Bosnia

Bosnia has a governor? The Republic of what? These were my responses when I first heard of the country’s name, “Bosnia and Herzegovina”, and within its territory, The Republic of Svrska. So how many countries are there?

Coming from Fort Stewart, I had known Bosnia as a war-torn country of brutal extremists, land mines and burnt down houses. As I crossed the border from southern Croatia into Bosnia, this impression was soon replaced by idyllic green fields and gently rolling hills . Aside from the fact that there are too many consonants and not enough vowels, what her people had to fight and kill each other for, year after year, generation over generation, is as incomprehensible to me as its miserable language. My incidental detour from Croatia into Bosnia had become a journey to explore humanity.

Everywhere I went, there were sleepy little villages nestled on foothills that seemed to have stood still for millennia. Is this really the land where fierce firefights, widespread air raids, and merciless genocides happened not that long ago?Beyond the green fields dotted with wild flowers, little red signs with a white skull mark mine fields and testify to the dreadful wars between the Muslims, Catholics, Orthodox, Serbs, Croats, and other ethnic, political, and religious groups.

In Mostar, a cheery village, one of the oldest stone arch bridge in Europe was completely destroyed during the war in the 90’s. This beautiful old bridge used to span over a meandering river that divided the village: the Catholic side and the Islamic side. Today the bridge has been rebuilt, according to its original plan recovered from Istanbul, even with some original stones savaged from the rubbles, but the divided village is still split – churches on the east bank and mosques on the west. A piece of rock bearing the memento “Don’t forget 1993” was placed on the bridge. What lesson does the stone want the people not to forget? Did they really learn anything? In this hip little town I spent my first night in Bosnia. I strolled through narrow cobble stone streets lined with charming little shops selling local crafts and Turkish souvenirs; I had wine over dinner and watched a World Cup match on a 6-foot screen in a trendy bar. The next morning I walked down the same street and passed by that same bar. Daylight revealed the other side of the story: its exterior wall was peppered with bullet holes – a volatile history veiled by the country's seemingly tranquil atmosphere.

Further north in another old town called Jayce, I wandered around the ancient city wall and came across a neat little house. A perfectly contented mama cat was napping with her kitten at a wooden gate. I could not resist waking up the kitten and playing with him. Soon an old man came out of the house. Between I and this Bosnian man, we spoke no common language, but somehow we started talking. Twenty minutes later, I learned his name, his job, and the names of his cats and dogs and all the tricks that these animals could perform. In Georgia where I came from, if you stop at someone’s yard and a man comes out, you can expect the man cranking a shotgun and spitting fire. Here in Bosnia, the man came out with a smile, and then went back into his house to get me water and snack.
A woman who lost her husband and both of her sons during the war shared her personal reflections: An entire village that was destroyed could be rebuilt, but the damage of cultural heritage could never be replaced. Although the pain of losing a family member would never heal, at least the loved ones who were left behind could accept it as the nature of war and eventually find peace. It was the defeat of faith in the good human nature that was so fundamental and haunting that left the victim no answer or consolation. She was betrayed by friends and neighbors she had known all her life, even by relatives she had grown up with. She could never trust another human being. What kind of religion preaches faith in god but through their crusade instills no trust in man?

In the Republic of Srvska, meadows were brilliantly decorated with wild flowers. Along the roads, signs of “Sir Med” were often seen. Whoever Sir Med was, he must have been a great nobleman who rules this vast land with great popularity. At a high pass with a breathtaking view, I took a wine break. No sooner had I realized there were sheep on the meadow did two men walked towards me. Alerted, I pulled out my weapon of mass destruction – a big smile with a bling on my teeth of sparkles – and waved franticly. The men returned fire with big smiles showing brown and broken teeth. Only one of them spoke a few words in German and English, but both men proudly pointed out the boundaries of their land and excitedly talked about the sheep and cattle they owned. We strike up an enthusiastic conversation with occasional words, vivid facial expressions, exagerated hand gestures, and uproars of laughter when a point did get across. Soon I was invited to their house. In their yard, a small orthodox shrine stood among roaming chickens. I tried a syrup made from a wild flower and some very strong Turisk brew coffee. Eventually I was presented with “Sir”, which is the local word for cheese. To inquire whether it was cow cheese or goat cheese, “Mooooo? Mehhhh?” was the question. Later I realized “Med” is the local word for honey, and the people here sell home-made cheese and honey for a living. It sounds like the simple peaceful life in fairy tales. The next thing I learned, was that people here used to tend to their livestock and grow their crops in the summer, and fought the war in the winter. It was not that simple after all.

Outside of a small national park, I found lodging at a farm house. This was no fancy farm-house-converted B&B for the ecotourists. When I walked into this house, the stench of goat cheese was suffocating. I could touch the bed sheet and feel the tallow from the last time it was washed with soap made from animal fat. The "fresh air of the great outdoor" was a blend of cow manure and a shaggy sheep dog who had never bathed in his life. In the soft golden rays of the setting sun, this revolting smell was penetrated by the subtle scent of elm tree flowers as an elderly woman gingerly picked tiny flowers off the branches for making honey.

When I came into this land and saw the first house covered with bullet holes, I thought that was the coolest shit and heartlessly took pictures as souvenir. As I was leaving this country, I saw a house like that in a very different way. Each bullet hole is a dot; the dots connect to form a line; the lines stack up to become a picture. This picture comes to life in my mind. It is a story with characters who have touched me in their simple, remote, but powerful ways. This abandoned house was built, stone by stone, through generations and passed down from fathers to sons. Here once lived a family who laughed, cried, and died after an automatic weapon fired across it. I could faintly hear the prayers from a distance. I could almost smell the goat cheese in the air.

For more pictures of Bosnia, visit my Bosnia Album.