Sarajevo
Another 30, another 60 nameless people die daily. It is hard to imagine a day when travellers can once again enjoy the wondrous sights of that ancient capital. But things do change; war leaves, and a shocked city rebuilds. Fifteen years ago this week, in the midst of the factious death of Yugoslavia, the four-year Siege of Sarajevo began. The verdant hills circling the city, the capital of the newly declared state of Bosnia and Hercegovina, were occupied by the Serb army. During the longest siege in modern warfare, almost nothing came out of, or got into, Sarajevo. It is estimated that 12,000 people died – mostly civilians. Another 50,000 were injured, including 1,800 children. 300 Serb shells smashed into the city every day. Entering Sarajevo today, it looks as though the siege ended only weeks ago. The bus station is on the outskirts of town, and the walk into the centre along the Miljacka river takes you past the ruins of bombed-out buildings and caved-in homes spilling down the banks. Many of those still in use are scarred with holes left by bullets and shells. A lesson in war reporting can be found at the tall, ugly Holiday Inn. Outside is the main road into Sarajevo, which became known as Sniper Alley during the war, for the number of people shot dead crossing the street. Serb shooters had an excellent view of the road – and so did the journalists holed up in the hotel. There were many sniper alleys in Sarajevo, but this one was in front of the cameras. The grim communist outskirts of Sarajevo fool you, and make its heart all the more stunningly beautiful. Its cosy marbled streets and red-tiled roofs are lined with short, eclectic shops and restaurants. Meagre homes perch above them on the second floor. Bullet holes dent the sidewalk, and now and then you come across a “Sarajevo Rose” – strange, floral patterns left by exploding mortar shells. Those filled with a red resin indicate a fatal hit. Bosnia and Hercegovina is a borderland were East starts to meet West. Europe’s familiar church spires mix with the minarets of mosques, and the adhan, the haunting Muslim call to prayer, accompanies priests through the streets. Sarajevo’s Turkish quarter, a legacy from the outer reaches of the Ottoman Empire, draws to mind the bazaars of Istanbul and Izmir. Sarajevo was famous in another war. On June 28, 1914, Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria was assassinated in the city, lighting the fuse for the First World War. The spot of the murder is marked with a plaque near the Latin Bridge. The meagre tourist industry in Sarajevo is keen to please visitors – a trait reminiscent of Northern Ireland, where ordinary people are eager to just get on with ordinary life. The woman I stayed with greeted me like I was her long-lost son and although we didn’t speak a word in common, we had a very warm conversation. As you wander the streets of Sarajevo, friendly waiters will greet you and entice you into their restaurant. As I ate, Josip, speaking fluent English, told me about the old days, when he played rugby all across Yugoslavia, and how the war had ruined everything. He was glad his country was now free, and spoke lovingly of its beautiful hills and rivers (but warned me to walk carefully, as the forests are still poisoned with unexploded mines), but he dreamed of leaving for America. Bosnia, he said, is dying. I often think of Josip, and wonder if he sleeps under Sarajevo skies, dreaming of America, or under American skies, dreaming of Sarajevo. First published in the Halifax Daily News on Saturday, April 7
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As war continues to devour Baghdad, it looks as if the cyclone of destruction has settled permanently over the city.