Jim’s Food Mart
“We have all your party needs!”
^ University at Texas Ave.
846-5007
Delta Sigma Phi is the
Fraternity of the month.
&
Rick Trevino tickets on sale.
All major credit cards accepted.
We Support Aggie Organizations.
Jim’s Food Mart
A New Aggie Tradition.
The friendliest cashiers in town.
Page 10 • The Battalion
Thursday • March 21,1996
0
Parents Night Out
A free babysitting program for ALL
Texas A&M Faculty. Staff and Students
provided by the members of
Alpha Phi Omega will be
Friday. March 26. 1996
6:30 - 10:00 p.m.
Koldus 110
Questions?
Call the APO office at 862-2525
MSC L. T. Jordan Institute for
International Awareness Fellows
Program presents
Leslie Pourteau
Walking Wordsworth's Path
David Snyder
Liquid Fuel for Naval Purposes:
Oil. Technology, and the British Hege
mony before the First World War.
Thursday, March 21st 7:00pm
Rudder Tower Room 701
For more information call 845-8770
or e-mail: ji-fellows@msc.tamu.edu
X- Persons with disabilities please call 845-8770 to inform t.
us of your special needs.
The
University
of Texas
at Dallas
Cohort
MBA
New full-time MBA Program
Full-time MBA Program, 4 semesters, 16 months
"Management Skills for the Information Age"
Global perspective in the curriculum
Industry leaders enhance classroom experience
Small size, personal attention, internationally
recognized faculty
Scholarships for meritorious candidates
Open House March 28, 5-7 p.m.
407 Rudder on campus
For more information, call Dr. G. Kalyanaram, Director:
(214) 883-6822 or toll free (800) 565-CMBA
http://www.utdallas.edu/dept/mgmt/cohort
An Equal Opportunity/Affirmative Action University
Wandering through
a war-torn world
E Ven people who have known
me for years were a little sur
prised by the idea. Almost no one
Frank Stanford, Special to The Baitai.ion
A disabled Serbian tank lies in front of a shelled apartment high rise.
goes to Bosnia for Spring Break....
... Although I already had
an interest in Bosnia from
a couple of classes I’d tak
en, I never really thought
about going there.
But when the opportunity
presented itself, and a
cheap plane fare became
available, I just couldn’t
resist.
Frank
Stanford
for weapons. The consul who ad
vised me was not very encourag
ing. He provided a copy of the
State Department’s official warn
ing and told me stuff I sort of as
sumed anyway. I had been to
war-torn countries before and
knew how to be careful.
He was thorough and matter-
of-fact with what he mentioned.
Cheap fares, however, usually have a few
drawbacks involved. In my case, the plane
landed a couple of countries north of my desti
nation. The rest of the way was up to me. Actu
ally getting into Bosnia and experiencing other
cultures along the way became half the trip.
When I arrived in Hungary, I was starving.
So I meandered around Budapest looking for a
restaurant and a cultural encounter.
I hit the jackpot. The beer was cold, the food
was hot, the place was run by musical Gypsies,
and I was the only customer. I ate and drank
my fill while a string quintet played at my
table. I tipped them with a few packs of Ameri
can cigarettes and everyone was happy. In
Hungary, that is.
The next day I hopped a 6-hour train to Za
greb, Croatia. It was a sobering experience to
say the least. I shared a compartment with two
Romanians who were fleeing their country for a
better life in Italy, the end of the line. One
spoke English and the other spoke vodka, so
communication was possible.
They had never met an American before and
couldn’t believe I would even sit with them.
They told me about how horrible life is in Ro
mania, that they were licensed engineers and
made only $75 a month. They asked me every
thing about America they could think of. What
do we eat? Can we actually own a home? Can
we really buy guns?
One of them had a map and showed me
where they boarded the train in Romania.
They had traveled 14 hours already and still
had another 12 to go. When we stopped at
the Croatian border, the police gave me a
free visa, but asked them to pay 100 dollars
each. There was some yelling, and my com
panions were forcibly removed without their
belongings. A man told me they were going
to jail. I threw a coat out of the window into
the darkness. I still have their map.
At the last stop before Zagreb, two Croat
ian women boarded and sat down in my com
partment. They were college students, and
one of them spoke English. She was from
Sarajevo, Bosnia, but left when the war
started. She told me how her cousins and
many of her friends had been killed by the
Serbs. She didn’t say much more after that.
I arrived in Zagreb after midnight and found
a place to stay. It was cold. I had a connection
at the university there, but he had left the
country for a few days. It took a day and a half
for my previously made plans to completely fall
apart. You see, I was supposed to be accompa
nied into Bosnia; I’m not that stupid. But I was
now on my own in freakin’ Croatia.
I decided to enter Bosnia by myself. I was
painfully aware that I was a lone American
who had no idea what I was doing.
Luckily, I remembered that a place exists
for Americans abroad who don’t know what
they’re doing — the American Embassy.
At the Embassy, I was frisked and checked
There was no unified civil authority, little or no
medical facilities and no public transportation.
The roads, airports and trains had been
bombed, and there were land mines and unex-
ploded devices everywhere. Any bus routes
were unofficial and would be on unsecured
Bosnian roadway.
I thanked him, filled out a form listing my
next of kin, and called the Bosnian Embassy to
hear what they had to say about buses.
I explained to the secretary that I wanted to
go into Bosnia to take pictures, video and write
a story. She said, “Sarajevo is safe for you, the
buses will avoid any Serbian territory.” She
added that a bus left from Zagreb every day.
So, I bought a ticket, and in two hours began
my 16-hour journey to Sarajevo.
By morning I was deep in Bosnia. It was
mountainous and blanketed in snow — quite
beautiful until the first destroyed village came
into view. Bombed, burned and lifeless, the
dead little towns came one after the other.
The bus continued around hairpin turns,
over gravel roads and bombed-out bridges re
paired by the United Nations. As we slowly
rolled across an especially high and particular
ly damaged bridge, a young Bosnian girl turned
around in her seat and smiled at me.
“You know swimming?,” she asked.
I felt a much needed grin spread across my
face as I glanced at the river far below.
“Yes,” I said, “I know swimming.”
She had learned English by watching
movies. Because of the war, she had been away
from Sarajevo for six months. Her cousin, aunt
and grandmother were traveling with her and
had not seen their home in four years. 1 could
tell that the adults knew what to expect of then-
city, but when the bus arrived in Sarajevo, the
cousin — who had been intently staring out the
window — began to cry.
The city was a shambles. Every building in
every direction was covered with bullet holes
and bomb blasts. A tank with a British flag
rumbled past, and well-armed soldiers stood
their posts.
The Holiday Inn was right around the cor
ner. What was once a beautiful structure now
displayed shot-out windows, boarded-up doors
and tank traps at the entrance. I found my way
inside to discover it was open for business. But
not my business.
I had some cash on hand, but they wanted
$230 a night and I still had to buy a ticket out
of there. I didn’t feel like sleeping on snowy
streets, so with a heavy sigh I flashed my credit
card. They laughed. A familiar commercial ran
through my head. “Visa Gold, it’s everywhere
you want to be.” They should have added, “Ex
cept Sarajevo.”
I sat down for a cigarette, my only friend in
Bosnia. But not for long.
A few minutes later, a man walked up to me
and asked if I needed a cab. I explained I didn’t
have anywhere to go. For a pack of cigarettes,
he offered to take me to one more hotel. So 1
got in the car. His name was Adnan.
He had a .45 caliber pistol strapped to his
side. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m in the Bosn
ian Army.” We arrived at the hotel where some
British journalists were staying, but the cost
was still prohibitive. He offered to put me up at
his house with his family, and I accepted.
Adnan drove me all over Sarajevo while I
filmed from his car. In broken English, he gave
me a general understanding of what life was
like in Sarajevo.
He took me to his mother-in-law’s home in a
heavily bombed suburb on a snow-covered hill.
The next door neighbors were dead from
grenade blasts, and their own house had nu
merous holes in the roof. Many friends and rel
atives were killed in that very neighborhood.
I was welcomed into the three room house
with open arms by five other family members.
The grandmother fed me well, and we all
smoked and drank Turkish coffee for several
hours. It didn’t matter that I was American
and they were all Muslim. Only one spoke
English, but that didn’t seem to matter either.
Everyone was a part of the conversation.
The next morning Adnan took me to the
bus station. And just like the Bosnian Em
bassy told me, the bus had to change routes
because of Serbian millitary movement. The
journey was only 11 hours this time, but I
still had plenty of time to think about the
people I had met.
No matter who you are, where you are,
when you are, or what you believe in, there
really is very little difference among the peo
pie of the world.
Everyone wants a good life.
Even Bosnians.
Frank Stanford is a graduate
phi losophy student
Frank Stanford, Special to Tm: BAimios
The newspaper headquarters in Sarajevo was
bombed by Serbian aggressors.
The Association of
Former Students
Induction Banquet
Wednesday & Thursday, April 3 & 4, 1996
COLLEGE STATION HILTON HOTEL
GRAND BALLROOM - 6:15 P. M.
All May & August '96 graduates* are invited
Complimentary tickets may be picked up in the
MSC Hallway, March 26, 27, & 28 (9 a.m. - 3 p.m.)
TICKETS GIVEN ON A FIRST-COME, FIRST-SERVED BASIS
Student I.D. Required to Pick Up Tickets
Compliments of The Association of Former Students
*Graduate students not already a member may attend either night
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