Peter Robinson - The Tribunal

“What?” Kevin exclaimed a bit too loud. “Really?”

“Yes,” the cashier replied. “That is how we do it here in The Netherlands.” The man’s English was excellent.

Kevin looked with despair at his huge mound of groceries. He searched frantically for Diane and Ellen. In desperation, he said to the cashier, “What should I do? I don’t have any bags.”

“You can buy some over there,” the man replied, pointing to an odd looking machine against the wall.

By now, Kevin would have gladly paid a small fortune for grocery bags. He ran over to the machine while the other customers waited in the ever-growing line at the checkout counter. Kevin felt his face getting red as he fumbled with the coins for the bag machine. He raced back over to the counter with five bags, praying that they were enough. Kevin threw his groceries in the bags as fast as he could and loaded them into the cart. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and staggered out of the supermarket.

“Daddy, what took you so long?” Ellen asked impatiently.

They went home and had their first meal in Holland.

Afterward, the three of them headed out for a leisurely stroll.

“When do you start work?” Diane asked nonchalantly.

Kevin hadn’t yet told her he was unemployed, and he dreaded doing so.

After hearing nothing from the Tribunal for a week, Kevin called Mrs. Kelly to ask if she had any news.

“I’m afraid not, dear. That’s really too bad, coming with your family and finding out you have no job,” Mrs. Kelly commiserated. “At least the weather is good. Enjoy it while you can. It gets rather gray here.”

“We may only be here for the summer. I can’t afford to stay without any income.”

“How’s your family enjoying Holland?”

“You’re very kind to ask. We love living in Wassenaar. It’s got everything: woods, parks, sand dunes, even a windmill.”

“They call Wassenaar the Green Oasis of Holland for a reason. Of course, it’s nothing compared to Ireland. You have a daughter?”

“Yes. She’s eleven.”

“How’s she getting along?”

“She started summer camp at the American School this week. She’s already made friends and is riding all over town with them on her new bike.”

“It’s very safe here. That’s one of the things I like about it. With all the violence at home, you know. And what does the missus do?”

“She’s volunteering at the American School, helping get the library ready for the school year. The truth is my family is happy and busy. I’m the one at loose ends.”

“Oh dear, Kevin. I do hope something breaks soon.”

The next week, Kevin visited the Tribunal in person. He brought Mrs. Kelly a bottle of California wine from Sonoma County. She was delighted with the gift, but sorry that she still had no good news.

When Kevin returned to the lobby, he saw a familiar face.

“Nihudian,” he called. “How are you doing?” He strode over to the bench where Nihudian was sitting and offered his hand.

Nihudian shook it warmly. “Quite well, thank you. I just finished another morning in the monkey cage.”

Kevin smiled. “Do you have time to grab something to eat?”

“Sure. Have you been to the beach?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Come on. I’ll introduce you to the favorite food of the Dutch. My treat.”

The two men walked outside and through the guardhouse. Kevin told Nihudian about his expected employment as a prosecutor at the Tribunal, and the difficulties that had cropped up. At the corner, they hopped on a tram.

“The Yugoslavian Embassy’s over there,” said Nihudian, pointing to the south.

“What is the relationship between Bosnia and Yugoslavia anyway?” Kevin asked.

“Bosnia was one of the six republics that made up the Yugoslavian federation. Like one of the fifty states in the United States. Yugoslavia included Serbia, Croatia, Bosnia, Slovenia, Macedonia, and Montenegro.

“When did it break up?”

“In late 1991, Slovenia declared its independence, followed by Croatia, and then in early 1992, Bosnia. That’s when the war in Bosnia started. Bosnian Serbs wanted to remain part of Yugoslavia, united with Serbia, while the Muslims and Croats living in Bosnia wanted to be independent.”

Nihudian stood up as the tram came to a stop in front of a huge old hotel with a dome shaped like the U.S. Capitol. “That’s the Kurhaus Hotel,” he said as they got off the tram. “It’s where the rich and famous stay in The Hague.”

Kevin wondered if Nihudian was taking him for some fancy meal, and hoped that the Bosnian was not planning to spend his hard-earned money on lunch with Kevin. But instead of going inside the Kurhaus, Nihudian and Kevin followed a path around to the back of the hotel. It led to a wide strand of boardwalk and beach with a long covered pier, food and souvenir stands, and waterfront restaurants. Kevin saw the high surf of the North Sea bringing wave after wave onto the beach.

“This is Scheveningen, The Hague’s big resort area,” Nihudian said. “It’s packed on the weekends.” He pointed to an old metal food stand behind the Kurhaus Hotel. “That’s the place.”

“Two large orders of French fries with mayonnaise,” Nihudian told the man behind the counter.

“This is it,” he said handing Kevin a plastic container overflowing with French fries. “The Dutch delight.”

Kevin loved French fries, but wasn’t sure about the mayonnaise. They walked over to a bench where they could watch the waves and people on the beach. Many of the women were topless.

To his surprise, Kevin loved the fries and mayonnaise combination. He took a deep breath of salt air. “It doesn’t get any better than this,” Kevin said, picking out another French fry and dipping it in mayonnaise.

Nihudian laughed. “It’s a long way from Bosnia, that’s for sure.”

“What was Bosnia like before the war?”

“That seems like ages ago. Marshal Josip Broz Tito ruled Yugoslavia from the end of World War II until he died in 1980. Tito managed to keep the three major ethnic groups, the Serbs, Croats, and Muslims, united under a very tightly controlled central government during that time. In Bosnia, it was not uncommon to find a street with a Serb, Croat, and Muslim living next to each other. Everybody got along fine.”

“What went wrong?”

“After Tito died, politicians like Slobodan Milosevic, the President of Serbia, started fueling the fires of ethnic hatred, encouraging Serbs to seek revenge for injustices they had suffered in the past at the hands of the other ethnic groups. Ruthless Serbian gangsters formed paramilitary groups. They bombarded the people with paranoia that the Muslims were going to slaughter the Serbs. Pretty soon the people started believing it.”

“Who was the war in Bosnia between?”

“Good question. It started out with the Serbs against the Muslims and Croats. Then the Muslims and Croats starting fighting each other. They got back together and fought the Serbs again until the peace agreement was signed in Dayton, Ohio, in 1995.”

“What group do you belong to?” Kevin asked hesitantly.

“I’m a Muslim.”

“Were war crimes committed?”

“Oh, definitely. There was brutality on all sides. The Serbs carried out ethnic cleansing, where they would come into a village, take the Muslim men to concentration camps, and force the Muslim women and children to leave. Only Serbs were left, and entire Muslim populations were eliminated. In the camps, the Serbs shot, beat, and tortured Muslim civilians. It was awful.”

“It sounds like World War II all over again.”

“Don’t get me started on that. After World War II, the world leaders said the holocaust would never happen again. Well, it did happen again, in my country, and the world didn’t do anything to stop it.”