By my good friend, Ben Bales

Before stepping into the dismal room, I can already picture the absolute malaise I’ll be walking into. It was always the same scene in this particular house; a smoke filled open area that doubles as the neighborhood corner store, a dilapidated glass case housing dusty candy bars and plastic wrapped snacks with an aging radio humming on top of it’s filthy shelf. I can already see the tired and disheveled men sitting hunched over in their plastic patio chairs around domino tables. Some will be reading yellowing newspapers as others stare blankly at a dingy television set that’s barely able to receive the Serbian broadcast being sent out hundreds of miles away. The men in the next room have grown use to spending their time just spending their time. Come to think of it, this was the exact scene that was repeated in every Serbian enclave in my sector. What made this spot unique was the number of males I would find congregated here, typically eight to ten men from the ages of seventeen to sixty no matter what time of day we arrived. In my book this qualified the store as a target rich environment.

As I cross the threshold, my boot grittily settling inside the store, I can feel the combined sigh of those hiding within. I knew I was not welcome here in this, their last refuge. I knew that I represented everything these men hated, feared, and despised. Their dark fervor would block my every attempt at rapport building and I understood my token efforts would fall on deaf ears. But regardless, my country had sent me to do a job and, like a good soldier, I was going to do it. Besides, as far as I was concerned, actually having the opportunity to put in practice all of my training and preparation far outweighed the futile task ahead of me of winning these Serbs’ hearts and minds. I was determined to interact with this group, spew forth my carefully crafted talking points, and hopefully gain some of their trust by promising to forward on their complaints and needs to my higher-ups.

Forty-five grueling minutes later I signal my assistant that it’s time to vacate and he moves to drop on the nearest table a stack of one hundred newspapers he’s been dutifully holding on his lap. Preparing to leave, I slowly lift myself out of the plastic chair and I feel the weight of my Kevlar body armor settle once again around my chest and back. I replace my Kevlar helmet atop my head and I have my interpreter thank the men for their time and wish them a good day. Emotionally drained from the time spent locked in a passive-aggressive game of cat-and-mouse, I amble down the concrete steps leading down to the muddy, littered yard and to my ride beyond. Predictably, the enclave’s children instantly swarm around my legs like bees around their honeycomb. Only these were piteous bees; dirty, unkempt, tattered… nearly begging. On my way to the vehicle I manage to dig out some of the hidden candy I had previously stashed in my cargo pockets and carefully distribute it out to the kiddos, ensuring the eldest did not outdo their younger brethren in receiving a double portion.

The ease of which my heavily armored passenger-side door opens belies its sheer size and weight. Even as I crawl inside the dark cab, the Serbian children continue to request any and all things they can pronounce in English, their favorite American drink apparently being “Pepsi! Pepsi!” With hands outstretched and necks craned inside my HMMWV (or better known as an Hum-vee), they fruitlessly carry on their near fevered chant in the hopes of receiving any last minute goodies. Over the last five months, however, this constant pawing has become all too routine and I have become far too callous to be affected by their pleas any further. After shooing them off I slam the door, a certain relief washes over me and I look to my half-dozing driver. He had stayed in the vehicle during our excursion, keeping the engine running and supposedly playing the role of our look-out for any threatening movements against our presence. But we all know that there is no threat in this sector from these broken men and so he just read and listened to his music while waiting for our return. Settling into my seat I hear two other doors slam and I check my assistant and interpreter before nodding my go-ahead to set out for the next stop. Sean drops the truck in gear, slowly easing on the gas. He knows the planned route, I had provided a clear morning mission brief, and we all were looking forward to hitting this last stop before heading back to base for dinner.

With the four of us sealed in our up-armored Hum-vee, we lurched forward in the muck of the road to the final destination of the day. As we crawl through the cramped and narrow streets of the little Serbian neighborhood the relief I had felt just moments before congeals into a numbing calmness. The team doesn’t do a lot of talking. Talking had lost its relevance after nearly a year of eating, sleeping, traveling, and working next to each other. Technically, the three of us had transcended talking and could now anticipate each others’ needs or feelings, like any high-functioning team. Besides, it was too exasperating to yell over the horribly loud drone of the truck’s diesel engine. For the most part I tended to spend any time on the road between stops reviewing notes and refocusing on the mission’s next step. For now though, I was distracted. Something about that last interaction was unsettling. Reflecting on the flurry of accusations and gnarled finger pointing I had just endured spurred me to step back from my young idealism and mull over the Kosovan Serbs’ plight in this whole mess.

Kosovo, and to a greater extent, the former Yugoslavia, had once been the home of a united people across all ethnic and religious lines. But that time has long since past and, when considering the region’s history, that peaceful epoch was more of an aberration to the rule. The Serbian province of Kosovo has the unique distinction of being both the birthplace of fierce Serbian nationalism as well as being the elected home to an ethnic Albanian majority that has slowly edged out their Serbian neighbors for dominance in the region. These moderately Islamic Albanian émigrés had settled into Kosovo over the millennia during and after the Ottoman rule in Eastern Europe, constantly pushing for more and more control of their provincial government and all the while tacitly undermining the power of the ruling power’s ethnic Serbian Orthodox minority. However, in the mid to late 20^th century, Belgrade, acting as the Yugoslavian Federation’s capital, granted its Kosovan province (along with its 90% Albanian population) more and more autonomy over its own internal affairs. Thus further establishing the roots of this area’s present day turmoil, for once autonomy and pseudo-statehood is conferred in the light of ethnic unease there’s only one peaceful path that can be taken- eventual full and independent nationhood. This has been the foregone conclusion that Serbians have been unwilling to accept since the 1990’s and has resulted in a series of catastrophic maladies; from terrible destructive atrocities on all sides to international intervention and an air war to untold suffering and pain across the region. Moreover, due to this all-blinding determination to retain what can no longer be said to be theirs, Kosovan Serbs deep within the province-state have been relegated to a cloistered life in their tiny enclaves. They are hopelessly surrounded by an ethnic majority who reject their very presence in Serbia’s traditional homeland and who would seek their death if at all possible in order to honor a mythical list of centuries old blood-feuds. It is a horrible situation for these miserable Serbs and I did not blame them for their burning abhorrence to me and my men.