Two days before the RTS building was bombed, the Kosmaj mobile unit received an order to carry out a general rehearsal for inclusion in the program. Everything was ready - they did not turn on, nor two days later. In the last continuation of the feuilletonized diary The good ones soldier Soldier, the author testifies about the night of April 23, 1999 from the point of view of a journalist who failed to complete his task
The van turned from the main road onto a side road, we crossed a small bridge from Malec and stopped in front of a white house with a soldier standing in front of it. Quietly, with blankets under our arms, we entered the prefabricated house that was assigned to us in case of displacement. There, on a white plastic garden chair, sat another soldier. Boyka immediately, throwing her blanket on the bench right next to the door, marked her territory where we would spend almost the entire NATO bombing. Bojka explained to me that the next "compartment" is intended for a doctor and a nurse, and the third, last one, houses the headquarters. The rest of the room was made up of white plastic garden chairs. The blackout was complete, and military blankets were hung on the windows. Above the bar hung a light bulb around which a black cloth was attached.
We went out to smoke. At intervals of ten minutes, other vans arrived with eight of our colleagues each.
- Kevo, when are we going back to the hotel from here? - I asked.
- Around five in the morning. It's a very stupid way - you come here because of the air danger, and then you come back at dawn while the danger still lasts - she answered resignedly.
I went back inside and noticed the bags lined up on the floor side by side. If it wasn't sad, it would be really funny. Like sardines, editors, lighting staff, journalists, editors and others lay next to each other. The light fixture Gaddafi won the space in front of the opening to enter the bar, and completely pressed against the wall. I found some of my colleagues wrapping newspaper around their dogs to protect their kidneys.
The night was one of the coldest. Here and there a few birds would call; the second sound came from the commander's motorola, through which we were informed about the movement of the plane. In pitch darkness, with lit cigarettes, we must have seemed like a swarm of fireflies. Everyone was whispering and soon only the footsteps of the soldier on duty could be clearly heard. At that moment, planes were heard. "It's on," I thought. Someone present noticed my panic and spoke to me in a comforting tone:
- Don't worry, there is a corridor for them. Around one or two o'clock there is another surge.
I looked at them - they were all calmly smoking their cigarettes, the bravest ones ran out onto the plateau outside and started "pigeoning".
- Their mother, how I would like his gall to burst while pressing that button - said bearded Jova angrily and lifted his vest with his shoulders.
Veljko also spoke out, presenting the theory that the Croats were to blame for everything (to him, they were to blame for everything in the world). Veljko was a small mobile pantry and a store of good knives. In the pockets of his waistcoat, the number of which was unknown, he always carried a few cloves of garlic, three hundred grams of homemade bacon, and on one occasion a jar of homemade ajvar. I was most fascinated by his white silk scarf double-wrapped around his neck and his snake-chasing stick, which would play an important role one night on foot. Deka and Krle crept up slowly, asking Boyka for "Mukodin". They also offered us, which we refused, informing them that we had already taken "Boli me k...", as we called tranquilizers. Suddenly there was silence, no planes could be heard. We went inside to hear what was going on.
I tried to think of other things - it doesn't work. I tried to watch the movie, also without success. Don't think, just don't think, especially about airplanes, about your own, about yourself. It's my birthday in three days, and me? What me? You can't do it from here. In that argument with myself, sleep slowly overcame me. I was awakened from that painstakingly won dream by the blunt impact of a bomb somewhere nearby and the clinking of tavern windows. At the same moment, I jumped up and quickly put on my boots while waking Boyka. I didn't understand why the rest of the team didn't react. We ran outside and only when the fresh air hit us, Boyka angrily exclaimed:
- You are not normal, for panicking! They are not targeting us!
- But the windows were shaking - I defended myself.
- So what? It's normal for the windows to shake when they bomb. I will kill you. And the other day we had a false alarm at the hotel when it turned out that Mirko was conducting a team readiness exercise. Due to bad orientation, I hit my head on the wall - she said and lit a cigarette.
We headed back to the hotel around five in the morning. At the very entrance to the hotel complex, in that foggy dawn, I saw a "camouflaged" ramp over which two bricks were placed. This "scenographically" arranged ramp was supposed to send the message "there is no one here". I laughed softly - well, Prle and Tihi were more original, we are on the level of "Salaš in Mali rit"!
The next evening, the headquarters divided us into two groups formed to form a small RTS, which means that they will have the radio and TV crew together, plus the equipment. The relocation is done in groups - some go to Koraćica, while others stay in "Red Star". If one group dies, another remains to complete the task; lists will be posted on the door of the restaurant. The cafe in Koraćica caught my eye again. We sit and smoke a few cigarettes. Some are crouched in plastic white chairs and as the sound of the plane gets louder, they get closer and closer to the wall; others raise their heads to heaven and begin to worship God:
- Their aggressor mother is guaranteed to target Valjevo. What if the plane doesn't crash here, so that we can show them their God.
- Hush, hush - comes the famous radio voice of Čuka.
I saw a strange light below us and warned Boyka. We were suspicious because there are no buildings down there.
- This light is moving, don't you think so? - I asked and swallowed the dumpling. - Maybe someone discovered us.
- Let's report to the commander - said Boyka, always diligent in completing each task.
I discreetly approached Bracica the technician and invited him to look at the light that was visible two hundred meters below the building where we were sleeping. Bracika took out a flashlight from his pocket, and after the inspection concluded that we should call Slavko, who is rumored to have been on the battlefield in Croatia. Slavko takes the reconnaissance task even more seriously, casts a commando's eye in that direction and decides to go on a reconnaissance mission with Bracik. Our hearts were beating like rabbits. Not even five minutes had passed, and there were the two of them with a report: false alarm, lights in the substation guarded by some people. A little later, it was noticed that "something was smoking downstairs" and reported to the commander, who again ordered Slavko to investigate the matter accompanied by a soldier. After some time, the scout came back and reported to Commander Mirko, and only then to us:
- Well, it's nothing. The peasants set fire to the branches and dry grass that they had cleaned in the yard, the air raid siren whistled, and they ran away without extinguishing the fire!
The following evening, I gave my booth to my colleagues from Dvestadvojka, Dušan and Dragan, and Duca from the First Program joined them. I noticed that Costa, the leader of the radio crew, is not on the relocation list at all and that he stays in the hotel all the time. Mirko was quite nervous, and his motorola was buzzing non-stop. I realized that something strange was going on, and I decided to take one "I'm in pain..." pill. According to my estimation, we will not get any bombs tonight - either they will fall from above, from NATO, or they will come from below, from the headquarters. I headed to the middle booth, because as I said, I gave up mine. As the stick booth was right next to mine, I heard disturbing voices coming through the motorola. It was radio amateurs and the army that told us where the planes were coming from. Suddenly there was a terrible detonation. At that moment, grandfather Dušan fell from his sleeping place on Duc, who was lying on the floor wrapped in a sack.
- Man, what are you doing here? - protested Draško.
- I fell from the plane! - exclaims the grandfather with half-closed eyes.
- Oh, what a plane, you fell on me. Get up, grandpa, you're lying on top of me!
Dragan and I wanted to help, but the laughter was stronger than us. It took Daddy at least three minutes to regain consciousness and realize that he had fallen off the bench, and onto Duc. The tablet slowly began to work, and my ear ached perfectly for grandfather, for Duca, and for the plane from which grandfather fell. The sound of real planes slowly began to affect me like a lullaby, and I drifted off to sleep.
***
The day after the relocation was difficult and it was difficult to establish a normal daily rhythm. On April 21st, I forced myself to do something and started listening to the "News of the Day" at 15 p.m. All of a sudden, there was some anxiety - word spread that tonight we have a rehearsal for direct inclusion in the program. Lila and I found ourselves at the radio in the blink of an eye, the announcer Milena came running, Čuka and Deki the sound engineer took their positions, and the rehearsal could begin. Krle ran in and announced that we have an established signal, and that we are free to go with the news at 21 p.m. I left the radio room for a moment to observe what was happening with the rest of the crew: the TV crew ran out of the editing room and ran into the press room, Vukaša's announcer was licking his hair with gel... In the corridor, I met Ljilja, in whose eyes I also saw disbelief what is happening. The radio door opened eagerly and Costa came out, all intent on me:
- Little one, you were recording the news of the day today. Tell me, what was today's first news?
- What is written on the paper - I answered confidently.
- But this is a report on bombed locations - said Kosta, looking at the paper in surprise. - And where did you get the first news, that "President Milosevic did this or that"?
He somehow finally realized that the first news did not concern President Milošević, and went to the studio completely amazed. Not for long - a few minutes later he ran out, all red-faced, announcing that we don't have a sound recording of Mirko Marjanović. Unbearable silence and great anticipation reigned - we were all at our workplaces, even the cooks in the restaurant became extremely serious. We were entering the third hour of waiting to be directly included in the radio and TV program. The standard radio news started at 10 and Treći dnevnik on television, and everything went quiet until midnight and we still didn't know if we were tuning in directly or just practicing. A little after one hour after midnight, we were called to an urgent meeting.
- Well, tonight we should have joined the program directly - began Costa, while we sincerely hoped that in the continuation of the speech, he would clarify the secret of tonight's (non) inclusion. In vain. - The situation is complex, I am the first one against relocation and I cannot function like that, and I see that this is the problem of most people. No one sleeps there, and then we come back here at dawn.
We watched and listened to our leader with wide open eyes and ears, convinced that maybe he was confused and that there was a short circuit somewhere in his head. However, he continued in this style until Deci became annoyed:
- Costa, I ask you, how do you think you can broadcast the program from here if they hit all the repeaters?
- Come on, don't break unity and be destructive. The program will be broadcast - he replied nervously.
- Kosta, I also have a question - I announced to the astonishment of our team leader. - Considering the technical situation and the fact that NATO detects a signal in seven seconds, I ask you how many minutes of the program I give my life for?
***
The afternoon of that April 23 passed somewhat lazily, we were frolicking while Bracika tested our internal siren. He was excited by the fact that they were targeting TV Pink. Bracicka's "shizela" was real - it produced a sound of 1000 decibels. He was happy to be doing something, the ponytail on his gray beard swaying proudly as he worried if we on the third floor would even hear the siren. Somewhere in the evening, rumors began to spread that we would not be moving that night, which caused volleys of delight and joy. I went to the press room, and slowly started to download the news from Tanjug. The technology was dozing in a corner, the new typist Cica was still trying to understand the situation, and Duda was sitting with the leftover food with the editors. I didn't have a seat and I couldn't watch a movie on Politica. Sometime after midnight, Mira, the secretary of the staff, rushed into the dining room, looking for someone with her eyes:
- Are there any journalists here? - she asked more in a whisper.
Based on the tone of her voice, I decided that she didn't really need me, so I didn't respond. I went to sleep, having previously stopped by the press room to check if anything was going on. Nesha from the First Program was sitting there at the computer, which was a little strange. But I was tired and didn't react, concluding that the man was probably on duty. I fell asleep around half past two. Half asleep, I thought I heard Bracica's siren. No, I'm not mistaken, I heard her, it's Bracica's siren. Sale rushed into our room saying:
- Get up quickly. Don't be afraid, they are not targeting us. They bombed the television - he spoke and disappeared.
Duda and I got dressed in a minute and headed to the press room. At 02:14 everyone was already in their seats. I took the tape recorder and headed towards the TV in the restaurant to record the first statements from other channels.
We no longer existed. Passing by, I saw the presenter Vesna, who was hurriedly finishing her make-up for direct inclusion in the program. Everything was quiet, only the television, our footsteps and running could be heard. Mika Kaironista established the signal and informed us that we can start broadcasting at any hour; radio and television crew leaders reviewed the news; chef Mirko was also at his workplace; the doctor stopped us on the way and offered us tranquilizers. Every hour, a recording of our building and the first information on Politika, Studio B and BK television were expected. We did not know who was on duty at RTS that night, and whether it was someone we knew. At that moment, we were not aware of it (and it didn't matter to us) that we would be the next target if we started broadcasting.
The tension grew, we started to get angry with our colleagues from other TV companies for not yet having footage from the scene. On Politika, they repeated that the RTS building was bombed at 02:06 a.m. and that they expect footage from the field every hour that they will release unedited. Kosta is in a panic that we don't have video recordings, I go to him and explain to him that we can take the sound track off the TV if there is complete silence in the restaurant. There are announcements on the television program that footage from the scene is expected. I nervously switch from channel to channel, my colleagues get angry thinking that we will miss seeing what happened in Abardareva. Finally, Politika informs that their team has returned from Abardareva and that they are broadcasting the unedited footage in its entirety.
Today, I no longer know which frame we saw first, but I know for sure that at that moment many of us saw ourselves. We immediately localized the shooting site - the master, the heart of television. I will never forget that mute mutual cry of pain let out at that moment. I can't forget the man who was hanging and whom we tried to pull out together with the rescue team. We shouted "hurry up", "take it easy", "don't move, you will break him". We asked them to return the staff, we wanted to see if they saved him. From somewhere, Aleksandar Vučić from the Radical Party, then Minister of Information, appeared on the screen. Although he was not a favorite character, we felt sorry for him - he was looking for his mom who was on duty that night.
- Marija, our clinic is gone - said sister Mila, looking at the frame in which the corner of our Health Center is recognized. The screen was filled with one total in which our colleague was still hanging, and we started to help him again even though we knew it was a delayed recording, not going live. Unreasonable for the technology we were dealing with, we wanted life. Today, they ask me if we were aware that we would be a target if we started with the program, and what was in our heads at that moment. Nothing, one big nothing! And Mika, who established the signal and was the first to "sign up to NATO", forgot about his fear. In the small team of RTS, the only unit that that media company had at the time, masochism manifested itself as a direct consequence of disbelief in human folly: whichever television station broadcasted footage of the demolished RTS building, we watched, watched, watched... We recognized and interpreted every expression on the faces of those who were in the building.
Time went on, the first statements and comments started, we started to "package" them for shows that might start from our chukka. No one knew when we would start broadcasting, we wanted it to be right away regardless of the potential danger of bombing. That one sentence, sent and spoken from this chukka, would justify our many-week stay, displacement, hiding in the forests. It was never spoken, and the signal remained forever lost somewhere in the forest. Around six or seven in the morning, RTS journalists announced themselves through Studio B. We couldn't believe it - our program started from their studio! We weren't heroes looking for glory, we just didn't understand why we were sent here in the first place. In the evening, we started moving, away from the phone and from any possibility to inform each other more precisely who died, who we know... At half past eight we were all in front of the television. The first minute of Dnevnik 2 started, the second, the third... Around 17-18 p.m. minute, the story about the bombing of the president's residence started with polls and telegrams condemning that act. And then, in the 21st minute, the information that the RTS building was targeted was inconspicuously pasted onto the story about the telegrams of condemnation.
***
Increasingly afraid for our safety, Mirko moved us every day, and one part of the team stayed with his friend Ljuba in his tavern. As usual, Mirko first visited us who were sleeping in Ljuba's tavern and was preparing to leave for Koraćica. Airplanes circled frantically above our heads. At one point, a terrible bang was heard. The earth shook and a strange light was seen.
- They were shooting at us, go inside - commanded Mirko, and tried to call the security guard Rasha, who stayed at "Red Star" every night, using his Motorola. No one responded on the other end; he tried to call Koraćica with a motorbike to check that the bomb had not fallen there. Bracika reported that everything is fine in Koraćica and that the "Red Star" hotel was most likely the target. A little later, security guard Raša reported that the repeater had been hit. The day after the bombardment of the repeater, which was located about 50 meters from the hotel, no one from the headquarters called our cell phone to ask how we were doing. Except for Panovski, who was withdrawn from here after the bombing of the television.
In the middle of May, the attacks became more frequent, fatigue and the sound of the airplane were constantly fighting in my head. I thought I heard airplanes, and maybe it was a dream.
- Vojka, get up, the planes are above us. A quick run into the forest, we all leave the facility - shouted Juca, throwing a sweater and a backpack at me. It wasn't a dream. We headed towards the forest and ended up in a tavern where we found a frightened landlady and a waitress. Another crash; we ran for cover crawling, the repeater was only 150 meters away from us. Now I don't remember anything anymore, except for that dull noise that came from the shrapnel that cut everything in front of me and some voices that called me. Later, he will explain to me that like a madman, I went in an unknown direction through the forest. I don't remember that either, except that Cica caught up with me at one point and gave me a good shake. She picked a wild rose of beautiful pink color and handed it to me:
- Look how nice this rose smells. Smell it.
With unprecedented panic and uproar, the men rushed to Mirko's headquarters with hot shrapnel in their hands. The hotel was half empty, because Mirko had evacuated a good part of the team to Koraćica. And they slowly returned. Just as the first van arrived, there was another explosion. We ran frantically towards the forest, towards the pool, towards something... I left Cica and the medical staff, and started looking for my piece of the forest. On one slope of 70 degrees, Sale was trying to keep his balance and eat pâté, which he had picked up from the kitchen along the way.
I also somehow found my piece of forest, sat on my red backpack and started muttering to myself like the others.
After lunch we were informed that we were going home tomorrow. Mobilna 2 is disbanded until further notice. Komrakov met us at the meeting place in Belgrade to praise our mobile phone. "You have completed the task for which you were sent," he declared on that occasion. We'll never know what that assignment was.
(The end)
From the first day, on-call duty was introduced in two shifts (daytime from 6.30:18.30 a.m. to 18.30:6.30 p.m. and night time from XNUMX:XNUMX p.m. to XNUMX:XNUMX a.m.). My group consisted of seven people. One was mobilized right at the beginning, and the other left after a week, leaving only five little Indians. Or rather, maybe clay pigeons! Sick leave and annual leave do not exist, and leaving the workplace or not showing up entitles you to court martial. That's what they announced to us on the third day of the war.
I learned about the list of goals for the first time from you, and you also know when it was. Until Monday, April 19, I didn't feel that it was still our turn. That morning, the CNN journalists picked up their sticks and lit them (our technical director presented them with the bill for the stay, and they fell on their ass when they saw the number...xaxaxa). That night I was on call. I first learned from you what they are telling us from there. People are calling me from all over to ask me why I'm still here... when the whole world is buzzing that they're going to target us that night. I was not lazy then (and I was lucky enough to find the head of the maintenance department) and I went to the man (for the first time until then, before I was just observing what was happening - and that's just a story for a separate letter) to ask him specific questions about to the fate of people who stay awake at night. I think I already told you about that, so I won't repeat myself. As you know, I didn't get a concrete answer, but at least I was grateful to him that he didn't freak me out with some idiotic story (eg: he's working... don't be afraid, they won't shoot us... or: don't worry, you'll be informed in time... that I had the opportunity to hear in the past few days). And so I went back to my room…. I didn't have the feeling that they would target us that night, because it needed to be pumped up a little more. That night, people from the master's were transferred to our part, five of them (only that evening; none the next!!!!!). To die of laughter from black people. Some of us are safe (as it turned out later), and some still think of the people who work there. Just another proof of my assumption that nothing will happen that night.
Well, my motto continued to play (communication between on-call staff was almost non-existent, at least for us in maintenance): everyone should decide according to their own reason, feeling or not, but what they should decide. I'm illustrating my pictures in my head now: whether someone will inform us or not... whether someone cares about us or not, you definitely don't rely on that now. Now it's already getting thick, I'm not counting on someone taking care of us, but I'm looking at how to possibly avoid some criminal prosecution for leaving the workplace, and at the same time save my ass, and all this with the hope that there is also a factor of luck.
Every next night, people behaved in one way or another, that is, at workplaces, and how and for how long, going out or not... a matter of personal choice. And the LOTTERY is open!
Here's an example for one reason: my brother M. was sitting with his master's classmates in their room two nights before the tragedy. He was also outside before that, more precisely in the park, they were thinking, and when they got cold they went back. Then CK hit, and my M. judged that it was over for that night (on the basis of what ???? who knows). He didn't leave the building anymore, and then he stopped by the master to chat with his colleagues. He spent a lot of time with them before because he knows them all well and felt comfortable there.
After two days, the TV, more precisely: the master, the director, the photo-lab, and many other things no longer exist. Damn it, and the building wasn't emptied of some guards there... fuck them in the head... both NATO and our scum who not only didn't prevent it, but I think they deliberately victimized them!!!
Just a few more details from that night, so I'll finish this letter. That night around 22 pm one of our ing. of managers comes to the general director to ask that people be allowed to go home after midnight, and this snotty bastard tells him that he can take his notebook if he wants to go!!!!!??????
Some people (production) were allowed to go home around 1.30:XNUMX a.m. Many companies in our area were informed (also at half past two) to vacate their buildings.
Now who will explain to Banet's kid (who is about 15 years old) not to wait in front of the building for them to find his father, because there is probably nothing left of him!!!!! And who will console D. Munitlak for losing his second daughter as well. Who will convince him that the make-up artist had to be on duty??? By the way, she was injured at the moment when she wanted to leave the building. They later removed her rings for identification!!!
In the elections on May 5, 1935, the government and opposition lists were voted on. Before the elections, the government intimidated teachers and scholars with dismissals and arrests, called opposition candidates Ustasha allies and accused them of organizing the assassination of the king, prevented foreign journalists from reporting...
As if by pattern, the same thing that is happening now on Novoj.rs, happened on Television Novi Sad in October 1990.
Vesna Lalić, an excellent photographer, has passed away. She photographed all the most important social and political events in Serbia, as well as seemingly ordinary everyday moments.
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"The one who remains stuck in the sphere of traumatic experiences, who constantly thinks that, here, while we are talking about the book, someone is given the wrong diagnosis, someone is sloppily operated on, someone is receiving therapy that they do not need, someone is losing their hair, that person has a problem because living in fear is not life, and psychotherapy is an expensive thing."
There is, literally, no difference between the one who claims it is day in the middle of the night, or the one who claims to be a giraffe, from the claims we read on billboards: that Vučić is working to unify Serbs and that Serbia is doing better and better day by day.
The pre-election arrests due to the alleged "overthrow of the state" testify to the regime's panic. The bad news for them is - they can't arrest the whole people who decided to defend themselves from progressive beatings and election theft
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