Preface

      In the summer of 1991, war broke out in the former Yugoslav Republic of Slovenia. On my television set in Uppsala, I watched tanks belonging to the former Yugoslav People’s Army (Jugoslavenska narodna armija [JNA]) tear up the lawns in the parks of the Slovenian capital, Ljubljana. I realized that something entirely beyond my comprehension was happening. I knew about wars in the past and in other parts of the world, but I had been taught that the Second World War was the last war there would ever be in Europe. Now, a new war was here. I did not know what it meant or what forms it would take, but I was sure that my understanding of the world would never be the same again.

      The next shock came at the end of the summer: the war started in Croatia. I listened to a Swedish radio reporter saying that the air raid alert had just been heard in Zagreb, my hometown. He sounded very agitated, reporting from his hotel room near the railway station. The streets were empty as far as he could see, peeking through his window despite the warning to keep away from the windows. Journalists were cautioned not to use cameras, as snipers could easily mistake them for weapons. On television, I saw young armed men in black and camouflage clothing, mixing military and civilian garb, with black bands around their heads. Someone called Crni Marko (“Black Marko”) was giving an interview to the Swedish television network. With an air of self-satisfaction, he identified himself as a unit leader in the new Croatian army and explained that they were fighting for the long-awaited sovereignty of Croatia and freedom from Serbian hegemony. At the end, with a wide grin, he sent greetings to all the lovely Swedish girls. It was strange to see these big Rambo-like boys standing there as representatives of my own people and country.

      I was even more deeply disturbed when I heard that one of my best friends had volunteered for the Croatian army. This young man had a genuine pacifist temperament. The year he did his obligatory military service he developed a nervous ulcer, not only because of the meaninglessness of his duties but also because he was an individualist who disliked any form of authoritarianism. He spoke four European languages, loved to travel, and relished mountain climbing, spelunking, and skiing in loose clothes which would flutter in the wind, giving him a sense of freedom. He had introduced me to Bob Dylan and Jimi Hendrix, Friedrich Nietzsche and Erich Fromm. I simply could not put these things together with what I had heard. I could not believe that he had turned into a Crni Marko.

      Like many young people in the former Yugoslavia, I had believed that conditions of life and work were better in the West than at home. Before the war, however, few had the opportunity to leave. I came to Sweden in 1990 as a student in the language cooperation program between Zagreb University and the Swedish Institute. My grant was for the spring term, and after that I decided to use my private resources in order to study cultural anthropology at Uppsala University. I enjoyed my studies and the new friends I made.

      Once the war began, it became easier to enter Western countries, but coming out of necessity, as a refugee, was much more difficult than making this choice of one’s own free will. For my part, the start of war in my hometown meant that within a month I felt compelled to go to Zagreb and see for myself what was going on. Was anything left of the world I knew, and did I have anything in common with the people who once were close to me? Together with Karine Mannerfelt, a Swedish friend and journalist, I took the train to Zagreb in October 1991. We encountered the first signs of war in the Munich railway station. Sitting at a table near ours in the café was a Yugoslav family: an elderly couple dressed like villagers, a younger couple in modern clothes, and some children. In the evening when the train to Zagreb arrived, we realized that the elderly couple was going back to Zagreb while