February 3, 1996
Across a Balkan Bridge, Hate and Suspicion Linger
By KIT R. ROANE
ARAJEVO, Bosnia-Herzegovina -- Guarding his post on the Brotherhood and Unity bridge, Sinisa Jovic, a Bosnian Serb policeman, had a message for his best friend, a Muslim in the part of the city the Bosnian Serbs had shelled and besieged.
"Go tell him that if he comes here I will guarantee that no one will touch one hair on his head," said the 31-year-old former soldier. "And ask him if it will be safe for me to come there, so we can again drink coffee together and talk about the old times that were. He is my friend and I have no other."
Where once-armed Serbs sat stony-faced, 60 feet from their enemies in the Bosnian capital, they now drink toasts to the end of the war and daydream about the cosmopolitan city they fled.
It is a reflection of the change they see across the Miljacka River, in the government-controlled center of town. From their perches over the last two months, they have watched Sarajevo come alive with the bustle of people and the rush of trams. They have heard the distant thumping of discos and have seen empty buildings turned into shiny coffee bars.
Their neighborhood, Grbavica, sits in stark contrast to this economic regeneration. On the southern edge of the city, it remains a chilly grouping of damaged high-rises and former sniper nests, where all streets are marked by rows of protective shields. Under the terms of the Dayton peace agreement, even this dismal sanctuary will soon be lost, coming under government control this weekend.
The peace accord guarantees the rights and property of Serbs who remain in Grbavica, but few say they will risk staying. Where to go remains a problem.
Most of the Bosnian Serb republic is composed of villages, where foreign languages and university education are not prized, where the main export is wood, not art, music, or education. And for the men on the bridge -- like many residents of Sarajevo's suburbs, well educated and accustomed to urban society -- a sadness has crept from the peace, a longing for the eclectic trappings of the city they tried to kill.
"Before the war, I had a country," said another Bosnian Serb policeman, 28-year-old Risto Bebarovic. "Now I have nothing. Over there, they have cars, apartments, culture, and a country. I have the Bosnian Serb republic but I have no heart for this place.
"During New Year's Eve, I could see the tram moving in the night picking up people in what was once my neighborhood and I began to cry. Sometimes I regret crossing the bridge."
Bebarovic grew up in Sarajevo, learned English, became an electrical engineer, and fell in love with a young Muslim girl. He never planned on leaving. But in 1992, as war broke out, he and his Serbian friends said they were pushed to chose sides.
Some Bosnian Serbs took up arms and sowed terror in their own city. Others just left, overcome by worry that they might become victims of Muslims. They now have a wasteland to ponder.
Shaking his head at his dismal prospects, Bebarovic recalled the day he slipped away across the bridge into Grbavica.
"I had gone down to the coffee bar, 20 feet from my home," he said clenching his jaw. "But when I asked for a brandy, the waiter told me he had none. I tried to get a beer, then a coffee. He had none for Serbs. After that, I stayed awake all night, worried that they would come for me. Finally, by the morning, I had crossed to the other side and lost everything."
Jovic and Bebarovic are now trying to rekindle their connections in the city, hoping that old friends will guide them back into the lives they once had. But their return is fraught with difficulties. The Bosnian government has yet to offer amnesty to its former enemies. It also keeps records on all Serbs who left Sarajevo and has put together lists of complaints against those who might have committed crimes.
The war has left old friendships tattered and vague, more things of suspicion than cherished memories. And there is plenty of hate to go around.
Jovic's friend, 31-year-old Mevludin Kaljanac, now sits in the Dayton Cafe, covered with scars and hobbling to the cash register on an artificial leg, a replacement for the leg he lost in a battle for a hill near Sarajevo. Tapping his prosthetic limb under the dim fluorescent light, Kaljanac said he was once a soccer player and judo expert, sports he played with Jovic as a boy. But now, he said, people who left the city and then fired on its people are no longer welcome.
"I am not the president, so I can't decide who comes into the city," he said. "He can come if he wants. But I think it's better if he just stays away."
Where Jovic grew up, less than a mile from his post on the bridge, houses sit largely vacant due to shells and sniping from Grbavica, and his neighbors while away hours talking about close calls and the young dead. They recall Jovic as a good youth who one day abandoned them. They wonder if over the years he fired some of those deadly shots into their midst or committed crimes in Grbavica. If he didn't, they know his compatriots did.
"I have lost a lot in this war," Kaljanac said. "Look at me, I don't even have my leg. Sinisa was my best friend but I can't remember the good friendship anymore. All things are different now."
