In Tuzla, U.S. Means Peace--and Maybe More

When he was a child during World War II, Hamid Hrustanovic remembers, the Americans airlifted food and clothing to his cold and hungry family. More than 50 years later, he is counting on the Americans to bring peace to this war-torn land.

A Muslim refugee from Serbian territory, Hrustanovic supports himself by selling salted pumpkin seeds out of a plastic bag as he roams the streets of Tuzla. He stays warm in a black beret and a recently donated ski jacket that says “Colorado” on one sleeve and “Aspen” on the back.

“The Americans help us in all ways, and we are very thankful,” said Hrustanovic, 64, who lost his son and two sons-in-law in the Bosnian war. “The Americans are good friends of our people.”

As U.S. troops begin pouring into the air base outside this gray industrial city, Tuzlans and refugees alike have high hopes for the U.S. peacekeeping mission.

After 3 1/2 years of war, many people here in northeastern Bosnia-Herzegovina are optimistic that U.S. involvement will finally mean an end to the ethnic conflict that has killed more than 200,000 people and displaced more than 2 million others.

“Everything will be better, because Americans are civilized people,” said 41-year-old Fidal Sinanovic, a Muslim shopkeeper who sells traditional religious items and antiques. “It will be great for us.”

Beyond the possibility of peace, some Tuzla residents see other opportunities in the arrival of American troops.

A rumor has spread through town that every American soldier will spend $30 a day in Tuzla, although so far all arriving troops have been confined to their base, about 25 minutes from the city center.

And some young women have begun to hope that the ongoing military airlift will deliver them new, American boyfriends.

“Our guys have come back from war without arms, without legs,” said Bakisa Kovacevic, a 25-year-old waitress. “Some girls expect the Americans will look better.”

Residents of Tuzla--who call themselves Tuzlaci--say the city’s greatest assets are its huge coal-burning power plant and its chemical factory, which has operated only intermittently during the war.

One of the most industrialized cities in Bosnia, Tuzla is a place where horse-drawn carts drive next to cars and trucks on the main roads, delivering goods to markets and firewood to homes.

Tuzla was founded around 1225, and the region was long under Turkish rule. But little remains of the ancient town--much of the ground it sat on sank because of uncontrolled salt mining beneath the city.

During the Cold War, dozens of tall, gray apartment buildings sprang up around the city center, giving Tuzla a grim, unfriendly demeanor.

The snow for miles around is gray from the power plant’s grimy coal smoke. The acrid smell of burning coal--from homes as well as the plant--is always in the air. And the people of Tuzla smoke cigarettes incessantly, making it a tossup whether the air quality is better indoors or out.

With its prewar population of 105,000 now swelled by 50,000 refugees, Tuzla is predominantly Muslim but prides itself on being multiethnic. The town motto is: “Where reason prevails.”

Tuzla, a U.N.-designated “safe area,” was occasionally shelled by the Bosnian Serbs but never overrun like Srebrenica to the southeast. On the streets, soldiers of the Muslim-led Bosnian government wander everywhere in camouflage uniforms, but with a peace accord in place they do not carry guns.

Even with the power plant, electricity in Tuzla is in short supply. Shopkeepers in heavy jackets keep their lights and heaters off; diners in restaurants can sometimes see their own breath.

Since the peace agreement was reached, more varieties of food and goods have become available, but they are still expensive, especially merchandise from abroad.

Like the people of his city, Tuzla Mayor Selim Beslagic is optimistic about the arrival of U.S. troops, but he fears that many residents may be expecting too much.

Sitting this week near a life-size painting of a World War II Yugoslav partisan stabbing a German soldier with a bayonet, Beslagic was uncertain how long the peace will hold.

And he predicted that any economic benefit from the American troop presence will not come soon: He expects the soldiers to be confined to their base for the next three months, except when they are carrying out specific duties.

“Some people think that all of the American soldiers will come here, and they expect a lot of money in one moment,” the 53-year-old mayor said with a smile that revealed two missing teeth. “But we can’t expect 20,000 Americans will be in town at the same time.”

Still, he said, the Tuzlans should start preparing now to do business with the soldiers.

“It will be very absurd if they come here and there is nothing to buy,” he said.

When the plan to station U.S. soldiers here was first announced, Beslagic said, many people were uneasy because of fears that drugs, prostitution and AIDS would arrive with the troops.

But the Army flew the mayor to Ramstein Air Base in Germany, where he discovered that U.S. troops were nothing like the soldiers he had seen in American films.

“We had watched all the old movies with prostitution and drugs, and that’s why we were worried about it,” he said.

Although the U.S. operation in the Balkans is narrowly defined as a peacekeeping mission, Beslagic says he nevertheless hopes the troops will repair roads and help refugees in Tuzla return to their own towns and villages.

“The war will end for me when I see the refugees going home,” he said.

The most tragic moment in Tuzla’s recent history came in May, when a Serbian shell fired from 12 miles away landed in a popular gathering place for young people in the city center.

The shell killed 71 people, including the 25-year-old son of Hrustanovic, the pumpkin-seed salesman. A small memorial sits on the spot in the street where the shell landed; a wall nearby holds the photos and names of the dead. Each day, people bring fresh flowers, and small crowds gather around the memorial. “Every day, I come to see my son’s picture,” Hrustanovic said, pointing out his photo on the wall.

Hrustanovic, who wears a coat and tie under his ski jacket, now lives with four family members in a leaky two-room apartment near the site of the shelling. Before fleeing to Tuzla from his village on the Drina River, he lived and worked for 30 years in Serbia, but he lost his government pension when he was forced to leave in 1992 because he is Muslim.

Now he carries his pumpkin seeds under his arm and charges about 70 cents for five “cups,” each the size of a shot glass.

“My father was in the First World War, and I remember the Second,” he said, adding hopefully: “Every war has to end.”