Across Serbia, the old order is crumbling. True, Milosevic still casts a shadow over Serb politics, and he could be a destabilizing force for some time. But as President Vojislav Kostunica struggles to consolidate his authority in Belgrade, the shock waves from the Oct. 5 revolution reverberate in towns and villages far from the capital. The revolt has been quiet and–with the exception of scattered mob attacks on state-run TV stations, Socialist Party headquarters and the homes of Milosevic hacks–nearly violence-free. Office by office, factory by factory, school by school, ordinary Serbs have turned against Milosevic’s stultifying political system.
In Leskovac the mood swings between excitement and anxiety. A run-down industrial city 150 miles south of Belgrade, it bears the scars of a decade of war and communist misrule: packs of stray dogs roam the litter-strewn streets, idle men loiter on sidewalks and shattered windows are unrepaired 18 months after the NATO bombing. Until last year, dissent was almost nonexistent: a Socialist Party strongman named Zivojin Stefanovic kept a lid on the media and sent goons to harass opposition members. But disgust spilled over with the Kosovo war. Leskovac police conscripted thousands of young men, often at gunpoint, and 59 locals died in the conflict. The summer of 1999 saw the first flickers of rebellion. An opposition sympathizer at the state-controlled TV station inserted an anti-regime videotape into a live broadcast of a basketball game. In July 1999 Army reservists took to the streets in protest after the son of a local pro-Milosevic official was excused from military duty.
Then came last month’s election. Despite warnings from bosses that they would be fired, Leskovac’s citizens walked off their jobs by the thousands to protest blatant vote fraud. The denouement came Oct. 5. As Belgrade erupted, opposition supporters surrounded Leskovac’s TV station, demanding the director’s resignation; he escaped in an ambulance. As darkness fell, the mood turned ugly. A mob broke into the offices of both the Socialist Party and the Yugoslav Left–headed by Milosevic’s wife, Mirjana Markovic–smashing windows and making off with computers, TVs and fax machines. Enraged citizens looted the city Assembly, then marched to the home of party boss Stefanovic. As his 82-year-old mother cowered in a bedroom, they ripped the two-story house apart and torched the garage.
For now, Stefanovic is still in charge. In the September election, most local pro-Milosevic factions were voted out; in Leskovac, the socialists kept control of the Assembly, winning 41 of 75 seats. Opposition leaders say that the socialists won nine of those seats through massive ballot stuffing and intimidation, and they’ve filed a request with the Yugoslav Electoral Commission to hold a new vote. If they win, they’ll probably end up running the town; if they lose, the Milosevic crowd could keep its hold on power. That prospect has provoked deep anxiety. Last Thursday rumors spread through the newly liberated TV station–now plastered with caricatures of the indicted war criminal Milosevic alongside the legend greetings from the hague–that police might seize the building. The director hired a security force to guard the entrance. “They’re desperate, and we have to fight to keep this victory,” says local opposition assemblyman Predrag Pesic, maintaining watch in the stairwell.
He’s right to worry. In Belgrade, Socialist Party loyalists who control the powerful Serb Parliament have blocked Kostunica’s attempts to form a government. Last week they rejected attempts by the Democratic Opposition of Serbia–the 18-party coalition behind Kostunica–to appoint the minister of the Interior, who controls the 150,000-man police force. Milosevic hasn’t been seen for a week; most believe he’s secluded in his heavily guarded villa in Belgrade’s luxurious Dedinje neighborhood, talking with underlings by telephone. Meanwhile, the U.S. government has pledged tens of millions of dollars in aid to Yugoslavia and backed off demands for Milosevic’s extradition to the War Crimes Tribunal in The Hague in order to give Kostunica time to assert his control. As the stalemate persists, so do fears across Serbia–especially in former Milosevic strongholds like Leskovac–that the old guard could bounce back.
Still, most people in Leskovac sense that life will never be the same. Emerging from his home late last week, Stefanovic, the hated Socialist Party patriarch, shook his fist at a foreign journalist. “This is what your damned democracy did,” he yelled, flinging open the doors of his charred garage. “They didn’t leave me a spoon in my house.” Across town at the Leskovac health department, employees raised glasses of cognac in the conference room where, hours earlier, they’d voted their boss out of his job. Suddenly, Petrovic entered the room. “No drinking on the company premises,” he said, scowling. “Work time is over. Please leave.” Nobody moved. After a moment of silence, Petrovic turned and walked out. Then the drinking resumed. It may have been against the rules, but for the first time in their working lives, nobody seemed to care.
