From: pnmideast@igc.org
Newsgroups: soc.culture.yugoslavia
Subject: MIRacles No. 6
Date: 29 Jul 92 03:31:00 GMT
Nf-ID: #N:cdp:1475300297:000:15159
Nf-From: cdp.UUCP!pnmideast    Jul 28 20:31:00 1992


From: <pnmideast>
Subject: MIRacles No. 6

/* Written  4:00 pm  Jul 28, 1992 by gn:jsax in cdp:gen.quaker */
/* ---------- "MIRacles No. 6" ---------- */
===================================================================
MIRacles  No.  6                                                                      Joel GAzis-SAx
Zagreb, 24 Srpanj 1992                                                         Copyright 1992
===================================================================
"We don't believe in the United Nations," the medical student tells me.  "We 
don't believe in the European Community.  We don't believe -- and I beg 
your pardon -- in the Americans."

"I know that and I understand," I tell her.  "But what worries me is this:  
You don't believe in yourselves, either."

"Yes," she says.  "You are right.  We don't believe in ourselves."

Osijek is my great teacher.  Everytime I travel in Slavonia, I find that I 
understand Croatia better.  When I was last here [see MIRacles Nos. 2 and 
3], I saw piles of rubble and heard angry voices.  The streets were nearly 
empty.  This time, the rubble has been cleaned up.  The people are coming 
back.  This time, they speak of their despair.  They see themselves as small 
men and women.

They come from Zagreb, from the homes of family and friends living 
elsewhere, and from refugee camps in Hungary.  Osijek, they say, has 
changed.  The change is not the bullet holes or the bomb craters or the 
ruined houses of this still beautiful city:

"I miss them," the medical student tells me.  She speaks of "two or three" 
Serbian friends.  They have gone over the other side.  "I feel angry.  But I 
cannot hate them.  I miss them.  They are my friends."

Her friend, another medical student, does not share her feelings.  Her 
brother is somewhere on the front and, if there is anyone she misses, it is 
him.  The Serbs who left "killed my people.  They destroyed Vukovar."  
Both women have lost Croatian friends as well.  A sizeable portion of the 
community of love which sustained them has disappeared.  They are 
returning to Zagreb to continue their studies.

"Well," says the faculty wife.  "That's one less Serb in Osijek."  Her husband, 
a professor of State and Law from the University of Zagreb, is in Osijek to 
replace a colleague, a Serb, who "disappeared" when the war began last fall.  
The professor declares that he cannot understand why this "friend" -- if he 
had nothing to hide -- fled the country.  He launches into an explication, 
verging on racism, why the Serbian people will never change.

This man becomes a pest.  Whenever he and his wife see me or my 
companion, Irish volunteer Brendan Keaveney, they sit down with us and 
start to tell us why the Serbs are as they are.  Just as we cannot avoid 
seeing the holes in every wall and on every sidewalk, so, too, we cannot 
avoid the blindly anti-Serbian views when we walk the streets of Osijek.

Some Croats, too, see the jingoism.  I have met Serbs, loyal to Croatia, who 
lost their citizenship and their public benefits, even though they have lived 
in Slavonia for more than forty years.  The single reference to Beograd on a 
birth certificate makes one man I know of a foreigner in the city where he 
has lived, worked, and served others for decades.  Legally, he should have 
no problem becoming a Croatian citizen, but he has struggled with the 
bureaucracy for months to set things straight.

A professor who fled the shelling lost her job.  When she applied for 
another position, she was told that she was pre-eminently the best 
qualified candidate.  She could not be hired, however, on moral grounds:  
she had abandoned her post in the face of the enemy.  When academics 
become as soldiers, I think the people are in a very bad way indeed.

You feel the rising tension on all counts.  I talk to many representatives of 
relief organizations and to some UNPROFOR soldiers.  They all tell me that 
there is a false rumor that Baranja, the region to the northeast of the city, 
will soon reopen.  The Serbs still occupy Baranja.  The UN recently 
succedded in arranging for English journalist John Bloss to cross from 
Croatia into Baranja and this, they feel, is a great step forward.  Previously, 
all visitors to Baranja have had to come from the Serbian side.

Croatian President Franjo Tudjman crosses the footbridge at Osijek into 
Baranja while we are there.  He wears a bullet-proof vest and is 
surrounded by six body guards.  John Bloss wore no bullet proof vest, 
carried no weapons, and went alone.  The small man has some advantages, 
it seems, over the president, particularly when he is a foreigner.

Coping with the 600,000 Bosnian refugees and Croatian displaced persons 
has strained the resources of the special officers, social workers, and 
humanitarian workers and volunteers.  Stjepan Hamm, a Croat of German 
descent and director of the Osijek office of the Croatian Red Cross, tells me 
that the needs of the Bosnian refugees and Baranjan displaced persons 
divert his attention from the equally important concerns of the permanent 
residents of Osijek.  What these people need most, he says, is glass.  Winter 
is coming and the sheets of plastic which cover the shot-out window frames 
will not suffice.  Glass is hard to get and very expensive.  Zeljko, my guide 
during my first visit to Osijek, introduced me to a neighbor who spent 
$4000 to replace one two by three foot section of her window.  As Bosnian 
refugees stream into Croatia and news of Sarajevo appears on every 
channel, the world forgets that many people of Baranja are homeless and 
that the people of Osijek need to rebuild.

Lidja, the director of the Osijek Caritas office, shows me how the habit of 
cleaning out your closet to give to the needy can be destructive.  She guides 
me through her warehouse, showing me the donations.  There are shelves 
upon shelves of high-heeled shoes and racks of shoes and evening clothes.  
She holds up a pair of children's shoes.  The soles are worn away.  "I can't 
hand these out!" she says.  "The child will ruin her feet."  We pass other 
castoffs and, finally, she brings me to the most critical section:  underwear.  
With one hand, she lifts the entire stock for me to see:  a single bra and 
three pairs of girls' panties.

I do not meet a single soldier, social worker, or humanitarian worker who 
is not tired and disheartened by the response of the West to the war.  The 
two Belgian UNPROFOR soldiers I run into as our party surveys the wrecked 
bridge of the main highway, are also disheartened.  They have heard the 
nasty stories about them.  A local rumor has it that UNPROFOR works only 
until 2 p.m.  Then you can find them in the cafes, sipping their beer.  The 
Croats want to return to Baranja and they want UNPROFOR to protect them 
when they go.  Or, they feel, that UNPROFOR should escort the people who 
stayed behind to a place of safety.

"'If you all leave', we tell them, 'then there will be no more Croats and it 
won't be part of Croatia anymore" the Belgian captain explains.  This is his 
first UNPROFOR posting and, while he acknowledges the terrific pressures 
upon him and the other soldiers, he enjoys his job.  "It is not often," he 
says, "that as a soldier you get to help make peace."

Other people in Osijek are looking ahead to that peace.  Josip Kompanovic, 
deputy director of the office which looks after the interests of the displaced 
people of Baranja, explains that the Croatian government has plans in place 
to help them rebuild their flattened villages.  They know what stores will 
reopen first, what local infrastructure will be replaced, etc.  They are short 
on money.  

He apologizes to me for carrying a gun.  I tell him that while I am 
nonviolent, I look past his weapon to the human being.  I have no trouble, 
therefore, promising him that when I return to America, I will go to my 
members of Congress and lobby for humanitarian aid to Croatia.  The 
problems of the refugees and displaced people, we agree, are terrific.  
Croatia was not ready and is not ready for the problems which this war has 
brought.

Ante Lauc, a sociologist with the University of Osijek, tells me that Croats 
had difficulty understanding the terrible immediacy of the Iraqi tanks 
rolling into Kuwait in August 1990.  "With this war in our city and with this 
war in Bosnia that could come to our homes, we understand better," he 
says.  In the night, I hear loud explosions and gunfire.  These remind me 
that  even though the shelling has stopped, war remains a constant 
companion to the people of this city.

Ante confesses to me that he has undergone spiritual transformation at 
least twice.  The first time was when he traveled to America to work at 
Cornell University and UC Berkeley.  "My fellow sociologists complained 
that I was as a child, that I was too much the optimist.  It was true, because 
I did not know what they knew.  I had not seen the data.  When I had the 
knowledge they had, I lost my naivite and my optimism."

The second time came when Osijek changed from the city so far from the 
world's strifes into the most critical battleground in the war between Croats 
and Serbs.  "After this war started," he continues, "I began to pray and 
again I was as a little child.  Perhaps when I know as much about religion 
as I do about sociology, I will become less optimistic."

I remind him that Christ felt that becoming as a little child was the secret 
of Christian happiness.  He laughs with delight when I tell him that Christ 
promised his followers three things if they would just follow his way:  you 
will be absolutely happy, you will be entirely fearless, and you will always 
be in trouble.

I have a taste of the trouble you can get in in this nervous, war-torn 
country.  After working on the computer in the post office for awhile, I 
realize that  I am late for my appointment at Caritas.  A soldier stops me as 
I rush out and insists upon searching my belongings.  He wants to know if I 
have been taking pictures of any important people.  The controversy 
around my camera gets so intense and I am so desparate to make my 
appointment that I open the camera myself and pull out the film.  He takes 
it from me and holds it up to the light.

This is not yet enough.  He rummages through my briefcase and pulls out 
my battered notebook.  He opens it and demands to know what I have 
written.  One of Ante's students, a young woman who has been trying to 
explain to this man that I am here for humanitarian purposes, translates 
for me:  "blankets, coats, food . . ."  The police officer who joins us persuades 
him to let me go.

The next day, when I return with Ante, this soldier is still there.  I am able 
to smile pleasantly and say "Dobro jutro" -- "Good morning".  He returns my 
smile, with a little embarassment, and does not bother me at all when I 
come out again an hour later.  Ante and I figure that perhaps the soldier 
was more nervous than usual because Tudjman was in town.

"I don't understand it," the first medical student tells me.  "Everyone here 
is angry with Tudjman because of the war.  They talk of supporting Paraga 
which is no good because Paraga is an extemist.  Tudjman comes to town 
and they all go down to the square, these same people, and they cry 
'Franjo! Franjo!'"

The trouble is, she explains, that the Croats do not understand democracy.  
"They still expect the politicians will tell them what to do."  She feels 
powerless against this.  The people no longer come into the streets and talk 
to one another freely all night as they once did.  Instead, they buy guns, go 
home, and wait for the Chetniks to come.  The fear is what the people of 
Osijek understand best, she thinks.  "It is always here."

I look at her and her friend and see hope, nonetheless.  "I look at you two 
here and each of you has been very honest with me.  When we are able to 
do this, to sit together, to have differences, and still be friends, then I know 
that you know in your hearts what democracy is."  They look at each other 
and acknowledge me with mutual smiles.  The Croats may not ever be able 
to count on the forces they pray will help them, but I have seen the one 
force that is always there within them raising its optimistic head and 
laughing, like a child.
* * *
NEEDS

1.  Once again, I urge Friends and others interested in seeking political 
solutions to the problem to concentrate on promoting an effective forum for 
dialogue between Serbs, Croats, and Bosnians.  You should also call upon 
your elected officials and formulators of foreign policy to place a high 
priority on aid for refugees and displaced persons for Croatia, Bosnia, 
Slovenia, and Serbia.

2.  If you are interested in helping the Slavonian and Bosnian refugees, you 
should call your local Catholic diocese and ask how you can contribute to 
Cariatas.  Although a Catholic charity, Caritas provides its services only on 
the basis of need.  It is as concerned about Orthodox and Muslim refugees 
in Slavonia as it is about Catholics.  Help to refugees in Serbia may be 
channeled through your local Serbian Orthodox Church.  The International 
Red Cross/Red Crescent helps both sides.

Caritas specifically asks for the following:  NEW underwear (children and 
women's especially), NEW socks, new or nearly new shoes (especially 
childrens' sport shoes), blankets, winter coats, soaps, shampoos, shaving 
gear, toothpaste, detergent, and school supplies.  Do not send books (unless 
they are blank or written in Croatian).  Balkan peoples are proportioned 
like Americans.  Send clothes in appropriate sizes and styles for adults.

3.  I wish to travel to Beograd to meet with and support peace activists in 
that country.  The trip will cost me about $300 for one week.  I am also 
raising money to buy toys for children in one of the refugee houses in 
Osijek.  These children have been away from their homes for over a year 
and have nearly nothing to stimulate them.  See below for information 
about where to send your contribution(s).
* * *
ABOUT THE TITLE:  Brethren theogian Dale Brown once counted the ability 
to believe in miracles as an essential component in the psychic constituency 
of the peace activists.  "Mir" is the word for "peace" in Croatian, Serbian, 
and most other Slavic languages.  The title, therefore, reflects the writer's 
personal belief in persistant peacemaking.

* * *
This publication is circulated over the Association for Progressive 
Communications Networks by Joel GAzis-Sax.  Users may download this 
article for their own use, but are asked to make a donation to help support 
Joel's work in the Balkans.  Checks should be made in U.S. dollars and made 
out to Palo Alto Friends Meeting and earmarked "Balkans Peace Fund".  The 
address is:

                 Palo Alto Friends Meeting
                 957 Colorado Avenue
                 Palo Alto, California     94303
                 U.S.A.

You may reprint MIRacles for local use, but you may not make any charges 
for it except to cover photocopying costs.
Newsgroups: soc.culture.yugoslavia