Lukavica is a frontline town, and as such, it is still effectively off limits to the press. (NEWSWEEK got there with the help of Bosnian friends.) In the mountains less than a mile away sit the now silent Serb artillery batteries that destroyed much of the village. Lukavica’s 4,000 residents, joined now by 700 refugees, live just southwest of what has been – and will remain – one of the most bitter spots in the Balkans: the notorious Posavina corridor, a narrow lifeline between Serb-controlled territory in eastern and western Bosnia. Once NATO’s implementation force (IFOR) replaces U.N. peacekeepers, a Nordic battalion will patrol near Lukavica, Russians will enforce the peace to the north and east, and Americans will stay to the south-farther from the Posavina tripwire.
The Serbs want desperately to hang on to this turf because it gives them a critical land corridor to Belgrade, the Serbian capital. The Bosnians want it because it links them to the north, to the river Sava and beyond – to Croatia, and its capital city, Zagreb. The Dayton negotiators could not resolve who gets Posavina, and handed off the issue to a panel of international arbitrators. U.S. negotiator Richard Holbrooke explained: “Too much blood had been spilled near the Posavina corridor.”
Not least in Lukavica. What was once a town almost evenly divided between Serbs and Muslims lies now on the Bosnian side of the cease-fire line, at the bottom of a narrow, winding mountain road – the kind that will give IFOR tank drivers fits this winter. For Serb gunners up in the mountains, the village was the easiest of targets; they shelled Lukavica as viciously as any target in Bosnia. At least 60,000 shells – more than 50 a day – landed in and around the helpless town. U.N. sources say there was no military reason for the shelling. The only assets the Bosnian army had nearby were in Riecka, a half mile away.
The shells killed two students and wounded 18 others. In all, 86 of the children lost their fathers to the war. During the relentless bombardment, classes were held in people’s homes, usually in dank basements. The students often got sick, the teachers discouraged. Near the end of the war, the principal, Suljo Subasic, had only eight teachers left, including his wife.
Next week, on the 18th – “or maybe a few days after, since a lot of kids are still sick with the flu and colds,” says Subasic – classes will resume. They’ll continue as long as the peace holds. The Serb children who used to attend the school are long gone. But at least peace has arrived. Before the war, the one holiday that all Bosnians celebrated together was New Year’s. Subasic is asked if the town plans a celebration this year. “It’s already started,” he says, smiling. “It’s already started.”
