Magija

 

In December 1999 the Open Fun Football Schools organized a fun football festival for some 400 children in the town of Srebrenica. It was a big event, because we had invited sixty Muslim children to take part in the festival. Forty of these children had been “ethnically cleansed” in Srebrenica during the exodus in 1995 and subsequently their families had settled down as refugees in Vogosca, a small town in suburban Sarajevo. Moreover, twelve of the boys shared the fate of having lost their fathers in the largest massacre in Europe since World War Two. This had happened when the Bosnian Serb army overran the Muslim enclave and separated all able-bodied men from their families. While the world press was watching from the front row, the powerless contingent of Dutch UN-forces offered the Bosnian Serb soldiers cigarettes in a gesture of reconciliation; I suppose in the hope that the Bosnian Serbs would spare their lives. Some seven thousand men were led to the sawmill on the outskirts of the town and were never to be seen again.

 

Twenty Muslim boys and girls from the town of Pracha were to arrive by bus along with 20 boys and girls from the neighbouring town of Pale, the Bosnian Serb capital during the war from where Karadzic and Mladic ruthlessly orchestrated the ethnic cleansing. The very idea of having Bosnian-Serb and Muslim children from these towns travel to Srebenica in the same bus was considered so unlikely by the eccentric representative of EC’s Humanitarian Office, that he promised me two bottles of good red wine if the children would arrive safely. They did of course, unlike the bottles of red wine.

 

It was to be the first time since the end of the war that Muslim children were in town. In fact, it was to be the first time a multi-ethnic event was to take place here, except for the occasional visits of Muslim women who had come here under UN protection on so-called “go-and-see-visits”. Undoubtedly, many people do recall the pictures broadcast on television showing these middle-aged women wearing flowered headscarves tightly knot under the chin. The pictures of women crying in despair by the sight of their husbands’ mass graves, their old houses, the plot of land they had lost forever and the Bosnian-Serb refugees who were now living there are all unforgettable. These refugees had been driven away by the Muslims living in the very same suburb from where we had brought our refugee children. Their faces and crying were a painful reflection of the memories and the feeling of loss, as well as the hatred and anger towards those who had done so much to harm them during the Bosnian-Serb siege of the town.

 

Here we were on a Saturday morning in the beginning of December 1999 on the sports ground in front of the school in Srebrenica, waiting for the busses with the Muslim children to arrive. Our inflatable football pitches were ready for action. Already the first curious spectators had gathered, along with some of the local children who were going to participate in the event. The children were scattered around the ground in small groups, huddling together for mutual support. My old colleague Zoka from Bijelina blew his whistle to rally the children. He lined them up in four columns and gave them each a T-shirt. It has always surprised me when I see how easily children from the Balkans are able to line up into long rows. When I am trying to make Danish children do the same, it is a much more difficult affair, with the ranks breaking up even before they are fully formed, one child pushing the one standing behind and a third not wanting to stand next to the fourth.

 

We heard the throbbing penetrating sound of approaching helicopters. I looked up and saw two helicopters belonging to the international stability force (SFOR) circle the sports ground and fly away. Then two SFOR cars appeared leading the bus from Vogosca with our Muslim refugee children, and behind the bus an entire motorcade of SFOR vehicles. From the markings on the vehicles I could see that the cortège included soldiers from USA, Holland as well as Ukraine and Sweden. I was speechless, to put it mildly. What the Hell were they doing here? How could they ignore our agreement that the local police was to escort the bus through the Bosnian-Serb territory? How could they take control of the escort without informing us? Couldn’t they comprehend that the entire idea of our event was to create a safe and comfortable environment in which the children could play and have fun with one another? Couldn’t they understand that our fun football festival was not supposed to become a part of the military operation at any time? Couldn’t they grasp that the biggest strength of our fun football schools was an event built on the enthusiasm and involvement of the local leaders? Couldn’t they figure out how to handle my consistent demand that only the “local” chief of police can be in charge of security in connection with our events? If the local chief of police doesn’t want to take full responsibility and provide security in a reliable and discrete fashion, then no event! If only one single lunaticwere among the spectators and wished to harm the children or us and shoot into the crowd, then that person as well as the local authorities could hide behind the presence of the international soldiers. They would be given just another opportunity to put the blame on the international community for not being capable of living up to its mission and having exposed the children to an unnecessary risk.

 

I was so upset that I had to go to the furthest corner of the sports ground in order not to lose my temper in front of all the children. I fumed and cursed and foolishly I should have predicted this scenario. Given all the pain and symbolism associated with the town of Srebrenica, we had prepared a state-of-the-art event and of course the international organizations would rush along, flags flying in front of the cavalry and the five camera crews they had brought along.

 

Never before had we prepared a festival so meticulously in advance. So much pain and symbolism was associated with the event that we had to hold at least three preparatory meetings with the parents of each child from Vogosca in order to agree what should happen and how events should proceed, as well as setting up a telephone “hot-line” run by a parent couple in Vogosca prior to the event. We also held a series of parents’ meetings in Srebrenica, Pale and Pracha and had numerous meetings with the local mayors and chiefs of police. In the context of this event it was not sufficient to only talk to the local authorities in Srebrenica. Officially, Srebrenica had a Muslim mayor, but he could not show up in town out of concern for his own security. Exiled to the town of Tuzla, his most important job as mayor of the town was to do his utmost to prevent emergency aid from being sent by the international organizations to the Bosnian-Serb refugees who had settled in Srebrenica and who lived under some of the worst conditions within the entire country. Obviously, we also met with the mayor of Vogosca, where the refugees lived, in order to obtain his permission and backing for the event. We also met with representatives of the international organizations on the ground to get their support for the festival, including the local SFOR force and “The Office of the High Representative”, which is the international community’s highest authority in the country.

 

Despite all our preparations, including the most thoroughly worked-out and detailed script that I had ever contributed towards, we had lost control of our own project even before getting started, just as in the same way we lost control of the emergency aid operation back in 1993. In a split second my worst experiences from during the international emergency aid operation passed in front of me again. With impotence and pain it was a feeling of powerlessness that came back and hurt so much. This was the same feeling I had experienced during the war and which had contributed to my breakdown and resignation from my job in the UN system.

 

During 1992-93 I was employed as the local head of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees in Central and North-eastern Bosnia Herzegovina. This was during a period when our relief operation in my area of responsibility grew from zero to the monthly distribution of food, blankets and other relief items for some 780,000 internally displaced persons and other victims of war. As well as helping refugees, we also sought to provide protection for those minority groups still remaining within the area in the hope that we couldpreventyet another ethnic cleansing. In my capacity as local chief of the UN “Lead Agency” I also participated in negotiations during the biggest crisis in the area and I saw and experienced a lot of disturbing events. For example, I have seen the horrifying remains of a massacre, in which the soldiers had burnt six women and eight children without taking the trouble to kill them first. The women’s charred arms stuck out from their bodies as if they tried to protect their children from the deadly flames and the crumpled extremities looked like the remains of burnt matches, which would collapse if touched. I was also taken to a house where four men had been beaten up beyond recognition. Their eyes had been put out and lay on a bloody brass-dish on the middle of the floor. Two human heads stood on the windowsill crying out their frantic pain, while the cut up corpses were lying in a pool of blood on the floor, intestines spilling out from their necks. Snipers shot at me in Sarajevo and Central Bosnia-e-Herzegovina. I have negotiated peace agreements in a hail of shells. I have been subjected to air raids and cluster bombs several times. I have exchanged prisoners of war and coordinated the reception of thousands of refugees on both sides of the frontline, who had all fallen victim to the national war psychosis and the ethnic cleansing.

 

These stark experiences leave their mark and I do not believe they will ever go away. But strangely, it is not the situations where I could have lost my life or where I witnessed the remains of the most insane and indescribable and macabre massacres that have given me nightmares and deprived me of my sleep and positive view of life.

 

As relief worker in a war zone I lived like a “drug addict” with a regular over supply of “adrenalin rush” which made me feel that my work was the most important thing on earth;more important than my own life, my girlfriend and my family back at home in Denmark. Sometimes the pulse may have been beating a little faster than usual, but I do not remember that I was ever really afraid. I felt, that the adrenalin gave me the kick and the energy and the focus that made life meaningful. It was as if the adrenalin generated armour and shut out emotions and protected me when I found myself in the worst possible situations. Sometimes the adrenalin made me forget the fear of my own death and, unfortunately, I have to admit that in some situations it made me overestimate my own capabilities as well.

Paradoxically, I often felt it much easier to handle the external conflicts, the war and its horrors, the personal histories and the struggle to save lives than handling the numerous everyday conflicts one had to go through with ones own people to make things happen. On and off, minor problems developed into protracted and almost insurmountable issues. For example, one day our senior administrative officer entered my car wearing a bullet-proof vest and helmet. I told him that he was most welcome to accompany me into the war zone, but on one condition. Either he took off his protective gear or he arranged for the same to be given to my staff.I had for a long time bombarded him with a most reasonable request that as long as all delegations visiting us were equipped with bullet-proof vests and helmets, I believed that we, who lived and moved around in the war zone as a matter of daily life, should also have access to similar safety equipment.

 

The senior administrative officer didn’t give in and neither did I. It was not exactly the most constructive way in which to cultivate a working friendship with a colleague or generate an atmosphere of mutual support within the organization on which one depends so heavily in a difficult everyday life.

 

However, the biggest feeling of pain and powerlessness I experienced was during the spring of 1993 in connection with the crises in Srebrenica when high politics entered our relief operation. Numerous key politicians and important coordinators from the international organisations were pouring in, all wanting to have a say in the emergency. The more eccentric egos at the scene, the more precautions had to be taken and lies to betold. Correspondingly the operation lost its focus and the feeling of powerlessness grew.

 

During February 1993 the crises escalated. Following a request from the local Muslim political and military leaders in the Tuzla region I managed to negotiate a “humanitarian corridor” for the 30,000 to 40,000 women, children and men of all ages trapped within the enclave.

 

It was at the time when the notorious French four-star General Morrillon jeopardized the evacuation plans because he thought that by this plan the international community would assist the Bosnian Serbs in their ethnic cleansing.

 

It was at the time when I was pulled out of my bed at 3 o’clock in the morning by a British Major who informed me that American and French paratroopers had occupied the airport of Split. They were prepared to rescue Morrillon if the Muslims in Srebrenica wouldn’t let him leave the town before noon the following day. Incredibly,the international community was about to launch a military intervention against the besieged Muslims in Srebrenica. Taking the situation into consideration, it would have been a lot easier to understandthe need for military intervention had it aimed to threaten or force the Bosnian Serbs into relaxing their stranglehold on the enclave. Luckily, Morrillon insisted that the international community under no circumstances should use military force to free him and although his authority had been seriously weakened, he was still the commanding officer of the United Nations in Bosnia Herzegovina.

It was also at that time the Security Council declared Srebrenica and six other areas so-called “Safe Havens”. I clearly remember how proud I was when CNN announced the decision made by the Security Council, because I felt that my efforts had had an impact. “No, Anders.” my former boss replied sharply – “You lost. They have just announced the biggest humanitarian detention camps in Europe!” In other words, the UN had decided to take the people in Srebrenica as humanitarian hostages; a tiny piece of land measuring 3.5 x 1.5 kms. where some 40,000 people were living under conditions words cannot describe. Most of the people were refugees coming from the neighbouring villages and many were staying in the forest or shared a stall with livestock. There were no medicines in town and the doctors had to operate without the use of anaesthesia. There was no food. The Bosnian Serbs controlled the water supply andfrequently poisoned the source. Every day the Bosnian Serb snipers in the surrounding hills shot at people who put their own lives at risk when they went to the surrounding fields in search for relief supplies that the UN had air-dropped during the night. Apparently it was more important to the international community not to support the principle of ethnic cleansing than to rescue the lives of 40,000 people by facilitating an evacuation.

 

It was at that time, when the population in Srebrenica was so desperate that the situation broke down completely, when we finally were allowed to evacuate the most vulnerable women, children and pensioners. Everybody wanted to get out. Seven people were crushed to death during the struggleto get onto our trucks.

 

It was at that time in April 1993 during a meeting in Pale, that General Mladic told my chief: “Remember Mr. Mendiluce, we can take Srebrenica any moment we want. But the time is not appropriate”.

Unfortunately, it soon became all too clear that the international community didn’t find common ground for concerted action in the conflict. The big and small countries in United Nations’ Security Council were divided on the question of how to solve the crisis. The same applied to the senior management in the UN’s civilian and military operation and, although I can’t prove it, I guarantee that several EU member states have conducted joint as well as unilateral negotiations with the warring parties. In other words, the crisis in Srebrenica made the whole UN operation collapse. This became the immediate cause for the UN to appoint a senior politician as head of the civilian as well as military operation, first Kofi Annan and then later Stoltenberg and Akashi.

 

As we know from the media Morrillon won the battle of Srebrenica, but he didn’t manage to carve a career for himself as president of France as he was reported to be hoping for. I lost the battle in my futile attempt to evacuate Srebrenica. So did 40,000 refugees who lived in Srebrenica for two years under conditions words can hardly describe. So did some 7,000 men who have all vanished from the face of the earth. And so did the international community (the UN) and the Dutch soldiers who realised they were powerless when the Bosnian Serbs finally decided to overrun the enclave.

 

It was first and foremost the fear of a repeat the two helicopters and the SFOR cortège brought to Srebrenica. It was the fear of loosing the focus of our football schools - in the same way we had lost focus in the relief operation when Morrillon went to Srebrenica and linked the evacuation of Srebrenica to the negotiations that sought to put an end to the Bosnian Serbs’ siege of Sarajevo. Why couldn’t they just let us do it our way? Why wasn’t the local police allowed to escort our children and provide the required security for the festival? Why couldn’t we be allowed to create a festive atmosphere for an event that was about playing and having fun while making use of the unique quality inherent to football as a constructive tool in the peace process?

The Muslim children got off the bus. The local Bosnian-Serb children, still patiently lining up in four long columns, spontaneously started to applause. So did the 200 to 300 spectators who had gathered next to the playground. It was a completely unexpected reaction. Esko, my good friend and colleague and the man behind the event, wiped away a small pearl from the corner of the eye, shook his head with a smile and gave me a big hug. “Magija” he said to me in Bosnian while holding me in his strong arms. “Fantastic” I replied. Thank you, Esko. Magija”.

 

Zoka was quick to fit the Muslim children into the rows according to their height and make them put on our T-shirts. Children who were in the second class went to the first row. Children who were in third class went to the second row etc. It hardly took 15 minutes to get the children mixed and the groups formed, evenly divided among the 21 stations we had prepared the some 400 children were now ready for action. Esko blew his whistle to signal the first rotation. We had prepared the best and funniest games we could think off and after a few minutes we were totally absorbed by the children’s activities, the atmosphere and performance. I totally forgot time, place and the situation.

 

The atmosphere was great. Every single game had been given its own designated area, its own little intimate stage and collectively they provided a good, well-organized and joyful arena for the festival. It was as if the sports ground generated its own rhythm in time with the music we had brought along, streaming from the sports ground’s loudspeaker system. Now the trainers and former enemies played with and cheered the children in a way that sometimes made it difficult to distinguish between them and the kids. All the children were in non-stop motion at the same time. One hundred and forty footballs, 30 hula-hop rings and skipping ropes were hanging in the air and 400 happy children fought and laughed and clapped their hands and gave “high-five” to one another as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

 

It was the “ritual contest” when the best - the contest in which you challenge yourself and one another to try your strength just for the fun of the thing. The excitement of everybody formed a sharp contrast to the dramatic backdrop of the school’s bombed-out gymnasium. It was as if past and present met in the ambiguous motif of the “battle” in Srebrenica, when the best and the worst.

 

It was “play” where the children continuously were challenged to do and explore. New games, new accessories and new ways of mastering and kicking the ball. It was the joyful and unpretentious atmosphere that allowed every one to try new things, to fail, to cheer and celebrate when you and your friends succeeded or to be annoyed and support one another, when you didn’t make it.

 

It was children and adults in movement, together and individually. Children and adults who expressed themselves in the language of the body and play with the ball. Of course, it was not Laudrup’s aesthetic balance and smooth run with the ball but it was the happiness and the body language that contributes to give sport a special quality. It was also concentration, of course, the time to work with details. For example, it is funny to measure how hard one can kick a ball by means of our speedometers, but only the first three to five times. However, it is much more fun to play with the speedometers if you make the kids measure the speed at the same time as trying out different run-ups. What happens to the ball’s speed and course following a long direct run-up when the body moves at high speed? How does it affect the ball’s speed and course if you kick it from a standing position?

 

In my view this was sport when the best and, paradoxically, the event in Srebrenica helped me to express some of the qualities and the feelings inherent to sport, that fascinates me the most. As a spectator I am never in doubt when I witness something of high quality. Thus I have a vivid memory of the sublime pass from Laudrup to Sand in the match against Nigeria, a pass that of course would never have had the same fascinating and impressive impact without the subsequent run and shot by Sand. And Anja Andersen, with her back to the goal looping the ball over the keeper following a spectacular stunt, faking a shot between her legs, is also among my most fascinating memories. These are the moments when breathing and weight, movement and coordination, strategy and action melt into each other and find their own unique rhythm.

 

It is precisely the totality and the rhythm, which give sport its special quality and, in my view, the most fantastic thing about sport is that you do not have to be a superstar to experience these great moments. I am sure that all sportsmen, regardless of their own talent, can tell about the experience when time, space and situation fuse togetherand create their own metaphysical whole. It was precisely this totality and rhythm – the heartbeat – I suddenly experienced during the football festival in Srebenica. The heartbeat which, as I believe, gives our football schools in the Balkans a special magic and which made my painful memories from wartime Bosnia disappear and left me with the same feeling of peaceful lightness as if a painful vacuum in my inner ear had finally gone away following a rough flight.

 

The event went well and without problems of any kind. Of course, in hindsight I am both happy and grateful that the SFOR forces came, also that they helped us get the children safely back to Vogosca after having spent an unparalleled day in Srebenica – enjoying the first multi-ethnic event in the town after the war.