The Bosnia File (Post 1)

“Shell them until they are on the edge of madness...Shell them till there is nothing left.”  

Ratko Mladic commander of Bosnian Serbs against the Bosniaks.

It’s August in Sarajevo, Bosnia and its hot. Tourists are resting in cafes, eating ice cream or sharing a laugh over beer. I slip into a shopping mall to escape the heat and spot all of the usual western brands at price points well beyond the average man’s salary. Although the air conditioned glass building is impressive I take my leave. As I step out I see three buildings that come to represent Sarajevo for me: the first, a glass skyscraper with seductive architectural curves, the second - a refurbished building whose walls have been plastered over to cover up bullet holes, the third - a bombed out building that lies abandoned, a testament to the history of a conflict not truly forgotten.

In the 1990s the Yugoslavian Republic fell apart after a difficult decade following the death of the strong man, Josef Tito. Each of the nations within the federation wanted its own independence and while a few republics spun off with minimal violence, one of the countries to have paid the heaviest price was Bosnia-Herzegovina. I divided my time between two towns that suffered deep distress during the conflict: Mostar and Sarajevo.

Mostar is the town you see on the all the tourist brochures. The Neretva river winds its way between the two sides of town and is crossed by several bridges, the most famous of which is the Stari Most.

Mostar

I spent the day with Benjamin and Solomon from England and a few local chaps. One went by the name of “Fanta Santa.” (not fully sure of his real name as he spoke no english). He chatted the day away at the riverside with locals, only to be interrupted to retrieve his two litre bottle of Pan beer from underneath a rock fridge. After retrieving his drink from the natural beer fridge, he was always certain to share with others first. He had a tattoo over his heart and after some time we asked him about it. With the help of another local we learned that it was his mother’s name, along with the date of her death. He looked to the heavens and the look in his eyes was one of fond memories.

We spent the afternoon skipping stones, swimming and laughing. I was warmed by his nature and we were all a little enthralled by his antics.

An after at the river

Santa Fanta's beer fridge

The other local we met was a now living in Italy for the past 17 years. We nicknamed him “Poseidon.”

Poseidon, the greek god of stone skipping

The practice jump. The brave would jump from the bridge. 

The next day I went on a tour of the nearby surroundings with a local guide who went by the name Admir, but i called him “the Admiral.” We went to several places but two captured my imagination.

The first was a house of the dervishes. Over the past several hundred years this Ottaman house sat underneath a massive cliff, sheltered from the hot sun and invading ideologies. It was located beside a cave from which pure waters bubble up with a steady pulse (45 cubic metres per second!). The day I visited there was a large team of divers exploring the caves seeking to link up a network of flooded tunnels. As they probed unexplored passages I too was finding new spaces of peace within myself.

Strange isn’t it? How does a place hold peace, an intangible force of tranquility? Casual observation indicates that this is simply a building made of timber and plaster, with floors covered in rugs. Yet as I moved over creaking floorboards, I knew that seekers of the Divine had looked out of these same windows towards the Spring. They sang and danced. The life force welled up within them. The witnessing walls that held in those memories now release the beauty of the sacred to those walking in hushed silence.

Ceiling of the Blaggaj Tekke (Dervish House)

View over the spring below

The Admiral then brought the group to Krevice Waterall. I asked our guide if we could go to a spot with less tourists and he brought us down to a swimming hole that is known only to the locals. The river widens and beckons you to explore its lovely blue-green pool as it cascades down underneath a 600 year old bridge and then off a cliff. There is something about waterfalls that draws us to them. We just want to jump off of them or swim behind them. They are refreshing, mesmerizing and cause us to drop all pretense of adulthood. Who can’t help but giggle while playing underneath a waterfall. I know I was lost to the present moment there and delightfully so.

Krevice Waterfall

On the drive back we talked of Bosnia and her economy. It is a bruised place, one that has a population of 50-60% unemployment. People are looking for a way to leave and asking a lot about immigration to other lands. Admir told me there are two classes of people: the politicians and everyone else. As an example, a term in office is only two years and afterwards you get a pension right from the day you leave office. This in a place where ordinary folks are trying to figure out how to make ends meet on low wages.

One other anecdote is memorable. He told me that Bosnia is importing millions of litres of water from Croatia I was shocked to hear this as Bosnia has some of the highest amounts of freshwater in Europe. His expression was one of exasperation:  “Someone is making a lot of money!”

Later that evening I found myself crossing the bridge by moonlight and spotted a sign for a photo gallery of Mostar. The gallery was filled with pictures of a war correspondent who stationed himself at Mostar showing daily life in the war. I found myself in conversation with the curator and she told me stories of her family during the war.

The dumb luck of war. She told me of her father who was walking through the streets back home one day when he passed by his cousin’s house. He was invited to stop by and share some soup but he had a stomache and refused the offer, choosing instead to go home. A few hours later he heard the news that two of his cousins had died;  a mortar shell landed in the garage where they were huddled.

The moments of beauty. She told me of her ethnicity (a bosniak muslim) who grew up with Serb and Croat neighbours who when the war began didn’t chose the sides of the oppressor. Instead they helped out the persecuted Bosniaks of the town. Some risked their lives to protect that which they held dear, namely, their community.