| |  Editor's Note: Since the NATO attacks on Yugoslavia began, Alex Bogojevic, a U.S.-trained physicist living in Belgrade, has been writing e-mail dispatches describing his life as the bombs fall. These dispatches can now be found on a regular basis on the MoJo Wire, but it is important to note that we have no way of confirming the information Alex sends us. Also, Alex welcomes e-mail. (Though keep in mind, his Internet connection is now sporadic.)  _
Dark Days and Darker Nights
NATO begins targeting Belgrade utilities, plunging Alex and his family into periodic darkness. Sometimes Alex feels like he's in a darkened movie theater watching a Hollywood blockbuster. Other times, he feels like he's ina Hollywood blockbuster. by Alex Bogojevic
May 25, 1999 BELGRADE, May 23, 1999 -- 1:00 a.m.
Power back. Again the freezer and fridge routine. Last thoughts before I fall asleep -- NATO is slipping -- this is no way to celebrate two months of bombings. Prime time has come and gone on the east coast and still no bombings. Maybe the TV public in the U.S. is tired of the same daily grind: Bomb a hospital, NATO spokesmen say mistakes happen; bomb Albanian refugees returning home to Kosovo, NATO spokesmen say mistakes are unfortunate; bomb some embassies in Belgrade, NATO blames CIA, bomb some homes, NATO informs the audience that shit happens. Maybe CNN's ratings are going down, maybe people want to look at old sitcoms not a new war. Maybe Ricky and Lucy will save us. Maybe the Honeymooners will stop the humanitarian bombings. Maybe. Sleep. 4:00 a.m.
Natasha wakes me. Another blackout. Explosions, roaring planes, further explosions. No water now. Another power plant in Obrenovac has been hit. Another NATO plane is shot down and falls into Macedonia. One more German pilotless spy plane is downed. What's the use? Destroying their planes is precisely what they want. I can see U.S. defense contractors happily discussing new contracts. The pilots with their posthumous medals, the people down below bombed out of their homes -- all doing their little part in a Hollywood spectacular. 10:00 a.m.
I wake up late. It is raining. The electricity is still out. It is dark in our apartment. It is even dark outside -- the low clouds are doing their best in keeping the sun out. The kids are playing in their room. I wish I could go and spend some time with them, make them smile... How can I -- if I come near them I'll just make them more depressed. Natasha is the same way. We have to do something, so we dust the books, rearrange the stereo, rearrange the books. This is a major job -- there have been several generations busily at work stocking our family library. Each book is precious to me. Just handling them makes me feel better. Weird. The sun creeps through a break in the clouds. I look up and almost immediately feel better. I look at Natasha and see that it has the same effect on her. Sometimes, a single ray of sunshine is all a person needs to feel better. 5:00 p.m.
Our friend Vesna calls us over the phone. The suburb where she lives has power, though it also has no water. We hurry and dress and drive over. For once we don't worry about gas, we just have to get out of these four walls. We carry with us a gallon of water. Over there, we try to unwind amidst the roar of four little kids. Another suicide. A relative of Vesna's, a refugee from Croatia, put a gun to his head and fired. Two wars in too few years. Driven out of his ancestral home with several hundred thousand Serbs he fled with his family through Bosnia to Serbia. It seems that he had no problems with the bombings, but couldn't come to grips with the air raid sirens. Somehow, he was able to fire two rounds before falling on the bathroom floor. This is where his wife found him several hours later. 8:00 p.m.
Back home -- the power is back, but not the water. We heat up some of the stuff we cooked yesterday and have dinner. An hour later we have water once again, though at very low pressure. We fill the bathtub, just in case -- it takes half an hour to fill. In the mean time I turn to music. This time both my daughters listen with me. This is amazing, since Sara, the younger, usually can't sit in the same place for more than a minute. I make a strange selection -- maybe trying to tax Sara's patience, maybe trying to use the moment to play something new -- Turkish Soufi music, the music of the Dervish warrior/monks. The music and chants are quite esoteric, not something that kids can lock onto very easily, yet this time they are patient with me and with the music. The music is played, the words sung as the Dervish whirls in circles for hours and hours. The end product of this is a kind of trance. 8:30 p.m.
Black out. I will not let this destroy the moment. I take two beautiful brass candelabras, light the candles, turn on a transistor radio and search for music. Almost all I find is news -- I don't want to listen to all of this death and destruction with my kids. Finally, a station that plays non-stop music. Yugoslav Rock from the '80s, before the country was cut up. The '80s, the former Yugoslavia's last decade, were indeed its swan song. Everything flowered then, and at the forefront of this mini-renaissance was music. Most of the stuff you'll never hear on MTV, as it isn't in English -- still, at the time, there was nothing like it on the whole continent (barring England). The music flowed from age old Serbian cities of Belgrade, Nis and Novi Sad, from Sarajevo in Bosnia as well as from Croatia's Zagreb and beautiful Split on the Adriatic coast. The music was sweet, as if sensing that the end was near. The people singing didn't know that within a few years, for half of them, their language would no longer be called Serbian, that the language would be the same, but would thereafter be called Bosnian by some and Croatian by others .... Natasha washes dishes by candlelight. Teodora spills spinach -- Natasha washes the floor, all of this under candlelight. We put the kids to bed. I read Little Red Riding Hood to them -- we were to take them to the kid's theater to watch this today, but everything was canceled due to the power outage. Bathing with cold water. 11:30 p.m.
Power on. Water has stopped. Making mashed potatoes for tomorrow's lunch or dinner. Tea and coffee. I copy the scribblings that illustrate the goings on of the last few days onto the computer. The voltage is going up and down. Every few lines I save the draft version of what I am writing. Still can't send this. The Institute of Physics still has no power, so my Internet connection isn't working. 
 
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