•~•
I.
 |
| Dogend of a Day Gone By |
•~•
II.
 |
| Evening in Budva |
•~•
III.
 |
| Sv. Sava's Temple |
•~•
IIII.
 |
| One Night in Mostar |
•~•
V.
 |
| Gazi Husrev-beg Mosque & Fountain |
~*~
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Images I-V
Notebook Routines
{Some miscellany from the four notebooks. I didn't fill four notebooks, but I wrote in each of them at something akin to random, so my notes are non-sequential in all of them.}
•~•
I'm no moral compass, but I am what you might call a moral traffic signal. Too close to the edge and I'm right here to remind you of all the good things you still got.
•~•
Amazed, she says, "I just give you the address and away you go."
Yup, that's me. Headlong forward until I fall.
•~•
Ubek biti tu ćuprija.
•~•
[from the Višegrad trek:]
Thoughts went swimmingly adrift... a sinking thought into the depths: was there arsenic in the sugar bowl?
•~•
[from the Višegrad trek:]
I remember the rain on metal and terra cotta while the Pixies play ''Cactus'' in my head.
•~•
I saw her aspects.
•~•
Fortunately, it's a rare fetish... for Islamic girls in leather jackets.
•~•
•~•
There's nothing to say about Srebrenica, you just have to go there.
•~•
•~•
She was filled with velvet & violence.
•~•
I need to write this. To nail my demons to the page.
•~•
Generosity has allowed this journey to Serbia and Sarajevo. I am grateful for this opportunity to experience this learning. Thank you...
•~•
A single tiny light struggling against
encroaching darkness forever.
Amen.
•~•
Mi o vuku, a vuk na vrata.
Krv nije voda.
Niko ne zna šta nosi jutro ašta već.
Tiha voda breg roni.
Raj na zemlji.
Rajski vrt.
•~•
Antik Electronics.
•~•
The gunmetal day triggered a bullet-black night.
•~•
The confluence is not stagnant, it's just flowing underground.
•~•
This was a bridge between us.
There is a bridge between us.
The Bridge Will Always Be There.
•~•
You can talk of Free Will, but we are all really just homing pigeons in the end.
•~•
Guy walks into a auto parts garage.
''I'd like an ashtray for my Yugo.''
The mechanic replies, ''Sounds like a fair trade.''
•~•
After the triumphs of last night come the failures of this morning.
•~•
Evil lives where fear dwells. Without fear, evil can never find purchase.
•~•
Acquisitive.
•~•
''Are you going to or coming from?''
•~•
[to a vocal atheist:]
If there is no god, is there at least a pattern-making demiurge?
[quoting Anthony Burgess]
•~•
More mi misli.
•~•
I have breathed the ash of Treblenkan flesh,
—danced counting upon bonepiles in the the Khmer Rouge jungle heat
—painted myself a war mask from the flow of blood after Srebrenica
—held a thousand machet'd hands in Nyarubuye
I would that Ruman and Gabriel scorch those rotten Lowland souls who would stand aside to watch...
•~•
Poor English translation on multi-language sign:
Museum of Naive Art.
•~•
The field is a sea of green clover and grass blown by winds in waves crested with red flowers named from the blood of fallen martyrs.
•~•
Her hair is the color of Coca-Cola foam.
•~•
[Sıdıka to an outside bartender as the thunderstorm breaks:]
''Is the rain dampening your spirits?''
•~•
You have to understand from the outset—and perhaps remind yourself several times throughout—that the only way this can be written and studied critically, and ultimately understood to any degree at all is that I (you, and anyone), as needs must, turn off empathy and emotion... the pathos must defer to the logos to assess and analyze. As for the ethos, well, ethics of another culture, another way of living day by day, is so arbitrary to any other. However much we—you, I, them, the other people—wish to pass Judgment on others in order to carry out our constructed sense of Justice, which is a figment in the most stable of realms, let alone in the mythic seething cauldron among the Balkans... we quickly find that Justice is abitrarily different when applied others than if would would have it befall for our own misdeeds.
•~•
This is what happens when religions collide.
•~•
It's a beautiful sadness...
•~•
I like politics, but I don't like politicians.
•~•
Menu = a map of the food.
•~•
The devil comes dressed in beautiful robes.
•~•
Curiosity is a boundary between love and fear.
•~•
Go upriver to where the tunnel hides the road. Pass over the tunnel and make way to the bastion...
•~•
•~•
A verbal reciept was my only conclusion.
•~•
•~•
Holiday Greetings You'll Never Hear:
•~•
That dude has a copy & paste personality.
•~•
Dig deep or go home.
•~•
There is a fine line between comedy and vomit.
•~•
''I'm a pre-ex-feminist.''
•~•
''Don't be so irromantic.''
•~•
''If you are going to write about this, your heart needs to be large enough to hold the grief.''
•~•
~•~
•~•
I'm no moral compass, but I am what you might call a moral traffic signal. Too close to the edge and I'm right here to remind you of all the good things you still got.
•~•
Amazed, she says, "I just give you the address and away you go."
Yup, that's me. Headlong forward until I fall.
•~•
Ubek biti tu ćuprija.
•~•
[from the Višegrad trek:]
Thoughts went swimmingly adrift... a sinking thought into the depths: was there arsenic in the sugar bowl?
•~•
[from the Višegrad trek:]
I remember the rain on metal and terra cotta while the Pixies play ''Cactus'' in my head.
•~•
I saw her aspects.
•~•
Fortunately, it's a rare fetish... for Islamic girls in leather jackets.
•~•
"The greatest creation in human history is the bridge."
"The bridge does not ask who crosses it."
~Matija Bećković, 3.VI.2000+10
•
When you come to any city
and to any city one usually comes very late
When you come to any city . . .
you will take the road you had to take
which before you did not exist
but was born with you
To take your own road
and meet the one you had to meet
on the road you had to take.
•~•
There's nothing to say about Srebrenica, you just have to go there.
•~•
Now there's a Bridge between us
What once was lost is found
And I have been a witness
When you walked on sacred ground
How long will you remember
Awake on that Rumi morn'?
''Come in.'' I said, ''I'll give you
Shelter from the Storm.''
~(Sıdıka Vuković)
•~•
She was filled with velvet & violence.
•~•
I need to write this. To nail my demons to the page.
•~•
Generosity has allowed this journey to Serbia and Sarajevo. I am grateful for this opportunity to experience this learning. Thank you...
•~•
A single tiny light struggling against
encroaching darkness forever.
Amen.
Srebrenica
11/7/95
•~•
Mi o vuku, a vuk na vrata.
Speak of the devil and he is bound to appear.
Krv nije voda.
Blood is thicker than water.
Niko ne zna šta nosi jutro ašta već.
No one knows what will happen to him before sunset.
Tiha voda breg roni.
Still water runs deep.
Raj na zemlji.
Heaven on earth.
Rajski vrt.
Garden of Eden.
•~•
Antik Electronics.
•~•
The gunmetal day triggered a bullet-black night.
•~•
The confluence is not stagnant, it's just flowing underground.
•~•
This was a bridge between us.
There is a bridge between us.
The Bridge Will Always Be There.
•~•
You can talk of Free Will, but we are all really just homing pigeons in the end.
•~•
Guy walks into a auto parts garage.
''I'd like an ashtray for my Yugo.''
The mechanic replies, ''Sounds like a fair trade.''
•~•
After the triumphs of last night come the failures of this morning.
•~•
Evil lives where fear dwells. Without fear, evil can never find purchase.
•~•
Acquisitive.
•~•
''Are you going to or coming from?''
•~•
[to a vocal atheist:]
If there is no god, is there at least a pattern-making demiurge?
[quoting Anthony Burgess]
•~•
More mi misli.
I am haunted by thoughts.
•~•
I have breathed the ash of Treblenkan flesh,
—danced counting upon bonepiles in the the Khmer Rouge jungle heat
—painted myself a war mask from the flow of blood after Srebrenica
—held a thousand machet'd hands in Nyarubuye
I would that Ruman and Gabriel scorch those rotten Lowland souls who would stand aside to watch...
•~•
Poor English translation on multi-language sign:
Museum of Naive Art.
•~•
The field is a sea of green clover and grass blown by winds in waves crested with red flowers named from the blood of fallen martyrs.
•~•
Her hair is the color of Coca-Cola foam.
•~•
[Sıdıka to an outside bartender as the thunderstorm breaks:]
''Is the rain dampening your spirits?''
•~•
You have to understand from the outset—and perhaps remind yourself several times throughout—that the only way this can be written and studied critically, and ultimately understood to any degree at all is that I (you, and anyone), as needs must, turn off empathy and emotion... the pathos must defer to the logos to assess and analyze. As for the ethos, well, ethics of another culture, another way of living day by day, is so arbitrary to any other. However much we—you, I, them, the other people—wish to pass Judgment on others in order to carry out our constructed sense of Justice, which is a figment in the most stable of realms, let alone in the mythic seething cauldron among the Balkans... we quickly find that Justice is abitrarily different when applied others than if would would have it befall for our own misdeeds.
•~•
This is what happens when religions collide.
•~•
It's a beautiful sadness...
•~•
I like politics, but I don't like politicians.
•~•
Menu = a map of the food.
•~•
The devil comes dressed in beautiful robes.
•~•
Curiosity is a boundary between love and fear.
•~•
Go upriver to where the tunnel hides the road. Pass over the tunnel and make way to the bastion...
•~•
''He who ruins bridges ruins himself.''
~Sarajevan boy's picture of a bridge
found among the rubble
of a bombed school building.
found among the rubble
of a bombed school building.
•~•
A verbal reciept was my only conclusion.
•~•
''If ideologies are techtonic plates, Sarajevo is on a mjor fault line.''
''Islam never had its French Revolution.''
~Pedja Kojović
•~•
Holiday Greetings You'll Never Hear:
Happy Holocaust Day!
•~•
That dude has a copy & paste personality.
•~•
Dig deep or go home.
•~•
There is a fine line between comedy and vomit.
•~•
''I'm a pre-ex-feminist.''
•~•
''Don't be so irromantic.''
•~•
''If you are going to write about this, your heart needs to be large enough to hold the grief.''
•~•
~•~
Friday, July 9, 2010
This is what happens when I get out more...
(as opposed to those other times when I need to get out more).
I miss xkcds like this one:
I've been hungry for a while now, but still sit here catching up on xkcd. I haven't even started on Sinfest yet, and still I'm hungry.
And wondering what the hell Allen Ginsberg was doing in Serbia and sending friends of mine postcards...?
I miss xkcds like this one:
I've been hungry for a while now, but still sit here catching up on xkcd. I haven't even started on Sinfest yet, and still I'm hungry.
And wondering what the hell Allen Ginsberg was doing in Serbia and sending friends of mine postcards...?
Kahve cehennem kadar kara, ölüm kadar güçlü ve aşk kadar, da tatlı olmalıdır...
Result of my first attempt brewing kafa bosankska at home.
It wasn't anywhere nearly as good as Zeytin's made for me, but it was tasty to have sitting at my own desk. And it was better when I brewed it up this morning.
It should be noted that, despite the appearances being virtually identical, kafa bosankska differs from Turkish coffee (aside from using the questionably-sourced proverb quoted above), bosankska is made differently than is Turkish. [once the grounds are in the fildžan—or dzezva, if you're making kafa jugoslavska—you put the container on a low-heat to 'roast' the grounds while the water almost-boils, and after the almost-boiling water is poured (slowly now, else you'll have an exploding mud pot of almost-boiling coffee sludge flying out at 90º+ radius around the fildžan) over the grounds, the fildžan is placed on a low-heat to froth a few times (to taste, I suppose) before serving. I have no sugar cubes, and prefer raw sugar to refined, so I use the little brass spoon to measure out loose sugar for each cup. While I do not sweeten my coffee to the degree that Bosnians (nor Jugoslavs, for that matter) do, I have brought myself from wanting milk in it (an heretical act!). Alas! I have no rahatlokum (Turkish delight) to nibble while drinking, but I'm sure in larger cities in this country, I'd be able to track some down. I like the white ones with figs and nuts in them, then rolled in coconut. Of the six-some variants I've had, those go nicely on my palette.
So, I've had my morning coffee and shared a bit about it. Time to organize some things and do laudry and such that is much needed. Today I hope to begin sorting through my notebooks and posting some things I hoped to post during the journey but couldn't or didn't. These recent ten hours of sleep were just what I needed.
I'd fully enjoy being home if the air conditioning worked properly in this corner of the house.
~•~
P.S. The proverb above is recounted in English as something like, "Coffee should be black as hell, strong as death, and sweet as love..."
~•~
Monday, July 5, 2010
Almost Copless Journey
There was me, that is, Your Humble Narrator, and my devotchka droog, Sıdıka, and we prowled about the wretched ruins around Potočari looking for photos and not listening to the silence screaming of several ten thousand voices once present in that vicinity. Here is what we found:
Imagine a Kafkaesque police tale set in the Balkans against the atmospheric backdrop of genocidal terror. Then imagine Your Humble Narrator encountered head on the foreign police state and making a critical success in his fast talk skill check to befuddle and intimidate two Republika Srpska policemen.
O my Brothers... (and Sisters, too!) ...and Sisters, too...
There was me, in Potočari, with my devotchka droog, Sıdıka, who participated in this scenario which would have been bleakly hilarious had it not been so potentially dreadful. I would have laughed at the moment, as I am wont to do in aburdist po-lice situations, had Sıdıka not been (literally, far more than figuratively) a little beyond the edge of terrified hysteria. (Due to the nature of her being Bosnia Muslim and the police being Bosnian Serbs, and the balance of emotion between those two entities being, at best, spiteful, and at worst ... Srebrenican.)
The RS -- ironically enough in cyrillic, PC -- came up as I was still in one building and Sıdıka waited just inside the pushed apart, padlocked fence gate. I hurried out and the cops demanded, in Serbian, to know what I was doing and to show them my ID. I handed over my international student card rather than my passport. Sıdıka showed them her BiH card. One cop spoke some English and told me I was trespassing. I played dumb and said there was no sign saying so (since it was lying face down in the dirt and gravel, I know this because I looked at it and took a photo of it), and we both skipped over discussing the fact that the gate to the fence surrounding the building was padlocked.
He asked was I was doing in the building, and I motioned with my camera... "Takin' pictures," I said with a deliberate tinge of Southern accent. he asked if I'd been in the other buildings between this one and the memorial a few kilometers back down the road.
When I said I hadn't, the cop was staring at my camera and I knew I'd just trapped myself. Given the circumstances, I didn't think I could keep him from taking my camera... legally nor physically.
When the other cop suggested, in Serbian, they take us both into custody (or something to that effect) Sıdıka offered a quick interpretation with her voice wavering beneath the tides of fear swelling within her.
That, O my Brothers, and Sisters, too, was when Your Humble Narrator tossed his metaphysical percentile dice to roll a critical success and dazzled the cops with International verbal dexterity and baffled them with good ol' fashioned American bullshit. Neither of which pulled Sıdıka back from dangling into the abysmal voice of transference déjà vu (see previous comment concerning Muslim-Bosnian Serb relations and Srebrenica) with this RS-uniformed cop while the Westerner stands by to witness.
Or, in this case, does a little soft-shoe shuffle dance fast talk à la Mr. Bojangles in A Clockwork Orange routine.
"She has been hired to accompany me in Republika Srpska and act as my translator and interpreter. I cannot be left unaccompanied by her so long as i am here. I'm traveling on a Fellowship Grant from the University of North Carolina in Wilmington which makes her an employee of the University--" here I quickly pointed at the laminated green card in the cop's hand (with which most European officials of museums, train stations, and legal establishments are familiar) "--so separating her from me would mean a breech of contract with the University and would, by necessity, involve the United States Department of Secretary of State and Ms. Hillery Clinton..."
Being the Fourth of July, I did my best to channel the voice of the Framers of the Constitution, as well as baseball, hot dogs, apple pie, and Chevrolet (a curiously French word to indicate something at the heart of modern Americanism). And, if there is one place left on earth where the proper name of Clinton invokes memories of actual destruction and deathit would be Waco, Texas... er... um... no, almost everyone in Waco is dead it would be Serbia, and by extension, Republika Srpska.
As I was speaking, when I stepped forawrd to point at my ID card, I had also consciously/unconsciously stepped between the cops and Sıdıka.
The two cops withdrew a couple of meters to consider my verbal effulgence, understandably skeptical of everything in my claim except, perhaps, the bullshit. But they talked it over in Serbian -- Sıdıka offering no direct interpretation due to her drowning in fear -- but it wasn't difficult to figure out what they were saying. Copspeak is the same the world over.
I refused.
He said it could have evidence of criminal activity and needed to be checked. If there was nothing incriminating on it, we would be free to go. He demanded it again.
I had been attempting, while he was demanding things of me, to remove the camera's memory card. However, one of the user-unfriendly features of the Sony DSC H5 camera is that the memory card is not easy nor quick to remove. I hadn't gotten it out when he reached over to take the camera from me. The compartment where the card was also houses the twin batteries so when he took the camera, the batteries fell out. He picked them up and dropped them back in -- getting them positioned correctly on the first try. Most digital cameras are similar enough that the cop didn't take long to figure out how to scroll through the photos and, sure enough, evidence of entry into other buildings, and the Serbian equivalent of the Keep Out sign I had ignored, yet photographed.
I had returned to Srebrenica for two reasons. One was that Sıdıka had family there and had never been. Fear and pain had kept her from it. She said she'd go if I went with her. She felt safe with me.
I also went to conduct a photo essay to list the names of the dead. My own version of a necronomicon.
In the mythology created by H. P. Lovecraft, copies of the dreaded Necronomicon -- Al-Azif -- were systematically destroyed throughout history by the Catholic Church (and, curiously, by any right-minded occultist), so that by the 20th Century, only a half-doyen copies survived.
My images to name the dead were, in this 21st Century, systematically deleted with the press of a two buttons: Delete All -- Are You Sure?
There were no survivors.
The cop handed me back my camera. He wore the sort of a smile a politician wears after just having lied to an audience of millions and knowing virtually every one of them believed...
I lost my photos.
But I wasn't arrested.
I had my camera.
Sıdıka was not hassled.
We watched them walk back to their car and drive away.
Sıdıka trembled.
I've seen animals tremble with fear. Dogs, cats, small rodents.
I've described characters in stories as trembling. But I have never actually seen a person tremble in the manner she did. The adrenaline aftermath of panic and knowledgeable terror.
After a few minutes we began walking. It was about 6 kilometers back to the bus station. In the town of Srebrenica. She didn't speak.
The most common phrase Sarajevans have about the genocide at Srebrenica is There is nothing to say. You just have to go there. These words felt like concertina wire wrapping my heart as i walked. The sound of my boots on gravel and asphalt and muddy grass became the only conversation. The wind and the heat added their say. the two people present were silent.
There was nothing to say. We just had to go to Srebrenica.
The only bus going backto Sarajevo departed in forty minutes.
Considering the history of those who have walked that same landscape, O my Brothers and Sisters, too, it was the saddest walk I had ever made. However, since the buses those people in the past walked towards took them away from their loved ones -- and the loved ones away to their torturous murder -- and the bus we walked towards would, by the exchange of some 30 marks, take us in relative safety to Sarajevo... it was also one of the easiest walks I have ever made in my life.
I lost my photos. I had the company of my friend.
And an idea for making something of art from this genocide.
Ideas and art change the world. And they are necessary after genocide. When walls are constructed, more bridges are needed...
4 July 2010
~*~
Imagine a Kafkaesque police tale set in the Balkans against the atmospheric backdrop of genocidal terror. Then imagine Your Humble Narrator encountered head on the foreign police state and making a critical success in his fast talk skill check to befuddle and intimidate two Republika Srpska policemen.
O my Brothers... (and Sisters, too!) ...and Sisters, too...
There was me, in Potočari, with my devotchka droog, Sıdıka, who participated in this scenario which would have been bleakly hilarious had it not been so potentially dreadful. I would have laughed at the moment, as I am wont to do in aburdist po-lice situations, had Sıdıka not been (literally, far more than figuratively) a little beyond the edge of terrified hysteria. (Due to the nature of her being Bosnia Muslim and the police being Bosnian Serbs, and the balance of emotion between those two entities being, at best, spiteful, and at worst ... Srebrenican.)
The RS -- ironically enough in cyrillic, PC -- came up as I was still in one building and Sıdıka waited just inside the pushed apart, padlocked fence gate. I hurried out and the cops demanded, in Serbian, to know what I was doing and to show them my ID. I handed over my international student card rather than my passport. Sıdıka showed them her BiH card. One cop spoke some English and told me I was trespassing. I played dumb and said there was no sign saying so (since it was lying face down in the dirt and gravel, I know this because I looked at it and took a photo of it), and we both skipped over discussing the fact that the gate to the fence surrounding the building was padlocked.
He asked was I was doing in the building, and I motioned with my camera... "Takin' pictures," I said with a deliberate tinge of Southern accent. he asked if I'd been in the other buildings between this one and the memorial a few kilometers back down the road.
When I said I hadn't, the cop was staring at my camera and I knew I'd just trapped myself. Given the circumstances, I didn't think I could keep him from taking my camera... legally nor physically.
When the other cop suggested, in Serbian, they take us both into custody (or something to that effect) Sıdıka offered a quick interpretation with her voice wavering beneath the tides of fear swelling within her.
That, O my Brothers, and Sisters, too, was when Your Humble Narrator tossed his metaphysical percentile dice to roll a critical success and dazzled the cops with International verbal dexterity and baffled them with good ol' fashioned American bullshit. Neither of which pulled Sıdıka back from dangling into the abysmal voice of transference déjà vu (see previous comment concerning Muslim-Bosnian Serb relations and Srebrenica) with this RS-uniformed cop while the Westerner stands by to witness.
Or, in this case, does a little soft-shoe shuffle dance fast talk à la Mr. Bojangles in A Clockwork Orange routine.
"She has been hired to accompany me in Republika Srpska and act as my translator and interpreter. I cannot be left unaccompanied by her so long as i am here. I'm traveling on a Fellowship Grant from the University of North Carolina in Wilmington which makes her an employee of the University--" here I quickly pointed at the laminated green card in the cop's hand (with which most European officials of museums, train stations, and legal establishments are familiar) "--so separating her from me would mean a breech of contract with the University and would, by necessity, involve the United States Department of Secretary of State and Ms. Hillery Clinton..."
Being the Fourth of July, I did my best to channel the voice of the Framers of the Constitution, as well as baseball, hot dogs, apple pie, and Chevrolet (a curiously French word to indicate something at the heart of modern Americanism). And, if there is one place left on earth where the proper name of Clinton invokes memories of actual destruction and death
As I was speaking, when I stepped forawrd to point at my ID card, I had also consciously/unconsciously stepped between the cops and Sıdıka.
The two cops withdrew a couple of meters to consider my verbal effulgence, understandably skeptical of everything in my claim except, perhaps, the bullshit. But they talked it over in Serbian -- Sıdıka offering no direct interpretation due to her drowning in fear -- but it wasn't difficult to figure out what they were saying. Copspeak is the same the world over.
+ Forget her, she's not worth the hassle.When they came back over, the one who spoke some English demanded my camera.
- What about him?
+ He's full of shit.
-Yup.
+ But he's got a point on the University thing. We don't want trouble with some American know-it-alls. Schools are different over there. They like to sue each other.
- Yup.
+ But he was trespassing.
- Yup.
+ And I hate these snobby American kids.
- Me too.
+ Let's fuck with him a little.
- Yup.
I refused.
He said it could have evidence of criminal activity and needed to be checked. If there was nothing incriminating on it, we would be free to go. He demanded it again.
I had been attempting, while he was demanding things of me, to remove the camera's memory card. However, one of the user-unfriendly features of the Sony DSC H5 camera is that the memory card is not easy nor quick to remove. I hadn't gotten it out when he reached over to take the camera from me. The compartment where the card was also houses the twin batteries so when he took the camera, the batteries fell out. He picked them up and dropped them back in -- getting them positioned correctly on the first try. Most digital cameras are similar enough that the cop didn't take long to figure out how to scroll through the photos and, sure enough, evidence of entry into other buildings, and the Serbian equivalent of the Keep Out sign I had ignored, yet photographed.
I had returned to Srebrenica for two reasons. One was that Sıdıka had family there and had never been. Fear and pain had kept her from it. She said she'd go if I went with her. She felt safe with me.
I also went to conduct a photo essay to list the names of the dead. My own version of a necronomicon.
In the mythology created by H. P. Lovecraft, copies of the dreaded Necronomicon -- Al-Azif -- were systematically destroyed throughout history by the Catholic Church (and, curiously, by any right-minded occultist), so that by the 20th Century, only a half-doyen copies survived.
My images to name the dead were, in this 21st Century, systematically deleted with the press of a two buttons: Delete All -- Are You Sure?
There were no survivors.
The cop handed me back my camera. He wore the sort of a smile a politician wears after just having lied to an audience of millions and knowing virtually every one of them believed...
I lost my photos.
But I wasn't arrested.
I had my camera.
Sıdıka was not hassled.
We watched them walk back to their car and drive away.
Sıdıka trembled.
I've seen animals tremble with fear. Dogs, cats, small rodents.
I've described characters in stories as trembling. But I have never actually seen a person tremble in the manner she did. The adrenaline aftermath of panic and knowledgeable terror.
After a few minutes we began walking. It was about 6 kilometers back to the bus station. In the town of Srebrenica. She didn't speak.
The most common phrase Sarajevans have about the genocide at Srebrenica is There is nothing to say. You just have to go there. These words felt like concertina wire wrapping my heart as i walked. The sound of my boots on gravel and asphalt and muddy grass became the only conversation. The wind and the heat added their say. the two people present were silent.
There was nothing to say. We just had to go to Srebrenica.
The only bus going backto Sarajevo departed in forty minutes.
Considering the history of those who have walked that same landscape, O my Brothers and Sisters, too, it was the saddest walk I had ever made. However, since the buses those people in the past walked towards took them away from their loved ones -- and the loved ones away to their torturous murder -- and the bus we walked towards would, by the exchange of some 30 marks, take us in relative safety to Sarajevo... it was also one of the easiest walks I have ever made in my life.
I lost my photos. I had the company of my friend.
And an idea for making something of art from this genocide.
Ideas and art change the world. And they are necessary after genocide. When walls are constructed, more bridges are needed...
4 July 2010
~between Srebrenica & Sarajevo
w/ Sıdıka asleep beside me on the bus
~*~
Ubek Biti Tu Ćuprija
In all of human history there has never been a kitty more tired than this one right now. Not only will my hamster engine wheel not turn, but my hamster cannot even climb on the wheel.
After about four hours of sleep Saturday night, I was up at 6 am Sunday morning to go back to Srebrenica. Back from there, I got a bus to Mostar to catch night photos, then back at 6 am to Sarajevo where I sit now debating a shower before an afternoon of sleep.
Then ... hrmmmmmm ... pack to .... ick ... leave.
In Mostar, I got some great photos, even if many of them didn't come out the way I had hoped. I caught a couple of the Stari Most that perhaps have not been captured before...
In Srebrenica (Potočari), I ... well, I had almost made it through this trip without a cop encounter. I didn't kick an embassy, but I did go somewhere the Republika Srpska police didn't want an American and a Bosnian citizen going. Probably the UN wouldn't have been too keen on it either.
Now that you have the teaser trailer, you'll have to wait for the film.
Shower. Then sleep. Then catch up on other things. Then .. well, the rest of it so I can take five planes to span a quarter of the planet in thirty hours.
~*~
After about four hours of sleep Saturday night, I was up at 6 am Sunday morning to go back to Srebrenica. Back from there, I got a bus to Mostar to catch night photos, then back at 6 am to Sarajevo where I sit now debating a shower before an afternoon of sleep.
Then ... hrmmmmmm ... pack to .... ick ... leave.
In Mostar, I got some great photos, even if many of them didn't come out the way I had hoped. I caught a couple of the Stari Most that perhaps have not been captured before...
In Srebrenica (Potočari), I ... well, I had almost made it through this trip without a cop encounter. I didn't kick an embassy, but I did go somewhere the Republika Srpska police didn't want an American and a Bosnian citizen going. Probably the UN wouldn't have been too keen on it either.
Now that you have the teaser trailer, you'll have to wait for the film.
Shower. Then sleep. Then catch up on other things. Then .. well, the rest of it so I can take five planes to span a quarter of the planet in thirty hours.
~*~
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