A Reporter's Notebook

A Reporter's Notebook A reporter's notebook: taken into custody

"Croation soldier" says this souvenir photo from the Croat military. (Photo by Janine Collins)

In retrospect, the incident was just a minor confrontation between a nervous reporter and an overly cautious military commander, but for a moment it seemed a week's worth of Light news photos might become another casualty of the Croatian civil war.

After spending several days on the island of Iz, from which the Konatich family emigrated to Marshall, I took a ferry to Zadar on the mainland. There I would begin a seven-hour bus ride to Zagreb, the capital of Croatia.

With time to kill before the bus departed, I began wandering around Zadar, taking photos to illustrate the widespread damage rebel Serb tanks and artillery had inflicted on the city. Relic of a siege

In particular, I wanted to photograph a military compound that Livijo Marijan, our initial contact in Croatia, had told photographer Janine Collins and me about.

Around the corner from his apartment building, Marijan had said, was the former Zadar headquarters of the Yugoslav People's Army (JNA).

Because it was manned largely by Croatian Serbs, the soldiers became the immediate enemy of Zadar's population when Croatia declared her independence from Yugoslavia in 1991. Fighting soon broke out, with a weak Croatian military pitted against well-equipped JNA units with many Serb supporters.

City officials demanded that the JNA leave Zadar. The JNA scoffed, and the town shut off the army's water and electricity. JNA soldiers in turn regularly shot at civilians who dared to walk anywhere near the compound. Today, buildings all around the compound are riddled with bullet holes.

For seven months, the soldiers withstood the siege before finally leaving. Their abandoned compound is now the Zadar headquarters of the Croatian Army.

Caught in the act Wanting to photograph this odd piece of war history, I approached a young Croatian military policeman, who was carrying an intimidatingly large automatic rifle. "Hi there," I said with a show of deference. "Do you speak English?"

He did. I introduced myself as an American journalist and said I'd very much like to take a picture of him and the compound. The MP politely said he was sorry, but that would violate military policy.

Not wanting to accept "no" too quickly, I engaged him in small talk about that "crazy war" he was mixed up in. When I finally asked him again about taking a picture, he seemed more willing to help me out.

The MP said that I was most certainly prohibited from taking pictures of anything military, but then he whispered that he wouldn't know what I was doing if I walked a few yards away and shot pictures while he wasn't looking.

I thanked him and did as he suggested. Unfortunately for both of us, just as the shutter began clicking, a grimfaced commander strutted out the gate and caught me in the act.

Detained by the Croatian army He barked at the MP, and then at me -- as if my picture taking for The Point Reyes Light posed a threat to Croatian security. The next thing I knew, the friendly MP and his large weapon were escorting me two blocks to a sterile, sparsely furnished military office.

Sensing my nervousness, the MP told me I needn't worry. "You're an American citizen," he said. He added that the worst his superiors might do would be to confiscate my film.

That would not have been much of a problem if all I had on me were the roll of film I had been shooting. But I was on my way out of the country; I was carrying all the film I had taken on Iz -- part of what The Light had sent photographer Collins and me 6,500 miles to get.

Quickly, I decided upon a strategy. With numerous apologies I handed over only those 11 frames of film that were in my camera, hoping no one would search my bag.

Thankfully, the officer who questioned me was interested only in the film still inside my Pentax K1000, and I tried to contain my relief as he sheepishly asked for help in opening my camera.

A surprising outcome Further helping my cause was a military policewoman with a warm spot in her heart for the Island of Iz. Her parents were from Iz, and she knew of the Konatich family.

When I revealed that my host on the island had been Krist Novoselic, father of the bass player for the US rock band Nirvana, she was impressed. She told her superior it was unlikely I intended any harm.

Eventually, I was sent on my way minus my photos of the compound, although my detainment was not without its compensation.

As I left the office, the officer who had questioned me handed me a Croatian military calendar. The names of days and months were in Croatian, with days of the month arranged vertically, not horizontally. To me it was almost incomprehensible.

But a color photo on reverse side proved more informative -- at least concerning the army's slant on public relations. Reminiscent of a baseball trading card, the posed photo showed a young, determined-looking Croatian soldier taking aim from the bush.

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