</div> <div> bought one.</div> <bR> <div> And here, at the end of the world, on the Albanian-Kosovar border in the wild-</div> <div> west-like frontier town of Kukes, I can pat myself on the back for having made</div> <div> such a wise investment. There are barely any telephones here, let alone</div> <div> television sets. To communicate with our office in New York City, we are using</div> <div> a satellite phone. So amazingly enough, I am getting my news in an old-</div> <div> fashioned, romantically quaint way: from the radio. And right now, at 11:30</div> <div> p.m. on a hot, humid night, with the $19 fan I bought today in the town market</div> <div> blowing in my face, I have been able to tune into the BBC, VOA, Radio France</div> <div> Internationale, and even Canada's CBC.</div> <bR> <div> Suddenly, I don't feel so isolated. But it's hard not to up here. Waiting</div> <div> for what we hear is an imminent peace agreement between NATO and the Serbs, we</div> <div> have set up shop near the border, along with 120,000 refugees, the 20,000-</div> <div> strong town of Kukes, and various humanitarian organizations and other</div> <div> journalists. For different reasons, we all want the same thing: for the</div> <div> border to Kosovo to open up, and to go in.</div> <bR> <div> When I first got the word from NBC that I had to return for the third</div> <div> time to the Balkans, I thought someone was playing a cruel joke on me. They</div> <div> called me on my mobile telephone just as I had placed some groceries in the</div> <div> trunk of my car. I had just returned from my second four-week tour of duty in</div> <div> Macedonia, and I was eager to settle down again. But with peace around the</div> <div> corner, we had to go back. My bread, tomatoes and cucumbers would rot in my</div> <div> fridge as my worst nightmare materialized: I had to go to Albania -- the</div> <div> poorest country in Europe, which hardly had a government and even less of an</div> <div> infrastructure.</div> <bR> <div> Immediately, I established a worse-case scenario in my mind, one that I did</div> <div> not like. I was already tired from having spent eight weeks cumulatively in</div> <div> the Balkans. I had to go to a place that I had only heard horror stories</div> <div> about: no running water between 8 a.m. and 7 p.m. at the so-called "hotel" NBC</div> <div> had commandeered (run by the local Mafia godfather of Kukes), banditry run</div> <div> amok throughout the countryside, and a constant diet of chicken and rice and</div> <div> not much else. And to cite a leitmotif that we quickly established here, "It</div> <div> Only Gets Worse." Once it becomes possible, our marching orders are to enter</div> <div> into Kosovo: a place with NO running water or food, booby-trapped bridges (if</div> <div> they haven't already been bombed by NATO) and roads rife with landmines, and</div> <div> the possibility of encountering Serb snipers or KLA guerrillas who might not</div> <div> be able to distinguish a journalist from the enemy -- or just may see a</div> <div> journalist as the enemy. And NBC has yet to locate an armored car for us.</div> <bR> <div> So it was not surprising that I quickly began to wonder why was it that the</div> <div> two worst experiences of my life would seemingly have occurred in two</div> <div> similarly-sounding dumps. That would be Albany, New York (where I wrote the</div> <div> virtually impossible New York Bar exam in 1992) and now, Albania. Similar to</div> <div> Albany, I knew I would make it through Albania, but I also knew that 1999's</div> <div> experience would be no more pleasant than 1992's.</div> <bR> <div> With a heavy heart on the eve of my departure, I questioned my choice of career</div> <div> and prepared for what I pray may be my Last Great Adventure. For the third</div> <div> time ever, I put my beloved Breitling watch into a safe. It bears noting that</div> <div> the other two occasions also involved my fear of a meeting with the Serb</div> <div> military, who would be happy to rob me of my most prized possession: in 1997</div> <div> in Bosnia, and in early April when I went into the Serb-dominated hinterland</div> <div> of north-western Macedonia. Why is it these people put me not only in fear for</div> <div> my life, but for my ostentatious time-piece as well? But my attitude was that</div> <div> I was only going to take things that I was prepared to lose, be it to the</div> <div> Serbs or Albanian laundry. And I am, of course, determined to hang on to my</div> <div> life. I even considered taking my Trinidadian passport with me, because if</div> <div> apprehended by the Serbs, I could claim a non-NATO nationality. Do normal</div> <div> people have to think about such things? And why couldn't I be a normal</div> <div> person?</div> <bR> <div> Despite my huge misgivings, I forced myself to prepare as much as possible. I</div> <div> am equipped with Swiss Army knives (yes, plural), first aid packs, an</div> <div> overabundance of boxer shorts, a torch light, granola bars, Gore-Tex boots and</div> <div> shoes, a sleeping bag and my short-wave radio. I am a bit of a Boy Scout, at</div> <div> least when it comes to accumulating survivalist paraphernalia (extra underwear</div> <div> aside), and now it was finally time to face the music. Because, as I am now</div> <div> well aware, It Only Gets Worse.</div> <bR> <div> And so far, that seems to have come true. However, "Worse" is not as "Bad" as</div> <div> it could be. Our flight for Tirana via Budapest left at 5:50 a.m., and we had</div> <div> a four-hour layover in Budapest. That was bad, but Hungarian airline Malev</div> <div> had better-than-expected service (except when I used my mobile phone on the</div> <div> tarmac in Budapest hoping that the Tel Aviv bureau had good news about our</div> <div> being diverted to Hawaii for some other news story, and was promptly screamed</div> <div> at by the heretofore friendly flight attendant. I suppose she thought the</div> <div> phone signal would disrupt the plane's navigational instruments and we would</div> <div> get lost on the ground as we taxied up to the terminal).</div> <bR> <div> Upon arrival in Tirana, we got stuck in a huge, disorderly line-up at customs,</div> <div> and we had to wait for our twenty-two pieces of luggage (TV gear is bulky) to</div> <div> be unceremoniously dumped in front of us by surly baggage handlers. No</div> <div> carousel, no porters. That was bad. But the Rogner Hotel in town was</div> <div> surprisingly classy and clean, with air-conditioned rooms, and a swimming</div> <div> pool. Now I began to conspire with the rest of the NBC team how we could</div> <div> steal away the Tirana assignment from a less-deserving group. The urgent need</div> <div> for this conspiracy grew even greater as we sat down to dinner at La Piazza --</div> <div> a nicely furnished, candle-lit restaurant that would not seem out of place in</div> <div> New York City -- and listened to horror stories about Kukes from the others</div> <div> who had already done time up there. I was barely able to eat my vegetable</div> <div> soup and grilled sea bass. But don't get me wrong. Tirana is no Paris,</div> <div> but there were still a few oases of civility among the mire, and in true</div> <div> journalistic style, we were able to find them.</div> <bR> <div> The next day we took one of the most grueling trips of my life. It took</div> <div> us nine hours to travel 200 kilometers northwards from Tirana. The driver of</div> <div> our red Volkswagen mini-van never shifted into anything higher than third gear</div> <div> as we took on the potholed roads of Albania that eventually became single-laned</div> <div> dirt tracks along mountain ridges with nary a guard rail to be seen, and many</div> <div> white crosses painted into the rockface to commemorate those who had plunged</div> <div> valiantly over the side. My colleague Martin Fletcher, who has been in many</div> <div> war zones, and spent a lot of time travelling in Africa and Asia looked at me</div> <div> and said, "This is the worst road I have ever seen."</div> <bR> <div> But we were compensated with stunning mountain scenery, and we all began to</div> <div> contemplate investing money in Albania because someone would eventually figure</div> <div> out the place was a goldmine worth developing (someone other than the</div> <div> Albanians because obviously THEY hadn't figured it out). The dirt and chaos of</div> <div> Tirana gave way to the clean air and silence of countryside. Our moods</div> <div> brightened. When we passed an abnormally long wooden fence along the hillside,</div> <div> we quickly agreed that henceforth, it would be known to all as the "Great</div> <div> Picket Fence of Albania." It seemed funny at the time, but I'm sure the</div> <div> overly-sensitive Chinese government would quickly suspend diplomatic relations</div> <div> if they knew.</div> <bR> <div> But six hours later, and having endured our driver's cassettes for too long</div> <div> (three times around for Cher's "Do You Believe in Life After Love?" and Aqua's</div> <div> "Jingle Bells") ), we had had enough. We saw the cold clear water streaming</div> <div> down from the mountains irrigating the fields and cooling a nearby cafe's beer</div> <div> and beverages, but we also bore witness to the incredible amount of garbage</div> <div> along the road that people casually tossed aside. When we finally pulled into</div> <div> Kukes after nightfall, the ramshackle buildings and refugees gathered in the</div> <div> streets were almost a welcome sight.</div> <bR> <div> And now, twenty-four hours later, things aren't quite as bad as they could be.</div> <div> Because of our low expectations, the food tastes better than we thought, the</div> <div> hotel is nicer than we anticipated, and Kukes doesn't seem like such a terrible</div> <div> place, regardless of the sound of machine gun fire and fighter jets at night</div> <div> from my open window. The scenery is spectacular, as we're situated on a plain</div> <div> surrounded by mountains and a lake. The refugees that we met in the camp run</div> <div> by the United Arab Emirates are just as hospitable and friendly as the ones</div> <div> that I met in Macedonia, with a few minor differences: the children noting that</div> <div> my complexion and facial hair appear similar to that of their benefactors don't</div> <div> run up to me and yell "hello hello!" as they did in Skopje, but rather "Salaam</div> <div> Melaikum! (they learn quickly). And the old man who was delighted to hear that</div> <div> he had the same first name as my gentle grandfather (Ibrahim), demonstrated</div> <div> equal delight when he heard enormous explosions in the distance, assuming that</div> <div> NATO was summarily pummeling the Serbs. "Good, good!" he would say, quickly</div> <div> exhausting his English vocabulary as he put his index and middle fingers and</div> <div> thumb to his lips and kissed them like some French pastry chef.</div> <bR> <div> Meanwhile, we wait for word about when and if we will be able to enter into</div> <div> Kosovo. We don't know if the border will open here once the peace agreement is</div> <div> signed, and we certainly don't know if the refugees will go flooding back. As</div> <div> an American Army officer insightfully told us at dinner tonight (we invited him</div> <div> over, trying to curry favor with the Americans and looking for a scoop), in</div> <div> somewhat sarcastic American militarese, "It's definitely a 'kinda, sorta,</div> <div> maybe.' situation." Everything is up in the air right now, but without a</div> <div> doubt, it can only get worse.</div> <bR> <div> KUKES, ALBANIA, June 9, 1999</div> <bR> <div> SOLILOQUY TO THE GLAMOROUS LIFE (OR SOUR GRAPES)</div> <bR> <div> The electricity signaled its triumphant return by re-igniting the fan</div> <div> hovering over my bed. Because minutes seem as hours here in this odd place, I</div> <div> found it difficult not to attribute some kind of personality to an unreliable</div> <div> offshoot of Benjamin Franklin's discovery: the Northern Albanian Power Company</div> <div> (I doubt that such a thing exists in this state-less nation) had decided to</div> <div> grace us yet again with its product -- just in case we forgot that a constant</div> <div> electrical current should be considered a bonus for enduring conditions here,</div> <div> and not merely expected with thoughtless North American arrogance.</div> <bR> <div> Not that I should even dare to complain (I'm not really, just trying to point</div> <div> out the perverse humor to my whole situation). Aren't there hundreds of</div> <div> thousands of people who are suffering around me, living in tents, having lost</div> <div> their houses and loved ones, wondering if they'll ever return home? Well yes,</div> <div> that's true. And I feel truly sympathetic for them, and hope that in some</div> <div> small way, my work as a journalist can help illustrate their plight to the</div> <div> rest of the world and make things right. How can I not help but feel when I'm</div> <div> sitting inside a hot United Nations tent in the center of town, speaking to a</div> <div> man my age who has just been released from prison by the Serbs as he fights</div> <div> back tears to tell me how he was tortured for 18 days and he wonders where his</div> <div> wife and two children are now? I can't help it, and I do -- strongly. And</div> <div> I've been doing so strongly for the last nine weeks, just as I do when I meet</div> <div> dispossessed Palestinians, Israeli survivors, abused Jordanian women, Kenyan</div> <div> aid workers, landmine victims in Bosnia, the homeless in New York.</div> <bR> <div> But I am not here to suffer stoically on behalf of the Luxury Class of the</div> <div> western world with our sometimes shameful indulgences. I admit it. I want my</div> <div> piece of the pie too, and sometimes, what I do, what I see, and what I live,</div> <div> can be a bit too much. Not to say that I'm fed up. But I would like to think</div> <div> that all these experiences have sufficiently taught me not to take anything</div> <div> for granted, to enjoy my free time, to be grateful for what I have, to nurture</div> <div> friendships, to cherish family, and to help those who need help when I can,</div> <div> and sometimes, even when I don't think that I possibly can.</div> <bR> <div> And while I'm still new to 30, I've also learned that I can't change</div> <div> everything in the world that is wrong, and I can't always feel guilty for all</div> <div> the hardship that I bear witness to. This is not some kind of theory of</div> <div> immunity that allows me to tune-out and withdraw into a shell at the first</div> <div> sight of misery. But I can't share one granola bar with two hundred children,</div> <div> and I can't allow ten thousand refugees to use my mobile telephone. I will do</div> <div> what I can do for them, most likely on a more manageable, individual basis, and</div> <div> I will treat them with dignity and respect. Because, in the end, although I am</div> <div> well-fed, well-clothed, well-paid and healthy, I am almost certain that many</div> <div> one of the people whom I have encountered would rather be in my shoes (at</div> <div> least on paper, no one ever dare need suffer through my own personal foibles). </div> <div> Certainly, life is not a zero-sum game, where one person's happiness depends n</div> <div> another's unhappiness. But at the risk of over-generalizing, most people want</div> <div> the same thing, and some people have it, and some people don't. And sometimes,</div> <div> at one point or another, some people can lose it, and others can find it. So</div> <div> while you have it, enjoy it, share it, appreciate it, and don't feel bad about</div> <div> having it. Sacrifice is not always necessary or necessarily good, there is no</div> <div> need to live like a self-flagellating monk, and you don't always have to</div> <div> suffer for your art.</div> <bR> <div> So where does this all come from? I'm not quite sure. I started writing this</div> <div> off the top of my head after I realized that my narrow room here at the Hotel</div> <div> Adriani, with its narrow bed, small window, and communal bathroom bears a</div> <div> frightening resemblance to the Parisian dormitory that I inhabited as a</div> <div> student seven years ago. I thought that was worth noting in a funny, ironic</div> <div> kind of way. But I suppose there was something more that I had to say.</div> <bR> <div> Many of my friends look at the kind of life I lead and say that I'm lucky to</div> <div> be able to travel the world, free of familial and financial responsibility. I</div> <div> am. But sometimes, it's not so great. Living halfway around the world far</div> <div> from loved ones; unable to get a personal life properly kick-started because</div> <div> of cultural barriers, a transient lifestyle, strange work hours, too much</div> <div> travel, and my own eccentricities; furnished apartments instead of a place to</div> <div> truly call "home" -- I wonder how much longer I can endure an existence that I</div> <div> began five years ago as a "lark." Those close to me with whom I have shared</div> <div> these doubts already say I got what I was looking for too easily, and too soon.</div> <div> Perhaps. And maybe if my life became a bit more normal I would quickly get</div> <div> bored. Perhaps. Or maybe it's only now that I understand what's really</div> <div> important in life. Does this mean it's time to give it all up and go looking</div> <div> somewhere else? I just don't know.</div> <bR> <div> It's cold comfort</div> <div> to the ones without it</div> <div> to know how they struggled, how they suffered about it.</div> <div> If their lives were exotic and strange</div> <div> they would surely have gladly exchanged them</div> <div> for something a little more plain</div> <div> maybe something a little more sane.</div> <bR> <div> We each pay a fabulous price</div> <div> for our visions of paradise....</div> <bR> <div> I find myself singing the lyrics to this song a bit too often lately. </div> <bR> <div> p.s.</div> <bR> <div> But then again, I like to sing in the shower. And it certainly beats singing</div> <div> "Bridge Over Troubled Water" when I was sixteen (to those who still think I</div> <div> doth protest too much, don't despair, I also wish that Simon had recorded</div> <div> the vocals rather than Garfunkel, cos' I could never hit the high parts).</div> <bR> <bR> <div> PRIZREN, KOSOVO: June 15, 1999</div> <bR> <div> THINGS THAT CAN LULL YOU INTO A FALSE SENSE OF SECURITY</div> <bR> <div> - A sunny morning</div> <bR> <div> - Lounging on the grass by the Albanian-Kosovar border (Albanian side) under</div> <div> an apple tree eating military rations waiting for the German Army to open the</div> <div> border.</div> <bR> <div> - Seeing Albania disappear in your rear view mirror.</div> <bR> <div> - Smoother and straighter roads than the ones in Albania -- in a region that</div> <div> had been continuously bombed by NATO for 78 days.</div> <bR> <div> - Hundreds of Serbian soldiers lounging alongside the road, looking dejected</div> <div> and depressed as we roar by in our unarmored press vehicles. It's now a</div> <div> sunny afternoon.</div> <bR> <div> - The beautiful Kosovar town of Prizren, with its stone bridges over a rapidly</div> <div> flowing river, a Turkish-style mosque in the center of town, and an ancient</div> <div> fortress up on the hill.</div> <bR> <div> - A hotel with running water, electricity, daily maid service and a toilet in</div> <div> each room. Despite the cockroaches and rundown state, it's much better than</div> <div> camping and even better than the Hotel Adriana in Kukes, Albania. And hey,</div> <div> Kosovo is a war zone.</div> <bR> <div> - A German tank just outside your hotel window (Yes, I know).</div> <bR> <div> - Hundreds of Kosovar Albanians cheering as you drive into town, making you</div> <div> feel like the Americans did when they liberated Paris in 1944. Lots of</div> <div> handslapping and cheering. German vehicles are covered in flowers. People</div> <div> chant "NATO! NATO!" Everyone wants to shake your hand. You can do no wrong.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> THINGS THAT BRING YOU BACK TO REALITY</div> <bR> <div> - A bottle hurled most likely by an over-exuberant Albanian that shatters the</div> <div> passenger side window of your truck carrying your camera and satellite</div> <div> equipment. The Albanian probably thought that the truck was a Serbian one,</div> <div> fleeing the town, its occupants fearing the wrath of the returning refugees as</div> <div> NATO assumed control of the area. The assailant obviously does not notice the</div> <div> trucks Albanian license plates or the "NBC NEWS MIDDLE EAST" stickers affixed</div> <div> to the front and rear of the vehicle.</div> <bR> <div> - Gunfire. Just outside your hotel window.</div> <bR> <div> - Machine gun bursts. You hit the ground. It's a firefight. You begin to</div> <div> wonder how much being hit by a stray bullet might hurt. But that's as far as</div> <div> you allow yourself to go. You're anxious, but not paralyzed by fear. You</div> <div> have to act because after all, it's a story, and you are a journalist. Once</div> <div> again, you reconsider your choice of profession.</div> <bR> <div> - German soldiers shouting. Kosovar Albanian children crouching inside the</div> <div> tank wheels, trying to avoid being shot. You look through the window. You</div> <div> see a yellow Lada driving slowly backwards as it's pummeled by fire by German</div> <div> guns. You go downstairs to see if your cameraman is safe, because his camera</div> <div> is still on its tripod in the middle of the street (you find out later that he</div> <div> is alright, and he had the foresight to aim the camera when the shooting began</div> <div> and leave it running. Your pictures are exclusive and the best available). </div> <div> You hear the occupants of the car shouting for help. No one comes to their</div> <div> rescue.</div> <bR> <div> - Deserted streets by nightfall. The exuberance from earlier in the day has</div> <div> disappeared. You wear a flak jacket and helmet and drive carefully through</div> <div> town to the BBC satellite truck to feed your tapes to New York for the Nightly</div> <div> newscast. You're ahead of schedule because you hear rumors that the BBC might</div> <div> pull out of Prizren because it's too dangerous. You wonder why you aren't</div> <div> doing the same.</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> THINGS THAT CONVINCE YOU THAT EXCEPT FOR ZEBRAS AND THE NEW YORK TIMES, NOTHING IS BLACK AND WHITE</div> <bR> <div> - Charming Kosovar Albanian family invites you to their home for dinner in</div> <div> between live shots for MSNBC. You are their first visitors from the outside</div> <div> world in ages. They roll out the hospitality in the most incredible way:</div> <div> women dress up, they share their food (scones, crepes, jam and salad), they</div> <div> break open the Kosovar wine (sealed by a bottle cap) and the vodka. They tell</div> <div> you how they lived in fear indoors for the past two months, relying on stored</div> <div> food, and going out only at night --using rooftops rather than sidewalks to</div> <div> get around the neighborhood. Their lobster red faces and necks show how</div> <div> susceptible their skin is to the hot sun, after two days of celebrating their</div> <div> newfound freedom in the streets. They describe how badly the Serbs treated</div> <div> them, how they lived in fear. The grandfather explains proudly in German how</div> <div> he served as a soldier in the Second World War...for the Germans...in the SS.</div> <div> You try to tactfully tell them that two of your colleagues are Jewish, and one</div> <div> is Israeli (I say "They're from Israel" several times). But they don't seem to</div> <div> get the hint. It's difficult for you to forget about the old man during the</div> <div> remainder of the evening, despite the warmth of your hosts.</div> <bR> <div> - Beautiful pastoral scene in Southern Kosovo. Cows grazing, refugees</div> <div> returning. Then you hear a huge explosion. Instead of instinctively ducking</div> <div> you look up and see a large plume of smoke in the field, and the carcass of a</div> <div> cow rise thirty meters into the air. It all seems to occur in slow motion as</div> <div> you see other bits of the cow splatter in every direction. The cow has just</div> <div> stepped on a mine. Your cameraman isn't sure he got the shot, so we stake out</div> <div> the rest of the cows, just in case. But to be on the safe side, he puts on a</div> <div> flak jacket, to protect himself from any other cow shrapnel. A dog runs to</div> <div> the spot where the dead cow landed and helps himself. The other cows lazily</div> <div> and calmly walk over to another part of the field. Somehow, they know, there</div> <div> are no mines there. Nearby, children still look on with curiosity, their</div> <div> fingers in their ears.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> THINGS THAT NEED NO EXPLANATION, OR JUST CAN'T BE EXPLAINED</div> <bR> <div> - Burned out houses in the nearby town of Suva Reka. You follow your</div> <div> translator Hamdi into his neighborhood. It's deserted. As he walks into his</div> <div> front yard, he begins to cry. The house is intact. He last saw it two months</div> <div> ago when he was forced to flee by Serbian soldiers. They gave his family no</div> <div> time to pack. He walks into the house. It's dead quiet. You only notice the</div> <div> drone of flies buzzing, and the stink of rotting garbage, and maybe of</div> <div> something else. The furniture is smashed, "Serbia" scrawled on the living room</div> <div> wall, clothes all over the floor. For some reason, there are hundreds of more</div> <div> flies on the second floor, and even more lying dead on the floor. As Hamdi</div> <div> walks outside he says calmly, "Look what they've done to my dog." Still</div> <div> chained to the wall, the corpse of a dog lies there, decaying.</div> <bR> <div> - Suva Reka locals show you a cafe. The windows are blown out, inside</div> <div> everything is black and shattered...except, curiously enough, the glasses</div> <div> hanging over the bar -- which are just black. They tell you that on March 24,</div> <div> Serbian soldiers forced people living nearby into the cafe -- a neighborhood</div> <div> hotspot --and threw a hand grenade inside. After the explosion, those who</div> <div> survived and fled outside were machine gunned. You can see the bulletholes in</div> <div> the wall, and the shell casings on the ground. They also tell you that the</div> <div> bodies were dumped in a mass grave in a nearby village. You find the village. </div> <div> You find large mounds of earth. You find female hair, bits of bone, a wrist</div> <div> watch that stopped at 3:20 on the 24th, a wedding ring, a packet full of money</div> <div> and ID papers.</div> <bR> <div> And you just don't know what to think anymore.</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> MACEDONIA/KOSOVO November 14-19</div> <bR> <div> And I had been complaining about the unending summer in Israel, </div> <div> its balmy temperatures and lack of much-needed rain. Then I </div> <div> went back to the Balkans for yet another story, and for a week, </div> <div> I found it hard to remember what it was like to be warm...</div> <bR> <div> MONDAY</div> <bR> <div> Hundreds of trucks carrying humanitarian aid are backed up on </div> <div> the Macedonian side of the border. Unshaven, unshowered men </div> <div> play cards, snooze, and read in the cold, open air. They </div> <div> welcome the diversion of our camera crew poking around and </div> <div> shooting their long wait. These are not American truck </div> <div> drivers. They don't have sleeping cabs, they can't afford to </div> <div> keep their diesel engines running to stay warm. The Bulgarian </div> <div> driver told me that he gets paid 70 deutchmarks for the entire </div> <div> 300 kilometer trip from Sofia to Pristina. That's about $40 -- </div> <div> and because of Macedonian customs and the congested, narrow, </div> <div> roads, it's taking them up to ten days to get their cargo to its </div> <div> destination. The Turkish driver tells me he's pissed off and </div> <div> shows me his kitchen and bath: a small container on the </div> <div> underside of his truck containing a carton of eggs and some </div> <div> fruit, and a spigot that lets off a tiny stream of water. I </div> <div> marvel at the fact that all of them are cleanly shaven.</div> <bR> <div> It takes us nearly two hours to cross the border, and that's </div> <div> despite our special access NATO KFOR passes. I've had my pass </div> <div> since the end of the war, and I keep thinking that it'll be the </div> <div> last time I'll have to use it. Then when I get the call to go </div> <div> to Kosovo, it's a struggle to figure out where I last left </div> <div> stowed it away...</div> <bR> <bR> <div> TUESDAY</div> <bR> <div> A 5 a.m. wake-up call at the inappropriately named "Grand Hotel" </div> <div> in downtown Pristina. There's no heat, no running water. </div> <div> Luckily, the electricity came back on overnight. On the eighth </div> <div> floor with tons of camera gear, it's a good thing when the </div> <div> elevators work.</div> <bR> <div> It's raining -- hard. The driving along the winding, </div> <div> single-lane roads is treacherous. I think the potholes are </div> <div> getting bigger from the constant flow of the heavy military </div> <div> convoys. Happily, they've rebuilt the bridge on the road </div> <div> between Peja and Pristina and we do pretty good time. Still, I </div> <div> wish I wasn't the one at the wheel of a decade-old Volkswagen </div> <div> Golf when the crew has the luxury and safety of a four-wheel </div> <div> drive vehicle. But they need the room for the gear, and I like </div> <div> German cars.</div> <bR> <div> On the way, we meet a family living in the same tent they had in </div> <div> a refugee camp during the war. They're living beside their </div> <div> house that was burned down by the Serbs. A third of Kosovo's </div> <div> homes were destroyed during the war, 350,000 people left </div> <div> homeless. They have a wood-burning stove, a sick old man who </div> <div> can't leave the tent, and children without enough clothing for </div> <div> the cold. A woman hangs clothes on the 2nd floor of a roofless </div> <div> house. A bouquet of dried out yellow flowers sits in a pot </div> <div> downstairs on the window sill. I wish I had brought some candy </div> <div> with me to give to the children.</div> <bR> <div> "Winter is here, and I don't know what we'll do" their father </div> <div> tells us. The United Nations and aid agencies have realized </div> <div> there was no way they were going to be able to rebuild houses </div> <div> before the winter, so they've settled with cobbling together one </div> <div> "warm room" for each family -- essentially four walls, a roof, a </div> <div> door, carpet, and a stove. No one has come to help this family </div> <div> yet. It continues to rain. Good for the story we're shooting, </div> <div> but not for the people who are suffering. It'll get worse when </div> <div> the snow comes in a few weeks.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> WEDNESDAY</div> <bR> <div> Driving back to Pristina I hear something snap and the Golf's </div> <div> accelerator dies while I'm stuck in third gear. Being totally </div> <div> useless with vehicle mechanics, I'm heartened by the "can-do" </div> <div> attitude of cameraman Steve O'Neill and soundman Dubi Duvshani as </div> <div> they rig up, A-Team style, a makeshift tourniquet out of duct </div> <div> tape and keep the engine revving at about 40 km/h. That's </div> <div> enough for us to crawl back to Pristina, but none of the other </div> <div> drivers seem to mind -- we're still faster than the ubiquitous </div> <div> farm tractors that dominate the roads. Nobody gets too upset by </div> <div> this unforeseen event. It could have been worse: it could be </div> <div> raining, it could be dark, or we could be living in a tent.</div> <bR> <div> Correspondent Martin Fletcher and I visit the only power station </div> <div> in Kosovo that afternoon. We comment as we climb the stairs to </div> <div> the third floor that it's a bad sign when the electricity is out </div> <div> in a place like this, and the elevators don't work. We are </div> <div> greeted heartily by the plant engineer. He says only one </div> <div> turbine is working right now. The badly maintained machinery is </div> <div> struggling to keep up with the demand. They're trying to get </div> <div> things fixed along with the help of French, German, and British </div> <div> engineers, but at this point, they're only pumping out a third </div> <div> of the electricity that Kosovo needs to get through this winter </div> <div> (about 650 megawatts).</div> <bR> <bR> <div> THURSDAY</div> <div> A sunny morning. We drive to the U.S. military base, Camp Bond </div> <div> Steel, which is in the midst of a massive building spree. Some </div> <div> journalists have called the new and improved base "Disneyland," </div> <div> and an ironic twist compared to the number of Kosovars who don't </div> <div> have homes. A harsh wind blows, mud clogs up our tires and the </div> <div> crew -- who visited the base when it was first established -- </div> <div> say, "this is no Disneyland." Yes, we have a whopper at the </div> <div> Burger King truck (served by Kosovar Albanians in BK uniforms... </div> <div> I didn't really want the burger, or the Dr. Pepper that went </div> <div> with it, but I figured since I could, I should), and we visit </div> <div> the PX and the gym, but it's no different than any other U.S. </div> <div> Army base I had visited. And this was Kosovo after all, not </div> <div> Fort Bragg -- some level of comfort is necessary. Still, the </div> <div> question remains: living in wooden huts and no longer in tents, </div> <div> was the Army preparing to remain here over the long haul with </div> <div> their largest base camp since Vietnam? Congress doesn't </div> <div> necessarily want to hear the answer to that.</div> <bR> <div> The Public Affairs Officer, Major Eric Gunhus, greets me like a </div> <div> long-lost relative and gives me a bear hug. We had first met at </div> <div> the beginning of the war when the three American soldiers were </div> <div> captured by the Yugoslav Army in Macedonia. NBC had gotten some </div> <div> very good access at the time and put together a few exclusive </div> <div> stories, so we were on good terms. Gunhus said that with </div> <div> President Clinton coming, they weren't inviting any press onto </div> <div> the base, but when he had heard it was us he figured we were </div> <div> worth the time. I was happy to see him again.</div> <bR> <div> Another vehicular incident. Our excellent fixer from Macedonia, </div> <div> Sasha, accidentally leaves the keys in the ignition of the 4x4, </div> <div> and somehow, all the doors are locked. We're in the middle of </div> <div> nowhere. We consider breaking a window, try to jimmy a lock, </div> <div> and wish that we were in Albania where we could easily find a </div> <div> car thief. But amazingly, we are able to flag down a group of </div> <div> young Kosovars walking back from work. They drive us back to </div> <div> town and find a young locksmith who on the third try, finds a </div> <div> key to get us into the car. Another unforeseen delay, but </div> <div> again, no one loses his temper. All part of the territory.</div> <bR> <div> That evening, we are invited to dinner by the Kantarxhiu family. </div> <div> It's a long story, but essentially, I first met them through our </div> <div> translator in Macedonia, Agron Alimi in May. My parents </div> <div> sponsored two members of the Kantarxhiu family (Agron's </div> <div> brothers-in-law) to come to Canada as refugees. This dinner is </div> <div> the family's way of saying thank you, and it is terrific. They </div> <div> treated us like royalty. We sit at the table with the head of </div> <div> the family -- all of us men being served by the women. In this </div> <div> happy, warm, albeit traditional atmosphere, we eat meat pie, </div> <div> salad, cucumbers in yogurt sauce, and chocolate cake. It is the </div> <div> best meal we had eaten in Kosovo, and for the first time this </div> <div> week, we feel relaxed and warm. The family is all smiles. </div> <div> Martin remarks that after so much hardship and oppression, these </div> <div> people must actually enjoy having outsiders in their home. We </div> <div> are honored to be there.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> FRIDAY</div> <bR> <div> Working on another story about a five-year old girl who lost her </div> <div> parents during the refugee exodus, but then found them after the </div> <div> war, we visit her village school. I've been to New York </div> <div> City-area schools, but this is worse. No heat, no electricity, </div> <div> the bathrooms are closed because there's no water. We walk into </div> <div> a classroom where a young teacher wearing a stars and stripes </div> <div> shirt is teaching geometry. The children immediately rise out </div> <div> of respect for the visitors. I'm impressed by their politeness </div> <div> and discipline. The students gamely ignore the camera and pay </div> <div> close attention to the lesson. Martin then walks in and they </div> <div> get up again. He smiles, possibly thinking this comes with the </div> <div> territory of being a star correspondent. We both marvel at the </div> <div> fact that seven months ago, we were doing stories about these </div> <div> children who had nothing and were living in tents. The only </div> <div> difference between then and now seems to be that today, at </div> <div> least they're safe and back home.</div> <bR> <div> The principal says things are tough and they're worried about </div> <div> winter. The children have very little paper. Feeling foolish </div> <div> and empty-handed yet again, I rummage through my bag and come </div> <div> across a half package of blank printer paper and hand it to them.</div> <div> A nice gesture, but clearly, not enough.</div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> --------------------------</div> <bR> <div> BOSNIAN JOURNAL 1997</div> <bR> <div> SARAJEVO, FRIDAY, JULY 25, 1997</div> <bR> <div> If it's Friday, this must be Sarajevo. Last Saturday, Vienna, a week ago,</div> <div> New York, two weeks ago, Tel Aviv -- sounds like a fantasy expedition, but</div> <div> frankly, it's exhausting, and I don't dare contemplate my eventual move</div> <div> to Israel in the Fall.</div> <bR> <div> Despite fears of the tension here in Bosnia, and the possibility of violence</div> <div> the most dangerous thing I've experienced is the wiener schnitzel that flew</div> <div> over my head when our waiter tripped on the patio in a restaurant on the</div> <div> road to Sarajevo from Zagreb on Sunday. But I don't want to trivialize</div> <div> what we are doing, nor the reality of what has happened here in the</div> <div> last five years.</div> <bR> <div> I got back to New York last Monday (a week and a half ago), only to find out</div> <div> two days later that I was to go to Bosnia to work on a special NBC News</div> <div> series on the indicted war criminals there. We were to work with handpicked</div> <div> crews and correspondents from our London and Frankfurt offices and put</div> <div> together a number of compelling stories on the hunt for these people, and</div> <div> about the victims.</div> <bR> <div> This is a strange place. In Israel, the Palestinians and the Israelis get</div> <div> along, more or less, but they're unable to live together in the same</div> <div> country. In Bosnia, not only do these people not get along, they hate.</div> <div> All that in a beautiful stretch of Europe that, with its rolling hills and </div> <div> abundant vegetation, appears to be a cross between Switzerland and the</div> <div> Berkshires in Massachusetts. Of course they said that Lebanon was once the</div> <div> Switzerland of the Middle East, which makes me wonder whether such analogies</div> <div> automatically condemn a country to implosion.</div> <bR> <div> Sarajevo is in Bosnian Federation territory. My first drive through it was a</div> <div> surreal experience, with its bombed-out buildings, the infamous Sniper Alley</div> <div> near the Holiday Inn, bullet holes in walls. I'm almost ashamed to say that</div> <div> I was barely shocked by this scene -- some parts of the Bronx can pass for</div> <div> a post-war Sarajevo (which shows how much a New Yorker's senses have been</div> <div> dulled by our complacency).</div> <bR> <div> People are returning to the streets of Sarajevo, and it is beginning to</div> <div> resemble any other European city again with its markets, shops and cafes.</div> <div> Unfortunately the war began soon after the fall of the Communist regime</div> <div> in Yugoslavia, so architecturally, Sarajevo did not have ample </div> <div> opportunity to recover from the hangover of socialist chic (concrete,</div> <div> modernized, bunkers of essentially fascist architecture). But that's ok,</div> <div> the mosques and their minarets on the hills more than make up for that</div> <div> bit of urban yuckiness.</div> <bR> <div> To me, Sarajevo's most significant landmark is the small bridge downtown</div> <div> where a Serb gunman assassinated Arch Duke Ferdinand from the Austrio-</div> <div> Hungarian Empire in 1914. It's amazing that the catalyst for the First</div> <div> World War could occur on such an unremarkable structure. And based on</div> <div> my own bit of geo-political/historical theory, that would mean that the</div> <div> 20th century began with a few gunshots on an insignificant bridge in</div> <div> a small city in the Balkans, and ended with hammer blows and the fall</div> <div> of a graffiti-laden wall in a large city in Germany.</div> <bR> <div> NBC is staying at the Hotel Grand, just outside the city center of</div> <div> Sarajevo. It's a new facility, supposedly run by a Muslim Mafioso. It</div> <div> has running water, electricity, an elevator, international telephone</div> <div> lines, laundry facilities, cable t.v., and a restaurant that delights in</div> <div> never serving you what you order (but I suppose being served spaghetti </div> <div> bolognaise instead of homemade sausage is part of that spice of life thing</div> <div> I keep hearing about).</div> <bR> <div> I point out all these things about the hotel only to say that this is not</div> <div> the terrible place it was during the war. The people here are making a</div> <div> gallant effort to return their part of the world to European civilization-level</div> <div> standards. The old NBC hands who paid their dues in the early 1990's here</div> <div> can't get over how much the region has changed. As we drive through the</div> <div> city, Heinrich Walling, our cameraman directs our attention to the bunker-like</div> <div> television building, which was bombed seconds before he arrived to feed a</div> <div> tape to New York a few years ago. They tell us about the roads they couldn't</div> <div> drive because of the hail of mortar shells, the time that the visiting</div> <div> Mujaheidin threatened to shoot them in the heads, or when they were staying in</div> <div> the half-bombed out Holiday Inn in the middle of winter with plastic sheeting</div> <div> for windows, and cold water occasionally being pumped in by the United Nations</div> <div> tanker truck, allowing them to bathe.</div> <bR> <div> I am grateful for my opportunity to be here, to see what I have only heard </div> <div> about up to now, to avoid the hardship of years previous. But I also realize</div> <div> that I might only get a glimpse of the horror and insanity of what happened in</div> <div> Bosnia over the last five years -- something that my colleagues were able to</div> <div> experience firsthand, and thankfully, survive.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> HANSON IN BOSNIA, Part 2</div> <bR> <div> SARAJEVO, SATURDAY, JULY 16, 1997</div> <bR> <div> It has taken a few days for me to grasp Bosnia, emotionally. Let me put</div> <div> that another way around, it has taken a few days for Bosnia to grab ME</div> <div> emotionally.</div> <bR> <div> The uninitiated such as myself can only shake our heads in disbelief</div> <div> that such kind, hospitable people, living in beautiful country, could</div> <div> have done this to themselves. I can't help but think that this would</div> <div> make a great story pitch for the Twilight Zone: aliens from another</div> <div> planet land in the Balkans, to find people who look all alike, except</div> <div> that they are either wearing a pink, green or yellow bandannas around their </div> <div> heads.</div> <bR> <div> And with that simple, inane, ridiculous, insignificant distinction</div> <div> in the color of their headbands, they take it upon themselves to rob, rape,</div> <div> shoot, slaughter the guys with the other bandannas. And oh yeah, before</div> <div> some country bumpkin nerd-type guy with huge ambition handed out the</div> <div> headbands from a box, these people got along just fine: living together</div> <div> as neighbors, playing, eating, laughing, marrying, making love together.</div> <div> So the aliens just scratch their heads and watch on in great puzzlement.</div> <div> What do you think Mr. Serling?</div> <bR> <div> Twenty-nine-year old Hassan, an interpreter for the United Nations in Tuzla,</div> <div> and a Bosnian Muslim describes how he had to abandon his family at the "safe</div> <div> haven" internment camp in Srebrenica when the Serbs took over the camp and</div> <div> started shipping people out, mostly to be murdered. He feels enormous guilt:</div> <div> his mother was killed in a Serbian prison, his younger brother and father</div> <div> are still missing, probably dead, but until he finds their bodies, he</div> <div> maintains a faint glimmer of hope. Very faint. Because what galls Hassan</div> <div> most is the thought of some "Serbian shepherd walking over the bones of my</div> <div> family." He hates the Serbs, he hates the Dutch soldiers who let the Serbs</div> <div> walk into the camp, he hates himself.</div> <bR> <div> A middle-aged Muslim woman from a part of Bosnia which is now wholly-</div> <div> controlled by Bosnian Serbs, tells us how she used to own a lot of land and</div> <div> a few cars with her husband, who was an interior decorator. She says the</div> <div> best man at their wedding, a Serb, denounced her husband a few years ago.</div> <div> Her husband was eventually arrested, and killed, by Serb authorities during</div> <div> the war. The family was forced from their home. The only thing she has to</div> <div> show for all their upper-middle class possessions from their previous life</div> <div> is a large blanket, which the Serbs suggested that she bring upon leaving</div> <div> her house for the last time, since she was going to spend the night in the</div> <div> nearby soccer stadium.</div> <bR> <div> Neither Hassan nor the woman would dare return with us to Srebrenica, now</div> <div> firmly entrenched in the Serbian part of Bosnia. So we decided to drive</div> <div> their on our own, in an attempt to get pictures of the camp, and the nearby</div> <div> town. We were all nervous at the outset. We were told that we could</div> <div> expect to be arrested, that we should leave our valuables in the safety</div> <div> deposit box at the hotel, that our cameras could be confiscated. So we</div> <div> took one camera, and a hidden camera for safe measure, and set out in</div> <div> vehicles with diplomatic license plates, and convinced a United Nations</div> <div> official to accompany us in his white UN jeep.</div> <bR> <div> Our three-vehicle convoy took an idyllic drive through Switzerland-type</div> <div> hills, passing by the wooden A-frame houses. We barely noticed that we</div> <div> had crossed into Serb territory soon after leaving Sarajevo, except that</div> <div> the road signs were now in the Cyrillic alphabet, and that there were</div> <div> significantly more SFOR (NATO Stabilization Forces) armored car patrols.</div> <bR> <div> The trip was uneventful. A few Serb policemen approached us along the</div> <div> way, but Mickey, our Serb driver, who was well connected with the police,</div> <div> and with his wits, was able to convince them that we were harmless. No</div> <div> one would speak to us, probably more out of fear of offending their leaders</div> <div> than anything else, but we were never threatened. Posters of Bosnian Serb</div> <div> leader-cum-indicted-war-criminal Radovan Karadzic with his sagging jowls</div> <div> and bouffant hairdo were plastered all over buildings, subtitled, in</div> <div> English, for NATO-troop consumption: "Don't Touch Him!"..."He Means</div> <div> Peace!" Our correspondent, Donatella Lorch and I posed for a photograph</div> <div> in front of one of the posters in Srebrenica. A few seconds later, a</div> <div> woman approached the poster, and stroked Dr. K's face a number of times,</div> <div> obviously for our benefit, obviously to show her solidarity with the</div> <div> K-man's cause. We later ate roasted mutton, salad, french fries and</div> <div> sugar crepes in a Bosnian Serb restaurant overlooking a valley, served</div> <div> by a very genial owner, despite the sun-bleached photo of Doctor K hung</div> <div> over the counter inside.</div> <bR> <div> Until today, I felt that I was an observer of this very strange, deadly</div> <div> anthropological experiment. But then I met Melissa, and I walked through</div> <div> the village of Ahmici.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> SARAJEVO, SATURDAY, JULY 26, 1997</div> <bR> <div> Atrocities in Bosnia were not only committed by Serbs -- although the</div> <div> most, and most serious, were. Muslims slaughtered Serbs, Croats slaughtered</div> <div> Muslims, Serbs and Croats went at each other too.</div> <bR> <div> On April 16, 1993, Croat militiamen attacked the Muslim village of Ahmici,</div> <div> about an hour outside of Sarajevo. The attack was unprovoked, the</div> <div> militiamen shot and burned over a hundred people -- mostly elderly people,</div> <div> women, and children -- to death. The village was totally decimated by</div> <div> mortars and explosive charges.</div> <bR> <div> Today, the village is mostly abandoned, with the exception of a few Croats</div> <div> who have built their houses on the hill. The mosque's minaret, which once</div> <div> towered over the valley, has capsized into the main part of the building,</div> <div> and is plastered in pro-Christianity graffiti. Burned-out cars lay still</div> <div> in garages. Half-intact houses, with nary a window to be seen, glare at</div> <div> us with an open yawn. A few trees sport medium-sized green apples. Vlaya,</div> <div> one of our Croatian fixers/interpreters runs off to pick a few for us, and</div> <div> returns, with a cynical grin on his face, "apples of atrocity," he says,</div> <div> "take some." According to Vlaya, it's apparently good luck to eat fruit</div> <div> from trees in a graveyard.</div> <bR> <div> As I walked through the village, I felt as I did when I toured the Nazi</div> <div> concentration camp in Buchenwald. I could picture the lives that once</div> <div> inhabited the place, you thought about the man getting into his car</div> <div> heading off to work, the family praying in the mosque, the children</div> <div> running through the streets, and suddenly, poof, in one vile act, all</div> <div> that life was snuffed out, leaving behind the place as it now is. In a</div> <div> more sinister, and destructive way, it's like coming across the Bosnian</div> <div> version of the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> Thanks to some contacts, we talk to Ahmed, a freelancer for the Associated</div> <div> Press in a nearby town. He is able to find us a few survivors of the Ahmici</div> <div> massacre. Eleven-year-old Melissa is one of them.</div> <bR> <div> Melissa Zec doesn't remember much about the massacre. I think that's</div> <div> partly due to her age, and I suspect it's partly because she's too shocked</div> <div> to remember. She lay for two days beside the dead body of her mother</div> <div> after she was killed. Her father and sister were also murdered. She now</div> <div> lives with her grandparents, half an hour away from Ahmici.</div> <bR> <div> Melissa is intelligent, and beautiful. She doesn't shy away from my</div> <div> questions, but she isn't impassive either. She doesn't know who killed</div> <div> her family, but she knows it was the Croats. She can't forgive them,</div> <div> and if she ever meets them, she will do to them exactly what they did to</div> <div> her mother, father, and sister. She has nothing to remember her family</div> <div> by -- not even a photograph. Everything was lost in the massacre.</div> <bR> <div> Her grandmother can't believe that the men who have been indicted by the</div> <div> international tribunal in the Hague still live freely in the nearby town</div> <div> of Vitez. She begins to cry when I ask her about her son. She said she</div> <div> collapsed when she first heard about his death. And she is unable to visit</div> <div> his grave without completely losing herself.</div> <bR> <div> The Zecs insist that we stay for coffee, and perhaps something a little</div> <div> stronger if we like (i.e. alcohol -- good Muslims like me it seems). We</div> <div> do, and are touched by the hospitality and kindness that they offer us in</div> <div> their exceptionally modest house on a hill.</div> <bR> <div> We drive to the graveyard that houses 99 of the bodies of the victims of</div> <div> Ahmici. Melissa's father is grave #14. No one knows where her mother and</div> <div> sister's remains are -- they were never identified.</div> <bR> <div> ***</div> <bR> <div> We intend to spend another week here in Bosnia, shooting b-roll and</div> <div> interviews for these stories, before heading off to London to edit them.</div> <div> It promises to be an interesting few days, but I truly do look forward to</div> <div> something a little more familiar, and distant from this place. After</div> <div> India, Israel, and here, the inane, generic comfort of a Club Med seems</div> <div> to be in order. Maybe I can find one along the white cliffs of Dover.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> Split to Sarajevo, September 9 ,1997: 6:55 p.m.</div> <bR> <div> I can't believe that I'm back here: the land of genocide, mass graves,</div> <div> mutton and really bad haircuts. Bosnia-bound, oh yes I am. Just four </div> <div> weeks after my last escapade here - I still remember how relieved I was</div> <div> to get out that time. Now, yet again, a specially-commissioned series, </div> <div> from the NBC News Prez, this time on land mines - propelled by that diva</div> <div> of causes, the second coming, she who suffered for all of us: Princess Diana. </div> <div> I have just spent five days in London, as witness and raconteur to one of the </div> <div> biggest events of the decade, perhaps in Hystery, The Funeral.</div> <bR> <div> The sun is beginning to settle over the hills that surround the fishing </div> <div> village of Split, a Croatian town on the Adriatic Sea. I'm listening to </div> <div> some kind of rap music with my Bosnian driver who doesn't speak much English,</div> <div> but I'm sure he'll learn fast from what he's listening to: "yo homey, let's</div> <div> get togetha and consume some shopska salad." It's a five hour drive to </div> <div> Sarajevo from Split. Given the short notice (less than 24 hours ago) I had</div> <div> about this series, it was the fastest I could get down here. All the flights </div> <div> to Sarajevo were sold out, and we have to have this story done by Friday.</div> <bR> <div> Land mines aside, it could be a big weekend. Local elections in Bosnia are </div> <div> set to happen, and there's major tension between Serb factions in Banjaluka. </div> <div> But unless there's great unrest, nothing will deter me from getting this story</div> <div> done, and getting out of here as soon as possible!</div> <bR> <div> Just got stopped by the Croatian police, I think they saw our Bosnian plates.</div> <div> The fun begins.</div> <bR> <bR> <div> As for the events in London....</div> <bR> <div> I had a hard time believing the enormous emotion that people were showing</div> <div> on the streets last week. The British stiff upper lip was quivering in a</div> <div> big way. The night before the funeral, I popped by Kensington Palace to </div> <div> see what I had only heard about, because we had been holed up in the bureau </div> <div> for the last couple of days crashing stories. It was amazing.</div> <bR> <div> It was around 1:00 a.m.. Thousands of people were milling about in the </div> <div> gardens outside of the palace. Some were huddled in tents, obviously </div> <div> prepared to spend the night, others were clustered around candles or small </div> <div> fires. My senses hit upon two things immediately. First: it was incredibly </div> <div> quiet, nothing but a great hush from the multitudes. Second: the very pleasant </div> <div> scent of candle wax and flowers was everywhere. When had this ever happened </div> <div> before?</div> <bR> <div> In front of the palace itself, an acre of flowers...florists everywhere would </div> <div> be celebrating Christmas early this year.</div> <bR> <div> The day of the funeral, I drove up with a camera crew to Althorp, Diana's </div> <div> final resting place. It was cool and sunny, the crowds were elsewhere in </div> <div> London as we flew north up the empty M1. But there were people already </div> <div> gathering for the cortege, which would not pass by for another four or </div> <div> five hours. Banners lines the highway, and adorned the overpasses: "Diana, </div> <div> Love you Forever," "Goodbye Diana, God Bless." As we listened to the ceremony </div> <div> from Westminster on the radio, you could not help but think that this was an </div> <div> emotional, momentous occasion.</div> <bR> <div> One event of note while in Althorpe. I was situated in front of the gate </div> <div> leading towards the house there, trying to find people to interview about </div> <div> why they had come here, to the final stop, as opposed to camping out with </div> <div> the multitudes in London. One young woman, approached me quite diminutively, </div> <div> her baby in a stroller. With a soft voice, she looked at my crew, and said, </div> <div> "Cameras killed Diana."</div> <bR> <div> I didn't want to argue with her, but that made me angry. I have never </div> <div> been a great defender of the press, but in this situation, I strongly believe</div> <div> that the public and the press worked in tandem. The tabloids and the people </div> <div> both fed off Diana's interesting, sordid, celebrity. The public cannot walk </div> <div> away from this with clean hands. Nothing convinced me more of this idea than </div> <div> when I was at Harrods's earlier in the week for a press conference put on the </div> <div> by Al Fayed family (they were releasing the video from the Ritz security </div> <div> cameras in Paris that showed the tragic couple a few hours before the crash). </div> <div> As I walked out, I saw Dodi's father strolling alongside Harrods's with his </div> <div> entourage. I quickly met up with my camera crew and we ran to try to get </div> <div> footage of what was to be Mohammed Al Fayed's first public appearance.</div> <bR> <div> As he walked around the front of the store, the crowd gathered, and in a </div> <div> very big, lemming-like, star-struck way. They all wanted to touch the father</div> <div> of the son who had been dating the Princess, almost as if he had some kind of </div> <div> mystical connection. Granted, many of these people were trying to give him </div> <div> their condolences, but others just wanted to see. They wanted to see so much </div> <div> that they began to push and shove, and pour out onto the road, stopping </div> <div> traffic. They wanted to see so much, that most of them probably bought the Sun </div> <div> and the Daily Mirror everytime that a photo of Di adorned the front cover. WE </div> <div> were better behaved - the media - than this crazy crowd. It was rock star </div> <div> mania, just so cool to be near a man whose family happened to be the center of </div> <div> the world's attention.</div> <bR> <div> Still, I can't be totally cynical about all of our (the public and the media's) </div> <div> hypocrisy. Today I met two sisters in Tuzla, who both lost their right legs in </div> <div> a minefield a few years ago during the Bosnian war. They're destitute, eking </div> <div> out a living on a family farm. And they met Diana when she visited Bosnia only </div> <div> last month. Their eyes still shine when they think of her visit, and they cry </div> <div> when they think of her death. They didn't know who she was before they had </div> <div> met her, but apparently their encounter had really marked them. "She spoke </div> <div> to us as women," they told me. They have never seen any television footage </div> <div> of the Princess. Tomorrow, I will return, with news footage of the actual </div> <div> encounter between Diana and the two sisters. It's amazing stuff, Diana's </div> <div> dressed in a white shirt and jeans, and really looks like she wouldn't want to </div> <div> be anywhere else than with these victims of landmines - and I don't doubt it. </div> <div> I'm not quite sure how I'm going to deal with their reaction when they see this </div> <div> video.</div> </td> </tr></table></body>