Rose of Sarajevo (12 page)

APRIL 8, 1992

“If the EU hadn’t recognized Croatia’s independence in January, Izetbegović wouldn’t be struggling so much now,” Burhan said, taking another gulp of whiskey. “He’s in a real bind. You know the saying: ‘If he spits down, he’ll hit his beard; up, his mustache.’ If he hadn’t declared Bosnian independence, we’d all be under the Serbian fist.”

“Do you remember what that guy said?” Raif, Nimeta’s brother, asked. “He said that if the EU recognized an independent Bosnia, he’d make sure our country was stillborn. He’s gone on a killing rampage just to make good on his word.”

“Of course I remember,” Burhan said. “I was furious. He said he wouldn’t allow a ‘Muslim bastard of a country’ to be born in the lands of his Serbian ancestors.”

“Who said that?” Raziyanım asked.

“Radovan did, Mother,” Nimeta told her.

“Are you talking about Radovan Karadžić? That Montenegrin peasant?”

“That’s the one.”

“He should spend more time tending to his own craziness,” Raziyanım said, referring to Karadžić’s education as a psychiatrist. “Besides, since when has Sarajevo been considered the land of his ancestors?”

“Mother, if everyone starts pointing to their family trees, this city really will be torn apart.”

“It already has been.”

“He suggested dividing up the city without going to war, but Izetbegović wouldn’t hear of it,” Nimeta said. “It’s going to end up being carved up anywa
y . . .
If Izetbegović had conceded, then at least a young woman would still be alive today.”

“How can you say that?” Raif said. “A divided Sarajevo! It’s unthinkable!”

“Well, when Karadžić decided to declare the Serbian Republic of Bosnia-Herzegovina, did he bother to ask our opinion?” Burhan said. “Did he bother to consult Bosniaks and Croats first? There may not have been a great many Muslims and Croats living in those regions claimed by the Serbs, but there were certainly a few.”

They could hear shouting and gunfire outside. Hana appeared in a flannel nightgown at the end of the corridor, the cat in her arms.

“Dad, is there going to be a war?” she asked.

“God forbid. What makes you say that?” Burhan said, ignoring the sound of the gunfire.

“That’s what everyone at school says,” Hana insisted.

“Do you think a few idiots firing off their guns could start a war?” Nimeta said.

“Those Serbs have always been hotheaded,” Raziyanım muttered. “They’re always looking for trouble.”

“That’s not true,” Fiko said. “My three best friends are Serbs.”

“I’ve got nothing against your friends,” Raif said. “It’s their fathers who are throwing up barricades across the city.”

Nimeta motioned for Raif not to say anything further in front of the children.

“Come on, Hana. Back to bed you go,” Nimeta said. “There won’t be a war, but you will have to go to school tomorrow.”

“Your nightgown’s covered in cat hair. How many times have I told you not to pick him up?” Raziyanım said. “Be sure to brush yourself off before you get in bed.”

“We’re on the brink of war, and Mother’s still worrying about cat hair,” Nimeta whispered to Raif.

“Fiko, you should go to bed too,” Burhan said. “It’s late.”

“But Dad, I want to know what’s going on.”

“Nothing’s going on, Son. You watched the news tonight. People were out on the streets saying they didn’t want Bosnia to be divided, and trouble broke out. That’s all.”

“You still treat me like a child. All the other dads are teaching their sons my age how to use a gun,” Fiko said.

“It’s solving problems without resorting to guns that takes real skill,” Raif said. “I’ll tell you exactly what’s going on, but you’d better not mention guns again. Do we have a deal?”

“It’s a deal, Uncle.”

“Let the children go to bed,” Nimeta said.

“He’s not a child, he’s a young man,” Raif said.

“Even you’re still a child in my eyes,” Raziyanım said to her son.

“Uncle, please go on. I’m listening.”

“The main point,” Raif began, “is that Serbs, Croats, and Bosniaks have lived together in these lands for centuries—”

“Uncle, by Bosniaks do you mean Muslims?”

“Up until the time of Tito, Bosnian Muslims were called Bosniaks. Being a Muslim is one thing, being a Bosniak another. Muslims live all over the world. Turks, Iranians, Arabs, Indonesians, and many, many others are Muslim, just like us. Why do they insist on calling us ‘Muslims’? The Croats aren’t called ‘Catholics,’ and the Serbs aren’t called ‘Orthodox Christians.’”

“It’s perfectly obvious,” Burhan said. “They’re changing the definition of the word ‘Bosniak’ slowly and stealthily. They want to eliminate our ethnic identity so that we’re left with only our religious identity. That way they can claim the homeland we’ve lived in for nine centuries. Once we’re branded ‘Muslims,’ it will be easier to kick us out of Europe.”

“But we are Muslims,” Fiko pointed out.

“Of course we’re Muslims,” Raif said, “and we’ll always be Muslims. But we’re also Bosniaks. We’re called Bosniaks, and Bosniaks are also Muslim. Bosniaks are Muslims who are tied to the land of Bosnia. Never forget that.”

“All right, Uncle. Go on.”

“So all these different groups were living together but preserved their own ethnic and religious distinctions under an ideal formula in which the chairman of the presidency was elected on a rotating basis. Then a madman named Milošević pops up in Serbia and decides that all the Serbs living across Yugoslavia have to be a part of Serbia. Why did fighting break out in Kosovo and Croatia? Because of what I just told you. And now he’s provoking the Serbs living in Bosnia to set up a Serbian state of their own.”

“But the Serbs are already a part of our republic, aren’t they?”

“They were, Son. A parliamentary election was held in Bosnia-Herzegovina. The Muslim party won eighty-seven seats, the Serbs seventy-one, and the Croats forty-one. But that coalition fell apart after only a year, and a new government was formed with the same parties. But this time the Serbs found they couldn’t stomach having Izetbegović as president.”

“Why not, Uncle?”

“Izetbegović was accused of siding with the Slovenians and the Croats in their bid for independence. But that was just an excuse for the Serbs to make trouble.”

“There’s another, little-known reason Serbs had a problem with Izetbegović,” Burhan added. “When Izetbegović attended the Organization of the Islamic Conference summit in Turkey in July of 1991, the Serbs’ blood ran cold. They’ve always been afraid he was planning to set up an Islamic state.”

“That’s utter nonsense!” Raziyanım exploded.

“Well, why do you think they made him rot in prison all those years?” Burhan asked.

“I don’t understand why he attended that conference at a time when tensions were running so high. He was kind of asking for it.”

“He attended the conference so that he could show those who were really ‘asking for it’ that the Bosniaks had friends backing them up,” Burhan said. “The ethnic Croats could depend on Croatia, the ethnic Serbs on Serbia. What was wrong with Izetbegović trying to drum up some support among Muslim countries?”

“You remember what that scoundrel Vojislav Šešelj said, don’t you?” Raif said.

“What’d he say, Uncle?”

“He said that unless the Bosniaks admitted that they were nothing more than Serbs forcibly converted to Islam, he’d kick their butts all the way to Anatolia.”

“Raif! Please! That’s enough! He’ll be sitting in class with his Serbian friends tomorrow.” Nimeta was looking increasingly upset, but Raif ignored his big sister.

“Look, Fiko, we’re having a man-to-man talk so you can learn the facts. In March of ’91, Milošević and Tudjman met in Tito’s old hunting lodge of all places and hashed out a plan to divide Bosnia up between them. As the two leaders sat there acting all brotherly, trying to figure out the best way to wipe out the Bosniaks, their own people were slaughtering each other. But that’s another story.”

“Raif, isn’t this a bit much for a boy his age? When he goes to school tomorrow—”

Raif cut Nimeta off. “When he goes to school, he’ll know who’s a friend and who’s an enemy!”

“Uncle, why do they keep plotting against us behind our backs?”

“Because they don’t believe there’s such a thing as Bosniaks. If you ask the Serbs, we’re fellow Serbs who converted to Islam under pressure from the Ottomans. If you ask the Croats, we’re Croats who turned our backs on the Catholic Church. They’ve repeated this lie so many times, they’ve started to believe it. And now they’ve got their eyes on our land.”

“Look, everyone’s at each other’s throats as it is. Don’t go filling the boy’s head with separatist ideas.”

“Nimeta, it’s too late,” Burhan said. “Darling, the Serbs announced they were setting up their own parliament way back on October 25. The boy, as you call him, is living in a divided country. It’s time he learned the truth.”

“Well, since April 6 we’ve also been living in a free country liberated from the repression of Milošević. It’s officially known as the autonomous Republic of Bosnia-Herzegovina.”

Raif tipped the bottle of plum brandy over his glass and waited for a moment. “We’ve run out of booze,” he said. “Haven’t you got any more?”

“I’ll go get it,” Fiko said, springing to his feet.

“You sit right back down,” Raziyanım said. “You’ve all had enough to drink.”

“But we’re celebrating, Mother,” Raif said.

“That’s all you ever do. I remember the last time you celebrated.”

“I need to say something while Fiko’s out of the room,” Nimeta said. “Let’s stop talking politics, Raif. We have to live with those damned Serbs whether we like it or not. I don’t want you encouraging Fiko to see every Serb as an enemy.”

“I need to say one more thing, and then I’ll shut my mouth,” Raif said.

“And what’s that?”

“Fiko needs to know this: under Milošević’s orders, all Bosnian-born soldiers in the Bosnian Army, regardless of rank, are being recalled to Belgrade. Meanwhile, all Bosnian-born soldiers of Serbian origin anywhere in Yugoslavia are being deployed to units in Bosnia. Do you know what that means?”

“Is that really true?” Burhan asked. “Nimeta, do you know anything about this?”

“Yes. We received that information some time ago,” Nimeta said.

Silence descended on the table.

“Does the president still believe that the Bosnian units would never fire on us?” Burhan asked wearily.

“Alija Izetbegović has always been an incurable optimist. Do you remember the speech he gave on TV in October of ’91?” Raif asked, standing up to do his best impersonation of the president’s speech that day: “The Yugoslavia envisioned by Karadžić is unacceptable to everyone but the Serbs. The Yugoslavia he seeks to create is abhorred by one and all! I wish to assure you, the people of Bosnia-Herzegovina, that there is nothing to fear, and there will not be a war! Fear not and sleep in peace!”

Raif sat back down and, lips twisted in a wry smile, began tapping his spoon on the table in time to a well-known Balkan folk song:
“The end is nigh, Alija. The end is nigh, Alija.”

“Your humor’s a bit too dark for me,” Nimeta scowled.

“Don’t be mad at him,” Burhan said. “Milošević and Tudjman sang that song when they met in March of ’91 to plot the partition of Bosnia. Someone who was there leaked that little tidbit to the press. You told me all about it, remember?”

Raziyanım’s lips had begun to tremble. Nimeta was staring daggers at her husband and brother.

“Why are you looking at us like that? You mean you never heard about that song? What kind of journalist are you, my dear?”

“I’d suggest you stop making digs at me, put down your drink, and pack your bags,” Nimeta said. “Remember, you’ve got to leave first thing in the morning.”

Raziyanım broke in: “I’m a little worried. Who’s going to look after Hana while you’re at work? If only you were able to get along with housekeepers.”

“Mother, it’s not like there’s an abundance of housekeepers these days. And is it my fault if Milica left us just because she’s Serbian?”

“After all those years in this house, what an ingrate she turned out to be,” Raziyanım said.

“She’s a good person,” Nimeta said. “I never had any complaints. It was her brother who made her quit.”

“They think we’re just like them,” Raziyanım said. “What harm have we ever done anyone? I’m just sorry Hana will be coming home to an empty house.”

“Don’t worry, Mother. Hana won’t be alone. I plan to start working part-time as of this week. Ivan promised me ages ago, but something always came up. It’s time I insisted.”

“If I didn’t have any other grandchildren, I’d stay here but—”

“Mother, you act as if I haven’t managed on my own all these years. You act as though we’d all die of starvation and neglect without you.”

“I don’t know about the others, but now that I’m used to your cooking, I really might die of starvation once Nimeta’s back in the kitchen,” Burhan said.

Raziyanım’s eyes sparkled.

“Mom, I can go home alone if you like. You stay here,” Raif said.

“If it weren’t for Muho—”

“Muho needs his grandmother,” Nimeta said. “Don’t make such a big deal about being apart for a few months.”