Bosnia 2024, Journal #1:
Ozren is Not for Sale
2024 Journal
index
Introduction: Meeting the environmental activists
Journal 1:
Ozren is Not for Sale
Journal 2: Pecka
and vicinity: biologists on front line; scandal of coal
Journal 3: The
Pliva River, from the headwaters to the Jajce waterfalls
Journal 4: Coal in Ugljevik; Lithium on Mt. Majevica
Journal 5: With Hajrija Čobo at Mehorić;
Visiting Robert Oroz in Fojnica
Previous journals and articles
To contact Peter in response to these reports or any
of his articles,
click here.
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Panoramic view of Ozren from
"Naša Maša" Visitor
Center
In
October of 2024, with the support of colleagues in
Bosnia-Herzegovina, I was able to visit several of the most
important centers of environmental resistance. In a few short weeks
I spent time with many of the activists. What follows is an account
of those weeks, and the thoughts and revelations that they prompted.
Mt. Ozren, in the northeastern part of the Serb-controlled entity
the Republika Srpska (RS), is a center of strong resistance to
environmental assault by mining companies—in this case, by the
Australian company Lykos Metals. One of the leaders of the
environmentalist movement on Mt. Ozren is
Zoran Poljašević, whom I interviewed in the spring. Now I had the
opportunity to meet him and some of his colleagues in the
environmental association "Ozrenski Studenac" (Ozren Springs) of
Sočkovac, a small town on Mt. Ozren.
On the first full day of my stay on Ozren, Zoran picked me up and
took me for a leisurely hike up Gostilj. At 733 meters, Gostilj is
not the highest summit on Ozren, but it is the one with the most
wide-open view. It is also one of the few legally protected areas on
the mountain.
My couple-hours' walk with Zoran provided a briefing on his
background; historical information about Ozren; and an update on his
colleagues' activities in the time since I had talked with him in
the spring.
He
had just returned from Brussels, where he spoke at a round table
presentation to the European Parliament. There, he promoted the
cause of environmental preservation and described the mobilization
of his community in opposition to the threat of destruction posed by
mineral prospecting.
During our walk Zoran mentioned to me that he needed to attend an
emergency meeting that evening at 7:00 p.m., so that would have to
be the limit of our visit. The president of the Sočkovac association
had called Zoran and told him there needed to be a meeting, because
he had been called in to talk to the police. This was not
particularly a surprise, since the police do not look upon
environmental activism favorably.
Reaching the top of Gostilj, to the northeast we could see the town
of Boljanić, and a couple of towns slightly farther north, just
across the inter-entity boundary in the Federation. To the northwest
we looked down upon nearby Doboj, in the Republika Srpska (RS)
entity.
Officials from Lykos had held a public meeting earlier in the year
to promote plans to explore for minerals on Ozren, and about 500
activists showed up in protest. They disrupted the meeting and
announced, "The plan for Ozren designates it as a nature park." This
refers to the prostorni plan, the regional spatial plan that
included preservation of the green-forested hills of the mountain,
the clear streams, and the fresh air of the small towns and villages
that populate the place.
Villagers also held a banner that read, "Leave while we're still
polite." After disrupting the meeting by blowing on whistles,
protestors stated, "We only seek for you to do what you said you
were going to do, nothing more or less."
On Gostilj, Zoran showed me the Iva grass, a plant that occupies a
place in the traditional customs of the people of Ozren. One day
each year, people come to Gostilj and harvest this modest little
plant that they use as tea, and which they say has remarkable
healing qualities. On that day, they wear traditional costumes and
host a celebration, complete with dance performances.
On the path up the hill, Zoran pointed out signs reading, "You're
selling? No one asked us," "Ozren is not for sale," and "We don't
want mines."
Nickel and cobalt are two of the critical raw materials ("CRMs")
identified as crucial to the "green transition" to non-fossil
fuel-based energy sources. Both ores—as is the case with lithium,
copper, and other CRMs, are extremely harmful to the environment
when mined, in spite of claims and promises by the mining companies.
It is not a surprise that the inhabitants of Ozren wish to preserve
the health of their water, air, and soil.
After Gostilj, Zoran took me to a low place among the hills where
two rivers came together. He said that his family used to go
swimming and vacationing there when he was a child. He was born in
1986, just 6 years before the war. Zoran and his family spent a lot
of time there during the war as well, because it was sheltered by
the surrounding hills from artillery fire. The river Prenja runs
through that valley.
The day wore on, and Zoran and I went to dinner. Since it was
approaching 7:00 p.m., Zoran suggested I come along and meet his
colleagues in the Sočkovac association.
It turned out that the story of a police "conversation" had been a
ruse, and Zoran's colleagues had organized the meeting to honor him
for representing their cause before the European Parliament.
When Zoran and I arrived, there were six men present from the
association. At the beginning of the gathering people shook hands
all around, and they presented Zoran with a large wristwatch.. It
was a touching reception that I had not witnessed in my own years of
activist work.
In the midst of this non-meeting, some of the members also took time
to thank me for the essay I had written earlier, which had quickly
been translated into the language that these people call "Serbian."
People said that it was a timely exposé of their situation. Zoran
said that, when journalists come to Ozren, he tells them to read my
article.
Someone was cooking meat in a corner of the modest office. Although
I had just eaten dinner with Zoran, I participated in the feast; it
would have been unfriendly to refrain. There were onions and bread
to accompany the meal, and plenty of rakija (hard brandy) to
wash it down. We were drinking jabukovača, rakija made from
apples. Slobodan, a community leader who was sitting near me,
pointed out Brko, an older gent, and said, "Before the war, in one
season he distilled seven tons of rakija," which I learned meant
7,000 liters—quite an accomplishment.
Brko took care to pass the drink around, and to ensure that it was
consumed. He performed this almost ritualistic gesture three times.
I noticed Zoran looking at me with a bit of concern over the more or
less obligatory alcohol consumption, but I held my own. Meanwhile,
there was the meat: chicken, sausages, suho meso (dried
meat), chops, and more. There was more food than eight men could
possibly have eaten in more than one meal. If it is possible to
overdose on meat, I came pretty close.
I noted that there were no women involved in this gathering. One of
the members said that the women do not come to the meetings, but
they support the resistance and come out en masse for protests and
other actions. Later, I came in contact with other organizations
where the opposite was true, and women were the lead organizers.
A television screen mounted on the wall was set to YouTube where,
among other things, we were able to watch a videos of
Zoran's presentation
in Brussels. There were also clips of the rustic local folk songs,
performed with Bosnian saz and violin.
Amidst the eating and casual YouTube watching, there was relaxed
conversation about the organization's work and goals. Zoran spoke of
the mining company, saying, "Either we will go to jail, or we will
drive them out of our country." Slobodan added, "As long as they are
non-violent with us, we will be non-violent with them."
In the 1990s war, there had been plenty of violence on and around
Ozren. As with the rest of Bosnia-Herzegovina, the mountain ended up
divided between the two resulting "entities," the Croat- and Bosniak-controlled
Federation and the Serb-controlled Republika Srpska. About two
thirds of the mountain remained in the Federation, and the rest in
the RS. But the latter portion is where valuable minerals have been
detected.
Given that rivers flow where they will, and the inter-entity
boundary meanders against all geographical logic, the poisoning that
starts in one entity will inevitably end up in the other. This
potentially brings people who were once on opposite sides of a front
line together against a common enemy. Before, the enemy was defined
by the religion of one's ancestors. The contemporary enemy is
represented by those mining companies that would destroy Ozren's
environment for profit.
"We do not
want a mine!"
I was brought to
Ozren by Denis (not his real name), a Bosniak activist from the nearby town of
Maglaj, who collaborates with regional environmental activists regardless of
their ethnicity. Also traveling with us was Davor Šupuković, from the nearby
village of Fojnica and leader of the environmentalist group "Udruženje Građana
Fojničani" (Citizens' Association of Fojničani). This organization, with a broad
repertoire of activities, is prominent in spearheading research of
biodiversity—an advance tactic in environmental resistance—in many parts of
Bosnia-Herzegovina.
I learned that Davor had fought with the Bosnian Croat army (the Hrvatsko
Vijeće Obrane—Croat Defense Council) during the war, and Denis had come of
age just in time to participate in the defense of his town as part of the
government army of Bosnia-Herzegovina (Armija Republike Bosne i Hercegovine).
Before the three of us drove up Mt. Ozren, we sat in a local restaurant for
lunch. Pointing out the window, Denis showed me the apartment he had lived in
during the war. He also pointed out various hills above the town, explaining
which side had held each location. "They were shooting and bombing us from over
there," he said.
Recounting something I've heard many times before, Denis told me that he had
learned to distinguish each bomb or missile by its sound, which also told him
just how many seconds he and his comrades had to escape. He also told me, "I
must have carried ten dead people out of the streets in those days."
These were the people who were taking me to meet the Serb activists on the
mountain. Zoran
Poljašević
joined us along
the way. We drove up through gentle green, Vermontish hills, past small villages
and lone houses, once stopped by a migrating flock of sheep.
On the way, the four of us stopped at an ancient monastery,
Sveti Nikola na Ozrenu—the
Monastery of St. Nicholas on Mt. Ozren. The monastery was built in the 1500s (or
a couple of centuries earlier, according to folk tradition); for several
centuries the Ottoman occupiers forbade the construction of a bell tower. We
strolled around the well-kept grounds, and spent a few moments meeting the abbot
Gavrilo, a strong opponent of mining on Ozren.
We continued on to a restaurant and visitor center named "Orlovsko
Jezero" (Eagle Lake), not far from Petrovo, the main town of Ozren. We admired
the lake, which sat right below a mountain cliff; it was fed by underground
water coming out from below the mountain.
It was well into the autumn, and there were no other guests. We sat and chatted
with the proprietor, Stanoje, sampling the obligatory rakija. Stanoje greeted us
by launching into a 10-minute presentation of folk etymology which was, for a
while, entertaining if not edifying. Throughout the encounter he demonstrated
that his speaking skills were superior to his listening ability.
Denis sat opposite Stanoje, and we learned that Stanoje had been an artillery
commander in the JNA (Yugoslav National Army) before the breakup of Yugoslavia.
In the 1990s, he performed a similar function in the Serb-controlled
Vojska Republike
Srpske
(Army of Republika Srpska).
Denis and Stanoje had literally been shooting at each other, and here they were,
sitting together and sharing rakija. They questioned each other diplomatically
about their experiences. Denis later told me, "He knew the entire geography of
our area, and all of our own names for the hills where we were fighting."
I had a feeling that I could say that the war was over, but I was not sure.
We traveled to the visitor center "Naša Maša," across the mountain to the west,
near the village of Donja Paklenica. After driving more than a half hour on a
dirt road, we arrived after dark. Davor and Denis left me in the hands of Petar
Tubić, the proprietor of this rustic and welcoming spread in the Ozren hills.
I participated in a meal with Tubić and his family, and went to bed early. The
next morning I had time to explore the place, and to meet Maša and her partner,
Ljubica. These are the two bears for whom the park is named, and they live in a
large fenced-off area on the hillside, under some pine trees. They had been
orphaned as young cubs, and they appear to feel at home in this setting.
Around the
grounds of the visitor center, there are several cabins are available to house
visitors overnight. There are places to hike, a children's playground, and a
pool with a slide. Above the dining lodge, there’s a hill from where you can see
quite a distance in several directions, looking down on the villages and
farmlands.
There were a couple of kid goats wandering around, and Petar arrived in his car,
holding an owl in his arms. There was a fawn in a cage, presumably en route to a
nearby deer sanctuary. There were racoons in a big shed; a black piglet
consorting with one of many kittens, and a pair of llamas. Near
the llamas, there were a couple of peacocks, one male and one female, with their
plumage furled. It was Noah's Ark, without the flood.
Mr. Tubić told me that he had begun building the center ten years earlier. It
looks like he has been busy creating a hub for local visitors and for tourists
from afar. Davor told me that Tubić had fought in the Army of Republika Srpska
during the war, but that today, he welcomes all kinds of visitors, regardless of
ethnicity.
Earlier, Denis had mentioned to me that there was "only" one atrocity committed
by Serb forces upon the population of Maglaj, with some dozen civilians taken
away and killed. This alone is dreadful news—but mild, say, in contrast with
what happened in Srebrenica, Prijedor, and other places. Denis conjectured that,
because of this relatively less bloody history, it has been easier for people
from the opposing sides to get together on some level in the postwar period.
Maša
and Ljubica
I have been
asking myself for some years: When does the postwar period end? Of course, it
depends how you define "postwar." In one sense, it never ends, because the war
will never be un-fought. But "postwar" also refers to people's ongoing response
to that war. In this light, my question could be reinterpreted as asking when
the intensity of people's trauma lessens, and they go forward to thinking about
other things.
For some people, the answer is "never." People's ability to free themselves from
their own burden of victimhood varies depending on what they suffered; what
amount of justice they have seen in the aftermath; and what their own strength
of character allows them to do. But it seems unpredictable.
I have seen people come out of the worst concentration camps and eventually
recognize the necessity and the advantage of living and working with the
"others." Even, sometimes, forgiving. I have seen well-educated people hold
tightly to their sense of injury, and nearly illiterate people find it in
themselves to accept the restoration of ties. There are people in the diaspora,
thousands of miles away, for whom the war is not over. It tends to be the people
closest to each other, across former front lines, who are the quickest to
remember that they have always had, and will continue to have, the same
neighbors.
This reminds me of a time, in 1999, that I visited some refugee return activists
in Doboj, a couple of lawyers who worked for the Coalition for Return. One of
them showed me around the town and took me up a hill to an Ottoman-era fortress.
From there, he pointed out the former front line, and said, "That is where we
were fighting against the Muslim forces."
I asked, "Isn't it strange that you are helping your former enemies to come back
home to Doboj?" He said, "No, I want my old friends to return. It's the
people who stayed in the city and robbed and abused others, who are working to
prevent a return to normal."
This memory, and the experience on Ozren, worked to help me sort out a certain
cognitive dissonance. Since the middle of the war, thirty years ago, I have
spent much time with refugees and displaced people, some of whom were tortured
in concentration camps. I have been to Srebrenica and the ethnically cleansed
towns around Prijedor many times. All the pictures of abuse and torment are
present in my mind.
And at the same time, I can differentiate between the abusers and the ordinary
Serbs who often thought they were fighting to defend themselves. Some of these
people are the ones who are now moving forward. They are, for example, the men
at Sočkovac, one of whom had lost a leg during the war, and another, Slobodan,
who was wounded in the hand.
For these people, I don't know if I can say that the postwar period is over, but
some things are different. They are looking to the future and trying to protect
their land from a dangerous enemy, the corporations who would ravage their
beautiful countryside.
In all this, there is at least the possibility of the new partners—former
enemies—gaining clarity about who their real adversary is and, on top of that,
better understanding what is wrong with the system that guarantees corruption
and profiteering on the land. And finally, these things bring up the question:
How can these good people create a truly vibrant and effective movement to
protect the land?