As a child who lived for make-believe, war was about good-guys fighting bad-guys and princes slaying dragons. Often, I pranced around the living room, fencing with an imaginary nemesis, only to be waved away from the idiot box. I never took much note of the sad faces with downcast eyes, as they often uttered a strange word – Yugoslavia. Too young and far removed to comprehend the conflict, but soon too old to ignore it, I catalogued Yugoslavia in my mind with an asterisk (*) next to it. Fast-forward 20 years and a few edits to the world political map; I found myself living in Europe and paying little attention to the new countries I didn’t recognize from old textbooks. I often heard friends talk about their fabulous holidays, island hopping in Croatia, camping in Slovenia, or strolling around Dubrovnik and quite robotically added these places to the list of exotic locales I wanted to visit. It was only the name Sarajevo that haunted my conscience, till one day I gave in and revisited the asterisk.
The history of Yugoslavia was so complex and heartbreaking, I was grateful to have a few decades to buffer me from the intolerable cruelty of men. But, amidst all this tragedy, a united Sarajevo set a higher standard for humanity. A city under siege, they chose to fight as one, and eventually shamed the world into rescuing them. Sarajevo called to me. But, what exactly did I want to see? Did I want to walk on sniper alley, and look at the beautiful hills, from where they riddled her with bullets? Did I want to stand where Miss Sarajevo contestants pleaded with the world “Don’t let them kill us” or did I want to walk up a hill of tombstones to the children’s cemetery and make sense of why these kids who played like me and were loved like me, just never got to grow up and stand there with me? It seemed like sacrilege to go to a place so steeped in tragedy just to soak in some sun and buy souvenirs. I moaned and mulled over this, but eventually the simple truth was that I should celebrate the peace and freedom Sarajevo enjoys now and that life goes on (it has to) and all we can do is to learn from these cautionary tales and enjoy the sun, buy souvenirs and bask shamelessly in the privileges that they are.
From the moment she emerged out of the hillsides, Sarajevo was an assault on my senses. The aromas, sounds and images still flicker close to the surface as I revisit her today in the comfort of my home. Even a year after my visit, some visions/stories transport me back to Sarajevo in an instant:
The first glimpse of Bascarsija in the morning mist – shoo-ing pigeons off the intricate Sebilj fountain at the (you guessed it) Pigeon square – sitting elbow-to-elbow with locals at a tiny cafe bench – pitter patter of coppersmiths in back alleys – selfies at the bridge where WW I started – much needed turbo-charged bosniak coffee inside a quaint little courtyard – hopping across churches, mosques and synagogues – standing silently in front of a busy market that was bomb down on a similar day 19 years ago – standing across from the holiday inn and reading an account of how events unfolded around the square leading to the siege – feeling blessed as we walked hand-in-hand along the Miljacka reading about the Romeo and Juliet of Sarajevo – Sharing a pint at the Sarajevo Bewery – learning of how they supplied the town with clean water during the siege – Bascarsija coming to a standstill during a frenzied rally – goofy smiles as we realize the rally was in support of the local football club – stumbling upon the cutest tea house right next to our apartment – being schooled on the correct way to drink tea, while we flipped through old pictures of BiH and listened to stories from our friendly host.
Sarajevo was not the static museum of pain and suffering I expected, but it was a vibrant city, not without its struggles, but so full of warmth. Sarajevo’s blend of catholic, orthodox, muslim and jewish heritage, was imprinted as much in its structures as in its people. She exuded the old world charm of a city that had seen better days, graciously draping herself in Sarajevo roses. She was at the same time, a medieval town with haunting prayer calls, a romantic European city with bridges spanning its river and a struggling modern capital gazing hopefully at a brighter future. This contrasting beauty would be a photographers dream, and her contrasting realities, make her a philosopher’s haven. I hope she greets me with the same sweet smile when I see her again.
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