Shut up.
Yugoslav prime minister Milan Panic, to Serbian president
Slobodan Milosevic at the London Conference on Bosnia,
August 1992.1
And then there were two. After Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia and Macedonia declared independence and departed from Yugoslavia, only Serbia and Montenegro were left. In April 1992, these two republics formed a new state, formally known as the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia. This time Milosevic did not call for the word ‘Socialist’ to be moved to the front. Here finally was, in effect, ‘Serboslavia’, a Yugoslavia controlled by Serbia, subordinate to Serbian interests, as decided by one man. Montenegro was little more than a pliant puppet, at least at this time. Its president was Momir Bulatovic, the man dubbed ‘the waiter’ for his servile obedience to Milosevic. Unconstrained by troublesome republics seeking independence, the Serbian president was able to totally dominate the new mini-Yugoslav state.
Milosevic ensured that the old federal structures and ministries remained in place. He argued that this Yugoslavia was the legitimate inheritor of its predecessors, and so could keep the assets of the old Yugoslavia, and the Yugoslav seat in the United Nations. Perhaps most importantly, Milosevic also used this opportunity to cement his control over the military. Supreme command of the army now rested in the new Supreme Defence Council. This had three members: Milosevic, President of Serbia; Momir Bulatovic, President of Montenegro, and the next President of Yugoslavia.
The question was, who should that be? A new country demanded a fresh face at its head. Milosevic turned to Dusan Mitevic. Although Mitevic had been sacked from his position at Belgrade Television a year earlier, behind the scenes he remained a key Milosevic adviser. ‘Milosevic asked me who we should have as president. I said nobody from the Socialist Party. He said, then who should we have, if not one of us? I said let’s take someone from the opposition. I suggested Dobrica Cosic.’2
It was an imaginative idea. At this time there was talk of Otto Habsburg becoming president of neighbouring Slovenia. Within Serbia the nationalist revival had reawakened interest in the country’s own royal family. History, and tradition – these would coat the third Yugoslavia with a veneer of legitimacy. Still Milosevic had doubts. Cosic was the intellectual godfather of Serbian nationalism. What would Mira say when he went home and told her this? And would Cosic accept? After a brief honeymoon in 1990 the intellectuals had fallen out with Milosevic, realising that at heart Milosevic was an autocrat motivated by power, not a Serb who believed in patriotism and the glories of the ‘heavenly people’. Mitevic recalled: ‘I told Milosevic that difficult times were coming, that we were a country in transition, we should think democratically, and get someone who will not put us in prison later. Apart from Milovan Djilas, we only had one dissident in the last thirty years, and that was Cosic.’
Milosevic considered his position. He knew that he was in trouble on both the diplomatic and home fronts. With two wars on its borders, its economy collapsing under sanctions, its nascent democratic institutions wrecked, this third version of Yugoslavia was not a very mighty construct. Its citizens were tired, confused and weary of war. International outrage about the brutality of Serb ethnic cleansing was turning Yugoslavia into a leper state. Germany, in particular the foreign minister Hans-Dietrich Genscher, had forced through the diplomatic recognition of Croatia and Slovenia, over the heads of other EU countries. Croatia was eternally grateful to its former wartime ally. Croats sang along to a new popular song, ‘Danke Deutschland’. The Café Genscher opened in the Adriatic port of Split. Clearly, the world was changing, and perhaps Serbia should change with it.
Increasingly, Serbs were simply not willing to fight in Milosevic’s wars. The JNA had been wracked by desertions. One soldier drove his armoured personnel carrier back to Belgrade and parked it in front of the parliament. Another shot himself in the head in front of his commanding officer. Others stripped off their uniforms and escaped through the borderland woods into Hungary. In March 1992 the Serbian patriarch, seen as the country’s spiritual father, held a mass at Belgrade’s St Sava church for the victims of the street protests a year before. When the service was broadcast live on Belgrade Television, Milosevic ordered the programme taken off air.
Angry and ashamed, many Serbs began to turn against their leader. Protestors took to the streets, pitching tents in downtown Belgrade. Milosevic was unnerved, fearing a rerun of the street protests of March 1991. Crowds were one of Milosevic’s favourite political weapons, but he knew that a mob could be a two-edged sword. Like a pack of wolves, crowds sensed weakness in their prey. ‘Just you wait, Slobodan, Ceausescu awaits you,’ the protesters chanted in Belgrade. Students and young people used imaginative agit-prop to get their message across: the parliament was wrapped in a giant black ribbon to protest against the siege of Sarajevo. Parents joined the demonstrations, calling for the return of their sons from the frontlines in Bosnia. Milosevic even appeared on television to try and calm the situation and proclaimed that Serbia was not at war, and no Serbian soldiers were serving outside the republic. Perhaps a part of Milosevic even believed it. In Belgrade, some began to question his grip.
Confronted with the disastrous reality of his policies, Milosevic reverted to denial, outright mendacity and fantastical talk of wonderful economic opportunities. Warren Zimmerman’s last meeting with Milosevic, on 19 April 1992, was a vintage encounter. The US ambassador came to dinner with a carrot as well as a stick. Washington was prepared to consider ‘potential’ international acceptance for Yugoslavia if Serbia reversed ethnic cleansing, and withdrew the JNA from Bosnia. The meeting started at 7.30 p.m. Meanwhile servants laid out dinner in the adjacent room – grilled lamb, plates of vegetables and bottles of wine and fruit brandy.
Just ten days before, the Bosnian city of Zvornik had fallen to a combined force of JNA troops and paramilitaries. Milosevic, initially conciliatory, listened carefully to Zimmerman’s arguments of Serb and JNA involvement in the ethnic cleansing of Bosnia. He then claimed: ‘No armed Serb irregulars have crossed into Bosnia.’ Eventually Milosevic admitted that Arkan was indeed in Bosnia, but only as a ‘bodyguard’ for one of the Bosnian Serb leaders. And so it went on. Milosevic claimed that: ‘Violence in Bosnia is not in Serbia’s interest; we have no territorial pretensions in Bosnia. We favour the European Community negotiations. Those shelling Sarajevo – if the shelling is really happening – are criminals.’3
It is hard to know what Milosevic was thinking. Did he really believe that the ambassador of the most powerful country in the world, with extensive intelligence services, and spy satellites that could read a car numberplate, did not know what was happening in Bosnia and who was responsible? Perhaps Milosevic, like many Serbian politicians, was suffering from ‘a concept deficit.’4 At one press conference in Geneva a journalist had asked the Bosnian Serb leader Radovan Karadzic about the first priority to rebuild the country. ‘We will need a lot of glass,’ replied Karadzic. ‘We have many broken windows.’ At a previous meeting with Zimmerman, on 6 April, Milosevic had also flatly denied that a single Serb was serving in Bosnia. He had described Arkan – among whose many business interests was an upmarket patisserie – as a ‘simple sweetshop owner’. Little wonder that Zimmerman dubbed Milosevic the ‘Teflon dictator’.
After three and a half hours of hard talking, Zimmerman, Milosevic and their officials retired to eat. The lamb was now coated with cold fat, and the vegetables had wilted. Still, Milosevic waxed lyrical about Yugoslavia’s economic potential. ‘With its efficient agriculture, energy resources, and key location for transportation – plus a free market – it will be in a strong position to attract foreign investment. Why only this week we were approached by French businessmen about a project for building a high-speed train.’ At the end of the meal, Milosevic, perhaps made sentimental by his memories of New York, made a plea for friendship with the Americans. ‘I’m not so bad, am I? Am I such a black sheep?’5 Zimmerman was speechless.
Milosevic had a sentimental attachment to the United States. Fuelled by Viljamovka pear brandy, he often recalled his days as a banker in New York and his shopping trips on Fifth Avenue. Although Milosevic was a Balkan bully, part of him craved the respect of the most powerful country in the world, and its envoys as well. Not long after their dinner, Zimmerman was recalled to Washington, D.C., in protest at Milosevic’s policies in Bosnia. Perhaps that snub brought back the anger Milosevic had felt in 1989 when no western ambassadors attended the Gazimestan spectacle. Zimmerman’s leaving party was marred by an unpleasant incident: his garden was invaded by a gang of sinister hoodlums who began spraying insecticide all around.
* * *
Meanwhile, the more Milosevic thought about Dusan Mitevic’s suggestion, the more it made sense. His natural instinct was to exclude everyone outside his immediate circle from any position of power or influence. But co-opting Cosic would be more subtle. Cosic was second in stature perhaps only to the Serbian Patriarch. His appointment would legitimise the third Yugoslavia, and help defuse domestic opposition. Persuaded by Milosevic’s arguments that he would be doing his Serbian patriotic duty, Dobrica Cosic accepted.
As Serbian president, Milosevic controlled the Serbian government and the Serbian parliament. He also controlled the Yugoslav parliament through his loyalist MPs, who would ratify his choice of Yugoslav president and prime minister. Milosevic asked Dusan Mitevic if he had any ideas for suitable prime ministerial candidates. Mitevic suggested Milan Panic, an émigré Yugoslav cycling champion who had defected in 1955. Arriving in the United States a penniless immigrant. Panic had built up a successful pharmaceutical business, ICN, based in California. Panic had invested heavily in Serbia, buying up the Galenika pharmaceutical factory.
Mitevic introduced the two men to each other. ‘It was love at first sight. Panic is an open and good-hearted man. Milosevic was a banker who understood business. Milosevic was telling Panic how important privatisation was.’6 Mitevic saw Panic’s appointment as a chance for Serbia to democratise and move away from one-party control. ‘I thought we should work peacefully with the opposition parties. That’s why I brought in Panic. My idea was that instead of presenting ourselves as a Communist country, we would have a rich American imperialist as prime minister.’ After a long drunken dinner, Milosevic offered Panic the prime ministership of Yugoslavia. After ensuring that he could keep his US citizenship, Panic accepted.
Milosevic’s plan was that Panic, with his contacts in Washington and the business world, would be the modern, western, face of Yugoslavia. The sun-tanned capitalist would be Milosevic’s front-man, whom he could use to defuse the growing international outcry over Serbia’s actions in Bosnia. Milosevic was wrong. Before Panic was even officially inaugurated as Yugoslav prime minister he demanded that Milosevic resign. He proposed that the Milosevic family move to California, where Milosevic would take up his old profession of banker, on a fat salary with plenty of perks. For a while, Milosevic appeared, or more likely pretended, to consider this. This proposal was not well received at home. Mira was not willing to sacrifice her Balkan intrigues for Baywatch.
Panic picked a cabinet of pro-western, reform-minded ministers for his new Yugoslav government, although Milosevic ensured that a few of his loyalists were also appointed. The Yugoslav minister of justice was Tibor Varady, an ethnic Hungarian from Novi Sad who had studied law at Belgrade University with Milosevic. He recalled: ‘At some point Milosevic felt that the threats of western military intervention, of bombing Serbian positions around Sarajevo, were becoming serious. So he needed to pull a rabbit out of his hat, and offer a gesture to the world.’7
The new Yugoslav Prime Minister was not willing to be a front-man for ethnic cleansing. In his inaugural speech to the Yugoslav assembly in July 1992 Panic called for the recognition of Croatia and Bosnia, the lifting of sanctions against Yugoslavia and the withdrawal of all Yugoslav military units, including paramilitaries, from Bosnia. He said he would order Serb leaders in Bosnia to close the concentration camps.
Panic’s plan was to offer the West the removal of Milosevic, in exchange for sanctions being lifted. It seemed a simple enough quid pro quo. Panic saw this as essentially a business deal between two partners who both had something to trade. But he was not as well connected in Washington as either he or Milosevic thought. James Baker, US Secretary of State, was not disposed to get involved in what he thought was a European problem. President George Bush, facing an election campaign, was not very interested. The word in Washington was the United States ‘did not have a dog in this fight’. Sanctions were anyway a matter for the United Nations, not the United States. And the Brahmins of the State Department regarded Panic as a wild card. He was neither a professional diplomat nor a politician, but someone out of their control.
Panic was certainly out of Milosevic’s control. In July he flew to besieged Sarajevo to meet with Bosnian President Alija Izetbegovic. There he condemned ‘cheap politicians who have played on nationalism and created a civil war’, a clear shot at Milosevic. He went to Pristina and met with Kosovo Albanian leader Ibrahim Rugova, and called for human rights for ethnic Albanians. He also sacked Mihalj Kertes from his post as deputy Yugoslav interior minister. Kertes was working for the Serbian secret service, and his involvement in Milosevic’s dirty tricks dated back to 1988 when he had bussed demonstrators into Novi Sad to throw rocks and yoghurt. He had also played a role in distributing weapons to the Serb rebels in both Croatia and Bosnia.
Panic and Milosevic were soon running competing governments. Milosevic controlled the Serbian government, the Serbian parliament and the Yugoslav parliament – now composed solely of MPs from Serbia and Montenegro. But he did not control the Yugoslav government, whose ministers increasingly existed in a curious constitutional limbo. Tibor Varady observed: ‘This was an odd structure as the Yugoslav government was clearly European and western-minded. So as minister of justice I was writing laws according to my own taste, but none had the slightest chance of getting passed in the Yugoslav parliament, and none ever did.’ The Serbian secret service, under the control of the Serbian interior ministry, even tapped the telephones and monitored the movement of Panic and his ministers. If the Yugoslav minister of justice wanted to talk to the Yugoslav prime minister, both had to leave their offices, in case they were bugged. As Varady noted: ‘This was not a position of power.’
Even so, for Milosevic, the Panic experiment was turning into a nightmare. It was true that Panic spoke English with a heavy accent, mangled his Serbo-Croat and sometimes seemed eccentric. He could be a loose cannon, but he was also a shrewd businessman, with an instinct for the practicalities of a deal. His multi-million dollar international pharmaceutical empire was proof of that. The man was irrepressible. He cut through the complications of diplomacy, history and politics that had befuddled the Balkans for so long. Panic was revitalising the previously dormant Yugoslav government and turning it into a counterweight to Serbia. Milosevic realised that he had spawned a monster.
At the end of August 1992 the international community made another in its series of failed attempts to bring peace to Yugoslavia. Panic, Milosevic and other representatives of the Yugoslav and Serbian governments headed for the London Conference on Yugoslavia. The conference was supposed to stop the Serb onslaught on Bosnia, reverse ethnic cleansing and bring about a solution to the Yugoslav crisis. The plan was to caution Milosevic, who would then stop the war and return home chastened and reasonable. Milosevic, of course, had other ideas.
Europe’s attempts to stop the fighting so far had been a dismal failure. When the Yugoslav conflict had first broken out in the summer of 1991 Jacques Poos, the foreign minister of Luxembourg, had foolishly declared that ‘the hour of Europe has dawned’,8 meaning the new united continent would be able to sort out the challenge of disintegrating Yugoslavia. But there was no new dawn, only a descent into a long, dark night. The August 1992 London conference followed attempts the previous October by the former British foreign secretary, Lord Carrington, to broker a peace deal in negotiations at The Hague, under the auspices of the European Community (not yet then transformed into the European Union). It was a measure of the EC’s lackadaisical approach at the time that Lord Carrington remained as chairman of Christie’s, the London auction house, while trying to bring peace to Yugoslavia.
Nonetheless, the Carrington Plan could have provided the basis for a peaceful settlement. It made major concessions to the Serb minorities in both Croatia and Bosnia, granting them administrative autonomy, their own education system, their own parliament, police force and judiciary; in short, a virtual state within a state. Milosevic rejected it, probably because the Carrington Plan would apply all through Yugoslavia, so the same rights would have to be granted to the Albanians in Kosovo. This was unthinkable. The only surprise was that Momir Bulatovic, the Montenegrin president, broke ranks and voted to accept the Carrington Plan, tempted by the promise of an aid development programme for Montenegro worth millions of dollars. A campaign of intimidation, and a barrage of media accusations that Bulatovic was a traitor, quickly ensured that he backed down.9
Supremely arrogant at this time, Milosevic even turned down a proposal from his old colleague, Mihailo Crnobrnja, then Yugoslav ambassador to the EC, that he grant an interview to the Wall Street Journal Europe. At this time Serbia was being pilloried in the international press for its onslaught on Croatia. Crnobrnja recalled: ‘I told him, so far everybody is antagonised by the Serbs, what better forum could there be to explain the Serbian and his position? He said, “I don’t give a damn, the truth will prevail.” He felt so superior he did not feel the need to explain himself.’10 Crnobrnja was not willing to represent the third, Federal Yugoslavia, and in May 1992 he resigned his post as ambassador.
On the plane to London Milosevic was pleasant enough to Tibor Varady, even though he was one of Panic’s ministers. A bout of turbulence had forced Varady to take the nearest available seat as they descended to land. It was next to Milosevic. There was a long embarrassed silence, at first, recalled Varady. ‘There was obviously a difference between us and neither of us wanted to address it.’
Milosevic was rude when he wanted, but he could also turn on the charm. There was no point arguing with Varady about politics or the Yugoslav-Serbian rift, especially on an airplane full of eavesdropping journalists. ‘Tibor,’ he enquired, ‘Whatever happened to Edit?’
Summoning up Edit was Milosevic’s exit strategy from a potentially embarrassing encounter. Milosevic gave orders to generals, carved up neighbouring countries, negotiated with world leaders. But sticky social situations were another matter. And strapped in for a bumpy descent, there was nowhere else for him to go. ‘I was thinking hard what to say, and he probably was too,’ recalled Varady. ‘Milosevic spoke like it was only yesterday that we had been drinking coffee together, although we never did. Edit was the only other Hungarian in our law class at Belgrade University, so mentioning her was a gesture.’
Varady had little news of Edit, but did know that she was working in Belgrade. Milosevic thought for a while: ‘Edit was a very good student, very talented.’ He paused. What else was there to say? ‘She would probably be a good mother as well,’ he threw in for good measure. Milosevic then asked some more questions, but Varady did not know the answers.
Varady recalled the bizarre moment: ‘We were both afraid to leave Edit as a topic. But neither of us had any interest in poor Edit, and we ran out of information.’ Silence, and the prospect of the upcoming conference on Bosnia loomed before them.
But Milosevic could always think on his feet. He had a brainwave. The past conditional came to the rescue. He asked Varady, if Edit had stayed at law school as a professor, what subject would she have chosen? Varady recalled: ‘Since we no longer had a foothold on reality, we moved to the hypothetical. I said I thought civil law. He said I might be right, but she could have been very good at legal history as well. So we talked about Edit until we got to London.’11
At the London conference Milosevic for the first time experienced the kind of public humiliation that he used at the 1987 Eighth Session to destroy the career of Ivan Stambolic. When Milosevic asked to speak, Panic handed him a piece of paper. He had written on it, ‘Shut up’.12 In case any of the diplomats watching were wondering what was happening, Panic then told the conference that Milosevic was not authorised to speak
Panic argued strongly – and correctly – that Yugoslavia was the internationally recognised state, not Serbia. Serbia was merely a constituent republic of Yugoslavia. As Panic was the head of the Yugoslav government, he, not Milosevic, should speak for the country. Milosevic was stunned. Ever since his university days, he had been a master at making and breaking protégés and alliances, forming and dissolving factions, using intimidation, force and public humiliation to advance his interests. Now he was on the receiving end, in front of all the world’s statesmen, diplomats and media. This was a declaration of war by Panic.
The London conference followed the usual pattern of international diplomacy in dealing with Milosevic at this time. Self-congratulatory communiqués and press releases were issued. The closing declaration called for the closure of the concentration camps; rejected ethnic cleansing as ‘inhuman and illegal’; called for more peace talks in Geneva; demanded that international treaties be respected, and called for the despatch of human rights observers to Kosovo and Voivodina. The most serious threat was of ‘stringent sanctions’ that would lead to ‘total international isolation’. In addition, the UN announced that peacekeeping troops would be despatched to Bosnia. Crucially, even though the pictures of the horrors of the Bosnian Serb concentration camp at Omarska had been broadcast around the world, there was no mention of the use of force against the Bosnian Serbs.
Milosevic took little notice of these demands, except perhaps a clause about a proposal for a war crimes tribunal. Back in Belgrade he acted swiftly against Panic. Late one Saturday night in October Mihalj Kertes, the Serbian secret service agent inside the Yugoslav interior ministry whom Panic had sacked, took his revenge. Masked and armed Serbian police commandos took over the Yugoslav interior ministry while Panic and Dobrica Cosic were in Geneva. The building was sealed off, and its files were systematically boxed up and removed to the headquarters of the Serbian secret police. Milosevic had gambled that Panic would not order the Yugoslav army to retake the building for fear of sparking civil war. He was correct. It is likely that Panic could have mobilised disaffected elements of the Yugoslav security services to retake the building, but he chose not to do so. Panic was seriously weakened by this episode.
Earlier that year, under pressure from the opposition and the student protesters, Milosevic had agreed to call elections in Serbia. Many believed that Dobrica Cosic would stand and beat Milosevic. The date was set for 20 December. The handful of Milosevic loyalists in Panic’s Yugoslav government resigned. Panic was smeared as an agent of foreign powers. The great Serb patriot Dobrica Cosic prevaricated. He then announced that he would not run against Milosevic.
Panic announced he would stand against Milosevic for Serbian president. Little Lenin went to work, using every trick in the Communist book. Immediately, a stream of pseudo-legal and constitutional difficulties were conjured up to obstruct Panic’s campaign. The Serbian Electoral Commission announced that Panic could not run because he had not been resident in Serbia for a year. When opposition parties threatened to boycott the poll the Constitutional Court eventually overruled the requirement, which had anyway only been introduced the previous month. There was even talk of death threats.
Belgrade Television was an open propaganda weapon for Milosevic. Panic was not even allowed paid advertisements. He was smeared by implication as an American agent. Even the weather forecast was press-ganged into service, said Tibor Varady. ‘It went like this: “Tomorrow we are expecting snow flurries around Belgrade. Now dear viewers we would like to tell you how the weather will be in Knin, where our Serb brothers are suffering under Croatian fascism. But since our prime minister Mr Panic wants to recognise Croatia and does not care about our Serbian brethren we cannot tell you how the weather is there.”’
Milosevic’s propaganda attacks could not prevent Panic from receiving a warm welcome all over the country. Over 100,000 people attended his last election rally in Belgrade. However Milosevic’s gerrymandering of the electoral rolls and other tricks such as closing the borders, and issuing students (many of whom were strong Panic supporters) with their grant cheques on polling day, thus preventing them from travelling home to vote, helped ensure that he won.
Milosevic took 56 per cent of the vote and Panic 34 per cent. Despite his unpredictable ways, the sun-tanned Californian Serb had brought hope to a country made grey and miserable by war and economic sanctions. The tightening of sanctions did not help Panic. On 17 November a naval blockade of the Danube and the Adriatic was introduced. Many Serbs felt that if the country was going to be punished anyway, then they would stick with Milosevic. None the less, had the election been honest, it is quite possible that Panic could have stopped Milosevic getting the 50 per cent of votes needed to win outright in the first round. ‘If there had been a run-off and a second round, Panic would have won, because Milosevic’s myth of invincibility would have been broken,’ said Tibor Varady.
Panic had fought well but he lacked proper backing from the West to defeat a leader who had hijacked the whole country’s media and political infrastructure. Milosevic did not like being crossed. He took his final revenge when Panic eventually left Yugoslavia in January 1993. He was held at the border for five hours before being allowed to cross into Hungary, even though he was still technically the head of the Yugoslav government. Dobrica Cosic was removed from office in June. There would be no more experiments with ‘rich American imperialist’ front-men for the Milosevic regime.