Set in the mid-1990s Bosnian and Chechen conflicts, this non-fiction first-hand journalistic account of war and heroin addiction is wonderfully tied together by philosophic self-examination. Anthony Lloyd tackles all sorts of existential questions regarding humanity, the need for violence, familial relationships, bonds of kinship forged in war, nationalism, opportunism, idealism, and morality. Best of all, the book is not a self-righteous polemic from the moral-high ground; his self-degradation throughout the account adds credence to his insights and conclusions.
The primary benefit of sitting down with this book is to learn about the historical details of the conflict, to get past the simple generalizations that were often used by the western media to justify inaction. Primarily, Lloyd framed the war for what it was – a battle between nationalist forces, represented by the Serbian Bosnians, and the for forces of secularism, embodied by the Muslim Bosnians. However, this narrative was slowly corrupted. The Nationalist forces of the Serbs fought the United Croat-Muslim troops, loyal to the idea of a united multi-ethnic Bosnia, until nationalism spread from Croatia proper to turn the Croat Bosnians against their former allies, the Muslim Bosnians, in an effort to grab as much land as possible for the Croat people – blatant opportunism. The side that is easiest to identify with (for Lloyd and myself), the Muslim Bosnians, slowly and surely lose their moral high ground as their military luck turns for the better and are tempted into atrocities against those who had committed uncountable acts of horror against them. Lloyd’s affection ultimately remains with the Muslim Bosnians throughout the conflict.
The often heartbreaking, surprising, and gruesome first hand accounts of this book give it an authority that is hard to deny. Lloyd is obviously a personable fellow and capable journalist, as deduced by how many relationships he cultivates with personalities from every corner of the war – giving him access beyond what one would expect (to the point where he shares the fate with the soldiers around him). The accounts of these people, struggling through an atrocious conflict, often against their will, are the most heart-wrenching. The injustice and inhumanity are immense.
On a personal level, I identified with the book on the point of our need for violence; that for all of my socialization to the contrary, there is an impetus within young men which tends towards destruction. And that unless you’ve been a young man it may be hard to understand. But like all explanations, understanding a problem is the first step towards addressing it. Lloyd, on the other hand, had dealt with his predisposition by going to war (his socialization was more militaristic than my own), and by glossing inter-war periods back in London with an rather unhealthy heroin addiction.
Lloyd’s wavering position from morally detached to enraged are definitively human, and make him an honest spectator whose words should be valued. The events read as a heartbreaking account of the disappearing of ideals – the disintegration of not only Tito’s Yugoslavia, in which the aforementioned players lived amongst each other as a bastion of diversity against currents of nationalism, but also that the notions of justice, goodness, and humanity are not specific properties of religious nor ethnic groups.
-Charles P. Pearson
Anthony Lloyd. My War Gone By, I Miss It So. Penguin Books, London: 1999.
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