Dispatches from the Next Balkan War – Part 3: Nice People, Those Albanians

Back at the hotel that night I learned that five utility company or construction workers (reports varied) were snatched near Tetovo by Albanians and beaten. They were released after having the initials of their captors carved in their backs. They were made to pray to Allah if they wanted water. Nice people, those Albanians.

The impetus for the demonstrations the night before were the ten soldiers killed in an ambush just north of Tetovo. A 40-vehicle convoy of troop transports, tanks, and APCs was making its weekly rotation to Tetovo. The NLA fired it up with RPGs and machine-guns 10 miles west of Skopje near Bojane. Eight of the dead were from Prilep. Despite ongoing peace negotiations the war continued unabated.

I took a cab to the Macedonian defense ministry on Orce Nikolov. When I arrived I walked through the gate and approached a soldier, Kalashnikov slung over his shoulder, standing behind a pile of sandbags that was “tactical” (it was draped with camouflage shelter halves). He looked confused at my approach and nervously fingered his walkie-talkie.

In my very best Serbo-Croat (Bosnian accent) I said “Dobro jutro” and pointed at myself, smiled and said, “Amerikanac novinar.” He just pointed to the building’s front entrance further down the driveway. I walked over to the building up the frayed red carpet and entered. Inside I began to tell the entranceway receptionist why I was there when an MP soldier in British DPM type BDUs, white pistol belt, and holster approached me.

He spoke some English and some phone calls were made. I was asked to wait so I cooled my heels in the waiting room and chain-smoked Henri Winterman cigarillos beneath two oil paintings of troops in action. Although there was no one available to speak to me he seemed upset that I hadn’t called first. Of course I didn’t have an appointment … that’s why I was there: to make one if no one was available to assist me. I was told to call.

What number? They didn’t know and couldn’t find out. But I must call tomorrow. You can’t get an appointment in person, you must call first, but we won’t give you the number to call. Catch-22 Macedonian style. Eventually they gave me a phone number to call later in the afternoon and/or the option to arrive with an interpreter in the morning. Great, now I had to find an interpreter. I thanked the soldier who, despite no visible rank insignia, by his demeanor I thought was a lieutenant.

I went back to the Dal Met Fu cafe/hotel where I had been sitting the day before when the demonstrators marched past to the government offices. On the corner of the block a shoe store had been vandalized: all the plate glass windows broken out. Cobblestones and pieces of brick rested in the piles of glass on the sidewalk.

An ambush that killed ten soldiers (mostly reservists from Prilep) prompted demonstrations and vandalism over the two days following the incident. Several people told me this response was a show of people’s frustration against their own government and the military’s ineffectiveness.  There was a lot of dissatisfaction with the lack of decisive action in the wake of the recent combat deaths of Macedonian soldiers.

Targeted for protests were the prime minister’s offices and other government offices. Vandalism targeted ethnic Albanian or Muslim owned businesses. The next day (Friday) eight more soldiers were killed and nine wounded when their convoy drove over daisy-chained mines laid on the road near Ljubanci and Ljuboten just six miles north of Tetovo.

That made eighteen dead (the same number of combat deaths that prompted the US withdrawal from Somalia) in the last few days. Quite a few for a small, insular country like Macedonia. Even given the casualties the army had suffered in the last few days there were no anti-war protests. Yet.

As I looked over the damage, several girls in light summer dresses walked by. There was a mall nearby and this was a touristy area, just a few blocks from the old stone bridge and Kale fortress. Before attempting to contact the press people at the defense ministry again I decided to while away a few hours in the cafe.

I know my constant cautionary advice to fellow travelers is to avoid such places in countries and cities involved in war, rebellion, or civil strife. In light of my near miss at Kampala’s Speke Hotel (editor’s note; the table next to Rob’s was the site of a terrorist bomb attack in 1998) I’m doubly cautious, but I like to watch the street and take things in so I sit near an exit if possible with my back to the wall.

I’m careful to watch the street for anything out of place and I visually survey other patrons. I will immediately warn the establishment and then leave if I see an abandoned package or bag.

There in the center of the city the over flights of helicopters heading to the “war zone” a few miles away drowned out the American pop tunes playing in the cafe. When the fighter-bombers shrieked overhead people put their hands to their ears. As a jet streaked past rattling the windows one lady looked at me and in fractured English said, “This is bad situation.”

Yeah, no kidding.

~RK