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 The summer between my junior and senior years in college, I went to war. I was studying abroad in Florence, Italy and went to a lecture to hear an Italian woman speak about rape, genocide and the war in general. She was an organizer for the Italian relief group, the IRC. The IRC ran refugee camps in Croatia and needed volunteers. I was one of two girls who agreed to go, much to the chagrin of my parents, who actually forbade my going off to war. The "Guess where I am?" phone call that I made from Croatia may have been one of the things I've done to make them the angriest. And I've done a lot of bad shit. Now that we are on the eve of destruction once again, I can't stop thinking about my time living and working in Croatian refugee camps. There are a few memories that are so vivid they actually come in surround sound.  Getting off the boat in Split, Croatia and being surrounded by armed soldiers of every nationality but mine; the slow buzzing that caused people to sit up like animals sensing a prowler—that buzzing turning into the sound of dozens of UN helicopters ripping through a formerly clear blue sky; the UN convoys going by, the only way we knew the fighting was near; standing on line to buy food only to be told the currency had been changed and that my money was no good; no telephones with which to contact the outside world; the children of the camps violently flinging rocks and hurting themselves in any attempt to throw off the pain; the soldiers marching through the camps and the screams of the rapes; being pulled over in the Italian "cambit" or van we refugees used at machine gun-point waiting without breathing as the soldiers checked my American documents—I was the first American most people had ever seen; eating Nutella sent by the French day after day; Ivan getting sent back to the camp after a bullet had gone through his eye, and my struggling to clean it without being able to communicate with him at all, not having the sense of vision to help with my lack of Serbo-Croatian; my favorite little boy, Mario, waving good-bye to me as the van took me back to Split to leave for the last time; the letter I held in my hand two months after my return to America telling me my camps had been bombed.Some of these memories make me smile. Most make me want to cry. I remember looking at photos the women had of their homes. I will admit that I was naďve and perhaps stupid. I thought that these people had been living in huts or something, actually I don't know what I thought. I know that I didn't expect them to live in middle class houses with two-cars and picket fences. But they did. I taught them English by using Beatles songs, amazed at the way music can cross any lines. As I read the paper and wait, like everyone else, for George W. Bush to make that final declaration that will change all of our lives, I also remember the birthday party we threw for the boy turning 16. I remember how many tears were shed as not even six hours later he left for the front. I remember the women getting news their loved ones were killed. There were five camps, still split up by ethnicities, religions, and then economic status. But I remember one woman who began to run across the highway to kill herself when she got word her husband was dead, the man who she had described to me by making a circle around her heart, and the woman in a completely different camp running out to save her—the two of them standing in the middle of the highway, holding each other and sobbing.  Like all wars, that was one based on differences. The longer I was there the more I realized—and I know this is going to sound cheesy—but how alike we really were. We all ate, drank, shit, fell in love, grieved, had sex, and listened to the Beatles.The camps were all women and children. I could go out to the black market (the only food we were given was Nutella, and the money changed daily, so getting something like lettuce was literally like scoring drugs) and not see any men. All the men were off fighting. The majority of the children were the same age, reminding me of the baby boomers. Some of the Italian volunteers in my group were men and all of the women hung on them. I had a volatile and passionate affair with the leader of our group. His name was Marcos, he looked kind of like a lion, didn't speak English well and hated Americans. One night when Paolo, the volunteer who was also the secretary of the young communist party in Rome, scored some homemade liquor we all sat outside, drank, sang Italian songs. Marcos and I, after having argued for weeks, snuck off and made love. It was desperate, clingy love making. It arose from the fear of death. From the sound of bombs dropping somewhere not too far in the otherwise quiet darkness. It was one of the most passionate sexual experiences I ever had. Mainly because neither of us knew whether or not we were going to make it out of there. And there is nothing like the threat of death to jump start love. That was in 1994. It is now 2003. I hear people in my own country constantly talking about the war. It's going to happen. We know it, we just don't know when. After September 11, 2001, I was asked to write about the phenomenon of people making love after times of great stress and fear.  But now, I am thinking about the phenomenon of people making love before times of great horror. It happens. People reproduce when they are afraid of their lineage dying out. But people also have sex when they are afraid of dying. It's the cycle of death and rebirth.Will our generation see another baby boom? Or are we now so jaded that we wouldn't want to bring another life into this world? I never wanted to have children. The first time I ever wanted to have children was in Croatia. I fell in love with Mario—the 5-year old Bosnian boy who was an absolute terror but who won my heart. I carried around a picture of him until my wallet got stolen a few years ago. I don't know whether he is alive or dead. And now for the first time in my life, I am with someone that I would actually spend the rest of my life with. I am scared of the world ending. I am scared that life as I know it is about to cease. I have seen what war does, first-hand. My desire to be intimate with my partner has increased. Sex is life-affirming. I know that I can barely take care of myself, yet the thought of a little someone who is part me and part him floods my heart with so many feelings it sometimes scares me of drowning. Of course, this is not the time to procreate. And maybe the world will continue down this path and it never will be. But it is the time to let your loved ones know how much you care. And there is nothing wrong with a little passion in the midst of horror. Sometimes, that's all there is. 
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