Belgrad Blues

[Ingemar Johansson <hebanon...>]

Dear members of the list,

Below is a report on the current war in Yugoslavia, provided by an
acquintance of mine, the Serbian female writer Jasmina Tesanovic. It has
nothing whatever to do with Jewish Music, but it has a lot to do with the
feelings of ordinary people driven desperate by hatred lunatics. It
immediately made me think of the Holocaust, which also is my only excuse
for posting it on this list. I know that I'm stretching the limits, but
those of you who are completely uninterested in politics have the chance to
stop reading now. As for myself, I think not much could be more important
to read today than this report, so far away from ordinary, doctored upon,
news bulletins. This diary is not only a war report, but good literature
(Jasmana has produced several books and plays), written in tears.

Ingemar

---------------------

Jasmina Tesanovic: Belgrad Blues

   March 26
   
   I hope we all survive this war, the bombs: the Serbs, the Albanians,
   the bad and the good guys, those who took up the arms, those who
   deserted, refugees going around the Kosovo woods and Belgrade's
   refugees going around the streets with their children in arms, looking
   for nonexisting shelters, when the alarm for bombing sets off.
   
   I hope that NATO pilots don't leave behind wives and children who I
   saw crying on CNN as their husbands were taking off for military
   targets in Serbia. I hope we all survive but not this world as it is.
   
   . . . I went to the market in my neighborhood, it has livened up
   again, adapted to new conditions, new necessities: no bread from the
   state, but a lot of grain on the market, no information from the
   official TV, so small talk among frightened population of who is
   winning. Teenagers are betting on the corners: whose planes have been
   shot down, ours or theirs, who lies best, who hides best victims, who
   exposes best victories, or again victims. As if it were a football
   game of equals.
   
   The city is silent and paralyzed, but still working, rubbish is taken
   away, we have water, we have electricity. But where are the people --
   in houses, in beds, in shelters. I hear several personal stories of
   nervous breakdowns among my friends, male and female. Those who were
   in a nervous breakdown for the past year, since the war in Kosovo
   started, who were very few, now feel better: real danger is less
   frightening than fantasies of danger. I couldn't cope with the
   invisible war as I can cope with concrete needs: bread, water,
   medicines.
   
   I think of the Albanians in Kosovo, of my friends and their fears, I
   think they must be worse off then us: fear springs up at that thought,
   it means that it is not the end yet.
   
   March 28
   
   Every evening I go with my friends and family to the big underground
   station in the neighborhood: I know people there already, of all ages
   and social types. They come with stools and small talk. We think of
   making an emergency plan: in all cases, we try to list the many
   possible developments of the situation. Hardly one can be good for us,
   common people who cannot believe anybody anymore, who have nothing but
   few dollars in our bags and a lot of bad experience. "At least we are
   not pathetic," I say, "and our children will not be spoiled." . . . I
   even say, "My daughter will be a rarity, a true Serbian raw beauty,
   ready to die for nothing: won't some cultures love that?" It will be
   so exciting for those who are afraid of lightning and thunder to see a
   thin teenager in jeans not afraid of bombs.
   
   . . . I watch Jamie Shea from the NATO press conference, he is
   terribly precise, you hear him you hear it all, the reality that
   happens to us seems only a slight deviance from his course. But of
   course, it isn't that simple . . .
   
   I fight for my computer every day, every hour, everybody in my family
   wants my computer, the only one at home, for playing, for studying,
   for communicating.
   
   We heard our friends from Kosovo, they don't want to speak on the
   phone, they are living already what will probably come to us in a few
   days: killings and looting of flats, houses, complete anarchy.
   
   March 30
   
   Today no bombs, I slept 16 hours, no alarm to wake me up. . . . A BBC
   journalist said Serbian people are big-hearted, they wouldn't have
   killed the pilot of the fallen plane, they would have given him
   homemade bread and brandy as they claim. But how come then NATO
   generals claim that Serbian are committing atrocities against Albanian
   civilians? I believe them both. . . .
   
   My father used to dream of bombings long after the war was over, wake
   up during the night and take me out of my bed and carry me out to the
   basement: sleepwalking. I remember him doing it, I did it myself last
   night, to my daughter, a few times. I feel as if a sickness is getting
   out of my body, a long historical fever, a buried anxiety which I
   inherited being a Serb of Serbian father from Herzegovina . . .
   
   April 1
   
   Last night we spent in shelter, three grownups, five children and two
   dogs. Actually it is a private house with a good cellar next to a very
   decent deep underground station, the one where I spent the night
   Belgrade was first bombed, mostly inhabited by Gypsies and mothers
   with small children. Our group was a large family, a psychological
   family, we make a group on psychological not biological basis. Our
   group was based I think on fear to be hit by a NATO bomb or some local
   warrior. Yesterday a band of very primitive vandals was roaring
   through the city destroying windows and screaming at whoever they felt
   was different. But then police with shields scattered them: finally
   the police were doing what I expect them to do. In '97, during the
   demonstrations, those shielded policemen were on the other side from
   where I stood.
   
   . . . We were expecting bombs in Belgrade downtown, CNN said so.
   Instead three American soldiers were captured by Yugoslav army, again
   CNN says so. It is a dirty dirty war, I say, frightened people in
   basements, bruised soldiers on TV without name, Albanian refugees
   crying in TV all the time saying all those things people should never
   have to say, especially not in TV. Human dignity is here at stake, of
   all of us, actors and onlookers. April 1st, the fool's day.
   
   My parents are alone in their flat, they hardly hear the alarm, they
   watch official TV and every now and then phone me, saying, "Don't
   worry, it will be OK." And I feel better, the voice of my father calms
   me, as when I was a kid, he gives me security, I don't give that kind
   of security to my children. On the contrary, it is a choice not to:
   this world is not a safe place.
   
   April 2
   
   Today is the Catholic holy Friday . . . The son of my friend phoned
   last night from the battlefield: he could hardly speak, he said he was
   somewhere not saying where and that he was OK but that some of his
   friends were not so. The age limit for the volunteers who want to join
   the war has moved to 75 for men. What about women, no age limit, often
   they are even more loud in their patriotism?
   
   I watch the sea of refugees orchestrated from both sides on the
   borders with Yugoslavia, Macedonia, Albania. It reminds me very much
   of the scene I saw in '95, when Serbs from Krajina were pouring into
   Serbia for days and days, without resistance, thoughts, ideas, of what
   and why has happened. I had a feeling it was orchestrated --
   everything except for the pain and the actors themselves, they were
   natural.
   
   April 3
   
   It is morning, a beautiful sunny morning, I am crying . . . last night
   center Belgrade was bombed with appalling precision, yes the military
   targets, but only 20 meters from one of the biggest maternity
   hospitals in the Balkans, the one where I was born and years later
   gave birth. The destroyed building was Ministry of Interior: some of
   my friends remember being interrogated there.
   
   I am relieved, happy with NATO precision, it was even raining, but I
   feel visible, exposed to those young responsible pilots who carry
   their cargo wondering will they make it to hit the military building
   without doing wrong to a newborn baby. They were all in shelters, the
   babies, the mothers, and I am crying, relieved, all this matter of
   life and death reminds me of a delivery, of my delivery, of being
   brave and crying at the same time.
   
   April 4
   
   Again a night in shelter. Another two bridges have been struck down
   towards Hungary and the railroad towards Montenegro is destroyed on
   the Bosnian territory by SFOR troops. Facts which make me
   claustrophobic, the wire is finally visible around our cage in the
   zoo: [Here are] wild bad Serbs from 13th century, some disguised in
   jeans, most speaking the language (English), but still different,
   aliens.
   
   This NATO strategy is completely in line with local nationalists who
   said "when the maternity hospital suffered the concussions from bombs
   nearby our babies didn't even cry, because they are Serb babies . . .
   " Well, I am not a baby, but I cried yesterday like crazy, hearing the
   song "Tamo daleko" ("There far away is Serbia"). It is a beautiful sad
   song from World War I, when Serbian soldiers went to Thessaloniki,
   Greece, to fight, and only few came back.
   
   My grandfather was one of them. . . . When I was a kid he used to sing
   me that song, when I grew up I sang that song abroad when asked to
   sing a Serbian song. It is the only Serbian song I know how to sing
   and make people cry: yesterday thousands of people sang it on the
   Square of Republic during the daily concert. But I couldn't sing it
   anymore, this is not my song anymore, this is not my Serbia anymore,
   not the one that my grandfather fought for. Far, far away is my
   Serbia, I am now in my own country in cage and in exile.
   
   April 5
   
   The most terrible thing in a way is that after all, nothing really
   happens: in the morning we are alive, we have food, we have
   electricity, we have even luxury articles like whiskey. But in a way,
   we were there, where it all happened, once again not us but to
   somebody else. As in false executions we survive our own death every
   night.
   
   I entered a pharmacy, it was full, fuller than ever, but you couldn't
   get aspirins or tranquilizers, and everybody was asking for those. The
   supplies were out.
   
   Another detail: sweet-shops are full, people are buying sweets like
   crazy -- emotional distress, lack of love. . . .
   
   April 6
   
   Today is the anniversary of the bombing of Belgrade in 1941 by Hitler.
   However the major damage to Belgrade was made at the end of the war by
   bombing of the allies, the so-called liberation or Britain bombs. I
   know everybody today here will use this parallel to feel better or
   worse, whatever. . . .
   
   I was sitting on the terrace this morning, the sun was bathing me with
   great love, I was dreaming of the sea and clear sky of which we spoke
   last night waiting for air raids on the terrace, while the planes were
   flying over our heads. And the planes came again. But they didn't bomb
   Belgrade last night: again other places, other victims. I feel so
   guilty, more than ever this morning for this Other. My friends and
   enemies from all over the world ask me, do you realize how terrible it
   is in Kosovo? I do, I really do, and I feel guilty that we feel bad
   here without having the horror they do. But our war, for the past
   10-50 years has always been this kind of invisible horror, we have
   still a long way to run to the catharsis, to be free from our bad
   conscience, wrong myths, inertia...
   
   I feel we are being cut away from the rest of the world, more bridges
   down, more friends and enemies pointing out to us here how bad we are,
   more crazy people here making careers on screaming how we are heavenly
   people. And the people? In cellars or just in beds waiting for
   nothing.
   
   I dreamed last night of bombs falling in my cellar, in my bed and
   afterwards feeling relieved and free. I should stop writing, I hate my
   dreams, thoughts and words. But it is a vice.
   
   Shortly before midnight:
   We are under raids, we hear boom boom all the time. I am hoping, I am
   trembling, but my family is okay. And let's hope we all survive -- but
   really, all.

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