by Robin Knight; Samantha Power; Tim Zimmermann; Secretary Christopher
In a war haunted by images of brutality and suffering, the sight of the secretary general of the United Nations, Boutros Boutros- Ghali, being jeered by Bosnians on the streets of Sarajevo last week as he tried to broker a cease-fire has peculiar symbolism. The military conflict in Bosnia grinds on. But outside the former Yugoslavia, everyone from the United Nations to the Clinton administration and NATO now has a single goal: to end the carnage, even if it means accepting that the Bosnian Serbs have won.
That much became clear last week after a series of climactic developments forced the world to face the reality that after 32 months of war (story, Page 59), the conflict is entering a new, unpredictable phase:
Alarmed by escalating trans-Atlantic tensions, the United States chose NATO unity and policies aimed at preventing a wider Balkan war -- but which, ironically, may have the opposite effect -- over support for the Muslim-led Bosnian government. "A bad peace is better than continued war," argued an administration official.
NATO abandoned its policy of putting ground-level pressure on the Bosnian Serbs -- and with it any lingering illusion that the outside world would eventually resort to military action to force an end to the fighting. NATO will still enforce the no-fly zone in Bosnia, but Serb artillery positions will not be bombed.
A new Western diplomatic initiative holds out the prospect that the Bosnian Serbs will eventually link up in a confederation with Serbia across northeastern Bosnia. Meanwhile, plans to withdraw the 24,000-strong United Nations Protection Force in Bosnia-Herzegovina hardened. No quick decision is likely while diplomatic efforts to end the fighting continue. But any pullout would take two to three months to complete and almost certainly involve thousands of U.S. troops on the ground to ensure the safety of the peacekeepers.
The last-ditch international effort came as the Bosnian Serbs seized more land in the Bihac enclave in northwest Bosnia and detained hundreds of U.N. troops as insurance against NATO air attacks. The new diplomatic initiative is aimed at getting all three warring factions to accept the peace plan put forward in July by the five-nation Contact Group (the United States, Russia, Britain, France and Germany). In its original form, the plan calls for a 51-49 split of Bosnia-Herzegovina, giving Serbs the minority share. Accepted by the Croat-Muslim federation in August, it was flatly rejected by the Bosnian Serbs, who hold more than 70 percent of the country.
The new plan, put forth last week by Secretary of State Warren Christopher and his Contact Group counterparts, is based on concessions to the Serbs. Provided they accept the 51-49 division of Bosnia and provided the Bosnian government agrees, the Bosnian Serbs will be able to form a confederation with Serbia. A slender corridor in northeast Bosnia linking Serb-held areas will be widened, and the Serbs will not be required to pull back immediately from land they hold once a cease-fire is in place. In addition, if Serbian President Slobodan Milosevic further isolates the Bosnian Serb holdouts and recognizes the territorial integrity of Bosnia, sanctions on ex-Yugoslavia may be eased. As in earlier peace plans, Milosevic is key. "Milosevic basically has got his hand on the Bosnian Serbs," says an American official. "We want him to put his fist on them. The question is what price does Milosevic want."
Paper-thin unity. Serbia's position is just one of many uncertain elements. New reports of armed men, ammunition and fuel moving into Bosnia from Serbia suggest Belgrade's enthusiasm for arm-twisting the Bosnian Serbs is waning. Contact Group unity remains paper thin. Moreover, the new peace initiative will unfold just as the Bosnian Serbs are riding high on the battlefield and external military pressure on them is largely nonexistent. Reassuring the embattled and embittered Bosnian government will also be difficult.
Short of endorsing full-scale military intervention in Bosnia, however -- something no government is willing to contemplate -- the West now has no practical alternative to diplomacy. As in the Mideast, trading land for peace is central to success. Prior to their Bihac offensive, the Bosnian Serbs had shown interest in such a deal. They also remain heavily dependent on Milosevic for fuel and supplies. Beyond this, the threat of a tougher war looms if the arms embargo on the Bosnian government is ever lifted.
Much rests, too, on developments in neighboring Croatia. Few Serb military successes have resonated with such emotion in Zagreb as the destruction in the Bihac enclave, a one-hour car ride from the Croatian capital. For three years, the Croatians have lived with the loss of one third of their country to the Serbs. Now, impatience is at a peak. Last week, artillery duels broke out between Croatian government forces and rebel Serbs in Krajina, and there were more violations than any time since the March Croat-Serb cease-fire. "Croatia will not wait for Bihac to fall," claimed Defense Minister Gojko Susak. If Zagreb believed Bihac was about to fall, Susak insisted, "Croatia will intervene."
Croatian leaders have made similar threats in the past and not acted on them. A prime reason is the nascent Croatian Army's poor track record. "We won't get our territory back without war," says Mira Lubic-Lorger, one of the few Croatian parliamentarians to openly oppose an offensive. "But we won't get it back with war." Other restraining factors include World Bank and International Monetary Fund cash pledges and an economic accord signed last week with the Krajina Serbs to restore electricity, water and highway links between the two sides.
Still, an antsy, nationalist public, a vocal refugee community and a grim economy are all crowding in on the Zagreb regime. "I'm predicting war because of the total impotence of the European Union and the complete lack of American interest," says Bozo Kovacevic, a prominent opposition politician. Adding to the steady rise in tension, the Croatian parliament has threatened to end the mandate of the U.N. peacekeeping force in the country by mid-January unless it takes control of Croatia's international borders, helps refugees return home and demilitarizes areas held by rebel Serbs.
For the U.N., it adds up to a nightmare double challenge to its future in former Yugoslavia. In Bosnia, it is virtually paralyzed. "The Serbs have gone to war with us," said Gen. Michael Rose, commander of U.N. forces in Bosnia, last week as Sarajevo airport was closed by Serb missile threats, aid convoys ground to a halt and 400 U.N. troops were held at roadblocks by Serb forces. Next day, the Serbs fired rockets at the Bosnian presidency building in Sarajevo just before Rose entered it. "It's an unprecedented level of harassment, hostility and noncooperation," complained an exasperated U.N. official.
None of this bodes well for diplomacy -- which is why contingency planning to withdraw the U.N. Protection Force is now well advanced at NATO. Under a worst case scenario, say American officials, as much as a full U.S. division might have to join other NATO forces to fight their way into Bosnia to extract the force. Even a "benign" withdrawal -- unopposed by any of the warring factions -- could be difficult in the hostile terrain, harsh winter weather and given the need to coordinate 24,000 lightly armed troops from 36 countries. Nothing, after all, comes easily in the Balkans.
A wider war? Outside efforts to impose military or diplomatic solutions in the former Yogslavia are stymied, raising fears that fighting could spread to Croatia.
