The lessons for Europe two decades on from the war in Bosnia

For European countries, and for the United States, too, the shift from cold war to post-cold war had been too rapid for their thinking. Militarily their forces were still organised for a life-or-death struggle with the Warsaw Pact. Politically they could

This year marks the hundredth anniversary of a largely forgotten conflict, the second Balkan war. This was a nasty affair that does not arouse much interest today. But it is worth looking back in the light of our own experience of the third Balkan war from 1991 to 1999 and from the perspective of what has happened in the past 20 years.
 
The first Balkan war began in October 1912 and ended in May 1913. It might be described as a war of self-determination. The countries of the region took advantage of the weakness of the Ottoman empire, exposed by Italy’s seizure of what is now Libya, to push the Ottomans almost out of the Balkan Peninsula. The fighting stopped at the gates of Constantinople. After a pause for breath, lasting not much more than a month, the victors – Bulgaria, Greece, Serbia and Montenegro – began a war among themselves over the division of the territory captured.
 
The second Balkan war was shorter than the first (six weeks rather than eight months) and, if anything, nastier. There were atrocities in both, as there are in all wars. But while the first Balkan war was mostly a military-tomilitary affair, in the second the target was often the civilian population. If you could establish that a piece of territory was inhabited by your people – Serbs, Bulgarians or Greeks, – then you could claim it as a part of your national territory. This was therefore a war about people as well as territory: whether a village was Serb or Bulgarian might decide whether its inhabitants lived or died.
 
There were not many eyewitness reports in the newspapers of the day. But such reports as there were alarmed the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, established only three years earlier. It decided to pursue its founder’s aims by investigating what had happened and making it known. To do this it sent a small fact-finding team to the region, including a British journalist, Henry Brailsford (who wrote, inter alia, for the New Statesman), and the Russian historian Pavel Milyukov, both of whom had personal experience of the region.
 
Their report told a story that seems all too familiar today: a war that sometimes had for its objective “the complete extermination of an alien population”, in which villages were burned, rape was used as a weapon and streams of refugees and the wounded were left to fend for themselves, with many of them dying. The members of the fact-finding mission found that, to get anywhere, they had to work their way around official obstruction, and after that through a mass of exaggeration, distortion and lies. Many who were involved in the Balkans in the 1990s would recognise the experience.
 
Carnegie republished the report on the earlier Balkan wars in 1993, as historical background to the events going on at the time. The great American diplomat George Kennan contributed an introduction. The parallels between 1913 and 1993 were, as he pointed out, inescapable. Military technology had changed, and the revolution in communications made the events much more visible in 1993, but the objectives and methods of those fighting were the same. In many ways the war of the 1990s was worse: it was longer and the deaths were at least double those of the second Balkan war. Kennan was writing in 1993 and there were two more years of atrocities to come in Bosnia, followed by a bitter peace, and a further war over Kosovo.
 
Twenty years on, the similarities remain; but the differences are also striking. In his introduction to the original report the president of Carnegie’s Balkan commission, the Baron d’Estournelles de Constant, had written: “All this horror will not cease as long as Europe continues to ignore it.” Europe and everyone else made many mistakes but no one can say they ignored what was going on.
 
In many ways the Europe of 1913 knew better what to do. When the fighting stopped, the great powers – Russia, Austria-Hungary, Germany, France and Britain – met in a conference convened by the British foreign secretary, Sir Edward Grey, to arrange an orderly settlement of the new borders. Out of this, Albania was created – though it took the threat of Austrian intervention to persuade Serbia finally to withdraw from Albanian territory; and a large Albanian-speaking population was left inside Serbia’s borders in Kosovo. This was the last occasion before the Great War on which a concert of European powers played a constructive role. They did so because of their alarm that a quarrel in the Balkans could trigger a European war. A year later this fear proved well founded.
 
In 1913 war was part of the natural order of things; in the Balkans it was half expected, given the weakness of the Ottoman empire. In 1991, by contrast, the very fact of war on European soil was a shock. And the brutal nature of the war made it even more shocking. For 40 years after 1945, Europe had been at the centre of the cold war; there had been armed intervention in Warsaw Pact countries (and also in Cyprus); European troops had been involved in wars abroad. But this was the first war on European soil in four decades. It came, moreover, at the moment when an extraordinary and peaceful transition was taking place across the rest of central Europe. By the 1990s most people had come to assume that violent conflict in Europe was over for good.
 
Partly because of this, no one knew what to do. Of the great powers of 1913 only Russia was still a world-class power in 1991. The western European powers were not capable of intervening either individually or collectively in a European crisis without American leadership; perhaps they were no longer capable of thinking like major powers. The positive side of this coin was that they had lost the imperial urge and no longer saw each other as enemies. But if they had lost the desire to compete they had not yet acquired the ability to co-operate (and here they still have some way to go). The EU was divided in many ways by the crisis, but there was never any possibility that it could come to blows.
 
Among the old powers only the Soviet Union knew what it wanted: and that was not to be involved. It had washed its hands of Yugoslavia some years before; now it was washing its hands of the whole of eastern Europe, and by the end of the year the Soviet Union itself would be in dissolution.
 
For European countries, and for the United States, too, the shift from cold war to postcold war had been too rapid for their thinking. Militarily their forces were still organised for a life-or-death struggle with the Warsaw Pact, even though that was also in dissolution. Politically they could think in terms of national interests – as Britain had done ten years earlier in the Falklands – or of Allied interests; but the war in Bosnia did not fit into either of these categories. As such, the US decided this was none of its business and the Europeans, horrified at what was going on, fell back on a muddled mixture of diplomacy without muscle, monitoring without strategic purpose, UN peacekeeping without peace, and humanitarian action that was systematically manipulated by the combatants.
 
Looking from a distance, the 89-year-old Kennan’s view was clearer. In his introduction he wrote that a settlement was going to require outside mediation, “and in all probability outside force to bring the parties to accept and observe it”. The EU had tried the mediation but not the force. Two years later, in 1995, Jacques Chirac decided with John Major that enough was enough, and they put together a British/French rapid-reaction force that provided some of the backing for Richard Holbrooke’s diplomatic push.
 
In 1993 the similarities with 1913 were striking. Today, 20 years on, we should be more conscious of the differences. As Kennan pointed out, the communications revolution played a big part in how things developed. Carnegie had the right idea but in 1913 it was the only body attempting to establish the facts. In the 1990s the media were present everywhere, together with humanitarian NGOs and EU/UN monitors. Although we complain about “the CNN effect” – which is indeed sometimes shallow and short-lived – it is a powerful force for action and sometimes that is right.
 
Europe began disunited, muddled and ineffective; but the process of continuous dialogue kept European tensions within bounds and led eventually to important contributions by the European Union. And even when Europe failed, it failed within a multilateral framework; and that is better than the 1913/1914 version.
 
As the crisis went on, both the European countries and the US got their act together better. Kosovo was a second American-led intervention; but it was at least more timely than Bosnia. In Macedonia in 2000 there was a further intervention by Nato but with European forces only, because the US did not want to be involved. This is now forgotten – because it succeeded. It was a preventative action and probably did prevent a further Slav- Albanian conflict. And with the military deployment came a diplomatic effort led by Javier Solana and supported by the Nato secretary general, George Robertson. This used the breathing space provided by Nato to find a political solution to the ethnic problems.
 
The most important European contribution was the realisation that a lasting peace would require the EU eventually to take the countries of the Balkans into the Union. Britain was one of the authors of this policy in the 1990s. It was agreed by the EU as a whole at the Thessaloníki Summit in 2003.
 
Twenty years is a short time and nothing is finished. Bosnia is not yet a functioning state, though there is no risk of a return to violence. Macedonia’s progress towards the EU and Nato remains obstructed by the unresolved question of its name, a legacy of the 1912/1913 conflicts. However, progress continues. Croatia – a part of the problem in the early 1990s – joined the EU this year, and can be part of the solution. Serbia will start the accession process next year, following a negotiation led by Catherine Ashton that has brought a measure of normalisation between Serbia and Kosovo. Kosovo is taking the first steps in the same direction in its own right.
 
This remains a policy with a number of health warnings. Slovenia seemed to be a model member of the EU until the question of Croatian membership came up and, suddenly, the Balkan gene kicked in. Corruption – the mixture of politics, economics and organised crime – is still a problem everywhere in the Balkans, as it is in much of central Europe.
 
It is vital for the EU that Croatia prove a trustworthy member. Kennan wrote that, in addition to a territorial settlement, a condition of peace would be “greater and more effective restraints on the behaviour of the states of the region”. In the end, the only effective restraint on sovereign states is self-restraint. The EU, if it functions well, should provide a framework for that. It will be difficult, and it could still go wrong; but 20 years after the third Balkan war the balance sheet doesn’t look bad – better than it did 20 years after the second.
 
Robert Cooper worked for Javier Solana and Catherine Ashton at the EU until last year. He is a visiting professor at the London School of Economics and a member of the European Council on Foreign Relations
Broken spoils of war: remains and personal effects of victims of the conflict at the city morgue in Visoko, Bosnia. Image: Ziyah Gafic

This article first appeared in the 07 October 2013 issue of the New Statesman, The last days of Nelson Mandela

Calvert 22/Courtesy of the artist, Danila Tkachenko
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Ruin porn: the art world’s awkward obsession with abandoned Soviet architecture

Deserted fairgrounds, disused factories and forgotten military bases may look cool, but are we fetishising the remnants of such a cruel history?

Armenia, where one side of my family is from, was one of the first members of the USSR, annexed by Russia in 1922. A few years ago, when I visited this little country that perches precariously in the south of the Caucasus, I was struck most by its Soviet architecture.

Although its landscape is a hotchpotch of medieval Orthodox churches, a smattering of Persian-era domes, and brutalist concrete, it was the latter that particularly stuck out. From unfelled statues of Stalin to giant tower blocks spelling out the letters “CCCP” from a bird’s-eye view (well, half spelt-out – construction stopped partway through, with the fall of the Soviet Union), I’ve never forgotten it.

Perhaps it was so compelling because such stark physical symbols make recent history all the more tangible. A history still profoundly affecting the country of my ancestors (and all post-Soviet and communist states). But also, it just looked really cool.


Mixed air corps, Mongolia. Photo: Calvert 22/Courtesy of the artist, Eric Losito

It’s a bit passé now to mock the hipster obsession with reclaimed industrial detritus, exposed pipes and bare concrete. An aesthetic – that of a post-industrial wasteland, but a chic one – which has gripped western cities for years, and crept worldwide.

But it could be this tendency to find disused stuff visually intriguing, and a morbid fascination with cruel regimes, which has led to the art world’s obsession with abandoned Soviet architecture. A whole wave of artists and photographers have been poking around the eastern bloc’s architectural graveyard in recent years.

Late last year, we saw the hugely popular disused Soviet bus stop series by photographer Christopher Herwig, echoing photographer Sergey Novikov’s equally absorbing collection of abandoned Soviet cinemas from 2013.

Following Russian filmmaker and photographer Maria Morina’s “Atomic Cities” project four years ago, London-based artist Nadav Kander explored the “aesthetics of destruction” in his exhibition, Dust, in 2014, snapping “radioactive ruins” of secret cities on the border between Kazakhstan and Russia. The same year, Moscow photographers Sasha Mademuaselle and Sergey Kostromin travelled to the disputed region of Abkhazia, capturing fragments of its deserted infrastructure.


Fighter aviation regiment, Mongolia. Photo: Eric Losito
 

And photojournalist Anton Petrus’ now iconic pictures of Chernobyl’s abandoned amusement park have long been an internet favourite, as have numerous haunting images of Pripyet – the city famous for lying deserted following the nuclear disaster.

Jamie Rann, a lecturer in Russian at Oxford University, has written that the quality and technical accomplishment of most of this photography make the style more “ruin erotica” than “ruin porn” (the tag being used by some critics), but argues: “The enormous online popularity of this genre . . . combined with their voyeuristic, almost exploitative feel, certainly has something porny about it.”

The latest exploration of Soviet society’s skeletons can be found at the Power & Architecture season at London’s Calvert 22 Foundation. In an exhibition called Dead Space and Ruins, we see abandoned military bases and formerly mighty monuments, forgotten space ports freezing in the tundra, the ghost of an entire unused, unfinished city in Armenia lying derelict.



The unfinished "ghost city" built in Armenia to house earthquake survivors (water added by artist). Photo: Calvert 22/Courtesy of the artist, Vahram Aghasyan

The works are beautiful, but do they feed in to this zeitgeisty lust for Soviet ruins?

One of its curators, Will Strong, laments this trend. “I was keen that this didn’t become like a kind of ‘ruin lust’, ‘ruin porn’ thing; this slightly buzzwordy term that there is at the moment, this kind of fetishisation of dead space,” he tells me.

“This history is incredibly loaded, and it did not end in 1991. To sort of fetishise it in the very bourgeois western way of, ‘oh yeah, look at all this wonderful Soviet architecture, isn’t it fantastic?’ Obviously a lot of people who lived in that time hated it . . . a lot of people were very miserable under these regimes, so it’s important not to forget that.”


Gym at the Independent Radar Centre of Early Detection, Latvia. Photo: Eric Losito

He adds: “It’s more a point of reflection on how buildings were designed, what their legacy is, what their narrative is, and who the people are who live with that story. This show looks at the aftermaths of when utopia hasn’t been delivered.”

This view is echoed by the Moscow artist, Danila Tkachenko, whose work is featured in the exhibition. “It is rather a metaphor for the future, not the past,” he says. “It represents an image of a possible future. When there is a visualisation of this issue [utopia], it evokes a response in people; they see this utopia in their lives . . . There is disappointment in all utopias.”


The world's largest diesel submarine, in Russia's Samara region. Photo: Calvert 22/Courtesy of the artist, Danila Tkachenko

His Restricted Areas series explores great behemoths of European communism left to lie forgotten in the tundra of remote regions in and around Russia and Kazakhstan: the world’s largest diesel submarine, like a beached whale in the snow; a giant satellite, thatched with antennae, built to communicate with Soviet bases on other planets some day; the deserted flying saucer-like communist headquarters in a region of Bulgaria. The structures hover in blank, white space, making the photos appear black-and-white.


Deserted observatory, Kazakhstan's Almaty region. Photo: Danila Tkachenko
 

Anton Ginzburg is an artist who grew up in St Petersburg in the Eighties as the Soviet Union was disintegrating. He believes studies like his film, Turo, of disused modernist constructions in the post-Soviet bloc, appeal to people’s connection to history. After all, picking through the architectural carcasses of former societies isn’t exactly a new thing:

“Russian culture is still haunted by its Communist past, and constructivist architecture is a decaying shell for its ghosts. It is an active reminder of the recent history,” he reflects. “Perhaps [its appeal] is a mixture of memento mori, with its thrill of beauty and destruction, along with a Romantic tradition of contemplation of Greek and Roman ruins.”

(Anton Ginzburg Turo teaser from Visionaireworld on Vimeo.)

The Power & Architecture season is on at the Calvert 22 Foundation, London, from 10 June-9 October 2016. Entry is free.

Anoosh Chakelian is deputy web editor at the New Statesman.