An interview with Valentin Areh, a Slovenian
war correspondent who survived a tortuous escape out of Kosovo in
1999 during NATO’s war to expel Serbian forces.
The first day after war started the Yugoslav government expelled
all journalists from Kosovo.
I didn’t know this because I had not heard the news. At the
time I was staying in Slotina, a small village near Pristina airport,
filming the bombardments.
On the second morning of the war, Serbian forces began shooting
at the houses because they were starting to ethnically cleanse the
area. It was terrifying — and that was when I started to question
what I was doing in such a dangerous place.
But I convinced myself that everything would be fine. I had very
good contacts with Serbian and Albanian guerrilla fighters, so I
believed I would be safe.
Serbian forces surrounded the village. I was scared because I was
illegal in the country, and also for the family whose house I was
staying in. I was especially frightened for the kids and the women.
To protect the family, and also to protect myself, I decided to
leave the village, and go to the police in Pristina and pretend
I was lost. I knew a high Commander at the police station who I
knew would help me. Since there were no phones working I decided
to drive and to hide my tapes in my pockets.
When I arrived in Pristina I saw a lot of dead bodies on both sides
of the road and I realised how dangerous this was for me.
I found the city centre completely empty except for some police
and military units on street corners. I parked my car and I walked
to the Police building. I asked a policeman if my contact was there.
He said “No, he’s not; he’s on the battlefield.
But he’ll be back in ten minutes. Wait here!”
While I waited, an Intelligence Officer of the Secret Police came
past, and because I was dressed in a flak jacket, thought I was
part of the paramilitary.
But, on hearing me speak Serbo-Croatian he accused me of being
a spy and refused to accept I was a journalist. He ordered two men
to take me into the garden and kill me. The men started to beat
me.
As they took me down the stairs towards the garden, I looked out
of the window and saw black bags, which I realised contained bodies.
It was then I realised they would never let me go. I had seen too
much already.
Just then, the high Commander I had come to see suddenly appeared
out of nowhere. He asked me in astonishment, “What the hell
are you doing here?” I was in such shock I couldn’t
say anything to him. He vouched for me as a journalist, but my captors
did not want to believe it. So for two minutes, which felt like
ten hours, I listened to them discussing and arguing over my fate.
All the while I was thinking about the amazing co-incidence of meeting
the commander on the stairs: “What would have happened if
this Commander had entered the building ten minutes later?”
They agreed to let me go back two Slovenia, and advised me to use
the long route via Macedonia, even though it meant going through
Bulgaria and Hungary. But, I thought it would far quicker to go
through Montenegro. They assented to this, but refused to give me
government guarantees of safe conduct. But I was so happy to have
survived. And, as they hadn’t searched me, my tapes were also
safe.
On the road, I passed a village that was completely surrounded
by Serbian militia. But the strangest thing happened. The paramilitary
just looked at me, looked at my car, and nobody stopped me, or shot
at me. I just passed through the front line, and sped on. I believe
this was some kind of miracle.
I eventually drove to the centre of Mitrovica, and saw a mass of
people on the streets. Serbian paramilitary special forces were
beating them. A soldier saw my Slovenian plates, opened my door
and pulled me out and demanded, “Who are you?”
I told him I was a Slovenian television journalist, and had permission
to travel from his intelligence officers in Pristina.
He disappeared with my passport, and then a group of militia started
to beat me. I heard some shots, and thought they were shooting at
me, but I realised they were shooting at some Albanian refugees,
who they killed. I saw the blood on the pavement and I thought,
“Oh shit, I’m a witness to this. Now they’ll never
let me go.”
The soldier who had taken my passport came back. He said, “Here’s
your passport. Go away! We’ve checked with Pristina, everything
is OK.” But I was told I couldn’t go on the Montenegro
road because they were “cleaning the land.” They meant
ethnic cleansing. Instead they directed me to the Bosnian border
on another road.
I eventually arrived at the Bosnian border and was stopped by a
police officer. When I explained I was journalist, things turned
nasty. His colleague started to beat me, and my thought was “No,
not this again. Please, not again.” I was 10 metres from the
border and freedom.
I was then told my car was going to be searched. I felt very scared
by this, as, due to exhaustion, I had forgotten to hide my tapes.
They found one cassette in the car and I was arrested again. The
other tapes were in my back pocket of my trousers.
I was taken into the police building and told I was going to be
executed as a spy. The policeman put the gun on the desk and said,
“OK, do you have anything else to say to us before we kill
you?”
I replied that I did not know anything. So they put the gun to
my head. My only thought was, OK, it’s over. I had survived
this far, but there was no one to help me out of this situation.
But then the policeman said, “I’ll leave you for two
hours. Maybe you’ll think about something you should tell
us — and maybe we will not kill you.”
All night four men came every hour to ask me the same questions:
Where I’d been? Who were my contacts? I was afraid to say
anything, so I kept quiet.
I was also terrified they would find my tapes. My bags had been
searched, and I had been frisked, but for some reason, my back pocket
where my tapes were hadn’t been searched.
On the third night of my captivity, I asked if I could go to the
toilet outside. They warned me not to try and escape or they would
kill me immediately. I went as near to the border as I could and
threw all my tapes away. Even though I knew it was safer for me
to be without them, I felt very sad about destroying the very things
that I had risked my life for.
The following morning they put a gun to my head again as they played
the tape they had found in my car. It contained shots of the Albanian
village and house I had stayed in near Pristina. I was mortified
because I realised the implications for the families of that village.
Albanians helping journalists was like being spies. It was very
clear to me — they would be killed for this. At that moment,
I saw images of their children, of their women, of those guys who
helped me. It felt I had personally killed them.
For some reason, the policeman didn’t pull the trigger. All
he said was, “OK, maybe I will not kill you.” He went
away and again there were more interrogations.
I was taken to another police station, where the Chief of Police
questioned me. He was a really nice man, and offered me a sandwich,
and told me I was going to be OK. I was so relieved, but then I
asked myself, “How will I survive? How can I live knowing
that because of me, the Albanian family would be killed.”
But the interrogations continued for several hours. I think now
that it was a game to scare me, but I didn’t think that at
the time. I was sure it was only a matter of time before I would
be killed. It feels terrible when you realise that you’re
going to die.
Then another miracle happened. For no apparent reason, they released
me. I was terrified it was some kind of joke, or a trap. But I got
into my car and drove to the border. And nobody stopped me. At that
moment I had tears in my eyes. I had actually survived. I couldn’t
believe it.
I headed toward Sarajevo. And once again was stopped and arrested
— this time by Bosnian Serb military. I was told I had escaped
from Yugoslavia and would have to appear before a military court
in Pristina.
I was bundled into the back of a police car, and because of exhaustion,
I fell asleep. When I awoke the car was empty, so I took my chance
and ran even though I had no idea whether I was in Serbia, Bosnia
or Kosovo.
After two days and one night, I was so hungry and so depressed
I decided to give myself up. I walked onto a road and flagged down
a car, which happened to be going to Sarajevo. Two hours later we
were in the city.
I found a hotel and I slept for two days. It was after that that
my nightmare started. I’d survived but I carried such enormous
guilt that I was unable to contact my family, work colleagues, or
friends to tell them I was safe.
I decided to go to visit a girl in Mostar. She was a journalist
who had been arrested and beaten, and now was working as a war correspondent.
I stayed with her for three days, and we talked for 24 hours. It
was after that I felt able to make contact with my family and my
Slovenian work colleagues.
On my return to Ljubljana, my boss allowed me time to recover from
what had happened, but I couldn’t sleep because of fear. Every
vehicle that passed sent a shock through me; it became a Serbian
vehicle. My imagination also kept telling me that someone would
come for me. And there was this enormous question — why had
I survived when others were killed?
It felt as if I had been destroyed mentally and psychologically
— which, in my opinion, is much worse than physical destruction.
My life was worth nothing. I couldn’t work. I couldn’t
study. I had no meaning to my life. I lost 14 kilos in a very short
space of time.
After a month of feeling so depressed, I knew I had to go back
to Kosovo and check what had happened to close Albanian friends
who I had advised to stay rather than flee. At the beginning of
war I believed that although dreadful things had happened in Bosnia,
Serbia was different. The Serbians were an educated people and I
could not believe them capable of committing such atrocities. But
I now realised that I had probably signed my friends’ death
warrants by advising them to stay. At least I had to report what
was happening in Kosovo. I felt I owed them that much.
On my first night, I went to the Serbian front line in Kosovo and
although we were in a very dangerous situation, nobody was killed.
That was the first time in a month I felt happy; happy I had survived.
I stayed a month and a half until the end of the war, which enabled
me to get my confidence back. But although I was happy to be living
again, I was still worried as to how I would be able to live with
the sin of inadvertently killing my friends.
But, to my amazement, I discovered that after the Serbians left
Kosovo, these friends had actually survived. The effect of this
incredible news was instantaneous. In one minute I completely re-built
my psychology and myself; that was the greatest therapy.
Since then I have counted my blessings every day.
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