The newest corner of "liberated" Serbia is a wooden shack at the junction of three dirt roads in the village of Mala Ternovac. Until last week, Serb policemen controlled this ramshackle security post, searching the vehicles of ethnic Albanians and sometimes demanding bribes for safe passage.
Ella Nilowa has been an outsider in two societies. Two years ago Nilowa, a Jew from Ukraine, immigrated to Germany with her husband and two daughters. Nilowa's father was a Soviet Army officer, and she had grown up with little knowledge of her Jewish roots. "I begged my grandparents not to speak Yiddish in front of my friends," she says. "I was ashamed of them." That changed after the 1991 collapse of the Soviet Union.
The four skulls lie in a clearing in the forest, just off the main road through the village of Meja. A Kosovar shepherd spotted them three months ago, and they have remained there, untouched, until the arrival of the United Nations homicide squad on this steamy July afternoon.
"Hotel Aleksandar is open," proclaimed the rusting sign in Cyrillic at the entrance to Budva's most popular beach resort. "Make your tennis club reservations now." A wild-eyed man with long matted hair and a filthy tee-shirt pushed open the front gate, revealing a dirt parking lot filled with Volkswagen Golfs and Zastavas.
The evening of June 11 began like so many others in Wolfen, a run-down town 80 miles south of Berlin in the former East Germany. Frank Miethbauer, 16, donned his bombardier jacket and steel-tipped boots, stepped out of his fifth-floor apartment and made his way down a dimly lit stairwell, past the peeling wallpaper covered with swastikas and anti-immigrant graffiti: "You dirty pig, piss off from our country!" A skinhead with a history of tangling with the police, Miethbauer met up with his...
= The ten-minute video clip seems irrefutable. Shot by security cameras from the rooftop of a Serb-run auto-repair shop last July, it captures an attack by five armed Albanian men on their Serb neighbor, Mirko Momcilovic, in Gnjilan, Kosovo. "Mirko, come out, we need spark plugs," one Albanian shouts.
Catherine Menschner, 35, has spent the last two weeks staring into the faces of the men she believes turned her into a monster. Between the ages of 12 and 24, says the former East German freestyle-swimming prodigy, she consumed a daily dose of 40 tablets—"vitamins and minerals," her coaches assured her.
In the Spring of 1999, Foday Sankoh, the leader of Sierra Leone's brutal Revolutionary United Front, had at last been brought to the dock. Extradited by the Nigerian government, the cashiered army corporal was locked in a cell in the wretched Pademba Road prison in Freetown, facing a death sentence for high treason.
When Hashem Thaci marched into the Kosovar capital of Pristina in June 1999, he was hailed as a conquering hero. As the supreme commander of the Kosovo Liberation Army, the rangy, ruggedly handsome guerrilla leader enjoyed the loyalty of a 10,000-man fighting force and the confidence of the U.S. State Department.
Ever since he stepped down as chairman of Times Mirror 13 years ago, Otis Chandler has largely kept his nose out of the newspaper business. The 72-year-old scion of one of America's great media dynasties spends his days surfing, hiking and tending to his own antique-automobile museum in Oxnard, Calif.
The testimony was riveting. As Aaron McKinney's former girlfriend stepped into a Laramie, Wyo., courtroom last week, the spectators fell silent. McKinney stared expressionless as Kristen Price told the jury how she had encountered the defendant hours after he had left gay student Matthew Shepard battered, bloody and tied to a fence post outside town a year ago. "I heard a scratching at the window," she said. "It was Aaron.
For the better part of two decades, I almost never saw or spoke to my younger brother. Although we had grown up together, played together on the streets of New York and suffered through the trauma of our parents' painful divorce, the rift between us grew so wide by early adulthood that most people who knew me figured that I was an only child.
The red arrows and white circles taped on the walls of Lulieta Sharani's compound tell a story that still has no ending. At 9 o'clock in the morning of May 10, after days of furious street fighting between Kosovo Liberation Army guerrillas and Serb forces, dozens of Serb policemen burst into the family's compound in the old market quarter of Djakovica, Kosovo, and aimed their weapons at the 50 people huddled inside.
Journalists covering the wreckage of Kosovo have a general rule about driving into neighboring Macedonia: don't bring your Kosovar staff with you. It's no secret that the pro-Serb Macedonians harbor deep animosity toward Kosovars, fearing that they'll incite a rebellion among Macedonia's own ethnic Albanian minority.
The newest soldiers of the Kosovo Liberation Army arrived by ferry in the Albanian port of Durres late last week. Hauling backpacks and duffel bags, 150 Kosovar recruits from Germany marched down the gangplank of the ship Adriatica and stood proudly at attention in a stiff sea breeze.