Slovenia's Vanishing Act

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But to make any headway, the Erased first must combat a number of myths, most significantly that they themselves were responsible for what happened. "I don't think we can talk about 3,000 kids being 'opposed to Slovenia,'" Todorović says, referring to the estimated number of children who were taken off the books. For him, it's a no-brainer that Erasure was intentional. Ilič, whose son was erased when he was six, concurs: "Of course we never had a choice! We have a child — what parent would knowingly disregard their child's well being? Then they say I opposed independence — I voted for independence! They don't even care if their lies make sense!"

But the Erased still have to convince the general public that the country's been duped. In April 2004 a controversial referendum put support for restoration of the Erased's rights at less than 6 percent. Even after a newspaper published documents indicating erasure was deliberate and premeditated, little changed. The government's defense remains a one-two punch of obstinacy and obfuscation. "Nobody was erased, nobody was erased," mutters Bojan Trnovšek, director general for the Internal Administrative Affairs Directorate at the Ministry of the Interior — the office responsible for erasure — as he stacks a mountain of papers on his desk. "They are 'persons without status in Slovenia,'" Nina Gregori, the undersecretary at the ministry, tells me hastily. "It's very complicated."

To spend time in Slovenia's pristine, hospitable towns is to wonder: How does such a thing happen here, a place where so-called outsiders have often intermarried with native Slovenes? Ironically, part of the impetus seems to have come from a wish among Slovenes to distance themselves from the nationalist madness elsewhere in the Balkans — it just so happened that purging some of its residents looked like the best way to get that distance. But at an even deeper level, there lies a genuine fear of extinction.

Slovenia has always belonged to someone else, from the Holy Roman Empire to the Habsburgs to Tito's Yugoslavia. Finally on its own after so many centuries, it finds itself vanishing. Its tiny population has the lowest fertility rate in the EU, and a weak economy pushes its young people abroad. People over 80 are expected to be the single largest demographic group by 2050. Coupled with the anxiety of adopting capitalism, these worries lead to troubling conversations about purity. "We're a peaceful country and we're disappearing," a New Agey young artist named Gregor tells me, before blaming "the vulgar Croats and Bosnians" for filling the void. "They gave Slovenia loud music and curse words. It used to be '400 devils' was the worst you could say here."

Slovenia's version of nationalism was downright charming compared to Milosevič's butchery just over the border. But as John Dalhuisen of the Council of Europe's Office of the Commissioner for Human Rights suggests, charming is how you wind up in the EU rather than the Hague. "How did they get away with this? Compare them to their neighbors," he says. "Anyone who hasn't fired too many bullets in the area in the last 15 years looks pretty good."

On a cold, bright day last February, the ragtag Association of the Erased descends nervously on Ljubljana's parliament building for a peaceful sit-in at a National Assembly session. For many, this is their first time publicly identifying themselves, much less risking confrontation. When they arrive, the building is uncharacteristically flanked by police, who inform Todorović it has been closed to the public for the day.

Todorović huddles with the two dozen novice activists and an alternate plan soon materializes. One by one, they march back and forth across a nearby crosswalk, Abbey Road-style, as traffic builds up behind them. The hastily conceived strategy is meant to draw attention to the cause, and to the fact of the cause. Indeed, Todorović tells me later, he sees the association as standing up against the country's broader slide toward exclusionism — as evidenced by bizarrely repressive new asylum laws, a long-running ban on building a mosque in Ljubljana, institutional homophobia, and what Dalhuisen describes as "a certain reactionary core." If opposing the Erased can be populist political shorthand for proving one's Slovene patriotism, Todorović says, the Erased themselves can be shorthand for opposition to all Slovene intolerance. In December, when the Slovene government made international headlines for forcibly evicting a Roma settlement after a mob made death threats and torched one of the homes, many Erased activists rushed to protest the action.

Back at the parliament building, half the drivers honk angrily, while the other half just stare at the gray-haired and rural protesters. "At least it slows the final transition to global capitalism by a few minutes," sighs Andrej Kurnik, an activist and political science professor. Two hours and one near-scuffle with the police later, the Erased trickle back to their cloistered lives; a kind of shrugging is in the air. Todorović seems to sense it, but the wispy former archaeologist says he'll keep fighting: "Slovenia created this wonderful stereotype of itself to get where it wants to go, this exclusive place far from Yugoslavia. I have to register the truth."

As for Zoran Ilič, it's hard to say whether his goals are more or less ambitious in the end. "What do I want?" he asks. "I lived here 36 years and put so much energy into this country. They say I want all the money that's owed to me, all the wages and insurance and pension they took. But that money comes from my kids' futures, and my kids have already suffered enough. I just want my citizenship."

Like many, Ilič was told his only hope was in returning to war-torn Serbia to find documentation of his and his son's existence. But Serbia had no papers for the boy, as he'd been born in Slovenia. "Good," Ilič recalls thinking at the time. "Now we can move to the moon." Ilič's son's status was quietly restored after a lengthy fight. (Roughly 12,000 of the Erased have been "regularized" as new permanent residents, thereby keeping pensions and reparations out of reach.) "We had to get a divorce, on paper anyway, so my wife wouldn't have my last name," he adds. "It's been horrible, but at the same time I'm blessed, because my family is strong. Not all are so lucky."

Indeed, a number have found the strain unbearable. A few weeks after the parliament protest, Todorović tells me about recruiting a fellow Erased named Dragan when the association was first coming together. Dragan was Todorović's neighbor — a "calm and peaceful" father of two who'd "lost everything, like all of us." The last time Todorović saw him, a decade of extreme poverty and shame had caught up with him; he could no longer bear to eat a single piece of bread, as he considered it food from his daughters' mouths. Two days later, he threw himself under a train. Todorović lingers quietly on this memory for a moment, and then he pushes back from our cafe table. "More to do," he says, and he's gone.

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Chris Colin is the author of What Really Happened to the Class of '93, and lived in Slovenia for much of 2006.

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