The hard work of getting along

In a small Bosnian town on the Adriatic coast, elementary-school teachers sit in a circle exchanging stories. In most countries this would not be particularly remarkable, but in Bosnia and Herzegovina, 6-1/2 years after the end of a brutal war of ethnic cleansing, what they are doing is both controversial and unprecedented. It is also hard work.

During a break, Vahidin Dhanovic, a Bosnian Muslim who teaches religion, and Milka Marinkovic, a Bosnian Serb teacher, slump wearily over coffee together. Despite the bitter divide between their peoples in this country, they are cautiously becoming friends. "I used to really hate Serbs," says Mr. Dhanovic, who at 26 is one of the youngest participants. "I didn't want to meet them or talk to them. These seminars made me face my problems for the first time."

The two are among 24 teachers from two cities in northwestern Bosnia attending Project DiaCom, a seminar organized by the Massachusetts-based Karuna Center. The idea is simple enough. Paula Green, the American psychologist and peace activist who founded the center, invited educators from the Bosnian Muslim town of Sanski Most and the Bosnian Serb city of Prijedor to sit in a circle and tell each other what happened during the civil war nine years ago.

In theory, the two sides should bond over shared emotions, heal the deep psychological wounds of war, and learn skills to teach their communities to do the same. The scenic location of Neum, Bosnia-Herzegovina's only real coastal town, frees participants somewhat from the stressful context of their two hometowns, though bullet holes are still visible in the highway railings here.

In practice, though, while the rebuilding process is working, it is grueling nonetheless.

There is a lot of painful history to work through. In 1992 and 1993, 58,000 Muslims were expelled from Prijedor, an industrial city with a mixed prewar population of 100,000. Most of the men were interned in Serb-run concentration camps in the city, and thousands were murdered. In return, the Bosnian army took control of Sanski Most, a slightly smaller town 20 miles away, forcing the Serb population there to flee to Prijedor.

After the Dayton Peace Accords ended the war in November 1995, the exiled Muslims of Prijedor gathered in Sanski Most in hopes of returning to their homes. Today, most of them are still waiting and hoping, as are Serb refugees in Prijedor.

For many, DiaCom, which stands for dialogue and communication, is a rare chance to meet people from the other side and to try to rebuild relationships severed by the war.

"For Serbs and Muslims to meet and be friends is a radical act in this society," says Demaris Wehr, Green's associate. "These teachers lived and worked together before the war, but they were forced to be enemies by ethnic cleansing."

Mr. Dhanovic was 16 in 1992 when he was expelled from his village just outside Prijedor. Three hundred people in his village were massacred by Serb paramilitaries, including 36 members of his family. "They were unarmed women and kids, but that didn't matter. They killed them anyway," he says, his boyish face clouded with emotion. "I ended up in a horrible refugee camp in Slovenia. I was so full of anger and hatred. I counted every second of every day until I could go back."

He spent four years, four months, and four days in the crowded camp. After the war, he joined other refugees in Sanski Most, only to learn that the majority of his school friends from Prijedor had been killed.

But there was no time to deal with the problems of the past. There was a shortage of schoolteachers, and all over Bosnia, classrooms were overcrowded and full of shell-shocked children. Dhanovic began teaching English and religion at a local elementary school.

Soon, the principal of the school ordered him to attend a DiaCom seminar.

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