A Declaration of War (Siniša Jančan - Baton Rouge, LA)

 

Everything has a beginning and an end. It is one of
the very first lessons that we are taught as chil-
dren, especially when our parents needed an
excuse to deprive us of TV time. The beginning of the war
goes as far back as 1989, when the nationalist parties started
rising and competing for dominance.

“There were always three,” my father told me one day.
“Two parties against one. It was always the second aligning
with the strongest party to fight the third.”

After the death of Tito, Slobodan Milošević ascended to
Serbian presidency and attempted to consolidate power by
centralizing the state, but many of the republics moved
against him to loosen his grip. After many disagreements
among delegates, four of the six republics sought to gain
independence, Slovenia being the first of them.

Backed by Germany and the Vatican, Slovenia strategi-
cally prepared for Yugoslavia’s ineluctable retaliation. From
June 27, 1991, throughout July 7, 1991, Slovenia skirmished
with the Yugoslav People’s Army, with the strife ending in
Slovenia’s favor. Altogether, there were about 70 casualties,
which are often referred to as “minimal.” Slovenia’s inde-
pendence, however, set a dangerous precedent and marked
the genesis of the Yugoslav Wars.

“They managed to escape the ensuing madness,” my
father commented. “Many would be expelled for being in
mixed marriages or non-Serbs that year.”

Slovenia’s independence would also mark the beginning
of the end for a powerful communist regime, but Sarajevo’s
strife was sparked by something on a much smaller scale.
Milošević, in all his infinite wisdom, sought to do more
than centralize the state; he also managed to gain control of
the media, his most powerful asset in sparking the Bosnian
genocide.

It was around the time of Slovenia’s independence that
Serbia began to spread propaganda throughout the region.
Croats and Bosnians were branded terrorists, thugs, and
rapists. Demoralizing propaganda spread like wildfire and
any voice that dared to humanize them was silenced imme-
diately. People lost their jobs and reputations if their media
failed to adhere to Milošević’s standards.

One example that comes to mind is the Vukovar
massacre, where more than 200 prisoners of war and civil-
ians were killed by Serbian paramilitary groups and was
used as propaganda in which the Serbian news outlets
obtained a witness recount from a freelance photographer
who claimed he was a witness to the slaying of 41 Serbian
children and babies.

Albeit his testimony was initially withdrawn due to the
witness admitting he lied about seeing such a sight, the
Serbians continued to run the story in order to portray the
Croatians as inherently criminal and genocidal people and
incite Serb nationalists and encourage retaliation and
violence. With tensions running high between Serbs,
Croats and Bosnians, it was not surprising at all, then, what
would happen next to have Serbia proclaim a declaration of
war on the Bosnian people.

IT WAS SUPPOSED to be a beautiful day for Milan Gardović,
who was to be married on the 1st of March in 1992. There
was not enough parking at the Serbian church where the
wedding would take place, so the Serbian wedding proces-
sion took place on foot. During those days it was the
denouement of a lengthy referendum for Bosnia’s indepen-
dence, which was being heavily contested by the Serbian
government, who encouraged the Serbs living in Bosnia to
stop the country’s secession from Yugoslavia by any means
necessary.

During the procession, many of the wedding guests
brandished Serbian flags, which some of the Bosniak
passersby saw as intentional provocation since the wedding
was set to take place in an old Muslim quarter of Bascarsija.
“His name was Nikola Gardović, and he was the father of
the groom and a great family friend. He was a family man
and did not particularly take to politics,” my father spoke of
Nikola. “He had three sons, who were Orthodox priests,
except for one, and were otherwise my closest friends.”
During the procession, Nikola was shot and killed by
Ramiz Delalić, a Bosniak often described as a gangster,
emboldened by the fall of communism. An Orthodox priest
was also wounded in Ramiz’s attack. In response to the
wedding attack, barricades appeared in Sarajevo the
following day. The Serb Democratic Party accused the Bosnian Muslim

Party of Democratic Action of orchestrating the attack and
the entirety of the Muslim community was accused of
bearing responsibility for the attack due to a lack of effort to
locate Ramiz in the immediate aftermath.

Like a stone in the water, the events of that day would
cause ripples through time that would ultimately lead to the
siege and division of Sarajevo. Nikola’s murder is a reminder
of the value and impact a single life can have in this world.
Albeit initially removed after a few days, the barricades
served as an ominous portent of things to come. The
Serbian paramilitary groups placed snipers near the Sara-
jevo parliament building and attempted a coup, which was
thwarted by thousands of Sarajevo civilians who positioned
themselves in front of the snipers.

As skirmishes and protests arose, a Serbian sniper killed
a participant in a peace march, further escalating an already
volatile situation. Bosnia had received international recogni-
tion, but the gears of war had already been set in motion.
War was ineluctable.

Throughout my life my father often spoke of his youth
before the war. He spoke of the beaches he frequented in
Croatia and Serbia during the summers he was out of
school. He spoke fondly of his friends who—while often-
times tricksters and quite callow—were nonetheless loyal
and caring and wonderful company. There was a social life
inside and outside of Sarajevo. There was joy. There was a
city bustling with diversity and life. There was promise for
the people of the city. The barricades sang a dirge for that
promise.

Many consider the siege of Sarajevo as the very first act
of violence in Bosnia, but four days prior on April 1, the
Serb Volunteer Guard, also known as the Arkan Tigers,
secretly invaded the small municipality of Bijeljina and
tortured and killed several men, women and children in
preparation for the ensuing war crimes that Bosnia would
endure in the coming years.

BOSNIANS HAD a singular vision of what the independent
Bosnia could become, and the Serbians had their own
vision of a Muslim-free country. The Bosnian Serbs, well-
armed and now backed by Serbia, reconstituted the barri-
cades on April 5, 1992, and laid siege to Sarajevo.

“It happened overnight,” my father commented. “People
found themselves being put in concentration camps, evicted
from their homes, and killed by friends, school mates, and
even neighbors. You were not allowed to vouch for anyone
who was Muslim, or you would be killed with them. In the
middle of the night, some of the Serbs went door to door to
warn their friends to escape before they started the siege.”
The airport, fully barricaded, was inaccessible and as
the curtain began to fall all around the city, the Serbs began
to shell the citizens with heavy artillery—sealing our fate.
There was no escape and the dirge reverberated through the
blood-soaked streets as signs like “PAZI SNAJPER”1
became common graffiti and a frightening reality.

“First a World War,” my father once scoffed, referring to
the shooting of the Archduke Ferdinand in Sarajevo, who
was killed by a Serbian nationalist hoping to loosen the
Austria-Hungarian hold on Bosnia so it could become a
South Slav state, “And then a genocide. Son, I hope your
kids never have to see anything like this.”

We seldom notice when a life ends in this world. The
most we get sometimes is a faint whisper of someone
lamenting their loss, or a quick glance in the obituary
section in the newspaper. During the siege we almost always
knew when a life faded away. There was no need for
reminders, because the bodies were everywhere, delineating
a blood-stained horizon. It seemed like the Serbians had an
almost instinctual proclivity for killing Bosnians.