'My best friend for a decade just disappeared'

SARAJEVO, Bosnia-Herzegovina - Omar Velagic and two friends stopped briefly before the blackened shell along the shallow, stony Miljacka River.

Chunks of masonry and shards of glass littered the sidewalk. On the empty doorway hung a hand-painted sign: "PAZI SNAJPER!" LOOK OUT SNIPER!

This dead building had been the City Bar, a favorite hangout of the three friends when they were teen-agers. The friends, Admir Bajramovic and Damir Demidzic, had brought Omar here in 1991. Omar was going off to a place called Cincinnati for a few years. The party had been fun; they had all gotten drunk.

"The last time we were here, this was a very nice place," Omar said. "You could sit outside and look at all the girls go by."

This section of downtown was once fashionable, full of cafes, bars and nightclubs. But some of the fiercest fighting took place here. Bosnian Serb militia had battled into the city during the war's early days.

Bodies had lain in the river for days before they could be recovered. Many buildings had been destroyed.

The three walked away from the river and found a smaller bar, King, where Omar used to work. The place appeared untouched by the war. It still had glass windows and Madonna playing loudly on the speaker system. The friends sat in the old booth where they used to spend hours cracking jokes and talking about girls. On this date, they sat and talked of the war.

Omar had just returned to his devastated hometown; Admir and Damir had spent the last four years defending it. The three have their friendship back; but on one level, the war has forever separated them. It shattered Omar's memories, and it plundered his friends' youth and also - they fear - their future.

"I feel angry at those who started the war, the Serb politicians, because they wasted our youth," said Admir, 20, who defended Sarajevo as a volunteer and later joined the Bosnian army in 1984. "I spent four years fighting . . . now I'm really worried about the future. The war destroyed our country, and it will need at least 10 years to fix. Then I'll be 30. I want to live my life now."

Stints in the army

In the last official census of the former Yugoslavia, 525,980 people were reported living in Sarajevo in 1991. Today, the Bosnian government estimates the population at 383,000. About 150,000 of those are refugees from out of town. That means only 200,000 of the original Sarajevo population - less than 40 percent - still live in the city after four years of war.

The schools and University of Sarajevo are destroyed. Many friends of Damir and Admir were killed or injured. Others fled to Croatia, Germany, the United States or other countries.

"I don't blame them for going," Admir said. "If I could have gone, I would have."

At first glance, Admir and Damir looked like young, hip 20-somethings who could be seen dancing at the Warehouse on Vine Street in Cincinnati. They appear well-groomed and stylish. Admir even has jelled hair, gold teeth and an earring. But sitting next to Omar, they looked strangely thin and pale. Like all Sarajevans, they still show the effects of starvation caused by the siege. In the army, they ate little, fought a lot and worried.

'They've seen alot'

"They seem a lot more mature now," Omar said. "They've seen a lot and it changed them."

Admir, whose father and brother also fought in the war, now lives at home. He goes to school free of charge but he doesn't have any money for books. Classes are held in buildings scattered around the city because the main campus was bombed. Neither Admir or Damir had any prospects for part-time jobs or work.

Damir, 22, who studies sports fitness at the university, said Bosnian men now feel stuck in limbo.

"We still don't know what's going to happen," he said. "So we can't think too far ahead."

Before the war, they were not three friends but five: five inseparable buddies from Kosevsko Brdo, an upper middle-class neighborhood in northern Sarajevo next to the Kosevo Sports Stadium built for the 1984 Winter Olympics.

Omar, Admir, Damir, all Bosnian Muslims; Dejan and Nikolino all grew up around each other and went to the same junior high school and high school.

The friends all expected to go to the University of Sarajevo. Like their parents, they planned to be professionals: engineers, lawyers, business people. Weekdays were for studies; weekends were for sports or bars. In the winters, they skied the mountains of Sarajevo. In the summers, they drove to the coast of Croatia, where many families had summer homes.

The boys spent a lot of time at the soccer stadium, rooting for their home team, Sarajevo. They occasionally got into fistfights with supporters of the rival clubs. But no one ever fought over ethnic or religious issues, Omar said.

"No one ever mentioned that crap," Omar said. "What mattered was that we were from the same neighborhood and we were friends."

In 1991, Omar went away to the states, attending Sycamore High School in Hamilton County's Sycamore Township. There he studied, went to parties and went on dates - just as he had in Sarajevo. He kept in touch with his old friends by letter and telephone. The four remaining friends stayed close - but not for long.

War arrived in 1992 and upset the easy pattern of their lives.

Omar's parents decided to stay in the United States for the safety of their two sons. Omar found himself cut off from his friends. Mail service stopped. Phone lines were cut.

Omar's friends found themselves in the unnatural world of war.

The fabric of Sarajevan Society - a centuries-old combination of Muslims, Serbs and Croats - unraveled before their eyes.

Friend disappeared

"My best friend for a decade just disappeared," he said. "Dejan was like a brother to me, and he just left without saying goodbye. I don't have any hatred against Serbs; why didn't he tell me he was going? I would have protected him with my life."

The last they heard, Dejan was living as a refugee in Germany. Admir and Damir said Nikolino is back in the city now, but the war has made him mentally imbalanced. They told Omar not to go see him.

These days, the men are trying to forget the war, but it's hard. The vestiges of the war are everywhere. In their old neighborhood, the grounds of Kosevo Stadium have been turned into a mass cemetery for the war dead. Almost every building in the city has been marked by bombs.

When Omar came to Sarajevo last week, he was afraid his old friends would resent the fact that he missed the war. Instead, they have embraced him. They hold no malice toward Bosnians who missed the fighting.

"If they made it out of there, they should probably stay and build new lives," Admir said. "But if they come back, I welcome them."

Published Feb. 7, 1996