layers in the plaster

I’m sitting on the rooftop balcony of our comfortable apartment, looking out over the vast, lit expanse of the city of Sarajevo. I’ve had quite an adventure getting here and this city has proven to be the climax of my exciting little journey. I arrived via bus a few days ago after missing my connecting train in Zagreb, Croatia, an adventure in and of itself. We have spent the last few days becoming acquainted with this great city, exploring it, and going out on several field trips.

We spent yesterday visiting a high school that was displaced by the war and forced to meld with the existing elementary in cramped quarters. The school still functions today in this desperate manner, with different shifts of students throughout the day in order to accommodate them all despite the space deficiency because the school does not have adequate funding for renovation or rebuilding projects. This is quite unfortunate for the students as it is a challenge to learn in such an environment and the teaching materials are seriously lacking. We introduced ourselves to the classes that we were welcomed into and then split off into smaller groups to discuss our lives, experiences, and ultimately, the war. The older students were more receptive to conversation on this complex issue because they had actually lived it, but some of these students were really resistant to talking about it given the intimate and sensitive nature of the event. My group danced in and out of the subject and it was amazing to hear their personal accounts and opinions of their government and people.

After meeting with several classes we joined back with the original, older group of students for a sort of round-table discussion. Carefully, we guided the group into the issue, offering answers to their questions about us but essentially trying to get them to open up. One of the students suggested going around the circle and speaking about their experiences or opinions. We were enthusiastic, but I carefully pointed out that they absolutely did not have to speak if they didn’t want to. What happened next was a totally spontaneous manifestation of their emotions and experience of this immense issue, and it was profoundly moving. Students spoke on the death of their family members, aunts, uncles, fathers; they spoke of their memories; the future, their dreams, aspirations and hopes for their country; some spoke of utter hopelessness, of a fear that war would someday once again ravage their country of its rich culture and unity, one said that she would leave as soon as she was able because there was nothing here for her; they spoke of unity and organizing the masses; of fighting racism and discrimination and embracing diversity; they spoke of love.

I couldn’t believe that this divine expression had manifested before my eyes. Immensely grateful to these brave young people, I thanked them profusely, told them of my deep appreciation for them and their great and beautiful city, and left the rest of the group behind playing a game of kickball while I refined the salt lines down my cheeks on a distant cement step, notebook and pen in one hand, cigarette in the other, unable to see the clouds or sun through my spectacles of tears.

I find myself increasingly enjoying the numbness of watching the ol’ brain-rotting teevee, reading books, or loosing myself in the “old Turkish quarter” of this great city. But I don’t really know what it means to want to forget.

The mosque nearest our apartment has sounded one of its many daily calls to prayer, the megaphone echoing an ancient, sand and sun-encrusted chant off surrounding buildings and the steep hill that supports them, reminding me of distant memories of a certain Buddhist temple in Korea. Rain is beginning to fall, soaking into the fertile ground from which at least a million rose blossoms flourish in this exotic city. There are bullet holes in the plastered wall of the house next door and somewhere across the huge valley a dog is barking.
Goodnight, Sarajevo.
I believe in you.

A few of the wonderful high school students I met with –
The amazing Oslobodenje! Haji and stopped by to meet arrange for my research project – it was a huge sucess. I’ll be spending all of next Friday scouring their archives for political cartoons published during the siege.
Revival

The “Eternal Flame” in honor of Yugoslav partisans that fell during WWII

We visited an incredible museum that documented the hardships and survival of Sarajevan citizens during the war. These little stoves, fashioned out of cans and recycled aluminum, were donated by the individuals who invented/owned them during the war and are a great demonstration of their ingenuity.
Tito and I are tight. Psst, can I tell you a secret…?
Bosnian humor is fearless. This hilarious monument in honor of the International Community’s humantarian intervention during the war is in the shape of a giant can of shitty canned beef ration.