(The name in the following story has been changed to protect the identity of the main character.)
I met Darko on my first trip to Bosnia a few years ago. He was a skinny, dark haired boy with tanned skin and cheeks flushed red. For being ten years old he spoke English very well and served as my translator with the kids in the orphanage. I talked with him more than most other kids here because of his ability to communicate in my language. For the rest of the orphans who had to rely on my knowledge of the Bosnian language, we had trouble getting past, “What is your name? What do you like to do? Waiter, may I please have another coke?” So Darko was one of my favorites.
It was a warm summer night and Darko and I decided to get some Ice Cream. For a Half-Mark (equivalent to twenty five cents) I could get one scoop of Jagoda (Strawberry) and one scoop of Chocolate. For fifty cents I could win friends at the local orphanage and it cost me less than buying one donut back home. On our way home we sat in the park eating our ice cream and talking about life. The skinny little boy I once knew was much taller now and his voice was deepening. As we sat and talked I realized that I never asked him about his story. I couldn’t believe that after four years of knowing him I still did not know how he ended up living in an orphanage. It is a hard thing to ask an orphan because it brings up bad memories of life that went wrong at an early age or it reminds the child that he doesn’t even know his story because the cold walls of this sterile building is all he has ever known.
After four years I had to hear it from him so I asked what he knew and with beautiful openness he told me his story;
“My father had already died from drinking so I lived with my mother, sister, and younger brother. During the first year of the war my younger brother died so my family decided we could not bear living here any longer. We packed everything we owned into our tiny, broken down car and headed out of town. The chances of making it all the way through Bosnia and into Macedonia without harm were not good but we had no other option. Food was scarce, we had no electricity, and reminders of my brother’s death were everywhere.
Early in our journey my mother explained to me that we had to make a stop before continuing with the drive. We turned down the narrow dead end street and saw the orphanage hovering ominously at the bottom of the hill. With tears in her eyes, my mother explained that the three of us would not be able to make the journey to Macedonia and that I would be staying here. She helped me carry my bag out of the car and we walked up the stairs passed the glaring eyes of sullen faced kids who would be my new siblings in my new home.
I was introduced to the disinterested Orphanage director and brought up to my room. I walked with my mom back to the front steps, she kissed me, and said ‘goodbye’. I remember the anxiety I felt sitting on those steps as my mother and sister drove up the hill and out of sight. I tried not to cry so that my new roommates would not think I was weak but I was too young to have mastered that skill.
I was six years old and all I felt was fear. I feared that my family would not make it to Macedonia, I feared that I would not make it in Zenica, and I feared that I would never again see the only people I had left in my young life.”
With tears I listened to Darko’s story and all I wanted to do was to wrap my arms around him and give him the life he missed out on. I wanted to take him home and allow him to laugh and cry and run and play like a normal kid. As he described watching his family disappear over the hills and into a new life I knew that more than his family drove away that day. Sitting in that car next to Darko’s mother and sister, my young friend watched his childhood disappear.
Showing posts with label Europe. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Europe. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Monday, October 16, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Venetian Sunrise
Sometimes when traveling I stumble upon a perfect moment that brings me to a state of complete satisfaction. It might be on the peak of a snow-covered mountain with my skis strapped and ready to take the plunge. It might be out in “the bush” under the African moonlit skies. Some of these moments have been in the middle of big cities with crowds of people and some have been lost in the middle of Minnesota cornfields.
One summer I spent a few days relaxing in Venice, Italy and I came across one of those moments. I climbed out of bed early on a hot August morning and headed out into the maze of canals and narrow alleys that make Venice what it is. Although it was early, the humid summer air from the Mediterranean already chased off any hint of chill that the night could bring. I wandered without any goal of where I was going so I knew I would get there soon. The city was still asleep and only occasional shopkeepers could be found preparing for another day of the endless throngs of people who would hurry pass their doors.
This particular morning I was taking it slow. I wandered passed an aging Italian Nun who I assume was on her way to church. I smiled at her and she uttered something in Italian to which I responded by simply smiling some more. I would like to think that she said, “Good morning gracious one blessed of God”. But it is just as likely that she said, “Get out of my way, I’m late for work and the Lord needs me”.
Still feeling the effects of the morning blessing, I wandered a moment longer until I found a little café nestled comfortably next to a canal and tiny footbridge. The storeowner must have been hired by a talent agency because his short, stalky body and his round cheery face was the quintessential picture of an Italian café worker. He greeted me once again in Italian and I responded by asking for a cappuccino (an Italian word I know) and a croissant.
That morning I sat at a tiny outdoor table drinking my cappuccino and eating my croissant while surrounded by a mass of locals all who believed in beginning their day with some espresso, some friends, and some second hand cigarette smoke. As the sounds of old men and old women talking and laughing in Italian filled my ears I thought this is close to the perfect moment for me. I imagined for a moment that I was one of them. I was an old Italian man who ate pizza and drank wine everyday. I liked spaghetti for lunch and playing Bocci Ball in the park. I spoke English in a quiet tone reminiscent of Marlon Brando in the Godfather and I always wore suits.
Then I drifted back into reality just as the sun appeared over an old brick building that had picturesque window boxes overflowing with summer flowers. The canal next to me was perfectly calm, the warm summer sun provided a golden tone across the sky, and the smell and taste of my cappuccino and croissant livened my senses. With nowhere to be and nothing to do, I wanted to freeze this moment in time and stay there a while. My Venetian Sunrise was the perfect way to start the day.
One summer I spent a few days relaxing in Venice, Italy and I came across one of those moments. I climbed out of bed early on a hot August morning and headed out into the maze of canals and narrow alleys that make Venice what it is. Although it was early, the humid summer air from the Mediterranean already chased off any hint of chill that the night could bring. I wandered without any goal of where I was going so I knew I would get there soon. The city was still asleep and only occasional shopkeepers could be found preparing for another day of the endless throngs of people who would hurry pass their doors.
This particular morning I was taking it slow. I wandered passed an aging Italian Nun who I assume was on her way to church. I smiled at her and she uttered something in Italian to which I responded by simply smiling some more. I would like to think that she said, “Good morning gracious one blessed of God”. But it is just as likely that she said, “Get out of my way, I’m late for work and the Lord needs me”.
Still feeling the effects of the morning blessing, I wandered a moment longer until I found a little café nestled comfortably next to a canal and tiny footbridge. The storeowner must have been hired by a talent agency because his short, stalky body and his round cheery face was the quintessential picture of an Italian café worker. He greeted me once again in Italian and I responded by asking for a cappuccino (an Italian word I know) and a croissant.
That morning I sat at a tiny outdoor table drinking my cappuccino and eating my croissant while surrounded by a mass of locals all who believed in beginning their day with some espresso, some friends, and some second hand cigarette smoke. As the sounds of old men and old women talking and laughing in Italian filled my ears I thought this is close to the perfect moment for me. I imagined for a moment that I was one of them. I was an old Italian man who ate pizza and drank wine everyday. I liked spaghetti for lunch and playing Bocci Ball in the park. I spoke English in a quiet tone reminiscent of Marlon Brando in the Godfather and I always wore suits.
Then I drifted back into reality just as the sun appeared over an old brick building that had picturesque window boxes overflowing with summer flowers. The canal next to me was perfectly calm, the warm summer sun provided a golden tone across the sky, and the smell and taste of my cappuccino and croissant livened my senses. With nowhere to be and nothing to do, I wanted to freeze this moment in time and stay there a while. My Venetian Sunrise was the perfect way to start the day.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Venice Basics
I arrived in Venice via ferry and was immediately excited at what stood before me. I would spend the next few days exploring the city and trying to relax in the midst of the typical chaos that is found in a popular European city. With narrow streets, endless throngs of people, and hot stale air, some would say that relaxing here is not an option. For me, relaxing has to do with where my mind is more than my body. For example, a roaring thunderstorm can literally shake the foundations of a house and at the same time bring a great sense of comfort. And can you imagine a more terrifying thought than drifting alone in the middle of a calm ocean? This is not the point. The point is that I was in Venice and I was relaxed.
When visiting Venice, one should not be in a rush. Not because there is so much to see, but because there is not much to see. A seemingly endless maze of canals and narrow alleyways linking houses, hotels, restaurants, and churches sprawl throughout this small island making up the whole of Venice. To the visitor, this sprawl appears to be a repeating pattern designed specifically by the locals to trap and confuse those of us who intrude on their sinking paradise.
Following a map is an excersize in futility so you must attempt to "feel your way". You can try to follow the Grand Canal on the bordering sidewalks but inevitably the sidewalk will run into a building and then you have to enter back into the maze with no hope of keeping the canal in sight. If you walk long enough, you will eventually find Piazza San Marco, which is the main tourist attraction in Venice. After five minutes it becomes apparent that the buildings are impressive in the plaza but the crowds and the prices in the cafes here are simply not worth the time.
After stumbling upon the plaza, I decided this was not for me so I attempted to head back to my room by retracing my steps. I soon realized that retracing my exact steps was a laughable thought so I once again made the most of the wandering journey home. The excitement of a crowded cafe and the smell of baked calzones provided an irresitible detour for lunch. I chose a spot at a crowded table where I enjoyed my fresh cut Pastrami sandwhich. After lunch I continued my journey through the Labrynth home.
I found the best thing to do was to walk slowly and look at everything as if it was something worth seeing. It is also important to stop for Italian Gelatto. For 7000 lira I had a double scoop of Chocolate and Strawberry. With Gelatto in hand, I would wander over bridges, through alleys, and at times cut directly through what appeared to be private courtyards and eventually I would find myself right back where I began. I would applaud myself for my keen sense of direction and ask myself why my Boy Scouts Leader never noticed such a rare specimen of navigational genius. Then I would curse my room key for not working in the door before realizing that I was trying to open the room next to mine. At least I got the building right.
When visiting Venice, one should not be in a rush. Not because there is so much to see, but because there is not much to see. A seemingly endless maze of canals and narrow alleyways linking houses, hotels, restaurants, and churches sprawl throughout this small island making up the whole of Venice. To the visitor, this sprawl appears to be a repeating pattern designed specifically by the locals to trap and confuse those of us who intrude on their sinking paradise.
Following a map is an excersize in futility so you must attempt to "feel your way". You can try to follow the Grand Canal on the bordering sidewalks but inevitably the sidewalk will run into a building and then you have to enter back into the maze with no hope of keeping the canal in sight. If you walk long enough, you will eventually find Piazza San Marco, which is the main tourist attraction in Venice. After five minutes it becomes apparent that the buildings are impressive in the plaza but the crowds and the prices in the cafes here are simply not worth the time.
After stumbling upon the plaza, I decided this was not for me so I attempted to head back to my room by retracing my steps. I soon realized that retracing my exact steps was a laughable thought so I once again made the most of the wandering journey home. The excitement of a crowded cafe and the smell of baked calzones provided an irresitible detour for lunch. I chose a spot at a crowded table where I enjoyed my fresh cut Pastrami sandwhich. After lunch I continued my journey through the Labrynth home.
I found the best thing to do was to walk slowly and look at everything as if it was something worth seeing. It is also important to stop for Italian Gelatto. For 7000 lira I had a double scoop of Chocolate and Strawberry. With Gelatto in hand, I would wander over bridges, through alleys, and at times cut directly through what appeared to be private courtyards and eventually I would find myself right back where I began. I would applaud myself for my keen sense of direction and ask myself why my Boy Scouts Leader never noticed such a rare specimen of navigational genius. Then I would curse my room key for not working in the door before realizing that I was trying to open the room next to mine. At least I got the building right.
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