Bosnia

Most people would not plan a trip into a war torn country in the Balkans for their first experience in Europe but here I am in a car waiting to get through the border as I leave Croatia and enter Bosnia. The excitement of being here is defeating my body’s desire to give in to the effects of jet lag. Not only did I travel 10 time zones to the east, but I also left the sunny winter days of Southern California and arrived in the dull frigid days in East Central Europe. Remnants of a recent winter storm still whiten the plains and add a contrasting background for the gray barren trees and the golden winter grasses.

The devastating war ended a few years ago but I could easily be convinced that it was last week. The town of Bosinski Brod lies in complete ruins. Rooftops along the river facing Croatia are all caved in and the crumbled brick walls of what I assume were houses is all I can see. The bridge into Bosnia looks completely untouched by the war but that is because the old bridge was bombed and the new one recently arrived courtesy of the United Nations. The road is filled with holes from what is sure to be a combination of Bosnian winters and three years of war. Burned cars still line the roadway reminding all that pass through that much work is still needed to restore any sense of order. Yellow tape displaying the word, “mine” litters the countryside and surrounds nearly every house. No, these are not selfish people declaring what property belongs to them, this is a warning that active land mines are still in the area and will need to be removed.

Entering Bosnia, I feel like I have traveled back in time at least 50 years. Horse drawn wagons loaded with freshly cut firewood pass by on the only road through town. Tired looking elderly men hardly notice our car as they steer the wagon through the brisk winter air. Their eyes are cold and the deep wrinkles hide the stories of pain from the brutal conflicts that fill this land’s history. Think of every major empire that has ruled the world and you will find the Balkan region on the list of conquered lands. From the Greco Empire of Alex the Great, to the oppressed lands of Communist Russia, the people of this region have endured them all. And with each empire, the people of this region adopted new ideologies and new ways of living. As a result, division and conflict is the way of life.

I continue to head south through Bosnia in the region known as Srbska Republica (Republic of Serbia) not to be confused with the present day country of Serbia. I am amazed at the vast amount of destruction throughout the land. We drive on and on and are hard pressed to find any houses fit for living. House after house lie in ruins from the brutal conflict that pitted neighbor against neighbor with nothing other than religion serving as the dividing line. The landscape is beautiful as densely wooded hills slope carelessly into a meandering river valley. It is hard to believe that this land that seems so peaceful could have been wrapped in a conflict so fierce. The landscape continues like this throughout the better part of the country with only occasional towns to break the monotony of the scenic drive.

In each town I see evidence of new beginnings but I also see evidence of lessons unlearned as newly constructed mosques and churches stand face to face across the town. It is almost as if each religion is more concerned that the church buildings survived the war than the people who will fill those buildings. It is not uncommon in Bosnia to see a mosque across the street from a Catholic church or an Orthodox church. Each religion insisting that the actions of their people were justified throughout the war. It is important to know that in Bosnia, one’s religion is equal to one’s nationality. Orthodox Christianity is a Serbian religion, Catholicism is synonymous with Croatian, and Bosnian means Muslim. One can imagine the dilemma when one’s parents each represent a different religion.

On my journey to Bosnia, I traveled with a man whose mother was a non-Muslim Bosnian married to a Serb. She served in the Yugoslavian National Army during Croatia’s war for independence, but when that war ended and the struggle in Bosnia began, she had to leave the army and live separated from her husband. At the time of this journey, she lived in central Bosnia, and he still lived in Belgrade (Serbia). Their son, my friend, split time between living with his mother and father. This perfectly healthy marriage is just one of the many unnoticed casualties of the war.

Another more obvious casualty of this war was the reason for this visit. Over the next week, I would establish connections with a state run orphanage that housed hundreds of children, many of whom survived three years of brutal conflict. One boy, who I will write about more in detail at a later time, lost his younger brother in the war so his mom brought him to the orphanage as she fled to Macedonia. He was just 5 years old and still recalls in vivid detail how he felt as he watched his mother drive away leaving him to his new home. I would soon learn that stories like this were hidden deep in the eyes of everyone I would meet. Each person had stories of how the war changed their lives. Elderly couples recalled “the good o’l days” of life under the dictatorship of Joseph Tito, young kids dreamed of life on “the outside”, and those in between stared blankly as if the past few years of war wiped any sign of life that once flourished in their eyes.

One U.N. worker I met warned me that Bosnia has a strange appeal to it and that after visiting most people find that they need to return. My experience in Bosnia was just beginning, but with new friendships and plenty of work to do this attraction would set in and I would become a regular visitor of this mysterious land.