It is 10pm, and from up in the hills we begin to see the ambient glow of city light. We have been on a bus for ten hours — including a thirty minute cigarette break in a café and an hour delay at the Croatian-Bosnian border due to unclaimed cargo — and Hunter and I start looking through three crumpled up pieces of paper that serve as our entire guidebook to Bosnia, trying to find the address of a hostel or cheap hotel. Hunter smiles and says hello to a thirty-year-old woman, sneaking a cigarette in the far back seat of the bus. She is thin and frail, with curly brown hair that clumps together by her shoulders. She has a beautiful face. It is hardened, but there is something about it that makes you trust her. Or at least, it makes us trust her.
Sanja, as she would tell us, was born in Sarajevo and has lived there all her life. She has a son, Haris, and she works for the UN. Our conversation lasts all of fifteen minutes before she invites Hunter and I to stay the night at her place.
“I would like to ask you,” she says to us, as we carry our backpacks up the staircase to her house, “why you have come to Sarajevo?”
“We want to see what it’s like,” Hunter says, because it is the best answer we can come up with.
Over that long weekend Sanja drives us around, gives us food, tells us where to go, picks s up, and takes us out with her friends. We spend three nights there, and she never asks us for anything.
· · ·
1995
FROM: Darekjo Hadziavdagic
TO: BMW Factory Germany
I am 20 years old and I am crazy for BMW. I live in Sarajevo, which is under the siege for the past three years and it is impossible to find new parts for my motorcycle BMW R – 65 made in 1981. I need a back tire and rear mirrors. My motorcycle is the only motorcycle in this town that survived many bullets and grenades, that was driven on turpentine, nail polish cleaner and very little gasoline. Despite these fact I still drive it throughout this city, because it is not an ordinary motorcycle. It is a BMW. Grateful in advance. My address is: Darekjo Hadziavdagic Remzije Omanovica 72 Sarajevo Bosnia-Herzegovina.
· · ·
When the Soviet Union dissolved, so did the desire for a unified Yugoslavia. Slovenia was the first to declare independence, and Croatia followed shortly after. When Bosnia decided that it also wanted to become a separate country, the shit really hit the fan.
“You see, up over there?” Sanja says to Hunter and I, gesturing out the car window to the emerald green hillside. We look out at the hills, which encircle the city, and are flooded with withering, clay roof houses, probably built centuries ago.
“From the hills,” Sanja continues, “the snipers would shoot at us. Many people died.”
The siege of Sarajevo was the longest siege in modern military history, lasting from April of 1992 to May of 1995. Estimates put the total loss of life at around 12,000, with another 50,000 wounded. Reports indicate an average of approximately 329 shell impacts per day during the course of the siege, with a high of 3,777 shell impacts on July 22, 1993.
· · ·
1995
FROM: Zoran Illich, deputy editor-in-chief of Independent Radio and Television “Studio 99” – Sarajevo
TO: The Internet community
The problem is not in Sarajevo among Sarajevans because we still respect each other. The problem concerns nationalistic extremists from the national parties. If you don’t believe that, please come to Sarajevo. In my opinion, you will be surprised. Sarajevo is still under siege but people have the spirit. Don’t be afraid we will survive. In conclusion, let me ask you all a question: Is it possible in Europe to accept new politics without nationalistic and separatist ideas and leaders?
· · ·
Sarajevo has been described as the gateway between West and East. Residents boasted that it was one of the only cities in the world where you could find a Mosque, a Church, and a Synagogue all in the same one-mile radius. The city is made up of three ethnic groups; Bosniaks (Bosnian Muslims) make up about 77%, Serbs about 12%, and Croats 8% (1991 census). When Bosnia declared its independence on April 5, 1992, the Serbian leadership in Belgrade feared that without Bosnia there would be no chance of a united, and Serb-dominated, Yugoslavia. As legislation for Bosnia’s independence began later that year, Slobodan Milosevic began moving troops and artillery to the hills surrounding the city, and as residents marched peacefully through the streets on the day of independence, shots fired into the crowds killed two Sarajevo citizens, officially starting the siege.
· · ·
1995
FROM: Alma Duran
TO: The Internet community
I am an eighteen-year-old girl and I am a high school pupil. I also work as a English translator on Independent Radio called “Studio 99.” My parents are divorced and live with my mother. I am not married, and that is unusual in Sarajevo. Young people get married here very often because of the war. One can lose one’s life very easily here every day and because of that people are getting married a lot, all the time. What I miss the most is a normal teenage life. I should be traveling and having fun, making new friends, seeing other cities and countries. But instead of that I have to bring water to my flat and carry it in my hands for two or three miles. You see, during heavy shellings we did not have any water in our homes. We had to go to few natural sources of water, fill the plastic gallons with water and carry it to home. This is very exhausting. I also miss going out after ten o’ clock, because there is a police curfew after ten o’ clock in the evening. But although death is all around us, we girls still try to look good. Our way of fighting is to look beautiful and to show those beasts that are killing us that youth and life will triumph over death.
· · ·
“Fuck shit fuck!” screams Haris, emerging from the house in canvas shoes and white underwear. His English, though good for a seven-year-old, covers only a few household vocabulary words. By the second day of our stay, he has managed to learn ten different ways to curse someone out. Giggling maniacally, he climbs onto Hunter’s lap and begins yanking on the greasy curls of Hunter’s hair.
“Haris! Ne! Ne! Razuminjea?!”
“He understands you, man,” I say to Hunter, “he just doesn’t give a shit.
“Giva Shit!” Haris yells, bursting into another fit of laughter.
Sanja steps outside to sit with us on the porch, holding a lit cigarette and a cup of coffee in the same hand.
“Haris!” she screams, then begins scolding her son in Bosnian.
Haris sticks his tongue out at his mother and continues to pull at Hunter’s hair. I laugh, Haris laughs, Sanja frowns and Hunter just looks confused.
“Uh… I don’t…” Hunter starts.
“Hit him,” Sanja says calmly, taking a drag of her cigarette.
“What?” Hunter replies.
“Hit him. With your hand, hit him on the back of his head.”
Hunter looks at me, baffled. I just shrug back at him. We aren’t about to pass any judgment on Sanja for how she chooses to discipline her son, but we also don’t feel that comfortable doing it for her.
Before Hunter does anything, Sanja grabs her son’s arm, and getting closer to her, begins to apply and then remove a clothespin on his nose. Like clockwork, Haris lets out an uninterrupted cry whenever the pin clenches down across the bridge of his nose, and stops crying as soon as his mother releases it. Eventually, Hunter and I are so shocked that we just start giggling. This in turn makes Haris laugh, at least while his nose isn’t being pinched, and then all four of us are laughing, with Haris still bouncing up and down in Hunter’s lap.
“Haris,” Sanja says, smiling. She reaches for another clothespin and hands both of them to Haris, giving him instructions in Bosnian. “He has something to show you,” she tells us.
Somewhere out there is a picture of cringing Haris with clothespins pinching his nipples, sitting between Hunter and I, who are choking on laughter.
· · ·
1995
QUESTION FROM Lorin Kalisky, American freelance journalist living in Paris
- What do you do for a good time?
- How do you relax?
- Are there any good bands in Sarajevo?
- How’s the nightlife in Sarajevo?
FROM: AMIR TELIBECIREVIC
TO: Lorin Kalisky
We relax for a good time with good rock and roll or good party with or without electricity. During the first two years of war, we lived on rock and roll. Now we play music again instead to live under hard regulations of rock.
Yes there is some good bands in Sarajevo playing different music (punk rock, hard rock, hard core, rap and heavy metal). Before the war Sarajevo was the best music center in ex Yugoslavia.
It is difficult to talk about nightlife in our town, because there is curfew from 10 o’ clock at night to 6 o’clock in morning. But it cannot stop us to go from one apartment to another in the late hours. That’s the time when we create our own funny party even our own music and poetry. Sometimes we have special sexual feelings during these parties.
· · ·
Normella comes into the living room with a penis-shaped candle, the wick lit, and a small cup of flame protruding from the urethra.
“You got one!” Sanja exclaims.
“A gift for our American visitors,” Normella says.
Hunter and I are wedged next to Sanja and her friend Dario on a small couch in Normella’s living room. Dario is a photographer for a music magazine in Sarajevo.
“I get to meet a lot of really cool bands,” Dario tells us with a gap-toothed smile. He refills her glasses of red wine and a joint is passed behind his back.
Normella’s apartment has dark wooden floors and a soft, pink lighting. A dozen or so candles are placed on tabletops and window sills, casting a glow of yellow around our group, leaving circular shadows on the ceiling. Hunter and I sit listening to Sanja and her friends talk in a language we do not understand. We have gotten used to the sound of foreign languages surrounding us, and we have learned to smile and be sociable, trying to pick up as much as we can through body language and facial expressions.
Sanja tells us that the catchy pop music blasting in the background is called “Turbofolk.”
“When you are out somewhere with your friends, the music always ends up turbo folk,” she explains. “Even the sophisticated people listen to it.”
She tells us that this particular singer is the widow of “Arkan,” a Serbian national who was accused of killing thousands of Muslims during the Bosnian war. The singer is a Bosniak herself, but became a Serbian nationalist and used to sing songs to the Serbian soldiers. Hunter and I thought it was eerie to see these young people, drinking and having a good time together, embrace this music and a singer who once urged on to victory the very soldiers responsible for killing their friends and family and razing their homes.
Hunter and I decided to ask Sanja about it.
She took a large sip of wine and nodded her head.
“We do not think of it like that. This music is about coming together to have a good time, with drinking and with friends. It is about embracing each other, and rebuilding the bonds that were destroyed during the war. But it is true, we have scars.
Sanja reaches into her purse and produces a medical card she must bring with her to the airport. It details an injury she suffered while working for the Red Cross during the siege. A grenade was launched through the window of her office, exploding nearby and lodging a piece of shrapnel into her left calf. She shows it to security to explain why she sets off the metal detectors.
We look over at Dario, who has his arms in the air and is rocking back and forth to the music. He is a Bosniak, as are his friends, Petr and Amer. Normella and her roommate Selma are Croat. Sanja is a Serb.
· · ·
1995
FROM: Devor Milicevic
TO: Internet
I’m eighteen years old and I go to the electrotechnical vocational school.
My Question: How many people have been killed in Paris with sniper shot during one day?
· · ·
In the wake of the war, Sarajevo is covered with scars. Buildings are pockmarked with shell blasts. Stray bullets leave small ditches in stone on the sides of houses. If you run your fingers along the edges of these bullet holes, the stone crumbles to the ground. A Sarajevo rose is the name given to the multitude of circular indentations on the streets and sidewalks, left by shells fired down into the city from the hills. Hunter and I count twelve of these as we make our way over the cobblestone pathway towards the main square of the old Turkish quarter.
Once there, we are harassed by a small Muslim woman holding a baby, begging for change. She follows us for about fifty feet, and after our continued attempts to tell her that we don’t have enough change to spare, she gives the baby a quick shake and it begins crying. She then repeats her plea. We dig into our pockets and hand her the last of our Bosnian Marks. She hurries back off towards the center of the square.
Hunter and I feel a little depressed by the touristy section of Sarajevo, so we begin making our way up the side of a hill at the edge of the square. We climb about half of it and sit down in the bleachers of a small soccer stadium, which is dug into the side of the hill. Three teenage boys kick a ball around while a younger one runs along side them on the first level of the bleachers, retrieving the ball for his friends whenever they kick it over the wall and into the bleachers. We are the only other people in the bleachers, but none of the boys ever look at us.
After finishing a cigarette, we continue up the hill for a few more minutes, stopping at a large, triangular graveyard. Two cobblestone streets run along the long sides of it. The graveyard itself is covered in bright grass, standing out from the yellow and gray paved streets that encircle it. We walk through it, reading the names and dates and letters on the white stone markers.
“This must be the graveyard for the younger victims, that Sanja was telling us about,” I say. “All the birth dates are from the late 70’s.”
Hunter nods and keeps walking down the narrow path of grass that leads you through the graveyard up the hill. I follow behind him, feeling incredibly uncomfortable, peering around my shoulder every so often, for a reason that I don’t know how to explain. An older man coming towards us from up the path holds up his hand. As he gets closer to us, we see that the tan skin around his face is wrinkled and blotchy, and that there is a small amount of thin hair in his ears.
“Niko se linija zauzeta,” he murmurs to us.
Hunter and I look at him and nod our heads. His eyes are small, and look like yellowish-white blurs buried in his eye sockets. He motions to us again, and then turns back towards where he came from and begins walking.
“Follow him, I guess?” I say, turning towards Hunter.
“Yeah.”
The man leads us to the top of the graveyard, where there is a single grave, much larger than the rest. A monument of some sort. It is surrounded by flowers, and there is a shadow mote filled with water circling all the way around it. The man leads us over the water, stopping next to the marker. He points to the name, and the inscription beneath it.
“Vjerovatno to izgubili. Je li za stvari mora, mi ispalo ne javlja, gdje je ukradneno ovdje.”
We stand there in silence for a few minutes. There is wind breezing up the hill from behind us. I turn around, and we are far enough up the hill to see most of the city. It looks like the streets are paved with gold. It’s beautiful.
The man turns back towards us and nods. He shakes both of our hands and leaves us by ourselves.
· · ·
April 5, 1995
FROM: Jasmin Ceranic
TO: All of the world
My name is Jasmin. I am a student on the Sarajevo University of Medicine. Now I am finishing one of the exams of the 8th semester.
In that exam I read the “WHAT” definition of health: “… Health is condition of completely physical, mental, and social prosperity…”
Today after three years of horror I can say that I do not know any healthy person here, or even a person who is fulfilling 2 or 3 of these conditions. We walk the same streets. We wear the same clothes. We all eat rice and beans. A lot of my friends left Sarajevo. Some of my friends are dead and many of us have been wounded. If there was not for the war, today I would already be a doctor.
Today on the 5th April we are marking the third anniversary of beginning of the war in Sarajevo. Three years ago I couldn’t believe that a war could take place in this town, which is so multicultural and multinational.
So my message to all the world is: something like this could happen anywhere in the world because of the passiveness of the human society.
At the end I want to invite medicine students from all around the world to make contact with us. I will be glad if someone brave or courageous enough is going to accept this and be my guest in Sarajevo. Send us all some magazine and let us know what is happening behind “The Wall.”
· · ·
“My favorite thing in the morning is coffee and a cigarette,” Sanja says to us from her kitchen.
Hunter and I sit at the table, eating bread Sanja has given us and getting ready for our last cup of coffee with her before we head out to catch our train to Croatia.
“I have to say, Sanja,” I begin, “I really didn’t like Bosnian coffee when I first tried it, but it’s really grown on me. I like it a lot now.”
Sanja peers out at me from the kitchen.
“You like it? Come, come, I will show you how it is made. There is a special way you have to make a Bosnian coffee.”
Bosnian coffee is made in a small, metal cup, called a fildžan. It is boiled two times. The first time is to make it froth. It is important to take the fildžan off the fire when the froth begins to turn in from the sides. If you are too late then you will lose the froth. Next, you serve the froth to the cups. Most of the time you fill between a third and half a cup with the froth. After pouring the froth in the cups, you boil the rest of the coffee so it gets hot and then pour the rest of it into the cups.
Hunter, Sanja and I sit on her porch drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. Down the stairs, Haris kicks a soccer ball around by himself in the street. A shopkeeper watches him and laughs. Sanja smiles at her son, and takes a drag from her cigarette.
“Soon, we are moving to Zimbabwe. This is where my boyfriend lives.”
“Do you like it there?” I ask her.
She nods her head, pursing her lips.
“My boyfriend lives there, and Haris likes it there. We cannot stay here, though. As soon as the UN leaves, the nationalists will start fighting again. For three years I slept, every night in a bathtub. Everywhere here, there is just war. My parents were in a war, I was in War, and I will not have it for my son. Not my Haris.”
She takes a long sip of coffee and then shakes her head.
“It’s awful,” Hunter said. “It’s so beautiful here.”
“The most beautiful city in the world,” Sanja declares. “I love it.”
I nod my head quietly in agreement. From the street, a car honks its horn, and Haris waves.
· · ·
QUESTION FROM: Charles-Philippe DULAC, diplomat.
- -What about love?*
FROM: AMIR TELIBECIREVIC
TO: Charles-Philippe DULAC
You ask me about love. Well, I can tell you that love in Sarajevo is very specific. You have to come here to understand our love.
This piece originally appeared in Volume II of the student magazine The Little Jackie Paper, published in 2005-2006.