Muzzling the dogs of war may be a mistake: peaceful Slovenia is dramatic contrast

National Catholic Reporter, Oct 1, 1993 by Tim McCarthy

Peaceful Slovenia is dramatic contrast

Last week, NCR Special Report Writer Tim McCarthy, in the first of a three-part series, reported from Skopje, capital of Macedonia, the southernmost region of what used to be Yugoslavia.

This week's report carries a dateline from Ljubljana, capital of Slovenia, once a relatively prosperous republic in the Yugoslav socialist state, now an independent nation (since June 1991). Macedonia borders on Greece, Slovenia on Austria. But the contrast between the two is far more than geographic and may be critical to any understanding of the Balkan conflict.

In that context, McCarthy continues his exploration of the major themes that illuminate the Yugoslav tragedy like fractured beams of light in a night fog: nationalism, religion, the clash of cultures. It is a world of shades and shadows, the kind of midnight street most of us would rather not walk alone.

Next week's report will come from the Croatian capital, Zagreb, and from all but demolished areas of that country where only U.N. forces are keeping Serbs and Croats from savaging each other again.

LJUBLJANA, Slovenia - Arrive here by air from Macedonia in the black of night if you want a quick study in cultural contrast. Stronger evidence as to why the former Yugoslavia fell apart so quickly would be hard to come by.

Skopje, Macedonia's capital has a dingy Third World airport currently handling about three times the traffic it was designed for. An August afternoon turned it into a sweaty mass of travelers, all pressing, clamoring, shoving to check in, causing a Westerner to wonder if there is even a Macedonian phrase for forming a line.

The process took two hours, in stunning heat, then another mob scene at the security area, as a couple hundred people fought to squeeze themselves through a single narrow doorway. A woman got separated from her husband and began to sob. Hulking men shoved her ruthlessly further to the rear.

Spilling from passport control into a stifling holding area, the mob milled there like cattle for another hour or more. Departure was scheduled for 4:45. The plane took off at 8:30.

Nearly everyone, Muslims, Albanians, Macedonian Slavs, seemed to be leaving the country for good. They traveled with tons of luggage, some of it old cardboard boxes with ropes around them and long sacks of yellow paprika peppers. The dozens of travel agencies I saw in an economically depressed Skopje began to make more sense.

Four hundred miles north, Ljubljana was cool and clean, its airport about the same size as Skopje's, but modern, tidy, efficient. Baggage handling, passport control and customs were quick and orderly. The atmosphere seemed to subdue the Macedonians. They stood in line, respected the rules.

The contrast was classic - North-South, West-East - and it revealed itself in cultural, economic and historical terms. With its faintly antiseptic air and Germanic architecture (almost the entire town was reconstructed after an 1895 earthquake), Ljubljana could as well be a city in Austria. Even on a deserted street, no one crosses against a traffic light. There are special traffic signals for bicycles.

In Skopje, drivers hide their windshield wiper blades in the glove compartment.

Slovenia was in fact part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire until 1918, when what came to be known as Yugoslavia was formed. The Ottoman Turks ruled Macedonia. While Slovenia is highly industrialized, Macedonia's economy is almost wholly agricultural. Slovenia is Roman Catholic, Macedonia Orthodox and Muslim.

Of all the cities I visited in the former socialist state, Ljubljana seemed the furthest removed from the war, the furthest removed from socialism as well. Banks and burghers abound, even though the economy has suffered since Slovenia's independence in 1991. Cut off from some of its traditional markets to the south and east, little Slovenia (less than 2 million people in an area the size of Massachusetts) is battling bigger fish in the European Community pond.

But, for all that, the atmosphere in Ljubljana is peaceful and relatively prosperous. Unlike towns in Bosnia, Croatia, Serbia and Macedonia, there are no armed men or military vehicles on the streets.

There wad no fighting here. Two years ago, the regular Yugoslav army tried to keep Slovenia from breaking away. But Slovene Territorial Defense units dug in, and the fighting along Slovenia's eastern border with Croatia ended in about 10 days, following a peace accord brokered by members of the European Community.

Serbs and Croats make up only about 6 percent of Slovenia's population, Muslims a scant 1.4 percent, so there was little of the internal ethnic friction that led to so much bloodshed elsewhere. (Contrast this with neighboring Croatia, where husbands and wives in mixed Serb-Croat marriages sometimes ended up as soldiers on opposite sides of the front line.)

To some degree, Slovenes are sitting back and watching the rest of what was Yugoslavia disintegrate. Even Croatia, a major trading partner, is being held together with U.N. baling wire in the form of peacekeeping troops. But that sort of detachment can be dangerous, too. As I was to learn later, it can lead to an ominous form of denial, much as certain Austrians today deny that the Jewish Holocaust ever happened.