The Mayor of Vukovar has just returned from yet another trip spent trying to persuade former citizens of this Croatian city to return home.
His is not an easy task. It has been almost nine years since many of them fled in terror, but even the lowly status of refugee has been preferable to returning to what is now a wretched place.
In the war with the Serbs, Vukovar was described as Croatia's Hiroshima. It is impossible to imagine this place as it once must have been - a bustling industrial city. Now it is a half-deserted, ghost town. The trees that stand outside bullet-riddled, bomb-shattered houses, remain blackened stumps on the side of dirt tracks that once were streets. All around rich agricultural land lies uncultivated because of the hundreds of landmines left.
The people of Vukovar tell you of all they have lost. Among the things they miss most are family albums. Now they collect old postcards, and cut out pictures from newspapers.
In November 1991 the city and surrounding region were occupied by ethnic Serbs backed by the Serb-dominated Yugoslav army. The Republic of Serb Krajina was declared after a fierce siege that left some 5,000 Croats dead and created 100,000 refugees.
The region has been back under Croatian control since the beginning of 1998, after two years under United Nations administration. Mayor Vladimir Stengl has been visiting some of the refugees, many living in hotels on the Adriatic coast. He insists they want to return to their homes by the Danube but are put off by the problems of rebuilding homes and finding employment. Before the war the area had 46,000 residents, now only 15,000 live there. The effort to repopulate the Eastern Slavonia region has been difficult, even with Croats who know they are welcome back. The reception for Serbs is less than welcoming, though Mayor Stengl insists they are not discriminated against. Just three hours away in Zagreb, the Croatian capital, there is a wave of optimism following the election of a new government and a new President, Mr Stipe Mesic. But Vukovar, steeped in its own misery, seems untouched. Mr Mesic, who came to office on the death of the autocratic Franjo Tudjman, says he wants the return to Croatia of ethnic Serbs.
For Zagreb, anxious to join the EU, the refugee issue is one of the main entry criteria. The government, which has committed itself to full democracy, says it will clear any obstacles that exist but wants financial assistance from the international community. Organisations working with the refugees say that Serbs do experience discrimination and have considerably more difficulty getting their homes rebuilt than Croats, although matters are improving.
One of the few signs of normality here is the small country market which takes place in the mornings, but even with the sale of fresh fruit and vegetables both communities prefer to deal with their own. Mr Sasa Lalic, who works with the Croatian Helsinki Committee for Human Rights, says that while the situation may be more desperate in neighbouring Serbia, Serbs continue to leave for there. "People tell me that they can at least sleep peacefully there."
Socialising seems to be a forgotten concept in the city and the little that takes place is conducted in the handful of cafes that have been reconstructed. However, according to Mr Lalic, Croats and Serbs take their coffee separately. Croat children attend the local school in the mornings and Serbs in the afternoon, he explains. There are signs of reconstruction. One street has been renamed European Union Street and 25 houses are under reconstruction. Mr Hugo Van Veghel, a Belgian, is in charge of the EU-assisted projects in Vukovar where €14 million has been spent. He remembers the city as it was and is convinced it can be brought back to its former glory.
"I am always trying to tell people that this area could be a goldmine. It was a richer place that Zagreb before the war and that is why we are fighting so hard for it now," according to Mr Van Veghel, who is employed by a German charity ArbeiterSamariter-Bund.
At the opposite end of the country to Vukovar stands the ancient walled city of Dubrovnik. The former takes your breath away with its desolation, the latter with its beauty. However, on the Adriatic coast they have their own war legacy. Walking the fabled city walls and admiring the crystal clear waters of the sea one is struck by the almost complete absence of visitors. The businesses of Dubrovnik open every day hoping for the tourists to return, but their establishments lie empty except for the locals indulging in the national pastime of drinking strong coffee, and smoking endless cigarettes. They look out on to the empty stone streets as they chat. The majority of the red-tiled roofs have been repaired and damaged buildings reconstructed following the Serb shelling in 1991.
As in the rest of Croatia the citizens are immaculately turned out, usually in top designer labels, which they admit privately to ill afford. The impression is of modern Europeans and that is just what they wish to convey. Croats hate their country to be labelled Balkan. The Kosovo crisis meant mass cancellations and tourist figures were only 25 per cent of pre-war levels last year. "The war in Kosovo did not affect us here in any way but the tourists were worried. We are at the mercy of everything happening around us," said one restaurateur dolefully last Saturday. It was 10 p.m. and he had just served his second customer of the evening.
Mayor Vido Bogdanovic said the economic collapse had hit his city of 50,000 people badly, while the psychological effects of the war also persist. "Of course the war caused big changes in minds and attitudes and people are slowly getting out of that. When normal conditions of life and work are in place again, the repairing of our minds will also occur."
The economic problems are evident countrywide. Unemployment stands at 20 per cent.