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Sydney Morning Herald
3 days ago
- Politics
- Sydney Morning Herald
How my summer at The Hague shaped a lifetime
In Summer 2006, when I was practising as a junior lawyer, I was accepted for an internship at the United Nations International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY). I took leave from my job as a public law lawyer and left for The Hague with lofty ambitions of pursuing a career in international law. Though I knew the work of the ICTY was important, in truth, I knew very little about the war in Yugoslavia. The siege of Sarajevo, the longest siege in modern military history, had peppered the news throughout my years in high school, but the facts of this many-sided conflict were resistant to a straightforward description. The ICTY was an ad-hoc tribunal established by a resolution of the Security Council in 1993, intended to prosecute those who had held senior positions in the government and military for war crimes and crimes against humanity. It was the first properly international tribunal of its kind and relied on the principle of international law that certain crimes are so fundamental to our shared humanity that they are binding, whether or not a nation-state has agreed to them. Some said the ICTY heralded a new era in international law and order, in which atrocities would never go unpunished. Others were more circumspect, given the international community's stunning inaction throughout the war. In the mid-2000s, Slobodan Milošević was being tried for his role as a politician for participating in war crimes in an effort to realise his plan for Greater Serbia (which effectively meant using force to connect Serbia with Serbian-held territories in Bosnia and Croatia). A former lawyer, Milošević had, in a colourful fashion, represented himself during these proceedings, consistently denying his guilt and refusing to recognise the ICTY's jurisdiction. But after I had accepted my internship and before I arrived, Milošević died suddenly of a heart attack whilst detained at the tribunal. His unexpected death meant he was never actually convicted of the crimes for which he was indicted. When I arrived at the tribunal two months later, the mood there was distinctly sombre; questions were being asked about what meaningful legacy the tribunal could have in the absence of a final judgment against this man who many regarded as the war's symbolic figurehead. July marks the 30th anniversary of the Srebrenica massacre. In 2001, in the first conviction of its kind since the Nuremberg trials, the tribunal found in the case against Radislav Krstić, a military commander, that a genocide had unequivocally occurred. This finding was particularly significant since Srebrenica had been designated a UN 'safe area' and placed under the protection of UN troops. Their mandate was to protect the roughly 60,000 Bosnian Muslims who resided there, many of whom had been internally displaced from other areas of Bosnia. In reality, the UN troops were so effective in demilitarising the area in the lead up to July 1995 that Bosnian Muslims were largely unable to defend themselves when Serb troops advanced and UN troops, ill-equipped to defend the town, watched on. Over less than a week, more than 8000 Bosnian Muslim men between the ages of 16 and 65 were systematically murdered by Serb-controlled forces. To evade the killings, a column of approximately 10,000 Bosnian Muslims escaped into the woods near Srebrenica and survivors refer to these men – husbands, brothers, sons – as those who never returned 'out of the woods'. In some of the most harrowing testimony given at the tribunal, witnesses described Serb soldiers disguising themselves in UN uniforms to lure them out. Later, to conceal the crimes, mass grave sites were moved by excavators to secondary and even tertiary locations. Despite being the location for the adjudication of many of the world's highest-level conflicts, The Hague is a sedate, even serene city. In summer, the weather was temperate. On weekends, I went to the beach and waded out into an ocean that barely mustered a swell. The tulips at that time of year bloom in colours that are vivid and intense. Each day, I cycled along the flat streets, past the distinctive orange-brick houses and the canals to work at the tribunal. I arrived at the aptly named Churchillplein, where the flags of many countries were strung on flagpoles in a colourful row like prayer flags. Although until that point my specialisation and expertise had been in public law, something else quickly drew my attention. At every opportunity, I went to watch the tribunal in session and found myself torn between two conflicting feelings: on the one hand, the defendants appeared so incredibly ordinary, yet had been accused of unimaginable crimes; on the other hand, there was something utterly transfixing about the testimony of witnesses who gave evidence against people who, up to that point, they had lived alongside. Many women, for example, spoke of the last moments of seeing their teenage sons alive before they were transported from the UN base on buses. Despite the enormity of their losses, these witnesses, ordinary people in most cases, found the words to speak compellingly, hauntingly, about experiences that were nothing less than catastrophic. Loading Though debate continues about the tribunal's legacy, particularly because of widespread genocide denial, one of its very valuable achievements was providing a forum for survivors to speak about their experiences. In allowing more than 4000 witnesses to give evidence, the narrative of the war was shifted in a crucial way: the story of the war was told by survivors instead of by the leaders who perpetrated and encouraged mass violence. In retrospect, I think what I recognised in the testimony of witnesses was language operating at its most powerful. In these testimonies, these witnesses were not defeated by the horrific events they had witnessed, but were able to draw some sort of meaning out of the shocking violence and injustice they had observed. It's no exaggeration to say I returned to Australia fundamentally altered by what I had read and observed. In the wake of that experience, I found the strictures of international law far less meaningful than I had before. Not long afterwards, I enrolled in a course in creative writing and my whole life pivoted towards stories.
The Age
3 days ago
- Politics
- The Age
How my summer at The Hague shaped a lifetime
In Summer 2006, when I was practising as a junior lawyer, I was accepted for an internship at the United Nations International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY). I took leave from my job as a public law lawyer and left for The Hague with lofty ambitions of pursuing a career in international law. Though I knew the work of the ICTY was important, in truth, I knew very little about the war in Yugoslavia. The siege of Sarajevo, the longest siege in modern military history, had peppered the news throughout my years in high school, but the facts of this many-sided conflict were resistant to a straightforward description. The ICTY was an ad-hoc tribunal established by a resolution of the Security Council in 1993, intended to prosecute those who had held senior positions in the government and military for war crimes and crimes against humanity. It was the first properly international tribunal of its kind and relied on the principle of international law that certain crimes are so fundamental to our shared humanity that they are binding, whether or not a nation-state has agreed to them. Some said the ICTY heralded a new era in international law and order, in which atrocities would never go unpunished. Others were more circumspect, given the international community's stunning inaction throughout the war. In the mid-2000s, Slobodan Milošević was being tried for his role as a politician for participating in war crimes in an effort to realise his plan for Greater Serbia (which effectively meant using force to connect Serbia with Serbian-held territories in Bosnia and Croatia). A former lawyer, Milošević had, in a colourful fashion, represented himself during these proceedings, consistently denying his guilt and refusing to recognise the ICTY's jurisdiction. But after I had accepted my internship and before I arrived, Milošević died suddenly of a heart attack whilst detained at the tribunal. His unexpected death meant he was never actually convicted of the crimes for which he was indicted. When I arrived at the tribunal two months later, the mood there was distinctly sombre; questions were being asked about what meaningful legacy the tribunal could have in the absence of a final judgment against this man who many regarded as the war's symbolic figurehead. July marks the 30th anniversary of the Srebrenica massacre. In 2001, in the first conviction of its kind since the Nuremberg trials, the tribunal found in the case against Radislav Krstić, a military commander, that a genocide had unequivocally occurred. This finding was particularly significant since Srebrenica had been designated a UN 'safe area' and placed under the protection of UN troops. Their mandate was to protect the roughly 60,000 Bosnian Muslims who resided there, many of whom had been internally displaced from other areas of Bosnia. In reality, the UN troops were so effective in demilitarising the area in the lead up to July 1995 that Bosnian Muslims were largely unable to defend themselves when Serb troops advanced and UN troops, ill-equipped to defend the town, watched on. Over less than a week, more than 8000 Bosnian Muslim men between the ages of 16 and 65 were systematically murdered by Serb-controlled forces. To evade the killings, a column of approximately 10,000 Bosnian Muslims escaped into the woods near Srebrenica and survivors refer to these men – husbands, brothers, sons – as those who never returned 'out of the woods'. In some of the most harrowing testimony given at the tribunal, witnesses described Serb soldiers disguising themselves in UN uniforms to lure them out. Later, to conceal the crimes, mass grave sites were moved by excavators to secondary and even tertiary locations. Despite being the location for the adjudication of many of the world's highest-level conflicts, The Hague is a sedate, even serene city. In summer, the weather was temperate. On weekends, I went to the beach and waded out into an ocean that barely mustered a swell. The tulips at that time of year bloom in colours that are vivid and intense. Each day, I cycled along the flat streets, past the distinctive orange-brick houses and the canals to work at the tribunal. I arrived at the aptly named Churchillplein, where the flags of many countries were strung on flagpoles in a colourful row like prayer flags. Although until that point my specialisation and expertise had been in public law, something else quickly drew my attention. At every opportunity, I went to watch the tribunal in session and found myself torn between two conflicting feelings: on the one hand, the defendants appeared so incredibly ordinary, yet had been accused of unimaginable crimes; on the other hand, there was something utterly transfixing about the testimony of witnesses who gave evidence against people who, up to that point, they had lived alongside. Many women, for example, spoke of the last moments of seeing their teenage sons alive before they were transported from the UN base on buses. Despite the enormity of their losses, these witnesses, ordinary people in most cases, found the words to speak compellingly, hauntingly, about experiences that were nothing less than catastrophic. Loading Though debate continues about the tribunal's legacy, particularly because of widespread genocide denial, one of its very valuable achievements was providing a forum for survivors to speak about their experiences. In allowing more than 4000 witnesses to give evidence, the narrative of the war was shifted in a crucial way: the story of the war was told by survivors instead of by the leaders who perpetrated and encouraged mass violence. In retrospect, I think what I recognised in the testimony of witnesses was language operating at its most powerful. In these testimonies, these witnesses were not defeated by the horrific events they had witnessed, but were able to draw some sort of meaning out of the shocking violence and injustice they had observed. It's no exaggeration to say I returned to Australia fundamentally altered by what I had read and observed. In the wake of that experience, I found the strictures of international law far less meaningful than I had before. Not long afterwards, I enrolled in a course in creative writing and my whole life pivoted towards stories.
The Guardian
17-06-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
Serbia's Exit festival to go ‘into exile' amid government pressure over student protests
One of Europe's largest music festivals will no longer be held in Serbia and could go 'into exile' in Germany or a neighbouring Balkan state after Belgrade withheld funding over its support of the country's anti-corruption student protesters. Exit festival, which is held every July in a medieval bastion fortress in Serbia's second city, Novi Sad, was founded in 2000 by student activists from the protest movement that helped topple Slobodan Milošević. Affordable ticket prices and starry lineups mean it has acquired a reputation as Europe's premier music event with a social conscience, with 210,000 people from more than 80 countries attending in 2024. On Friday, however, Exit's organisers announced that its 25th anniversary edition from 10 to 13 July this year 'will be the last to take place' in Serbia, citing 'undemocratic pressures' from the government of the president, Aleksandar Vučić. Novi Sad has emerged as the hub of the protests that have swept the Balkan state since a concrete canopy collapsed on to a busy pavement at the city's central station last year, killing 14 people. On its social media channels, Exit has endorsed the demands of student protesters, calling for the resignation of the responsible minister and a full investigation into the disaster. The festival has donated food and sleeping bags to protesters blocking access to universities and municipal buildings, and plans to give student activists their own stage at this year's festival. The festival's outspoken stance appears to have drawn the ire of the government, with authorities withholding about €1.5m in national and regional tourism grants and some sponsors dropping out. 'The only way we could continue the festival beyond this year is if we decided not to be free from political influence,' said Exit's founder, Dušan Kovačević, explaining that his festival needs about 15% direct government funding to remain affordable but usually brings approximately €25m into the Serbian economy every year. 'And we cannot be threatened.' Authorities say their 'strategic repositioning' is not politically motivated, blaming financial pressures for being unable to provide support. 'They are trying to govern by fear,' Kovačević said. 'That's not the way to go, especially in a country a political history like Serbia's.' Kovačević said he was in talks to hold 'Exit in exile' iterations of the festival from 2026 after receiving invitations to hold musical events in Germany and several countries in the Balkans, as well as in Egypt. 'We may do it for one year, or maybe two or maybe five,' he added. This year's festival has a lineup that includes the Prodigy, Sex Pistols, the French producer DJ Snake and the Russian singer Nina Kraviz. Asked whether Exit would leave its home country permanently, the festival's organisers said: 'It remains too early to say if or under what conditions the festival will return to Serbia.' The government has been approached for comment.
Saudi Gazette
02-05-2025
- Politics
- Saudi Gazette
Croatia's new 'graveyard law' stirs Serb minority's sentiments
ZAGREB — Croatia's war of independence ended almost 30 years ago. However, the EU and NATO member's lawmakers felt some matters stemming from the conflict had not been fully laid to rest. On Wednesday, MPs overwhelmingly voted in favor of a new piece of legislation called the Graveyard Law, replacing the two-decades-old policy with a fresh set of rules which now demand the removal of graveyard inscriptions and plaques erected during the 1991-1995 conflict "not in line with the constitutional order". The new law, as explained in a statement released by the Ministry of Physical Planning, Construction and State Assets, outlaws inscriptions made during the "occupation and peaceful reintegration" and contains "symbols that might offend the morals and feelings of citizens." The law particularly targets gravestones made after 30 May 1990 — the day when the former Socialist Republic of Croatia inaugurated its first multi-party parliament, an initial step on its path to independence from the rest of Yugoslavia. Its ethnic Serb minority, backed by Belgrade and the nationalist regime of Slobodan Milošević, increasingly disagreed with Croatian President Franjo Tuđman's push for independence. The ethnic Serbs, who were at the time Croatia's largest minority and represented some 12.2% of the population according to the 1991 census, soon unilaterally declared a breakaway state of Republika Srpska Krajina, or the Republic of Serb Krajina, in the country's east. By April 1991, the armed rebellion escalated into a full-fledged war, with the newly-founded Croatian armed forces on one side and the rebels, paramilitaries and the Yugoslav People's Army troops on the other. A series of initial skirmishes and sieges laid waste to cities like Vukovar in Croatia's northeast and led to an international community-arranged stalemate monitored by UN peacekeepers. However, in 1995, the regrouped and rearmed Croatian army's Operations Flash and Storm, respectively, ended the war by pushing out the Serb forces — and most of the ethnic Serb population — from its territory. Now, the new law plans to remove any memorials glorifying either the Republika Srpska Krajina or otherwise celebrating the enemy forces, including referring to Croatia as "Serb land". The legislation states that any citizen can report a tombstone, plaque or other monument as potentially problematic. If found to be at fault, plot owners or relatives of those interred will have 30 days to change the inscription. Otherwise, they would face a fine of €1,000 to €5,000. The decision on what might be in breach of the law will be in the hands of a local commission, consisting of five independent members, including a historian, an art historian and a lawyer. Earlier in April, Minister of Construction, Spatial Planning and State Property Branko Bačić said that the changes to the law were prompted by the fact that "after the occupation of a part of Croatia during the Homeland War, certain graves, monuments and memorial plaques remained with inappropriate names contrary to the constitutional and legal order of the Republic of Croatia." Serb minority representatives have blasted the new legislation, arguing it has turned a communal issue into a political one. Lawmaker Milorad Pupovac, from the SDSS party, earlier criticized the law, saying it creates an impression that Croatia was "pockmarked with (Serb nationalist) graveyards," which he said was not true. "There are people who are bothered by symbols associated with the Ustasha ideology and idea, which can also be found in certain cemeteries, but also outside the cemeteries on monuments, and they offend their religious and national feelings," he said at a parliament session in late April, referring to the Croatian Nazi collaborationist units from World War II and their tombstones and other memorials, which the law does not ecompass. While his party was in favour of removing any troubling remnants of the 1991-1995 war, Pupovac added, "We are now afraid of what might bother you next". This is not the first time in recent years that Croatian authorities have attempted to tackle this sensitive issue. In August 2024, a judge in the city of Zadar on the Adriatic coast fined two Croatian citizens who are singers in a local folk band over references to the Republika Srpska Krajina and the Serb participation in the war. In his rationale, the judge stated that "songs with this content cause unrest among citizens, especially among citizens who were directly exposed to war suffering," and "disturb the coexistence of Croat citizens of Croatia and citizens of Serb ethnicity." Most ethnic Serbs have not returned to Croatia following Operation Storm, and the minority now comprises around 3.2% of Croatia's population, according to the 2021 census. — Euronews
Euronews
01-05-2025
- Politics
- Euronews
Croatia's new 'graveyard law' stirs Serb minority's sentiments
ADVERTISEMENT Croatia's war of independence ended almost 30 years ago. However, the EU and NATO member's lawmakers felt some matters stemming from the conflict had not been fully laid to rest. On Wednesday, MPs overwhelmingly voted in favour of a new piece of legislation called the Graveyard Law, replacing the two-decades-old policy with a fresh set of rules which now demand the removal of graveyard inscriptions and plaques erected during the 1991-1995 conflict "not in line with the constitutional order". The new law, as explained in a statement released by the Ministry of Physical Planning, Construction and State Assets, outlaws inscriptions made during the "occupation and peaceful reintegration" and contains "symbols that might offend the morals and feelings of citizens." The law particularly targets gravestones made after 30 May 1990 — the day when the former Socialist Republic of Croatia inaugurated its first multi-party parliament, an initial step on its path to independence from the rest of Yugoslavia. Its ethnic Serb minority, backed by Belgrade and the nationalist regime of Slobodan Milošević, increasingly disagreed with Croatian President Franjo Tuđman's push for independence. The ethnic Serbs, who were at the time Croatia's largest minority and represented some 12.2% of the population according to the 1991 census, soon unilaterally declared a breakaway state of Republika Srpska Krajina, or the Republic of Serb Krajina, in the country's east. By April 1991, the armed rebellion escalated into a full-fledged war, with the newly-founded Croatian armed forces on one side and the rebels, paramilitaries and the Yugoslav People's Army troops on the other. A private car passes beneath the barrel of a Yugoslav federal army tank that is on guard at the village of Glina, 5 July 1991 AP Photo A series of initial skirmishes and sieges laid waste to cities like Vukovar in Croatia's northeast and led to an international community-arranged stalemate monitored by UN peacekeepers. However, in 1995, the regrouped and rearmed Croatian army's Operations Flash and Storm, respectively, ended the war by pushing out the Serb forces — and most of the ethnic Serb population — from its territory. Now, the new law plans to remove any memorials glorifying either the Republika Srpska Krajina or otherwise celebrating the enemy forces, including referring to Croatia as "Serb land". The legislation states that any citizen can report a tombstone, plaque or other monument as potentially problematic. If found to be at fault, plot owners or relatives of those interred will have 30 days to change the inscription. Otherwise, they would face a fine of €1,000 to €5,000. The decision on what might be in breach of the law will be in the hands of a local commission, consisting of five independent members, including a historian, an art historian and a lawyer. Earlier in April, Minister of Construction, Spatial Planning and State Property Branko Bačić said that the changes to the law were prompted by the fact that "after the occupation of a part of Croatia during the Homeland War, certain graves, monuments and memorial plaques remained with inappropriate names contrary to the constitutional and legal order of the Republic of Croatia." 'We are afraid of what might bother you next' Serb minority representatives have blasted the new legislation, arguing it has turned a communal issue into a political one. Lawmaker Milorad Pupovac, from the SDSS party, earlier criticised the law, saying it creates an impression that Croatia was "pockmarked with (Serb nationalist) graveyards," which he said was not true. ADVERTISEMENT "There are people who are bothered by symbols associated with the Ustasha ideology and idea, which can also be found in certain cemeteries, but also outside the cemeteries on monuments, and they offend their religious and national feelings," he said at a parliament session in late April, referring to the Croatian Nazi collaborationist units from World War II and their tombstones and other memorials, which the law does not ecompass. While his party was in favour of removing any troubling remnants of the 1991-1995 war, Pupovac added, "We are now afraid of what might bother you next". This is not the first time in recent years that Croatian authorities have attempted to tackle this sensitive issue. In August 2024, a judge in the city of Zadar on the Adriatic coast fined two Croatian citizens who are singers in a local folk band over references to the Republika Srpska Krajina and the Serb participation in the war. ADVERTISEMENT In his rationale, the judge stated that "songs with this content cause unrest among citizens, especially among citizens who were directly exposed to war suffering," and "disturb the coexistence of Croat citizens of Croatia and citizens of Serb ethnicity." Most ethnic Serbs have not returned to Croatia following Operation Storm, and the minority now comprises around 3.2% of Croatia's population, according to the 2021 census.
