Fascinating, intriguing and informative empirical snippets of experiences of war, drawn from research in Croatia, make this book a valuable addition to wealth of literature on the South Slav, or western Balkan, or once Yugoslav, lands and their trials. It offers a telling fabric which shows that all was not some form of inter-communal paradise, but that there was co-existence, often in parallel lives. Those parallel lives were not necessarily even noticed by those living them, even—as one of Mila Dragojević's interviewees is quoted, “we didn't notice how certain people would socialize together, or how some people would approve of some things” (98). The same respondent continues by saying “we never thought of that before,” referring to the way in which people mainly of one ethnicity would meet together in particular bars, for example—and concluding that “we only started to notice” right before the start of the war (and then, perhaps, because older people began to point out who gathered in which locales). This is an example of an uncomfortable truth that many commenting on the Yugoslav war in the 1990s have been loathe to accept.

This is not a justification for war, to be clear. It is merely to indicate that Mila Dragojević's unique research has uncovered something not really done in decades of work on war, society and change, or politics across the Yugoslav lands. It is sobering material that we all need to read. It is research that points to the taboos of Second World War era topics that were never mentioned, about which grandparents never spoke—at least until social unrest, ethnic tensions, and armed conflict returned in the 1990s. And, yet, while also revealing this social fabric, Dragojević and her informants also find, importantly, that the conflict of the 1990s may well have left heavier marks that will be harder to remove, making the “prospect of reconciliation…more challenging after the 1990s” because an earlier form of “solidarity” in communities had been lost (103). That is a dismal, though strong, finding that cannot be pushed aside. It is also one that might be partly explained by other moments in the author's exceptional ethnographic-style research. Notably, she shows elements in the Serbia methodology of taking over certain areas that is not widely known or, strangely, accepted when it is pointed out, such as making non-Serbs wear white armbands to distinguish themselves (with echoes of the yellow “J” armbands required of Jews under Nazi rule), moving from there into acutely targeted violence against civilians. It is the depth of atrocity in those situations that gives the sense that recovery from the 1990s will be even harder than from the 1940s. This is all the more so, given that the “long-term… lack of legal action against perpetrators… reduces the likelihood of reconciliation” (128).

The book is a landmark success in its highly original ethnographic-style research and the account it offers of communities, especially in Croatia before, during, and after war—albeit in retrospective perspective. That is not the whole book, however, and in its other aspects, this wonderful research is perhaps let down. Aside from odd, ill-informed comments—such as the suggestion that the kind of action against civilians might in some way be usual military practice—the book is weaker in two respects. The first of these concerns the comparative material offered regarding Uganda and Guatemala. I can see exactly how someone—perhaps a PhD supervisor, perhaps an editor at the press, perhaps a peer reviewer—might have made a suggestion to broaden the material by adding some comparison, either to make inferences “stronger” and give the material greater “validity,” or to widen its potential audience. Whatever the reason, it is a pity because this comparative material never has the texture and strength of the research on Croatia. That weakens the focus on the Croatia material and simultaneously makes the impression gleaned from that material less. The second weakness concerns the title—and with it the main argument taken. Viz., the communities in which these atrocities occur are “amoral communities”—ones in which morality, or a moral compass, has been removed. While making for a catchy theme, this is simply not the right term—these are not “amoral communities” (one reference to Guatemala on page 136, excepted), but rather what I might term hyper-moral communities, that is, ones in which the moral line has been skewed to one end of the spectrum—one extreme—giving an ethic of narrow “right” and broad “wrong,” meaning that one position, or one ethnic identity, is the singular version of “right.” Morality is distorted and the complex pattern of “wrong” and “right” negotiations that mark ethics are drawn to one pole. But, morality and ethics, in these, perhaps unpleasant shapes remain. Those involved in narrowing the frame and committing atrocities will still feel themselves to be acting morally. This is a point that Dragojević should really have noted, as the point appears on page 112, where she notes that “morality was defined in national, or ethnic, terms, rather than a more universal way.” That is the point. It is morality, but one that is very particular and extreme—not open and inclusive. It would have made excellent material even stronger had this been properly recognised and argued—especially as recognising that distorted reality may be an important step dealing with the past.