I took one last look inside the cab of my work truck and wondered if I would every see it again.  The next day I would be leaving for a war zone on the other side of the world.  I’m not in the army, or part of an aid group.  I don’t know anyone there and no one is expecting me.  I don’t even speak the language, yet I had to go.  My compulsion to understand life included trying to understand war.  I had done some dangerous things in my life but this trip would require far more courage than anything else.

It was April 1996.  Several months earlier a fragile cease fire was declared in Bosnia after a barbaric 3 year civil war.  I had been planning this trip for just over a month after finding a website stating it was now possible to travel into what was left of this war torn country.   The site also contained detailed information on how to get in and out of what they referred to as “hell itself”.  The risks seemed low.  It was a unique window of opportunity I couldn’t pass up.

As I drove home from work that day the mental effects of what I was about to do intensified.  The radio announcer was complaining about the weather and the price of gas.  Then a commercial came on for a new movie coming out that  I would be away for and possibly never make it back to see.  A heavy blanketing feeling of being alone and isolated came over me.  I no longer felt anything in common with the trivial interests and concerns of the people around me or the way of life I have always known.

The next day was an emotional goodbye with my family.  My daughter said “don’t cry mommy, he’ll come back….  He always comes back”, referring to past trips I had taken.  As I tried to convince them everything would be fine, I was also trying to convince myself.    Although my plan seemed relatively safe, I had never done anything like this before and was haunted by a naive factor I feared may be much larger then I calculated.

On the taxi ride to the airport I had a new appreciation and sympathy for the family’s of serviceman gone to war.  Whatever the individual drive is that compels someone to go into a war zone, is at least satisfied by them going.  But their family is left alone with no reward or control, only pain and uncertainty while awaiting the fate of the one they love.

After my plane took off and I was on my way, feelings of apprehension faded and were gradually replaced by focus on what I was doing.  I had well prepared to go and read everything I could find on the war.  I had a connecting flight to catch in Germany that would take me to the city of Zagreb in Croatia.  Croatia borders with Bosnia and was little effected by the war.  The city of Zagreb with its international airport was a mere 60 km from the Bosnian border.  According to the internet, buses had just began running between Zagreb and a few places in Bosnia.  My plan was to take a bus from Zagreb to the city of Tuzla and back.  Tuzla is located in Bosnia, 85 km from the Croatian border town of Zupanja.  The bus route was considered safe now and would bring me through an area that was the site of some of the worst fighting just a few months earlier.   I was prepared to spend a couple of hours in Tuzla or overnight if necessary.  According to the internet Tuzla itself was now quite safe, not badly damaged, and there were hotels there.

After landing in Zagreb I went straight to my hotel.  Zagreb seemed like a completely normal city.  You would never know war was so close by.  No where on the internet could I find the bus schedule so after checking in at the hotel I headed straight to the bus station.  I only had 3 days before my flight left to go back home and had no time to waste.

It took a while to figure out the form showing bus departures and times.  I slowly began to realize I screwed up. I screwed up bad.  The next bus going to Tuzla didn’t leave for 2 more days and didn’t get back until after my flight left to go home.  The only other bus going into Bosnia was to Sarajevo but it also wouldn’t get back in time for my flight home.  I stood there  in disbelief. Taking the bus was the only safe way I found to get into the Bosnia.  The trip was a failure.  All the preparation, time, what I had gone through and put others through was for nothing.

I headed back to my hotel room.  As the shock wore off so did my thoughts of giving up.  I took the bus schedule from my pocket and started going over all of it.  I found there was a bus leaving 3 times a day from Zagreb to the small town of Zupanja, located right on the Bosnian border.  This was the same route the bus to Tuzla took, it just doesn’t go into Bosnia.  According to my map the border there is the Sava River.  If nothing else, if I went there I would be able to at least see Bosnia across the river.

After a good nights sleep I woke up early so I could catch the first bus out.  It was funeral like weather that day.  Drizzle, overcast and cool with the temperature around 12 C.   Absence of colour made everything appear gray.  I wanted to be prepared for anything so dressed like I was still going into Bosnia.    Passport, old clothes, disposable camera, compass and maps.  I carried a back pack with some food, water, rain gear, binoculars and stuffed small amounts of money in my socks and all of my pockets.  The idea was not to appear as a target. If I looked like I had nothing of value, no one should bother me.

The 250 km bus trip to Zupanja took about 3 hours, taking me south east along a modern highway and dropping me at the bus station in the middle of the small town.  I didn’t have a detailed map of the town and couldn’t see the river but new if I headed south I would eventually find it.  Following my compass took me down several roads and out of town eventually ending up alone on a road with no traffic .  After walking about 15km the river finally came into view.

The road I was on turned out to be a dead end.  It used to cross the river into Bosnia but now ended at what was left of a blown up bridge.  I walked to the edge.  The blast left jagged rebar sticking out of the concrete.  It was the first sign of war I came across and brought an erie reality to what until now, I had only read about.

On the other side of the river was Bosnia.  The bridge had been destroyed to stop the violence from spreading into Croatia.  I took out my binoculars and could make out a couple of badly damaged buildings on the other side.  As I scanned the river bank I noticed a barge carrying people and vehicles about 750 metres up river from me.  My excitement built rapidly as I quickly realized I had just found a crossing point into Bosnia!   If I could get to the ferry and get across,  I could explore the town on the other side for a couple of hours on foot and just cross back over.  The trip might not be a total failure after all.  I checked my map and estimated it to be about a 10 km walk back to the main road and down the road the ferry was leaving from.  It would take me several hours and be mid afternoon by the time I got there.  That wouldn’t give me much time.

As I started back I noticed a trail through the shrubs that headed  along the river towards the ferry.  The short cut would probably get me there in about 15 min.  I hesitated thinking about the possibility of land mines.  I had read when in Bosnia never walk off the main road because land mines were everywhere.  This however was still Croatia but thought there might still be a chance they could have placed mines to protect them from anyone that crossed the river trying to sneak into the country.  The trail was hard packed dirt and clear from vegetation as though travelled on often and recently so I decided to take the chance.  I walked slow looking for trip wires and signs of anything buired.  I was concentrating so much on where I was going to step next I didn’t notice a military helicopter quickly approaching.  When I finally looked up it was descending rapidly in front of me.  I stood and watched as it took a hovering position 30 metres in front of me about 10 metres off the ground.  There was no question he was ordering me to stop.  I could see guns mounted on the side and slowly raised my hands in the air.  He just hovered there and seemed to be studying me.  Was I violating military security?  Maybe he was trying to stop me because I was in a mine field.  I pointed to the ferry with my raised right hand in an effort to communicate my intentions.  A few seconds later he just flew off and the deafening sound of the rotors faded to silence again.   Relieved, I put down my hands and collected my thoughts.  I was shaken a little but no where near being rattled as much as I should have been.  Was the success of this trip effecting my judgment?  Shouldn’t I be more worried?   After all, I don’t know how close to being shot I just came and I still could be standing in the middle of a mine field.

It took only a few minutes to convince myself the helicopter leaving meant it was ok to keep going and besides I was already half way to the ferry.  I continued down the trail being even more cautious on where I placed my feet while also keeping a close watch on the sky.

I made it to the ferry dock without further incident.  A long line of vehicles, mostly supply trucks was waiting to cross as well as some people on foot.  I got a ticket with no problem and was directed to a immigration shack that more resembled a lemonade stand.  After having my passport checked I found myself in line waiting for the ferry. The realization set in, the trip wasn’t going to be a failure, I would be getting into Bosnia after all!

The ferry ride across gave me one last chance to mentally prepare.  I needed to be completely alert and aware of my surroundings now.  When the boat docked I walked off with a small group of people.  We were all confronted by a several men that appeared to be taxi drivers.  Something was different about them but I didn’t want to make eye contact in case they approached me.  Some of my group went with them but I stayed with the rest of group and continued past.  As the group dispersed in different directions I walked up what appeared to be the main street alone.  The town seemed mostly deserted .  Two people walked by me and barely acknowledged I was there.   I relaxed a little knowing I blended in.  As long as I didn’t speak no one would know I’m a foreigner.

Looking around it was hard to find any building that wasn’t damaged.  Bullet holes, signs of explosions and fire were everywhere.  The town had been run over and crushed by the war.  It resembled a Hollywood film set but knowing it was created by real weapons and fighting made it seem surreal.  There was a feeling that what happened here was over and I had to constantly remind myself this is still a very dangerous place.

It was the people however that quickly drew my attention from the destruction.  Their faces were expressionless, no one looked happy, mad, sad, or anything.  Just blank, soulless faces.  Their humanity like the building here was destroyed and empty.  I felt like the only human in a town of zombies.

Every war is different and this one stood out as being one of the worst.  I had read the atrocities committed here were equal to any in human history.  There were many accounts of solders breaking into civilian homes, killing the father, then raping and killing the mother while the children watched.  Another about a crying baby that was taken from the mother and had it’s throat slit as she helplessly watched her die.  Mass graves of 8,000 murdered civilians, mostly men and boys would later be found.  For the last 3 years this had been the site of genocide, mass rapes, and countless war crimes.  I soon realized what had happened here is far beyond the comprehension of us, who have only  known civilization, and the narrow bandwidth of life experiences it encompasses.

I used my compass to navigate the town being careful to stay on main streets. There was still the possibility of running into stand alone snipers and thief’s on the side streets.  After an hour I found myself back at the ferry dock.  The group of Taxi drivers was still there waiting for customers on the next ferry.  Now that I was alone, one of them approached me and began speaking Croatian.  I had no choice but to break my silence and responded “I don’t understand”.  “Taxi?” he replied in English.  I thought for a moment but not as long as I should have and said “Tuzla….and back, ….how much?”  It turned out the only English word he knew was Taxi.

I drew a diagram in the dirt on his car  showing the river and where we were.  Then 2 feet away drew a circle with Tuzla written next to it.  I then drew a line connecting the two with an arrow going there and an arrow going back.  He seemed confused as to why I wanted to just go and come back but understood what I was asking.  He took out a paper and pencil and wrote down a price.  It was cheap but I reacted like it was high as to not let on I had much money.  Before I could think too much on what I just did, I was in his car and on my way to Tuzla.

The road was rough and muddy from the rain.  I tried to memorize land marks on our route while also trying to absorb everything around me. There were few people along the way.  Nothing but damaged, empty buildings.  Sometimes we would pass small subdivisions with some houses missing walls or partial roofs.  I got him to stop a couple of times so I could have a better look just outside the car, being careful not to leave the safety to the road.  The war it seemed had left nothing either physically or mentally untouched.

After about 20 km we came to a road block by IFOR, the international peace keeping force that took over from NATO.  Two heavily armed soldiers waived us over to the side of the road.  They were the first faces in this country I’d seen that showed any emotion.  One soldier asked me something in Croatian.  “English?” I asked. The other soldier with an  American accent asked “Nationality?”.  “Canadian” I replied and passed him my passport. “Canadian?” he asked as he flipped through my passport “Are you a journalist?” “No,…..aw… tourist I guess” I replied not really sure what I would be considered.  He looked surprised, they never had a tourist come through their check point before.  After I explained why I was there he  dropped the tough soldier facade and began speaking to me like a good friend.  It was so nice to be able to talk to someone that spoke fluent English.  I had so many questions about what it was like there and  he was just as eager to share his stories.  I got out of the car and hung out by his post, talking to him between vehicle stops.  He explained his post marked the start of a small area of  Serbian controlled land. His job was to check the vehicles going in and out.  He went on to say his unit was just started removing some of the many booby traps left in abandon buildings and the sides of roads.

Before I knew it over an hour had gone by and my taxi driver came up to me speaking in Croatian.  “He wants to take you back now” the soldier translated, “it’s too late to go to Tuzla now, traveling the roads at night is still extremely dangerous”.

I was satisfied.  Even though I didn’t make it to Tuzla I had seen enough and did what I wanted to do.  I seemed to be more perceptive of the danger now and how lucky I had been so far.  It was time now to focus solely on getting out of Bosnia and back to the safety of Croatia.  I  said goodbye to the soldiers, wished them luck and got back in the taxi.

Before we could pull away 2 woman in their mid 20’s jumped in the back seat of the car.  I wasn’t sure what was said in their conversation with the driver but their tone was assertive and demanding.  They passed him 5 chicken eggs that he carefully placed on the dash, then he put the car in drive and we were on our way.  It took me a second to figure out what was going on and came to the assumption they were going the same way as me and had just paid him with eggs instead of currency.  I turned around in an attempt to talk to them but received just a condescending look.  They didn’t speak English and had no interest in any chit chat.  Their faces were hardened and they seemed to possess a kind of street smarts necessary for surviving in this war environment.

On the way back I noticed a couple of landmarks I memorized coming down and relaxed a little knowing we were on the right road back to the border.  The girls traveled all the way back to the ferry dock with me then got out of the car and disappeared.  I was now just a ferry ride away from the safety of Croatia.  It was getting late but if I hurried I would make the last bus back to Zagreb that day.  If not I would have to spend the night in the bus station in Zupanja.

After getting off the ferry  back on the Croatian side it was a long slow moving line through immigration. Chances of catching the bus back to Zagreb were fading quick when I noticed the 2 women I shared the taxi with.  They left the line and quietly slipped into a wooded area unnoticed.  Then I saw someone else do the same.  I went over to see where they were going and followed behind unseen.  I walked a short distance into the wooded area up a small hill to a clearing and past a line of trees and realized I was on the other side of immigration.  I had just snuck into Croatia.  It was still a rush to get back to the bus station but I made it just in time to catch the last bus back.

When I got back to my hotel in Zagreb the first thing I did was call home to let them know I was out of Bosnia and ok.  As I laid on the bed exhausted, weeks of built up tension drained from my body.  Instead of immediately reflecting on what I just experienced I found myself on an overpowering natural high from the accomplishment, eventually drifting off into a deep sound sleep.

In the weeks and years that followed, I reflected back on what happened.  Putting what I had read together with what I saw and experienced left me with more questions about war then before.  How could civilized people, at one time no different then me and you become capable of such horrific acts?  These are some of my thoughts:

• Considering how some people in Canada react  to something like road rage.  What would someone that just had their infant child brutally murdered in front of them be capable of?  Can victims turn into monsters?
• Does a war environment with a population desensitized to violence and no legal repercussions fuel reciprocating and escalating acts of hate and violence?
• Does constant exposure to horrific acts block off human emotion.
• Can someone that has lost their humanity or committed an atrocity in war ever fully adapt back to a civilized world?
• What about us?  Does living in civilization with justice and consequences for actions control a monster inside all of us that most people don’t know exists?

I waded ankle deep in the waters of war and learned there is a vast ocean of horror I could never begin to understand.  Those that swim in it’s depths and manage to live, risk the loss of their happiness and humanity through any number of total and permanent mind altering experiences.

Dave Lister

listerlogic.com