Yugoslavia Out of Control

By Jill Smolowe

How to make sense out of a country, and a spasm of violence, that makes little sense in itself? Whom to sympathize with, in a struggle among hostile and unreasonable antagonists? In whose hands is the country called Yugoslavia, stitched together from unwilling parts? Why can't the claims of self- determination be solved peacefully?

Neither those locked in conflict within the country's borders nor those watching from a distance could explain exactly what guided events last week as the showdown between the Yugoslav People's Army and the secessionist republics of Slovenia and Croatia first pushed toward all-out civil war, then pulled back in a shaky cease-fire. What baffled most was not so much the sporadic bloodshed -- all but foreordained by centuries of ethnic antagonisms -- but the political and military muddle. No one seemed to be in charge, and the country appeared to be sliding into chaos. The federation's civilian leadership looked like spectators at a war of the army's making, while the rebellious Slovenian militia sought ways not just to eject federal troops but to humiliate them as well. The army itself seemed in jeopardy of splintering along the very ethnic lines that surely make Yugoslavia the most Balkanized of Balkan states.

Although the centuries-old ethnic, religious and political enmities roiling Yugoslavia must seem very distant to most Americans, the turbulence has immediate meaning. The U.S. is currently engaged in a social debate that pits the virtues of ethnic and racial diversity against the value of a common national identity. Of course, unlike the artificial construct that is Yugoslavia, America evolved organically, its identity forged by a populace that for the most part joined the union eagerly, not with sullen resistance. Still, it was instructive for Americans to watch the television footage from Yugoslavia to see what unbounded "multiculturalism" can look like. Had Americans spent the past two centuries as the Yugoslavs have, stoking ethnic antagonisms rather than trying to forge shared values, last week's Fourth of July celebration might have had a very different stripe.

Yugoslavs may feel the countervailing claims of federation vs. separation are too inimical to settle any other way than by the gun. But even the most ardent of the antagonists still has time to consider whether the Yugoslav parties can solve the problem through peaceful dialogue. The prevailing mood last week was grim. A cease-fire brokered by the European Community came and went. Another, negotiated a few days later by the Yugoslavs themselves, held into the weekend -- but only barely. As many as 180 army tanks and armored vehicles that drove out of the federal capital of Belgrade shortly before the new cease-fire rested along the border of Croatia, a republic whose push for independence holds potential for far greater violence than Slovenia's. The question was whether those columns were halted in response to the flurry of diplomatic activity -- or only to regroup for a major assault.

Early in the week General Blagoje Adzic, an ethnic Serb and the army's Chief of Staff, issued a chilling statement on national television: "We have to accept war because the alternative -- surrender or treason -- does not exist for us." The cease-fire imposed the next day seemed to contradict Adzic's warning.

But 24 hours later, the war of ultimatums again heated up. Yugoslavia's eight-member collective presidency demanded that Slovenia surrender control of its 27 border posts within three days. The issue was more than symbolic: in a country where customs duties account for as much as one-third of the government's revenue, the key crossings to Italy, Austria and Hungary are a major source of federal income. Slovenian information minister Jelko Kacin rejoined, "I state categorically that Yugoslavia no longer has a border with Italy or Austria." While Slovenia did demobilize 10,000 members of its forces and respond to federal demands to release prisoners and lift blockades around army bases, Kacin warned, "The war is not over."

Slovenia was no more reasonable than the federal government in its demands. Intent on seizing all the arms from the troops sent into the republic and on publicly humbling the army, the republic's government scuttled the first cease-fire by demanding that departing forces turn over all weapons except personal arms before retiring to their barracks. "Provocateurs," said a Western diplomat stationed in Belgrade.

Civilian authorities were ill positioned to impose a truce; a sense of powerlessness was endemic. Many admitted being as shocked as the rest of the world by Adzic's bellicose statement and by the dispatch of the menacing column toward Croatia's border. Asked if he thought Adzic was a loyal supporter of the federal government, Prime Minister Ante Markovic retorted, "I don't know, you'll have to ask him. Why are you asking me?"

Whom to ask, then? The military high command? The mixed signals emanating from Yugoslavia's generals increased speculation that even the army itself did not know what its next move would be. No sooner had Adzic issued his belligerent warning than another general, Andreja Raseta, a Serb from Croatia who is deputy commander of the Yugoslav army units deployed in Slovenia, announced that federal troops would not fire unless they were fired upon. The Defense Minister, General Veljko Kadijevic, in the meantime assured the federal presidency that the army would abide by the cease-fire. Long considered a moderate, he is now suspected by some diplomats of having shown an agreeable face to civilian authorities while actually promoting a hard line.

The failure of the military to speak with a unified voice raised several possibilities. The generals may have been orchestrating a sophisticated good cop-bad cop routine. Perhaps events were moving so swiftly that the threat from Adzic was rendered moot by Slovenia's subsequent announcement of a unilateral cease-fire. Or maybe the generals were acting at cross-purposes.

Even if the high command remains united, the army that Josip Broz Tito built during World War II threatens to fracture along the very ethnic lines that have created Yugoslavia's current miasma. Led by a cadre of generals who are the last bastion of hard-line communism in the country, the officer corps is predominantly Serbian, while the conscript ranks reflect the multiethnic complexion of the Yugoslav federation. Among the 2,300 troops captured by the Slovenes were hundreds who had turned themselves in, testimony to the lack of resolve within the ranks. Many of the troops fighting in Slovenia are raw recruits called up this year. Reflecting a conviction shared by many soldiers, Corporal Nebojsa Jankovic, 20, a Serb who saw two comrades killed by Slovenian fire, said of the army's attempted crackdown, "In my mind, it was a mistake."

Concerned parents on both sides of the conflict share the soldiers' lack of enthusiasm for a war that has already claimed 57 lives. Last week in Serbia, mothers took to the streets demanding that their sons return home. In Slovenia, Nada Mesaric, 45, whose son is garrisoned in Macedonia near the Kosovo border, said, "I don't think it's important to any of us whether Yugoslavia stays together."

Given the muddled situation in Yugoslavia, it was not surprising that Western officials on both sides of the Atlantic were having trouble finding a comfortable political stance. When violence first erupted, the international community called for the preservation of "territorial integrity" warned separatists that a violent breakaway would receive neither economic nor political support. The U.S. and the E.C. feared that instability in Yugoslavia might ignite secessionist-minded forces throughout Eastern Europe. But that position was undermined by the army's harsh response, which sparked calls for Western officials to uphold such fundamental values as the right to self- determination and freedom.

The U.S. and the European Community were showered with complaints that their failure to support such values may have encouraged the crackdown. "The Yugoslav generals got the idea that the West did not care about the declarations of independence," says Wolf Oschlies, a policy analyst at the Federal Institute for International Studies in Cologne. "So they attacked." Not only right-wing conservatives but even liberal democrats like Rhode Island Senator Claiborne Pell asked the White House to give more support to the embattled republics. "The U.S. would not be true to its national values if it did not line up foursquare in support of democracy," said Pell. "It would be better if the Yugoslav peoples could find a way to live together, but unity at all costs is not the answer."

The U.S. and members of the E.C. altered course last week. President Bush hinted that he would recognize the republics, provided independence was achieved peacefully. In Europe, where public sympathy for the secessionists runs high, Germany made the sharpest U-turn. "Countries cannot be held together by tanks and force," said Chancellor Helmut Kohl. He warned Belgrade that an attack on Slovenia or Croatia could affect German economic aid to Yugoslavia, which last year totaled $550 million. Britain, France and Italy are also considering joining the Western swing toward recognition.

It seems only a matter of time before Slovenia gains foreign acceptance as the Continent's youngest state. Geographically bounded by more European states than Yugoslav republics, ethnically homogeneous and capable of economic self- sufficiency, Slovenia is well poised for independence. Last week there were signs that even Serbia, which has pressed hardest to maintain a Yugoslav federation, was loosening its objections. The courtesy does not extend to Croatia, however; neither its 600,000 resident Serbs nor their kin in Serbia have any intention of making a breakaway easy. If hostilities erupt there, the ensuing conflagration may make Slovenia's bloody quest look like an orderly march to independence.

With reporting by Daniel Benjamin/Belgrade and James L. Graff/Ljubljana, with other bureaus