Under the imposing statue of Franz Joseph I in the courtyard of the National Gallery, we watched a fervent anti-American rally unfold. We heard the roars while walking through the Volksgarten, and knew immediately what we were about to encounter. NATO bombings had begun just four days before in Yugoslavia. We had been warned to steer clear of such hostilities, but the opportunity to witness a part of history was too appealing. Armed with my mother's advice to claim Canadian citizenship if accosted by a suspicious foreigner, we approached the group of raucous demonstrators.

The complex Eastern language of the speakerís diatribe was unintelligible to the American ear, but the behavior and emotions of the crowd clearly conveyed their sentiments. Chants of "Serbia!" and "Yugoslavia!" accompanied the hundreds of Yugoslav flags waving through the air. Signs written in English dotted the crowd, surely to gain the attention of the USA's CNN watchers. Statements like "USA has a sex problem" and "Clinton: f--- Monica not Serbia" showed how our nation's moral credibility has been fractured by our leader's infidelities. The posters grew increasingly threatening:  "USA= Nazi," "Please NATO don't kill my little brother," "1939=Hitler, 1999=Bill Clinton, Jews = Then, Serbia = Now" and "Are the radioactive bombs for Milosevic?" Interspersed with this display were Soviet flags, grave signs of Cold War nostalgia.

Even more interesting than reading the signs was to observe peopleís individual actions. Groups of young boys stood together chanting songs, the only distinguishable word being "Clinton" in between jumbled lyrics, sneers, and laughter. Young children were running around, Yugoslav flags draped around their little bodies as they mimicked the actions of their parents and grandparents towards the United States. These could have been young American children by the way they looked; their minds and hearts, however, are a world away.

Replicas of the United States flag were all over the rally, many with a swastika covering the blue and white corner. Seeing this made me realize a flag burning would probably take place, and I felt the rush of adrenaline that comes when one is part of something remotely dangerous. It only took a few more minutes for smoke to rise from the back of the sea of protestors, and by the time we made it through the crowd to look, a second flag was being torched. Perhaps the word torched is too vivid; in fact, they had trouble getting it to light with one Bic cigarette lighter, so one enthusiastic protestor lit some paper on fire and held it under the flag until it was ablaze. Young children were holding the corners of the flag, facilitating the burning, cheering as an old man spit on the USA's cherished symbol. It was clear this was more than just a political statement; it was a war against our country's mentality.

As time passed the rally grew in size and enthusiasm. People seemed to be coming from all sides to support the Serbian nationalism that has been part of their identity since a 14th century defeat at the hands of the Ottoman Turks. As an American, I felt a sense of national pride in a country which embraces its reputation as a melting pot for people of all races and beliefs. We are nation of immigrants, however, and do not have the same roots and values and sense of heritage  as a country that remembers the Byzantine and Ottoman Empires. 

Still, I am sure that I felt as passionate about our flag when I saw it burning as they do about theirs.

We spent just two days in Vienna, but this was not an isolated incident. The protestors demonstrated long after we left and moved on to see the rest of the city. We ate dinner near St. Stephens-platz, named for the cathedral that dominates the main square, and on the walk from the restaurant to the subway we encountered a similar group.  In the dark they seemed more powerful, more threatening. Perhaps it was the sign "Mr. Clinton, Hitler also spoke about peace and democracy" that had me so unnerved. We did not stay for this demonstration, but hustled out of the square to our train.

The rest of our trip through Venice and Prague provided smaller examples of anti-American sentiment. The graffiti on the centuries-old walls of Venice was in Italian, but clear to me through the words "Clinton," the acronym "NATO," and the number of exclamation points that followed it. I never felt in real danger, but remained very aware of my status as an American in a foreign land. In Prague we heard about a protest where one of the demonstrators was shot dead. In the main square a street vendor identified us as Americans. He spoke limited English, but managed to tell us to "Thank Monica for the war."

Each day we bough the Herald Tribune or USA Today, anxious to read about escalating tensions and the plight of the three servicemen captured near Macedonia. I took a vital interest in the events taking place, if for no other reason then to be reassured what we are doing is justified.

These experiences in central Europe forced me to question the entangle ment of the United States in the politics of foreign states. I am less concerned with NATO's military tactics than the with the ominous quality of a demonstration unfolding under a statue symbolic of the events of 1914. Entangling alliances, growing sense of nationalism, and a new sort of warfare provoke eerie parallels with the dawn to WWI. It is quite possible US involvement in the Balkans will extend well into the next decade, and anti-American sentiments will continue to rise long after I've returned to my superpower home. It leaves me to wonder how this drama will change the face of Europe and the world we are to inherit.