Një kirurg i specializuar për zemrën dhe një burrë i guximshëm, që ka punuar në shumë zona të rrezikshme të luftës, përfshirë Izraelin, Kosovën, Timorin Lindor dhe Afganistanin, Jurisevic mbetet emocionalisht i lidhur me vendin tonë. Australiani, rrëfimi i jashtëzakonshëm i të cilit nga lufta e Kosovës u botua në gjuhën shqipe pak javë më parë në librin me titull “Duart e përgjakura’’, përveç përjetimeve të rënda për të cilat shkruan në libër, ndjen se duhet të flasë edhe një të vërtetë në lidhje me Kosovën.
“Historinë e trishtë’’ të veteranëve të Ushtrisë Çlirimtare të Kosovës. Që kur është botuar libri në Kosovë, ai ka pranuar shumë mesazhe nga veteranët e luftës, të cilët i rrëfejnë se jetojnë në kushte të rënda, kanë shumë pak të holla për të mbijetuar dhe se jeta e tyre është e tmerrshme në Kosovën e “re’’.
“Veteranët janë të zemëruar që pavarësisht nga miliarda dollarë që janë dhënë për Kosovën gjatë 13 viteve të fundit, ata ende jetojnë në varfëri të skajshme. Ata shohin politikanët, shumë prej të cilëve ishin komandantë të tyre në luftë dhe shumë prej të cilëve nuk u qëndruan pranë në vijën e frontit, që tani shijojnë jetë luksoze me miliona dollarë në zotërim të tyre, ndërsa ata, ushtarët që luftuan trimërisht, vuajnë në varfëri,’’ thotë Jurisevic, i cili është anëtar i Komitetit Ndërkombëtar për të Drejtat Humanitare dhe anëtar i Kryqit të Kuq Australian.
Një rast i posaçëm e trishton më së shumti. Një burrë, 47 vjeç në atë kohë, ishte në frontin e Pashtrikut bashkë me Jurisevic, ku luftoi me trimëri. Ai u kthye në Kosovë, i lindi një fëmijë kur ishte 50 vjeç, dhe prej atëherë nuk mund të sigurojë një punë të qëndrueshme. “Ai shpenzon shumicën e parave duke u përpjekur që të sigurojë trajtim mjekësor për vajzën e tij 9 vjeçare, e cila vuan nga një formë e rëndë e epilepsisë. Për shkak të korrupsionit në sistemin mjekësor, ai nuk mund të vizitojë një neurolog, pasi për këtë nevojiten para, të cilat ai nuk i ka. Ai s’ka para të mjaftueshme për një apartament të mirë e të nxehtë dhe fëmijët e tij jetojnë në të ftohtë dhe vuajtje,’’ rrëfen Jurisevic.
Duke qenë njeri shumë modest, kirurgu australian tregon shkurtazi se i ka dërguar atij para dhe e ka vënë në kontakt me një neurokirurg shqiptaro-amerikan. ‘’Ai është një njeri krenar dhe mund të mos i pëlqejë që të identifikohet, “ shton Jurisevic. Megjithatë ai thotë se i vetëm nuk mund tu ndihmojë veteranëve aq sa do të dëshironte dhe shton se me tërë ato miliarda që ipen për Kosovën, do të duhej që çdo burrë, grua dhe fëmijë të ketë standard të artë të kujdesit shëndetësor.
“Unë jam i zemëruar me faktin se gjatë luftës, si komandantët ashtu edhe mjekët janë treguar frikacakë. Jam i zemëruar edhe më shumë, sepse edhe tani, në kohë paqeje, ata sillen në të njëjtën mënyrë’’, thotë Jurisevic, duke shtuar se në Australi dhe gjetkë, atyre që kanë luftuar për lirinë e vendit u ofrohet mbështetje e veçantë .
“Ne të gjithë luftuam për çlirim. Ne të gjithë luftuam për liri. Luftuam për t'i dhënë fund shtypjes! Po tani luftëtarët tuaj janë të shtypur nga varfëria, pa lirinë për të mbrojtur familjet e tyre nga shtypja që vie nga pabarazia dhe korrupsioni. Për mua ky është një fund shumë i trishtuar i një luftë të trishtë. Kjo gjë më thyen zemrën dhe më mbush me zemërim dhe neveri,” përfundon Jurisevic.
*****
Craig Jurisevic: crossing the line
Craig Jurisevic, whe went to a war zone to treat the injured then joined the fighting, talks about his memoir, to be released this month.
ON April 27, 1999, a young Adelaide trainee surgeon, appalled by the "fresh hell" rising in Europe out of the brutal war being waged by Slobodan Milosevic's forces in Kosovo, left Australia to provide medical help to victims of the conflict. Craig Jurisevic flew to Albania under the auspices of the International Medical Corps, where he was appointed surgical co-ordinator for a 100,000-strong refugee population.
His story could easily resemble those told by myriad combat surgeons on battlefronts around the world, commendable for their spirit of altruism but often unexceptional in detail. Jurisevic's narrative is rendered extraordinary, however, by one key, and startling, aspect. He not only provided medical help in Kosovo but took up arms, fighting alongside guerilla resistance group the Kosovo Liberation Army.
On a sunny Sydney afternoon, Jurisevic sits down in a boardroom at The Australian's offices to discuss the memoir he has written about his Kosovo experiences. He's called it Blood on My Hands.
Blond and lean, with a runner's physique and Slavic blue eyes, Jurisevic, now 44, is a senior cardiothoracic surgeon in home town Adelaide, working at Royal Adelaide Hospital and in private practice. He's also a seasoned combat surgeon, a recreational shooter, poetry lover, happily married father of three and a reservist with the Royal Australian Army Medical Corps. It's difficult to see in him that soldier-surgeon of 10 or so years ago who found himself immersed in dark moral and ethical waters. He is coolly self-possessed, charismatic and talks amiably about normal things: his love of Wilfred Owen's poems, his doctor wife Donna, his children, the benign Easter weather.
This month, Jurisevic will launch Blood on My Hands at the Sydney Writers Festival, and what a tale it is.
After arriving in Tirana in April 1999, he heads to the town of Kukes, northeast of the Albanian capital, to work at the hospital. While there he discovers, and exposes, an extensive private extortion racket being run by the hospital's corrupt director, in league with local mafia. He is warned by a physician, who turns out to be a local commander in the KLA, that he's now potentially a mafia target and that he will find safe haven in, of all places, a KLA recruitment camp in Helshan, near the front at Mt Pastrik.
Jurisevic, after much wrestling with his conscience, abandons his non-partisan status and heads for Helshan. He reasons that he is in Kosovo to help victims of the war; does it matter whether they are refugees at Kukes or KLA soldiers wounded on the front?
He starts off as an army surgeon at the KLA camp, then, in an extraordinary twist, starts training its young, mostly unskilled recruits before becoming a combatant himself. He is not formally attached to the KLA's Atlantic Battalion but is embedded with it. He sets up a makeshift hospital in a cave near the peak of Mt Pastrik, operating on battle casualties while dodging bullets and shells, goes on patrols, and kills Serb forces in combat. Towards the end, emaciated and "half-mad", he gathers intelligence on Serb forces that he passes to US Special Forces. This information triggers a NATO bombing campaign that results, he later learns, in more than 400 Serbian casualties.
Jurisevic wrote the memoir during seven weeks in August-September 2008, the idea for the book suggested by a Special Forces medic in the Australian Army who had been impressed by a talk he had given on his Kosovo experiences.
"My wife, Donna, had also been telling me for years to write it down. She thought it would be cathartic and it would help."
Did it? Jurisevic, who says he suffered untreated post-traumatic stress disorder for years -- "terrible dreams, flashbacks, all of that" -- nods. "I hadn't spoken about my Kosovo work until recently, other than to medical colleagues or in the military when I'm giving lectures. My impression was that most people wouldn't or couldn't relate. It would be too alien for them to comprehend."
His primary reason for writing it, he says however, was to bear witness to the tales of suffering he heard, or saw, such as a massacre of 14 Kosovar villagers by Serb troops. "I wanted to document that part of history, for people who suffered there, for those who died."
The book had a complicated gestation. Initially billed as being co-written with author Robert Hillman, the latter's name has been dropped from the cover. Jurisevic says Hillman was initially brought on board by publisher Wild Dingo Press because "it was pretty heavy reading. They wanted to make it a little more palatable, I think."
Hillman worked on Jurisevic's draft, adding more narration and colour. "We took it back and made a few changes to bring it back more to the original. We wanted to keep it perfectly factual and correct, take no artistic licence. So the book is basically my book, with Robert's influence, and then my influence on top of it again."
What drives a self-described "nice white boy from Adelaide" to embed himself in a vicious conflict, viewed as one of the worst of modern times, to take up arms, to kill? Jurisevic's history provides some clues.
Born in 1965 in Adelaide to an Australian father and a Slovenian immigrant mother, he was reared on stories of his maternal grandfather Franc's heroism in aiding partisans near Trieste, Italy, during World War II, actions that saw him incarcerated by the Nazis at the Dachau and Mauthausen concentration camps.
He admires his grandfather's activism and courage, and says staying in Australia and passively watching Kosovo implode would have been a betrayal of his memory. Also influential was his horror at seeing a homeland being destroyed. He wistfully recalls a happy visit to Yugoslavia as a child, before it was racked by war. These bloodlines and cultural ties meant that "sitting back and doing nothing in Adelaide" was never an option when the call went out for trauma surgeons in 1999.
Long angered by what he perceives as the West's slow reaction to the massacre of mostly Muslim populations during the Balkan wars, he says he went to Kosovo with one goal in mind: to help the victims of suffering. Armed with experience as a combat surgeon working in Israel and Gaza during the 1992-93 Intifada, he had skills that were sorely needed. But these neutral, clinical considerations were also tempered, very early on, by a visceral disgust and a growing urge for retaliation against the Serbs, after witnessing examples of their brutality. "You get very angry," he says simply.
Jurisevic concedes he's not a pacifist at heart; that injustice triggers a deep rage in him. It's disconcerting to hear this medical man speak of killing. Of the corrupt hospital director and his henchmen, he says coolly: "Even now, I wouldn't bat an eyelid if someone came and put a bullet in their heads." He speaks of not intervening as soldiers killed a captured Serb paramilitary: "He was like a disease, really." Asked about killing his first Serbian soldier, he says he did so only in self-defence. "There's no malice. You don't gloat afterwards."
Reading his memoir, you get a sense of a man whose anger and disgust at Serbian brutality sends his moral and ethical compass awry. A doctor who kills violates every cultural expectation we hold and cherish about medical personnel.
Jurisevic admits his biggest ethical battle in Kosovo was the troubling dichotomy of being healer and killer. He came up with a euphemism, "preventative medicine", that enabled him to make some kind of peace with his decision. He's aware it did not provide absolution and still left bare thorny ethical issues, but feels it was the best moral guideline he could find under the circumstances. By training young, unskilled KLA recruits, he reasoned, he'd be reducing the number of future casualties.
Another grey area was his alignment with the KLA, a group that began life as a ragged resistance army against Milosevic's army in the mid-1990s and evolved into a powerful fighting force that was later linked with drug-running, prostitution, organised crime, even terrorism. Truth, he knows, is one of the first casualties of war. The line between the good and bad guys is thin indeed.
Was he aware the KLA was no band of angels? "Oh, absolutely. But back then I looked at them on face value. It was a war. They were supported by NATO and the West. What I saw of the KLA was that most of them were just refugees with guns."
He believes that the Kosovo war, of all the recent wars, is probably the most "black and white" for outsiders wanting to help. More than 850,000 Kosovar Albanians were expelled with brutal force from Kosovo by the Serbian forces, he points out. "From that point of view, justification was easy."
But, still, there was guilt and remorse, particularly when he learned of the full deadly force of the NATO assault. Jurisevic says his sleep is easier these days, though the dead still visit. Writing the book and, funnily enough, joining the Australian Army in 2006 have helped, providing a sense of catharsis.
He is expecting a heated response to his book from some quarters. "I will be called a killer, a terrorist, a supporter of Islamic extremism by members of the Serb communities around the world, but I am prepared for criticism of this nature. Basically I went there to help people who were victims. I didn't care who was killing them. It just happened to be Serbs this time."
Similarly, he's expecting some dissenting voices from colleagues, patients and friends when they read his story. "I suspect that most medical people reading the book, particularly those involved in trauma, will understand the path I took beyond the role of pure non-combatant. Some, however, will remain unable to fully comprehend the circumstances in which my decisions were made and will see my actions as reprehensible and completely unjustifiable."
Given the story's extraordinary nature, Jurisevic acknowledges some may doubt the veracity of his account but cites hundreds of photos he has of himself in action and scores of emails he has received from former battalion colleagues. Publisher Catherine Lewis also vouches for his testament, saying the story was intensely researched and that proof, through various forms of documentation, was provided. She is fully satisfied it is a true account, she says.
So is Academy Award-winning producer Eva Orner, who is working on a film of the book, planned for release next year. "It's an important story that hasn't been covered well in a film. It's an outsider's story of a war and I think that makes it different."
These days Jurisevic is busier than ever with work and his young family, but his short stint in hell -- he was in the Balkans for about seven weeks -- has irretrievably changed him. Politically, he has an even stronger understanding, and even empathy for, Islamist grievances. He understands how poor young Muslims can come to view the West as oppressor. He despises the gung-ho, jingoistic celebration of war, says that if the truth be told, "every war begins and ends with the screaming". He is, surprisingly, not a pessimist, despite witnessing the worst of human nature, though says he's more than ever aware that the capacity for evil lies in more of us than we imagine.
Perhaps most vitally, his experiences have left him with a sense of the fragility of existence. He feels that Australia, with its tranquil, sunny culture, is a lotus land of sorts. "It could suddenly change. You realise that people and situations can turn horrific in seconds, and that's the frightening thing.
"It's made me realise you have to appreciate everything you have, your day-to-day life, your family."
