15
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This is Macedonia Banging
Zoran Slavko
16
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GREEKS ARE CULTURE THEBES
Zan Zankowski
The dispute was a microcosm of current world troubles, down to the shouting, historical inaccuracies and gross misspellings.
When Yugoslavia broke up, a section of it had peacefully seceded, avoiding the bloodshed of Bosnia, Croatia and Greater Serbia. This section took for itself the name Macedonia, which had angered the Greeks. Hot words flew. Threats. Sanctions. But no bullets.
The dispute had festered for several years now, and while there was no sign of a diplomatic resolution, neither was war imminent.
Months would go by and the Macedonia question didn't make the news. But every day of every week adherents and partisans on both sides flamed one another with insults, twisted history lessons and open threats in a propaganda war largely unwitnessed by the greater world.
Here, Anwar Anwar-Sadat firmly believed, lay the future of the United Nations. When there was one great peacekeeper, international disputes would be argued and settled in cyberspace. It was unpleasant in its coarse language, messy in its facts. But no widows were created or children orphaned.
Best of all, it wasn't a budget buster.
Pointing to a topic, Anwar Anwar-Sadat said, "I wish to view this one."
"You need only press Enter to read it," the factotum said.
"Yes, yes, I know," Anwar Anwar-Sadat said peevishly. "But I am no good with mechanical things. They are too absolute. Not like persons, who can be swayed one way or another. Please obey my instructions. It will be good practice for the coming geopolitical reality."
The functionary pressed Enter.
Up came the text.
It was a flame war all right. Insults were flying thick and hot. It was particularly difficult to follow because all sides were calling themselves Macedonians. The Hellenic Macedonians insisted upon calling the Slav Macedonian irredentist Slavophones and the Slav Macedonian preferred to characterize the Hellenic Macedonians and thieving Hellenophones.
No one accepted Macedonia's official name. Some called if Skopje, after the capital, or Pseudo-Macedon.
It would have been amusing except their language was so serious. And with the Greeks having troubles with the Turks, and the Albanians eyeing Macedonia greedily, the problem of Macedonia threatened to make the Balkans explode anew.
Satisfied that the current flame war reflected nothing more than a minor escalation in the actual dispute, Anwar Anwar-Sadat told his aide, "I am done now."
The aide obligingly logged off.
Standing up, Anwar Anwar-Sadat rubbed his stony face with both hands and said, "One day all international disputes will begin to boil in the unseen spaces between computers. When that day comes, it will be so much easier to nip them in the making."
The factotum clicked his heels and dipped his head. "Of course, my General."
Glancing at his watch, the secretary general frowned and muttered, "I must hurry. I am late to give my speech."
But on his way out of the building to the headquarters of the United Nations, he was met by the under secretary for peacekeeping operations.
"My General."
"Secretary General,"' Anwar Anwar-Sadat corrected." I am no longer in my situation room."
"Mr. Secretary General. Someone has taken the podium in your place."
"Who is this upstart person?"
"No one knows. But he has the General Assembly in an uproar."
"What is he saying?"
"This also is unknown. He is not speaking English, French or Egyptian."
"Come. I must see this with my own eyes."
And reaching the curb, Anwar Anwar-Sadat flung himself into his limousine for the dangerous cross-traffic ride to the other side of the street.
Security at the headquarters of the United Nations was a constant, and the constant was boredom.
No terrorist cell or rogue nation had ever attacked the UN complex. Even during the height of the Cold War, it was inviolate. It would always be inviolate. As an institution.
The reason was very simple. While terrorist groups couldn't belong to the UN, their sponsors and host nations did. Membership was open to all dues-paying nations, whether they were governed by presidents, despots or clowns.
And because even rogue nations valued their diplomats, the UN Buildings had never been and would never be attacked.
This was all explained to Sergeant Lee Mace when he had assumed his post as an official UN guard.
"It is a cushy post," he was assured by his commander. "The cushiest."
"I'll take it."
"I knew you would."
And it was a cushy post. Also boring. There was an excess of ceremony and dullness and having to look the other way as grinning Third World diplomats in dashikis and thobes, sarongs and saris and other exotic native costumes pilfered rest-room towels and even toilet seats and plumbing fixtures.
Standing post before the delegates' entrance to the General Assembly Building, Sergeant Mace began to relax now that the last of the delegates had been seated.
Then he saw the tiny scarlet-kimonoed Asian approaching.
The tiny Asian was very old. Sergeant Mace failed to recognize him. Perhaps he was an aide.