Sarajevo, Bosnia: A Tenuous Equilibrium (cont.)

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 Turbofolk,” she explains. “Even the sophisticated people listen to it.”

She tells us that the 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. It was eerie that these people, having a good time together over drinks, would embrace the music of a singer who once urged on to victory the very soldiers responsible for killing their friends and razing their homes.

When I ask Sanja about it, she takes a large sip of wine and nods 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, Rejak and Amer. Normella and her roommate Selma are Croat. Sanja is a Serb.

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. I count twelve of these as we make our way over the cobblestone pathway towards the main square in 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 say no, she gives the baby a quick shake. It begins crying, she then repeats her plea. We dig into our pockets and hand her the last of our Bosnian Marks. She then hurries off back towards the center of the square.

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, dug into the side of the hill. Three teenage boys kick a ball around while a younger one runs with them in the first row of the bleachers, retrieving the ball for whenever they kick it over the wall.

After finishing a cigarette, we continue up the hill for a few more minutes, stopping at a large, triangular graveyard, flanked by two cobblestone streets. The graveyard itself is covered in bright grass, standing out from the dull stone of the streets that surround 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,” Hunter says.  “All the birth dates are from the late 70s.”       

We keep walking down the narrow path of grass that leads us through the graveyard up the hill. It feels incredibly uncomfortable to be here, and I find myself peering over my shoulder every so often, for a reason that I don’t know how to explain. An older man walks towards us and holds up his hand. He has tan skin around his face that is wrinkled and blotchy, and there wispy hairs protruding from his ears.

He murmurs something to us that we don't understand.

I look at him and nod my head. His eyes are sunken deep in the sockets and jaundiced. He motions to us again, and then turns back towards from where he came and begins walking.

“Follow him, I guess?” I say, turning towards Hunter.

The man leads us to the top of the graveyard, where there is a single grave, much larger than the rest. Flowers surround it, as does a shallow moat filled with water. The man leads us over the water, stopping next a marker. He points to the inscription beneath it.

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 brass.

The man turns back towards us and nods. He shakes both of our hands and leaves us by ourselves.

The next morning Hunter and I sit 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.

“My favorite thing in the morning is a coffee and a cigarette,” Sanja says to us from her kitchen.

“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.”

She offers to teach me how to make it.

While we sit drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes outside on the porch, Haris kicks a soccer ball around by himself in the street below us. 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 war, I was in war, and I will not have it for my son.”

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.

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