A little less conversation, a little more action
It was late December 1989 (almost exactly 23 years ago) and I was in Belgrade. The dark clouds of future wars were gathering inexorably. Ugly nationalism, racism, tribalism – call it what you will – was rearing its ugly head, foisting the increasingly (and perplexingly – for me anyway) popular Slobodan Milosevic on its shoulders. "There," my late, much loved, uncle said, pointing across the river Sava, "is where we came together as a nation – thousands of us – to declare a new era." I had heard that Milosevic had addressed a rally there some months before, stirring up nationalist fervour and racial/tribal paranoia to a level that hadn't been seen in Serbia more than a generation. My uncle then pointed to a huge placard of their new leader on a nearby wall. "Yes - he's our man. He's the one who is going to save us." "But uncle, isn't he just part of the existing communist establishment? You have a chance to get rid of that wh