The Fracture Zone: My Return to the Balkans

by Simon Winchester

  I was delighted to see them. A friend at the BBC had organized their arrival, since it was said that they knew the least troublesome way to travel into the interior. It was for this kind of local knowledge that the fixers prove so invaluable—the best of them being legendarily undaunted by the most arcane of requests, and by the risks that are frequently involved.

  An editor in London or New York might send an urgent message to his correspondent on the ground: Find me a young and attractive Albanian refugee who speaks serviceable English, who is pregnant after being raped by a Serb paramilitary, and find her in the next hour. The correspondent without a fixer would have little idea which way to turn. The correspondent with one, on the other hand, would turn immediately to the fixer to arrange everything, and in all probability it could and would be done.

  The fortunate journalist would then make the broadcast or write the article, and in due course get all the glory, receive the “herograms.” But the fixer would receive none of this—no recognition for him or her other than the daily fee that had been agreed beforehand. The going rate in the Balkans, at least from the British and American networks and newspapers, was two hundred German marks a day.

  Economic distress is most often the reason that fixers take the work. The kind of circumstances where fixers are needed—such as here, the outbreak of a complicated war in a difficult and unfamiliar part of the world—rarely embrace periods of economic contentment and social harmony. And such circumstances thus have a way of driving into the fixer corps numbers of extremely well-educated and overqualified young men and women who, because of the situation that the reporters have come to cover, are temporarily down on their luck. There was a twenty-five-year-old doctor working in the Balkans as a cameraman’s assistant; and Dali and Vesna here in Montenegro were both highly intelligent women, one taking a graduate degree in political science, the other studying to be a pharmacist. They didn’t much like the drudge work—but they needed the money. The four hundred marks that Vesna received for two days’ acting as gofer for a visiting correspondent was more than her father earned in a month.

  Besides doing work they didn’t much like, and for reasons they didn’t care to reveal, and rarely winning credit for the tasks they performed, the fixers not infrequently got into trouble. While we were in the region a Kosovo Albanian fixer working for a British journalist was killed by a NATO bomb fragment, and a Macedonian fixer was murdered by Serb soldiers, along with the two German reporters who had hired him. There were long news reports noting the deaths or injuries to the correspondents, but no initial mention of the locally hired helpmeets. Their fate was reported only much later, in the laconic list of the unfortunate also-rans.

  Dali and Vesna needed to have a particular skill on the day we met—and it was for this specific reason that they had been asked to meet us. They were get us into the Montenegrin capital past the very hostile and rather dangerous Yugoslav army checkpoints. They had devised a simple and probably foolproof scheme for doing so.

  The fact that such a problem existed at all says much about the curiously ambiguous situation of the mountainous, geologically chaotic and astonishingly beautiful state of Montenegro—home, it is said, to the tallest people in Europe, and probably also to the toughest. Officially it is a part of Yugoslavia, one of the country’s two constituent republics, Serbia being the other.* There is a constitutionally guaranteed equivalence: both Serbia and Montenegro send twenty deputies to the federal upper house of the parliament, both Serbia and Montenegro have their own governments and their own presidents, and both maintain armed police forces. But there the similarity ends. Whereas in Serbia the interests of the dominantly Serbian federal administration can be said to coincide almost perfectly with those of the local people, almost the very opposite holds true in Montenegro.

  The Montenegrins in the main may be Orthodox Christians, like most of the Serbs; but they are fiercely independent, they have a fiery reputation, and they are a people of the sea and the mountains and not the rivers and the plains. They would never, they insist today as they always have, accept subjugation by anyone. They got rid of the Turks—just the only Balkan people ever to do so. They had employed the simplest but most effective of guerrilla methods for doing so—methods that would be duplicated hundreds of years later, half a world away, by such strategists as Ho Chi Minh in Vietnam, and Mao Zedong in China.

  The men—vastly tall, utterly impressive—were extraordinary snipers, and they used guns ten feet long against the invaders. When the Turks first invaded the capital of Cetinje, as they did three times, the defenders of the local monastery touched off their powder magazine, destroying the place, killing themselves—but driving all the terrified Turks away. On other occasions the Montenegrin women would trigger landslides, and avalanches in winter, and create all kinds of havoc among the Turks’ supply lines. The children were involved in the fighting too—setting fires, firing catapults, ferrying ammunition and water to the men in the firing lines. The entire country, knitted together by family, by blood, and by loyalty to the very idea of Montenegro, became fully involved if anyone ever dared set foot inside their hallowed territory. The people knew little other than God and war, and it was the gravest of insults for one Montenegrin to sneer at another: “I know your people—all your ancestors died in their beds.”

  They had gotten rid of the Turks; and, I was to be told almost every day that I was inside this happy little former kingdom, that if they had to get rid of the Serbs as well, then they would do so without any hesitation at all. A man walking beneath the cathedral walls in Kotor was the first to say about Belgrade’s Mr. Milosevic, “Let him try it—just let him try it. He’ll have the bloodiest fight he’s ever known.”

  All across Montenegro there seemed a sudden eruption of anger toward the Serbs. “Every evil in the Balkans has come from them,” a café owner was quoted as saying. “They are scum,” said a painter. They had “stolen” the Montenegrin language (which has four more letters in its alphabet than plain Serbian), they were “genocidal cowards,” they “lacked a civilization,” they were of (the greatest insult of all) “Turkish descent.”

  Which is why the Montenegrin police force and the Yugoslav army, both of which have constitutional responsibility for the territorial serenity and integrity of the five thousand square miles of Montenegrin territory, are at perpetual and often dangerous odds with each other. The Montenegrin police are, first, loyal to their president, a dapper young matinee idol named Milo Djukanovic; the Yugoslav army is loyal to the federal president, who at the time of writing is Slobodan Milosevic. The two men (despite Milosevic having been the Montenegrin president’s political patron) glare at each other with ill-concealed distaste.

  Djukanovic eyes Milosevic with suspicion, wary of his long-term intentions, openly challenging him to dare to try to tinker with, or worse still, try to annex, his rumbustious little republic. His ministers talk openly of declaring independence: There is already a Montenegrin airline, there is talk of Montenegrin passports, and a currency tied, like Bosnia’s, to the German mark.

  Milosevic in turn rails back at Djukanovic, reminding him (with some accuracy) that he and the federal army he commands could crush him and his insignificant nation in a heartbeat, if he chose to. But the Montenegrin president has managed so far to remain sturdily—some would say cheekily—independent of Belgrade: He has astutely given himself two guarantees that this interesting situation may last.

  First, the young president has worked hard, via a series of foreign expeditions and state visits and countless ambassadorial soirées, to ensure that he retains the sympathetic interest of as much of the international community as possible. It has been a strategy that has seemed to work—for during the Kosovo war all of those capitals, from Washington to London, from Helsinki to Canberra, which condemned the policies of the Yugoslav government were invariably careful to add “except, of course, for Montenegro.” They recognized President Djukanovic as somehow different, not a man to be tarre
d with the same brush as the leader in Belgrade.

  Then again, and in tandem with his courtship of foreign governments, President Djukanovic has spent much time and energy courting the attentions of the foreign press. He has appeared to believe that the generals in faraway Belgrade, however much they might wish to rid themselves of his turbulent presence, would simply never dare to touch him with the whole world looking on. (But of course Milosevic did just that in Kosovo and Bosnia, quite careless of world opinion—meaning that Montenegro’s present optimism may turn out to be ill-placed.)

  Whatever Djukanovic’s chances of ultimate success, whatever his chances of long-term survival, he was certainly extraordinarily popular with the access-demanding foreign press. Even at the height of the war it was perfectly easy for a foreign corespondent to gain entry into what, it has to be remembered, was and at the time of writing still is, an integral part of Yugoslavia. The bureaucrats in Podgorica, the country’s dull little modern capital, saw to it that anyone who wished to come in, could—in sharp contrast to the situation in Belgrade, where correspondents were turned away in their droves, and those who were allowed in had to function under the most controlled of conditions.

  In Montenegro reporters and photographers were given an essentially free rein, and they received all the care and attention and interested help that a sympathetic government is able to give. This, considering that there was a war going on, was almost a correspondent’s heaven. It was most unusual, and all who went to Montenegro during the war reveled in the freedoms—but at the same time wondered just how long they could last.

  Those of us who were allowed to come in were handed a prettily-produced booklet about Montenegro, attached to which was an open letter, one of the more remarkable I can remember receiving. It was from the presidential palace, above the signature of the Montenegrin Secretary for Information, and was dated April 24, 1999:

  Respected Ladies and Gentlemen and Dear Colleagues,

  As never before in it’s [sic] history, Montenegro has become host to many media representatives, reporters, photographers and cameramen from all corners of the world.

  Unfortunately, at this time Montenegro has not attracted you here because of its exquisite beauty, or for you to escape from “the realities of the world.” Montenegro itself has become “a center of tensions and crises.” That is why all the citizens of Montenegro watch over and guard their peace. This is why we feel free to ask you, as friends of this country and its people, to cooperate with us and help us in the preservation of the stability of the country.

  In the performance of your regular, daily, professional duties do not ever forget that peace, liberty and the independence of our country is preserved by the Yugoslav Army and the Ministry of Internal Affairs of the Republic of Montenegro—together. The Yugoslav Army in the performance of its duties as the exclusive Yugoslav Defense Force respects the decision of the federal Government to declare a State of War. In this sense, the Yugoslav Army undertakes all necessary measures that are under its authority.

  We sincerely request that you do not do anything that would not follow in accordance with the legal regulations of our country. Bear in mind that photographing or filming of uniformed soldiers, military formations and facilities, as well as trespassing within areas under Military security are forbidden.

  Concerning the organization of your daily assignments, you should consult the Republic Secretariat for Information so that we can supply you with the necessary instructions.

  You should take special care during your departure from your temporary residence and when working on locations you should consult their security representatives, as to whether or not filming on the site is permissible.

  We are certain that by doing so and in working together, we will eliminate all possible future disagreements. This will contribute to your personal safety and also the preservation of peace within the Republic.

  Yours sincerely,

  BOZIDAR JAREDIC

  Montenegro was indeed a nervous country, living on a razor’s edge, hoping neither to be seen to be supportive of the Belgrade regime, nor wanting to incur its wrath. The writers and cameramen who had come to Montenegro were skittish and nervous, too—and never more so than when any one of them encountered a patrol or a roadblock of the Yugoslav army.

  It was because there was a good chance that on our journey from the Croatian frontier to Podgorica we might well come across the army that we had asked for an escort by this pair of Amazonian fixers.

  They could make sure that if were stopped by any soldiers from the VJ—the Vojska Jugoslavije, the force that was the successor of the Yugoslav Federal Army—we would not be arrested, fined, our possessions stolen, our clothes stripped from our back, or ourselves beaten, tortured, or worse. This had already happened to other reporters in Montenegro: We didn’t want it happening to us.

  As if to underline the schism between the army and police, the plan that Dali and Vesna had hatched required the cooperation of the constabulary itself. They had arranged that a police car would be made available to us in the town of Herceg-Novi, five miles in from the border. A VJ checkpoint was known to be sited on the shore of the Gulf of Kotor, about three miles farther on. The idea was that we would drive in the Mercedes to the police station, we would transfer to the police van and hide under blankets on the floor while the women remained in the car, and then the two vehicles, with an extra police jeep for security “in case things get rough,” would drive toward Podgorica. It should be, said Dali, exercising the colloquialisms of her last employer, “a piece of cake.”

  And indeed it was. We drove through Igalo, past where Marshal Tito once had a lavish villa, and down to the edge of the gulf—surely one of the loveliest inlets of water on any coast anywhere, with the bluest of seas surrounded by meadows draped with forests, and by an infinity of hyacinth-pale mountains and white cliffs laced with waterfalls. We stopped in a café at Herceg-Novi, and drank a couple of reinforcing beers. A boy offered me a piece of candy, which I noticed was called, for no apparent reason, a Negro.*

  Three policemen came up and shook our hands. They spoke little English, but offered their view that the Serbs were up to no good. I held my tongue: Some opinions were best kept to oneself, even at risk of seeming stupid, as all foreigners everywhere are naturally assumed to be. They motioned to a large white van and showed us some sacks we could lie beneath. On top they piled guns, and as we set off I had the stock of a very large machine gun jammed into my stomach. The women, we assumed, were behind us, the escort vehicle ahead.

  We sped along the road for five minutes or so, and then we slowed to a crawl. I heard the window open, and one of the policemen hushed us to make sure we didn’t move. I held my breath. Someone opened the front door, there were some guttural exchanges: “Dobre din. Zdravo.” Check? “Niz naiu. Hvala.” And then the door was slammed.

  “Pravo,” one of the soldiers said—drive on. We accelerated again. The car went around a right-hand bend, and then one of the young policemen whooped with delight. “Is okay now. You safe.” The policeman added that he knew a quick and easy way to tell a Montenegrin reservist from a regular Yugoslav soldier—the reservists were able to go home at night and wash, while the regulars could not, and so always smelled. “And those boys on the barricade—they smelled, I can tell you!”

  The Montenegrins, according to my now-dog-eared 1918 National Geographic, are “of tall, large and erect figure. Their characteristics are those of liberty-loving mountaineers who have lived apart and distrust strangers. Their women are brave, loyal and as implacable as themselves. The word of a Montenegrin is never broken.”*

  The first man we met in Montenegro, though he may well never have broken his word, was in all other ways very different from the Geographic’s confident description. He was short and stooped, had interestingly protruding eyes, lived in a household swarming with people, adored strangers, and—unlike most Montenegrins, who belong to the Orthodox Church—was a Roman Catholic prie
st and—very unlike most Montenegrins, who are steadfastly loyal to their genes and their hormones—was unashamedly flamboyant. He was called Don Branco Sbutega, and I was given his name in European cities from London to the Golden Horn as one of the most agreeable of people one could ever want to meet. A Pole I knew in Zagreb had insisted that I have tea with Father Sbutega, though cautioned that I would find he was “not a friend of this reality,” whatever that was likely to mean.

  He lives beside his church in a small waterfront town called Dobrota three miles north of Kotor itself. An aged housekeeper and an immense Airedale terrier named Hook live with him—the latter, he explained, was the son of the resident dog at the Russian embassy in Belgrade. When we called, in midafternoon, his housekeeper insisted he was asleep. But there came a roaring from an upstairs bedroom, a demand to know who we might be, and, on hearing we were British, he came partly dressed to the window and bellowed down: “Come up immediately. I worked for the BBC. I will give you strawberry jelly.” We could hear him chortling, “This is too wonderful, too wonderful.”

  He was extravagantly theatrical, not at all priestly, and once were we assembled in his living room, seemed a little tipsy. He reminded me of Anthony Blanche, or at least the Nickolas Grace version of him, in Brideshead Revisited; I thought he might stutter and roll his eyes, and refer to the Serbs as “wuffians” or “hobbledehoys.” He certainly called me “dear boy,” and praised Rose’s beauty endlessly. He was somewhat suspicious of Dali and Vesna, because they were from Belgrade, but warmed to Vesna when she admitted to being Montenegrin. “Then you are most beautiful, too,” he said.

  His father had been a Croat, and he himself, he said, was descended from the Montenegrin royal family. “So I cannot be anti-Serb really—for it was Serbs who largely peopled this place. But anyone who might be an ally of that madman in Belgrade—he or she I could not abide.”