Independence, the dream of man.
Independence, the goal of nations.
Why for Bosnia is this a contradiction?
Mother to three major creeds,
Whose devotees fight for spoils
In each other’s gardens.
Horrified is the gaze of the world
While Mother Bosnia tears herself apart.
Offspring, brothers and sisters
Are set along the route to destruction
Deaf to Reason, blind to facts.
Mother Bosnia – a cradle of riches
Now becomes the spring of discord,
History repeating itself
Maiming, killing, displacing,
Robbing of land, the rule of the gun.
Seeds of a future conflict are sown,
Mother Bosnia is torn apart
The atomic age is with us,
But Bosnia is just another name for Lepanto:
Creeds disunited and waging war.
I often wonder how God must feel
When three sons with different flags
Crave for his attention:
‘In your name I kill,
Thy will be done.’
How? By killing the other son?
Mother Bosnia is bleeding
No quarter is given.
Hate is a chameleon of chauvinistic meanings,
And the World at large watches on TV
With an attitude of:
Provided it is you and not me
You can have my sympathy.
And so, Bosnians are
The perpetrators and the victims.
While the World watches on
Mother Bosnia is torn apart.
Bernardo Stella, London 1994
You must leave now, take what you need, you think will last
But whatever you wish to keep, you better grab it fast Yonder stands your orphan with his gun Crying like a fire in the sun Look out, baby, the saints are comin’ through And it’s all over now, Baby Blue.
‘It’s All Over Now Baby Blue’, Bob Dylan, 1966.
Thursday 16 October 1997 – Joint Services Command and Staff College, Bracknell, UK
‘Are you Major Stankovic?’ I catch the flash of a silver warrant badge encased in black leather and glimpse a pair of shiny handcuffs in one of the open brief-cases on the table. I nod – what the hell’s going on here?
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector —, Ministry of Defence Police. I have a warrant for your arrest under Section 2.2b of the 1989 Official Secrets Act …’ he’s reading from the warrant, ‘… on suspicion of maintaining contact with the Bosnian Serb leadership, of passing information which might endanger the lives of British soldiers in Bosnia, of embarrassing the British government and the United Nations …’
My stomach lurches. Instinctively I cross my arms.
‘… You have the right to remain silent, but anything you say can and will be used in evidence against you. Do you understand?’
My mind is racing – say nothing. ‘Mmm’ is my only response.
The day had started normally enough. I’d spent the previous night at home in Farnham reading up on various articles and reports in preparation for the following morning’s syndicate room discussion on getting women into front-line units. Normal Staff College stuff.
The alarm wakes me at seven – quick shave, throw on the leathers, twenty minutes threading my way through solid early morning traffic on the M3. My thoughts are given up to taking a radical line – get ’em into the Paras and Marines first. I leave the Suzuki in the car park, dump the leathers in my room, climb into Barrack Dress – brown shoes, green plastic trousers, shirt, green woollen jersey – don’t forget the wretched name-tag, they’re so anal about them here. I wander over to the syndicate room and leave my bag. Still ten minutes to go. Time for a quick coffee and a smoke.
It’s 0820. I’m standing outside the Purple Hall smoking a cigarette and chatting to James Stewart – something about women sticking bayonets into people and could they do it. Brigadier Reddy Watt walks past. He catches my eye and gives me a funny look. I carry on chatting to James for another couple of minutes. The Brigadier is back again.
‘Milos, could I have a quiet word with you?’ Nothing unusual in that. Probably something to do with last Friday’s syndicate room discussion which he’d sat in on.
‘Sure, Brigadier.’ I put out my cigarette and follow him in silence. It’s slightly uncomfortable and I’m wondering why he’s saying nothing. We round the corner of one of the large unused prefabricated lecture halls. He opens the door and motions me inside. The lights are on. The place is almost empty, but not quite – two men in dark suits on the left, brief-cases open on a desk. At the far end of the hall two more men in dark suits, also with open brief-cases on a desk. They’re chatting quietly. I take a couple of paces forward and turn to the Brigadier to say, ‘We can’t talk in here. There are people here.’ But I don’t – his right hand is stretched out, palm open. There’s a strange expression in his eyes, almost apologetic.
I walk towards the two at the far end. They’re watching me now. The one on the left is short and tubby with a pot belly hanging over his belt. The one on the right is slightly taller but not much. He is also slightly portly but not as flabby. Both men are wearing cheap, dark blue off-the-peg C&A-type suits. There’s a puffed up, officious air about the pair of them. As I approach the one on the right produces a warrant badge. Pot Belly does the same. The first one then starts reading from a piece of paper. Time stops dead.
The Taller One produces a warrant for the search of my house with authorisation to seize just about anything they want. It’s signed off at Bow Street Magistrate’s Court. I’m forced to hand over my house keys, car keys and motorbike keys. I sign some bit of paper to that effect.
‘You’ll now be taken to your room where you’ll be able to change. We want to minimise any embarrassment.’ That’s kind of you! I’m not really interested in them. Spying for the Bosnian Serbs! Where has this come from? I feel faint.
I change quickly – trousers, shoes, shirt, tie and blazer, all a bit grubby but so what. Pot Belly and The Taller One are in there with me. I’m told not to touch anything. They’re talking into their Cell phones,‘… is the car ready yet? … no! … ten minutes! … yes, that’s right, side entrance …’
There’s time to kill. They’re not ready for whatever’s coming next. I sit on the bed and smoke a couple of cigarettes.
The