Worldandnation: U.S. troops find Kosovo's divides tough to bridge

U.S. troops find Kosovo's divides tough to bridge

Nudging Serbs and ethnic Albanians toward a real peace, or just having them speak to each other, has been a challenge.

By RICHARD MERTENS

CERNICA, Yugoslavia -- On a recent evening, Lt. Jason Schroeder, a 29-year-old platoon leader from South Bend, Ind., set out with an interpreter and two sergeants along a dusty lane in this little Kosovo farming village. The day's stifling heat had lifted, and the villagers were beginning to emerge from their houses. They stood in doorways and sat on small wooden benches outside, and Schroeder, who seemed to know almost everyone, greeted them cheerfully as he passed.

But all was not well. As the soldiers walked, they crossed and re-crossed the hidden lines that divided the village. The lieutenant's greetings registered the changes. "Dobro vjecer!" he called to the Serbs, wishing them a good evening. "Meer'mbrahma!" he called out in the Albanian neighborhoods. For five months, the soldiers had been trying to break down these divisions, in part with evening strolls like this one, which were designed to win the trust and friendship of villagers on both sides of the ethnic divide. But the divisions had proved deeper than they expected.

Some of this was evident as Schroeder moved through the village, shaking hands and acting more like a ward captain than a combat soldier. He listened patiently to the wife of the Serb mayor while she harangued him about how local Albanians were interfering with repairs on the Serb Orthodox church, which had been bombed in January. Farther on, an Albanian shopkeeper bitterly recounted for him how, a year and a half before, Serb paramilitary forces had threatened his family. "He still has trauma," the man said, nodding toward a small boy who stood in the doorway.

Schroeder and the 36 men of his platoon are part of the 101st Airborne Division, based at Fort Campbell, Ky. Trained as infantry to swoop into battle on Black Hawk and Chinook helicopters, they came to Cernica in March for the more delicate and inconclusive work of peacekeeping. They hoped to calm the violence that had occasionally erupted in the village, sometimes with deadly results. But more than that, they were determined to nudge Cernica closer to real peace. They didn't expect anything so grand as forgiveness or reconciliation; they simply wanted people to begin to speak to each other.

"I had high expectations, high hopes, but maybe they were unrealistic," said Schroeder, sitting one afternoon in the unfinished house that has served as the platoon's headquarters. "I think we may have underestimated just how much bitterness is felt in the Albanian community and underestimated the collective fears of the Serbs, which I don't think are founded, but which are there nonetheless."

At first glance, Cernica seems a poor choice on which to fasten any hope at all. About 2,500 people live in the village, a fifth of them Serbs. Ever since the Americans arrived in June 1999 it has been one of the more violent places in Kosovo. In the worst incident May 28, someone fired an AK-47 into a small grocery store, killing three Serbs, including a four-year-old boy and his grandfather. On other occasions, Serb homes and businesses have been attacked with grenades, antitank rockets and other explosives.

The Americans think that most of the attacks have been the work of a few Albanian extremists. Most people, they said, just want to get on with their lives.

If the soldiers have failed, it is not for lack of effort. On routine patrols and on evening social visits, they worked hard to get to know the village. They kicked soccer balls with the children and helped families find materials to rebuild houses burned by Serb forces last year. They saved their extra Army food -- loaves of bread, cartons of milk, bags of potato chips -- and delivered it to poor families. When they couldn't get an international organization to help a needy family, they sometimes spent their own money.

"If people can see we really care about them as a people and have their interests at heart, they'll develop more of a bond and trust," said Sgt. 1st Class Jerry Boden, 42, of Odessa, Texas. "My soldiers have made friends with people in the city on both sides."

One sign of this, the soldiers say, is that villagers seldom hesitate to come to them with complaints, whether about a stolen chicken or a grenade in the back yard. The violence, too, has subsided. The last attack was July 1, when an explosion shattered the windows of Serb houses but did little other damage.

And yet their larger goal eludes them. In the beginning they tried to persuade village leaders to meet with each other. "We just wanted them to sit down and talk about the weather, soccer, whatever they wanted," said Schroeder. When that failed they tried ordinary people. They would ask Serbs and Albanians about old acquaintances on the other side. Then they went to those people and tried to arrange an informal meeting.

"I worked at it for a month," said Staff Sgt. Richard Schuck, 32, of Madison, Ohio. "It was my sole purpose in life to make that "love connection,' to have them meet just for coffee. I came close, but I couldn't make it happen."

One of the biggest obstacles, the soldiers say, has been the continuing presence in the village of a handful of Serb men who they think helped expel local Albanians during the NATO bombing last year. The impunity that these men seem to enjoy angers the Albanians and keeps tensions high. The soldiers also blame political pressures from the outside. They said that some people who have expressed an interest in renewing old acquaintances have seemed afraid to try.

The soldiers are even more frustrated with their own higher-ups. They said Western policy in Kosovo coddles the Serbs and fuels Albanian resentment. The U.N. police, they said, have made little effort to prosecute Serb war criminals. Meanwhile most international aid in Cernica goes to the Serbs. The soldiers say they have little to offer Albanians as a reward for cooperation.

"We're kind of on a stationary bike now," Schuck said. "We're just spinning our wheels. We're not going forward, we're not going backward."

Lately, the soldiers have been getting ready to turn Cernica over to a new platoon. They have been servicing their Humvees, packing their gear and saying their goodbyes. For all their frustrations, they think they have made a difference in Cernica, however small. As they prepare to return to the United States, however, they can't help wondering what will happen after they leave.

"Everything we've been trying to do here -- is it going to stop when we leave?" said Sgt. Frank Boyd, 29, from Wylliesburg, Va.

In the meantime, their work goes on. Recently they were trying to get a new house built for a family that lives in a shack with a dirt floor and no windows. They had scrounged 4 by 4s from the local Army base and were planning to put up a swing set. And they were continuing their quiet diplomacy along Cernica's crooked lanes.

At one store, Schroeder ran into a local schoolteacher, an Albanian who spoke movingly about the difficulties of living with the Serbs.

"Only God and the United States of America can fix things here," the man said gloomily.

"It's going to take the brave souls on either side, too," the lieutenant replied. He was sitting on a crate with his helmet off and his rifle propped against one leg, and he spoke earnestly. "We can create a safe environment, but it's going to take the people in town to take the lead. It's maybe too soon now, but sooner or later it's going to be up to the people."