Muslim defies 'ethnic cleansing' laws

Journey to vote in his hometown provides strange comfort to man who was determined to be the first Muslim to return there since 1992. By Julius Strauss in Bratunac.

17 September 1996

THE Serbs of Bratunac were preparing to roast a pig and have a party on the evening of election day. Their republic was about to be legitimized for the first time by the international community. They had vowed that no Muslim would vote in their town and the international community had agreed to keep them out.

Eighty kilometres away Safet Bakalovic sat at home in Tuzla, drinking Turkish coffee withhis wife on election morning, and planned his trip. "I will vote in Bratunac or not at all," he said. "That is my home." He was determined to be the first Muslim to return to Bratunac since the Muslim community was "ethnically cleansed" in 1992.

The only way to do that was to masquerade. Peacekeepers of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization and Bosnian Serb police had agreed that Muslims could be bused to Serb polling stations but must keep out of the towns they once lived in.

So he accepted a lift with foreign journalists, exempt from the travel restrictions. As the car pulled away, his wife waved and sobbed quietly with fear.

Mr. Bakalovic's story began four years ago on May 10, 1992. He was 46, married with two teen-aged children. The family dog had been barking all morning when, without warning, four masked men burst into their home.

They said they were special police from Vukovar, a Croatian town devastated by Serbs six months before, and had come to create a Greater Serbia. With the other Muslims in their street, Mr. Bakalovic's family was rounded up and forced to march barefoot to a football stadium.

"I still remember the sound of their boots on the asphalt," he said.

At the stadium, the Serb authorities began calling out names. One by one individuals and families stood forward and were taken away.

"I remember their faces as if it were yesterday," he said. "They were all huddled together, cowering by a bus. I knew them all. They were never seen again."

The sixth name called was Mr. Bakalovic's and he was led away with his family. But a Serb intervened with the guards to save them. It was Zivko Radic, a Serb nationalist official and the best man at Mr. Bakalovic's wedding. Two days later, after a tortuous flight, they reached the Muslim-held town of Tuzla where they spent the war.

The road to Bratunac was a sad homecoming for Mr. Bakalovic. He saw the boundary between the Serb and Muslim territories, guarded by NATO tanks. He froze as the U.S. soldier asked for papers and whooped as the car finally crossed onto Serb-held territory.

He saw the Serb police menacing the Muslim buses that had followed the electoral rules. He saw the burnt-out Muslim houses desecrated with the graffiti tags of Serbian paramilitary leaders.

As he muttered the names of the once-prosperous villages to himself, his voice shook a little. "This is so sad," he said. "They have destroyed my country." A little further on, he pointed to his house and the blocks of flats that he had built. "I will sit and drink coffee in the middle of the town and see who greets me," he said. "I will not go to them first."

As he strode across the cafe terrace, conversation died. He sat down and ordered a coffee. One by one his old friends came to him. The first was Zivko Radic, his best man.

They shook his hand and clapped him on the back. Words were few, the eyes told more. They talked of their wives and children. Mr. Bakalovic told them how his family was now settled in Tuzla and had made new friends.

Stojanka also came. An old lady dressed in black, she had been the nanny of Mr. Bakalovic's son. She cried openly while another old friend, a professor who now lives in Belgrade, kissed her and wiped away her tears.

Another friend, Bozo Zivanovic, came despite himself. He whispered to Mr. Bakalovic: "This town has become foreign to me. People have changed. I hardly speak with anyone any more. Watch out, even I am scared nowadays."

As the word spread, more old friends came to exchange small talk.

"Do you remember how Amir Halilovic used to be the goalie for our team Bratstvo?" one man asked.

"Yes, now he is playing for Sloboda in Tuzla," Mr. Bakalovic replied. Others were too afraid to acknowledge him. When he looked at them, they turned away.

"I feel sorry for them," Mr. Bakalovic said. "They are too ashamed to shake my hand."

Not all the Serbs were happy to see Mr. Bakalovic. On the terrace outside the cafe, a group of toughs began to gather.

"If he tries to stay the night, there will be problems," said a man in a green and purple T-shirt.

Another, hard-looking man, the name of his military unit cut into his hairstyle, stared intently at Mr. Bakalovic and then spat on the floor.

"How the hell did he get here?" he asked loudly. "I thought they weren't letting them back into the town. I'd kill them all."

Several other young men in track suits strolled menacingly back and forth in front of Mr. Bakalovic's table.

The tension became tangible. Body language was controlled and harsh, and the eyes of Mr. Bakalovic's friends, who sat in the cafe's depths as if in a tableau, flitted back and forth nervously. Three tables away NATO soldiers sat lazily oblivious to the drama unfolding before their eyes.

After two hours, Mr. Bakalovic stood up, made his farewells and left. He carried with him two letters to deliver to Tuzla and greetings to take to other Muslims who had fled. Nobody asked him to come back again; they knew that Bratunac now held no place for him.

The time had come to vote but he no longer really cared. "I could come back to this town, I'm not scared," he said. "But my wife and children wouldn't. I'll vote, I suppose, but only if the queue is not too long. I don't think my ballot will make a difference."

He cast his four votes squarely against the politicians in power in Pale and Sarajevo. One for a liberal Muslim, one for a liberal Serb, and two against the nationalists.

As he left the polling station, he shouted to a former friend: "Hey, Markovic, remember me?"

The Serb looked shocked. "Sssh," he said. "Of course I remember you, but not so loud."

Mr. Bakalovic walked away, shrugged and then smiled. It was the smile of a man who has won a very personal battle.

"This is all like a dream," he said. "I'm normal but everyone around me is not."