Escape from Sarajevo-Part 22: Sniper Alley

NINE

Butmir airport was like an unstable island between two raging rivers. The friction and antagonistic crashing tore at the island’s tentative banks, spilling over in storms and eroding the pretend sanctuary. Within the perimeter strict military discipline did daily battle with frantic terror and chaos. It was defended and maintained by UNPROFOR, but no less threatened or besieged than the city it was charged with keeping alive. The airport made inviting targets for belligerents, vengeful warlords and was prone to the political manipulation to every party to the conflict. Now and again someone would lob in a shell or sniper would take a victim in the compound. Above all it was a transient place, a machine churning souls and supplies in and out as war raged at the edges.

If one looked close enough Butmir was a place of hope. Russians, Nigerians, Jordanians, Brazilians, Poles, French, Muslims, Christians and many others found common purpose here. It was a direct challenge to those contending that Serbs, Croats and Muslims could not live together. It was perhaps the best argument for the existence of the United Nations, which, aside from its shortcomings represented humanity’s best hope, because it represented humanity.

I had hoped to talk my way onto a relief flight to the Croatian coast, but without a UN pass it was impossible. I went out on the tarmac and looked across the runway to Bosnian territory not more than two hundred yards away.  Razor wire bristled in sunlight as the fog cleared. Just beyond were the cluster of houses that made up the tunnel complex. It might as well have been on the moon. Serb snipers lurked at either end of the runway. Tall grass at the perimeter of the airport was seeded with landmines. Realizing it was hopeless I returned to the compound to try and find a way back to the city. Half way across the busy compound I spotted a Spanish soldier helping a photographer load gear into a van. I caught them just as they were leaving. Without a word the Spaniard waved me into the back.

“Make sure you have your papers and IDs ready.” The soldier swung the van through the gate onto the airport road. “There’s a BSA checkpoint up ahead.”

“I don’t have any,” I felt obliged to say. The van skidded to a stop. Both men turned to me, alarmed.

“If they stop us they can arrest you,” said the photographer.

“I can’t help you if they do,” the Spaniard added. “As long as you understand, I have no responsibility.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Do you believe in God, friend?” the Photographer asked.

“I’m praying right now,” I said as we passed two bullet-riddled tanks beside the road.

“What God do you pray to?” The Spaniard’s eyes met mine in the mirror.

“Whatever one works,” I replied. We cruised right through the checkpoint. Just off the road three young Serbian soldiers sat on dining chairs amid the rubble. It was nothing short of a miracle, I felt at the time.

There was heavy fire coming into the plaza from Grbavica. People cowered in pockets or clung to one another behind a big white Ukrainian APC beside the road. When we realized what was happening we were already in the plaza. Cursing under his breath the Spaniard jammed his foot against the gas pedal and came to a screeching halt behind the APC.

The photographer was out in an instant, sprinting across the road to the Holiday Inn. For some godforsaken reason I followed. Bullets ripped the air around me, skipping off the pavement and blasting a chunk of earth at my feet. I collapsed behind the hotel and found it impossible to believe that neither of us had been hit.

Fahira was sitting in her usual place when I went inside. Thankfully she didn’t notice as I crossed the lobby to the bar. I slapped a five Mark coin onto the bar like a character in a cheesy Western movie and asked for a beer.

CRACK!

I flinched as the sound of a rifle shot stabbed through me. From the corner of my eye I spied Fahira looking expectantly in my direction. I knew she was looking for an opportunity to invite herself over. I pretended not to see her. The first swig of cold beer seemed to peel away much of what had happened the last two days.

CRACK!

Fahira looked away. There was a gift shop on the second floor of the hotel. It sold maps, pictures, postcards and war souvenirs to foreigners. A pretty Muslim girl with long black hair ran the place. The shop was closed today. The first thought that came to mind was that she was shot on her way to work. I wondered why she would bother to come to work at all. Who was left to buy anything? Maybe she just grew tired of running a gauntlet each day; the hundred yard dash to the office.

CRACK-CRACK

Someday I would tell stories about having a beer in Sarajevo’s notorious Holiday Inn along the infamous sniper alley. I would boast about slapping down five Marks for a beer like I was in a saloon. To those who remembered, or to those who knew little or nothing about the war it would sound so much more exciting than it actually was.

CRACK!

I recalled the first time I heard gunfire in Sarajevo. I remembered the first time I was shot at. It was a rainy day out near the ruins of the Oslobodjenje building. It was strange. As the bullet clanged off a metal fence beside me I was at once curious, appalled and surprised. When I told Ana the story she thought I was nuts. From the first shot on the first day it terrified her.

CRACK!  CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

Could I find someone to shoot me? Maybe that was a way to get out of the city, but snipers didn’t shoot to wound, and for those who survived a 7.9-millimeter round could take off a limb or cripple. I just wanted to get shot a little, maybe in the ass, or through the fleshy part of the thigh. Maybe a friend would do it. Then again what if the bullet went astray, shattering a bone, slicing an artery or hitting a vital organ?

CRACK

The gunfire was now as terrifying to me as it was for Ana. I flinched, jumped as though zapped with an electric current with each report in the plaza. It was maddening, like someone incessantly tapping, day and night, day after day, week after month after year. With every tap came the realization that someone was being killed or crippled. It was the knowledge that each shot brought me a little closer to my own death. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. I prayed that it would stop, but it never did.

CRACK!

“Please!” I wanted to cry at the men with the guns. “For whatever mercy and humanity still exists in your hearts, whatever reason you still possess. Whatever memory you have of peace and tranquility, can’t you see that we’re all going mad from your murderous tapping? We beg of you…”

CRACK!

Stop it! Just fucking stop…”

CRACK-CRACK!

I finished my beer and left.

TEN

Somehow Ana and I missed each other on the way home. She went along Brodska Street beside the tracks. I climbed the hill to Crni Vrh. We met as she climbed the hill to her street with several cans of humanitarian food and two loaves of bread: the family’s monthly ration. She was a pitiful sight, soaked in sweat. She was shaking when I took the cans from her. They weren’t heavy, but she gasped in relief, as though I’d lifted the weight of the world from her.  Her face was filled with terror. It took some effort for Ana to make it up stairs to her flat. She collapsed at the dining room table and groaned painfully.

“Chetniks shot at us for two hours,” she moaned. Renata brought a glass of water, but Ana couldn’t hold it. She was shaking so badly. “Finally it was my turn in line and the guy there said I didn’t have the right coupons. So I came all the way home and mom had no idea what the hell they were talking about. So I went all the way back through the shooting. I told the guy these were the only coupons we had. He just said he made a mistake. I could have been killed for that stupid mistake!” Ana laid her head down on the table and cried. I touched her wet hair and knew just how she felt.