WAR!!!
That was all I could think about when our small plane arrived at the Sarejevo airport. I was sad, I was troubled, I was worried. I knew Sarejevo from many places. I read about the town where many were killed by Serbian shells. I read about a bridge, which failed to survive, yet revived. I read about a woman, who lost not only her legs, but her kids as well. I read the story of the Pakistani fighters rushing to this city to save it from the infidels. I read about the kids who lost their limbs with a sniper bullet. I read it from New York Times, I read it from Cumhuriyet, I read it from Radikal, I read it from Nedim Gursel, I read it from Firuzan. I read it from Wikipedia. All of them confirmed what I felt at the time. Here I was, on the edge of an epic city, war torn, but proud with her bullet ridden minarets and churches, humble with her small, paved roads, which were labeled with yellow stripes to mark the “mine-cleaned areas.”
In my mind, she was a city defined by war... What arrogance!!!
WAR!!!
It crushed everything that came in its way: families, buildings, towns, bridges, beliefs, loves… But, it did one more horrible thing. It defined the lands that it destroyed. It became impossible to look beyond this thick fog of war. It created symbols of destruction for us to remember. Nobody knew that they were impossible to forget. The gorgeous, green lands that were crowned with magnificent heights all around, the beautifully cheerful people sitting next to me became meaningful only if they were touched by the war. The ancient and unique traditions of Sarajevo’s people were forgotten. The Christians and Muslims of the city became relevant only because of their role in the war. The mosques represent the resistance to the Serbian attacks and the churches represent tolerance. Nothing else really mattered. It was impossible for me to wend off the image of bullet holes in the mosques and dead bodies of children.
That was all I could think about when our small plane arrived at the Sarejevo airport. I was sad, I was troubled, I was worried. I knew Sarejevo from many places. I read about the town where many were killed by Serbian shells. I read about a bridge, which failed to survive, yet revived. I read about a woman, who lost not only her legs, but her kids as well. I read the story of the Pakistani fighters rushing to this city to save it from the infidels. I read about the kids who lost their limbs with a sniper bullet. I read it from New York Times, I read it from Cumhuriyet, I read it from Radikal, I read it from Nedim Gursel, I read it from Firuzan. I read it from Wikipedia. All of them confirmed what I felt at the time. Here I was, on the edge of an epic city, war torn, but proud with her bullet ridden minarets and churches, humble with her small, paved roads, which were labeled with yellow stripes to mark the “mine-cleaned areas.”In my mind, she was a city defined by war... What arrogance!!!
WAR!!!
It crushed everything that came in its way: families, buildings, towns, bridges, beliefs, loves… But, it did one more horrible thing. It defined the lands that it destroyed. It became impossible to look beyond this thick fog of war. It created symbols of destruction for us to remember. Nobody knew that they were impossible to forget. The gorgeous, green lands that were crowned with magnificent heights all around, the beautifully cheerful people sitting next to me became meaningful only if they were touched by the war. The ancient and unique traditions of Sarajevo’s people were forgotten. The Christians and Muslims of the city became relevant only because of their role in the war. The mosques represent the resistance to the Serbian attacks and the churches represent tolerance. Nothing else really mattered. It was impossible for me to wend off the image of bullet holes in the mosques and dead bodies of children.
I realized, I could not write about a normal day in Sarajevo. Even if I could, nobody would listen.
It was so unfair.
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