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. Alex's opinions are his own and not necessarily those of the MoJo Wire or Mother Jones magazine.

Also, Alex welcomes e-mail. (Though keep in mind, his Internet connection is now sporadic.)

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Ice Cream, You Scream, We All Scream...

In the midst of war, it is difficult to concentrate on anything but the most basic necessities. Still, Alex finds strength, solace, and inspiration in the biblical story of David and Goliath.

by Alex Bogojevic
Posted June 8, 1999

BELGRADE, June 6, 1999 --
Two months ago, I launched myself into the uncharted waters of a new profession -- or rather, I was pushed into it by the surreal things happening all around me. I started writing about a war that had no name, about the faces of that war. I chose to write because there was really very little else I could do, but also because the war somehow instantly changed not just me, but the people I see all around me. I started writing to control my own fear, to calm my thoughts and thus allow myself to battle my own indignation and hate.

Physics, the thing I really love, is almost impossible to do when the bombs are falling. For science to flourish, you need to be able to concentrate, to stay fixed on a given topic for long periods of time. Emotion does play a role in this, as it does in other creative processes. However, unlike in art or music, a scientist's emotions must be controlled, held in the background. War -- its images, sounds, and smells -- doesn't allow one this emotional detachment. There are many stereotypes of scientists: They are invariably shown to be weird people, out of touch with reality, under the spell of an obscure, personal monomania. Few of my colleagues fit this stereotype, though many can, in fact, be described as "weird." Well, even the weirdest ones among us have found it next to impossible to work over the last few months. When the war started, science -- and much else of normal life -- stopped.

It's not like we have lots of free time on our hands. I find myself spending all day stocking up on scarce stuff, preparing food, playing with the kids, and keeping a brave face on so they don't get scared when the sirens wail and the bombs explode. I go to the store and come back carrying a bag with 100 pounds of flour on my back, and the elevator doesn't work, so I take the stairs. I wash and then go with the kids to a classical-music concert, or to the theater, or an art exhibition. Then I put masking tape on the windows, fill endless canisters with water, fill other canisters with gasoline. I make homemade yogurt and read up on how to manufacture soap. I find myself endlessly vacuuming my home, fighting a losing battle with dust and soot from all the explosions and fires.

I don't remember ever being so tired. Even the two-hour walk to work is a time of relaxation, a time all my own. We don't use the car; we're saving gasoline for when things get really bad. As a result, going to work and back "costs" four hours. Sometimes I use only two, by taking the bus in one direction. And I don't go to work every day -- there's no point. I don't go to do any physics, but rather to see my colleagues, talk with my students, and help the system administrators of our computer center keep the lines of communication open.

These walks -- seven miles to work, seven miles back -- are quite relaxing. They give me time to think. Most of the things I have written about in these last two months started as bits of an unending dialog between two or more voices in my head. (I told you physicists are weird.) Late at night, while the kids are fast asleep, I tackle the process of typing these ideas; taking these bits and pieces and trying to fit them into something coherent -- a story. Being an amateur writer, this process takes way too much time. Luckily, if that is the right word, I have no place to go. To stop would be to acknowledge the bombs and their power over me. While I write, the explosions are quieter -- at least, most of the time. When the explosions are really nearby, you run to check on the kids, then you sit back, stare into the screen, take a few breaths, or drink a glass of water to calm down. After a while, the heart slows, the blood pressure goes down, and you resume writing. The explosions usually taper off at 3 a.m. or 4 a.m.. Dawn starts breaking and the vampires fly off. At this point, I am usually so tired that I barely make it to bed.

The three concentric circles and the word "target" have become a household symbol, recognizable all over the world, like the peace symbol of the '60s. It signifies the peaceful protest of a whole nation. On the one side are the children of the '60s who wield the strongest war armada the world has ever seen, turning their "smart" bombs on hospitals, on marketplaces full of people, and on the very refugees they told the world they were protecting. This is Goliath. On the other side are 12 million people -- Serbs, Albanians, Hungarians, Croats, and many others -- that are the target. This is David.

This war has no name, and that is as it should be, for this is not a war. The name most appropriate is genocide. Webster's dictionary defines "genocide" as the deliberate and systematic extermination of a national, racial, political, or cultural group. Bombing hospitals, refugee camps, and schools is genocide. Bombing buses, trains, residential areas, and refugee convoys isn't collateral damage; it's genocide. Bombing embassies and factories, destroying television and radio stations, bombing power and water utilities -- that isn't genocide, but it is a war crime. Bombing the peace process is not genocide, but it shows NATO for what it has become -- a thing out of control, a beast of aggression.

Up in the air, from a mile-high perspective, all people look like insignificant ants. It is only when you zoom in that the squashed ants transform into individual people that you have killed, children that you have maimed. These people look just like your neighbors, like your family, so don't zoom in, don't make this personal. From up there, the bridges, skyscrapers, and homes you have destroyed look as if they are children's playthings. Don't you dare zoom in, for to do that would be to acknowledge that in a few months of video games you have destroyed what many millions of people have built over a span of decades. You have murdered thousands, maimed tens of thousands, left hundreds of thousands without work, and destroyed the life's work of millions. You have repeatedly bombed our graveyards, Goliath, and these ghosts will haunt you, never fear. You have systematically destroyed our churches and monasteries that have stood there in Kosovo, and have withstood wave after wave of conquerors, for almost 1,000 years.

Still, these are not your worst crimes, Goliath. The worst crime is your mutilation of the truth -- that will be your undoing. How dare you trivialize the lives of 12 million people and make a soap opera out of it all? How dare you paint David as the bad guy? How dare you manipulate your own people? How dare you talk of genocide?! Europe bled, little Goliath, not that long ago, and none more than Jews and Serbs, Gypsies, Poles, and Russians. Each of these peoples gave millions to the Nazi concentration camps. And you, little Goliath, take a page out of Goebbels' book and talk of "humanitarian" bombings. Shame. You dirty the very memory of the Holocaust! Is nothing sacred to you?

On this 77th day my family and I do battle with you, Goliath, as we've done on all the previous days -- by taking the kids out to the zoo, by buying them ice cream. The title of this story is what the guy selling ice cream was shouting today: "Ice cream, you scream, we all scream." This rather nicely sums up what we are going through. For Natasha and I, this was a special day -- our 10th wedding anniversary. Natasha's uncle baby-sat the kids while the two of us grabbed a few hours alone. We celebrated by going to a McDonalds. On this day, 10 years ago, we got married in Providence, Rhode Island, and spent our honeymoon driving all over New England. We had a great time then and filled two huge photo albums with pictures -- not of the two of us, but of all the scenic nooks and crannies of New England and upstate New York. Today we didn't talk about that, nor did we look at the albums -- we fought you, Goliath.

We are screaming all the time, Goliath, but we won't give you the benefit of hearing our screams. You can continue to rape us, but we'll continue to look you straight in the eye. We stand facing you, and we will win -- that's in the book, but I'm sure you haven't read it. I know you won't believe me, but in the end David beats Goliath, with the help of a slingshot called truth and valor.

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