Dino

Dino is a 29 year-old Bosnian Muslim. He comes from a small town outside of Sarajevo. In 1995 he turned 18 and was drafted into the army, but had only a brief glimpse of combat before the war ended. Afterwards he was an interpreter for the Canadian army for 2 and a half years. He likes Canadians, explaining that "at least they're better than the Americans." I tell him this is pretty much our national motto.

Now he works for Swatch in Sarajevo and as a result wears an ostentatious swanky watch and a slick ski-jacket emblazoned with the company logo. Dino smokes, drinks and calls himself a "social person." Indeed, he is often out on the town surrounded by friends. He speaks almost perfect English and talks at a fast clip.

He is liberal-minded. In the last election, he voted for the only multi-ethnic party which seeks a united Bosnia. He still agrees with their policies, but now realizes that they too are just as power hungry as the nationalists. He tells me that the only way to solve the divided political scene in the country is to have residents of the Serbian Republic have their votes counted only in the Muslim-Croat Federation, and vice versa. That way they would be forced to vote for liberal politicians who seek tolerance of minorities. This would be kind of like Israelis voting for the Palestinian leadership, while Palestinians elect the Israeli prime minister. I chuckle at his suggestion, but Dino bristles and says he's serious: "You need a radical solution."

I am surprised when he says that the war was "a better time" than the 10 years since. He miraculously lost no friends or relatives during the war, and this may be why. But other friends, one in particular who lost several relatives and is brought to tears every time they are mentioned, tells me she understands Dino's train of thought. During the war there was a sense of purpose, a driving force in life. Friends and families came together as never before. Life was hard, but tragedy became just another routine, and every day was filled with drama, with excitement. But ever since, there has been no clear future for Bosnia -- it wallows in a kind of political and economic limbo.

It seems to Dino that things are actually getting worse. The nationalist parties that brought the country to war are still in power and it is as difficult as ever to find a job. Corruption is actually growing, and ethnic hatred persists. Like so many young people I have met, Dino sees no prospects for success or stability in Bosnia. He does not for a second want a return to war, but at the same time there is nothing to work hard for, no dreams that seem attainable. He tells me that a recent poll said that 70% of Bosnians would leave the country if they could.

Dino too plans to leave. He wants to move to Albania by the spring. When I express shock that his escape route will take him to one of only two countries in Europe that is actually poorer than Bosnia, he tells me he has an Albanian girlfriend whom he wants to marry. But the main reason, he says, is that, unlike Bosnia, there is a bright future for Albania. There are 4 million Albanians in the country, but 8 million others living abroad, and their investment dollars are pouring in. Albania has two coasts with potential for developing major ports. Russia plans to build an enormous oil pipeline through the country. "At least things are changing in Albania," Dino says.

Christmas in Sarajevo

Midnight mass at the Old Cathedral.

Merry Christmas, all. Sarajevo is 80% Muslim, but nevertheless once can still find an obnoxious number of Christmas lights in some places, partly due to the Christian population, partly due to Christmas as a celebration of unbridled capitalism.

I spent Christmas Eve at an American friend's house for dinner, and then briefly on to midnight mass at the Old Cathedral. We couldn't really bear it for too long, especially after I realized that the dirty looks I was getting were because I was leaning on the bowl of Holy Water. Anyway, outside the Cathedral was more of a rowdy Saturday night party, with hot wine being served and firecrackers being set off. Christmas is just another excuse to drink here, really.

Firecrackers? Yup, you can buy them on any street corner for a couple bucks and set them off anywhere you please. "Safety first" is an utterly foreign concept in Bosnia. It's more like "Safety fourth or fifth" after "fun," "speed," "cigarettes" and "being really macho."

Well, in order to experience a true Bosnian Christmas, my friend Knute and I bought some fireworks for 2 Euros and set them off right in front of a policeman in the very middle of downtown. The first couple flares were duds and one nearly landed on a man's head. No one, neither the man nor the cop, seemed phased. And that's how I almost set someone's hair on fire for Christmas.

Sarajevo through History, from East to West

Where the Great War began... The plaque oddly commemorates the spot from where the assassin fired the fatal shot at Archduke Franz Ferdinand. He actually died on the bridge seen in the background.

If you walk from east to west through Sarajevo, you will travel through almost six centuries of history.

In the east are the beautiful cobblestone streets of Stari Grad ("Old Town"), where in 1461 the first Ottoman governor of Bosnia turned a small village cluster into a city and state capital. Stari Grad is the fount of both tourism and Muslim culture in Sarajevo, with its ancient mosques, Turkish restaurants, sheesha bars and rows of merchants selling gleaming metal wares. It is also the favourite hangout for pigeons and the headscarved women who feed them.

Walk only a few blocks west and you will come upon the huge Old Cathedral, historical landmark and favourite meeting spot for scantily clad clubbers gathering for a night out. Standing here, one can experience being at the exact point Where East meets West, the moniker by which Sarajevo is known in just about every travel guide. The Cathedral heralds the crumbling of the Ottoman Empire and the reconquest of Eastern Europe by Christianity, beginning in 1683 when the Ottoman hordes were repelled at the gates of Vienna. Here cobblestone turns to asphalt, the old stone structures of Stari Grad are replaced by concrete and brick houses, and the rooves go from dark wood to the orange pottery tiles that are characteristic of Bosnia.

Go a bit south of here and first you will pass my apartment building, but more importantly after that the spot where Serb nationalist Gavrilo Princip fired the shot heard round the world that killed the Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his pregnant wife, prompting World War I (pictured above).

If you keep walking west, and imagine Sarajevo enduring the long war of 1914-1945, all of a sudden you will find yourself in Tito's dreary communist Yugoslavia. Tito came to power in the chaos of 1945 and ruled the region until his death in 1980. His legacy in Sarajevo consists of the occasional monument and portrait, but more visibly the ghastly, enormous concrete apartment blocks and industrial complexes which are the hallmark of post-Soviet states. The western part of Sarajevo is a sort of graveyard of creativity -- the contrast with the east could not be more stark.

But my bloated historical metaphor does not end here, oh no! For if you keep on westward, though you will probably want to get in a taxi by now, you will first pass the old 1984 Olympic complex, a reminder of how Sarajevo went from cultural centre of the world to hellish warzone in only 8 years. After that, one comes upon the enormous monument commemorating Tito's death, which has one of every type of tree found in Yugoslavia (though they were all dead and leafless when I went). Appropriately, literally only 50 feet beyond this is the frontline of the war that erupted as a result of the power vacuum created in the wake of Tito's untimely passing. Walk even further if you wish, but tread carefully around the signed areas warning of the continuing presence of landmines.

And this, dear reader, brings us all the way to 1995. If you wish to witness history since then, you will have to look to the people of Sarajevo, for the last war this city witnessed halted all progress, and it has only been rebuilding ever since.

Balkan basketball

On Saturday I finally managed to experience live pro Balkan basketball, perhaps the most popular sport in the country. I have no idea how basketball migrated from North America to the Balkans and only a few other isolated regions in the world -- I know only that players from the former Yugoslavia are perhaps the best on the globe outside of America, and that there is a respectable regional league that even attracts some decent American players (although you are only allowed two foreigners per team).

Bosna, the local team, absolutely dominated a team from a Serbian town whose name now escapes me. The atmosphere of the match was part European soccer and part Roman Coliseum. While the spirited crowd constantly chanted and sang in unison, waving their burgundy scarves, they also howled in anger and anguish at every turnover or bad call, sending incredible streams of profane abuse at the targets of their displeasure (I recognized just about every Bosnian curse I've learned so far). At one point, after a series of horrendous calls by the official, they began to shower the court with junk and chanted (according to my translating friend) "Gypsy! Gypsy! Gypsy!" This cheer came up more than once.

I also learned the lyrics to some of the rousing fight songs. The most popular one, for example, goes: "Yugoslavia, Yugoslavia! Suck our dicks! And fuck you too! Bosnia can do without you!" (Serbia is often called Yugoslavia nowadays) Of course, in Bosnian the song rhymes, making it sound pleasant and melodic to the tourist ear. Another piece of poetry: "Oh Serbia, Serbia, no one can hate you like we do! Fuck you and go home!" As my Bosnian friend Haris proudly explained, "That's just how we do it in the Balkans, man. We're hardcore!"

Another fascinating wrinkle: not unsurprisingly, you are permitted to smoke in the stadium. In fact, it is technically forbidden, but even the security guards were puffing away. By the end of the game, a small cloud can be observed hovering over the court, no doubt helping the athletes reach new peaks of physical conditioning. Once I find a place in Bosnia where people actually do not smoke, I will immediately report it here, for it would indeed be a momentous discovery worthy of a medal. (My friend who was in the hospital complained that his roomate, an old coughing man, smoked all night long!)

The Godfather of Sarajevo

The middle-aged men I play indoor soccer with every Monday say there is no point in exerting yourself if you don't justify it with a hearty post-game beer. This being Bosnia, most will also tack on a few cigarettes in order to fully negate the healthy rewards of exercise. I am not one to complain. And so every week we go straight from pitch to bar, a matter of only a few dozen steps as the main Sarajevo gym convienently has its own watering hole for thirsty, self-styled athletes.

Last week, as we sat sipping our pints and reviewing the game's heroes and zeroes, a pair of stunning ladies sauntered in, a blonde and a brunette, sporting shiny makeup, short tight skirts and pursed lips -- a recipe for attention amongst sweaty men pleased with themselves after an evening of masculine exertion and a drink in hand. A friend of mine, Tim, tracked their regal entrance and softly whistled to himself. He took a gulp, then smiled and waved. But mid-wave his face turned ashen white, and he looked straight down into his beer.

"Holy shit... that's Celo. Those are Celo's girls!" he whispered hoarsely.

Celo. The Godfather of Sarajevo. The meanest, biggest, ugliest looking goomba in town. 7 feet tall with a long pony-tail. Possibly the most powerful man in Bosnia, regarded by locals as equal-parts hero and villain.

"Hero" for being a leading figure in the defence of Sarajevo during the siege. When the Serbs surrounded the city, Bosnian army defenses were more or less incapacitated. But small militia groups persisted in fighting back, many of them led by organized crime figures who had access to weapons and ammunition. Celo became a quasi-general in the forces defending Sarajevo, and was even badly wounded and evacuated to Germany for recovery. In the end, Celo and others succesfully helped prevent Sarajevo from being overrun.

But as with so many heroes in war, he became a villain in peace. After 1995, he capitalized on his public renown by becoming the leading mob boss in Sarajevo. And leading the mafia in Bosnia means you rival even the President in power. Organized crime is an omnipresent force. There are simply too many burly men dressed in black leather skulking around Sarajevo for it to be a mere fashion trend. Celo himself is known for one thing in particular: walking into a crowded club and shooting a rival Serbian boss in the face. He was arrested and brought to court. TV footage of the trial apparently shows Celo chuckling as the indictment is read. Needless to say, he was acquitted.

And there was Celo, in the bar of the gym, in jogging pants and a t-shirt, surrounded by two beautiful women. Around him stood a couple of big goons who had their backs turned to him, their eyes scanning the crowd.

And Tim had just waved to Celo's girls.

A moment of panic ensued. But Celo didn't notice; the girls didn't react. Tim breathed a big sigh of relief. We all laughed, and decided to keep to ourselves the rest of the night.

At some point, Celo and his entourage slipped away and, after a couple more beers, Tim was already telling the story of how he had flirted with Celo's girls and stared down the feared mob boss. Beer has a funny way of re-writing history.

The Court basement

The Court building was once a military barracks for the Bosnian army. There has been some controversy over the fact that when they were renovating the basement, they found evidence of torture, including traces of dozens of types of blood. The victims were almost definitely Serbs. Needless to say, the building's grisly history has been an obstacle in efforts to prove to Serbs that postwar justice in Bosnia will not be biased.

My desk used to be in the basement. I'm glad they moved me upstairs.

Minorities within minorities

My friend Owusu posing with some gypsy kids, whom I gave a little change for their modeling.

Bosnian Muslims, who comprise most of the population in Sarajevo and in Bosnia, are in the scope of the region a historically oppressed minority, a lonely island of Islam sandwiched between Orthodox Serbs and Catholic Croatians. Prejudice certainly goes both ways, but it cannot be said that Bosnians do not know what it is like to be discriminated against.

And yet it always seems that within every minority is another minority. After I had my wallet stolen on the tram, the Bosnian security officer at the court advised me that in order to avoid further theft I should "Stay away from gypsies. They have dark skin, you know. Keep away from them, and their children." In everyday Bosnian slang, being lazy means you are acting "like a gypsy." My friend Knute has a beat-up 1983 VW Jetta with diplomatic plates because of his father's job, and our Bosnian friends get endless amusment at his diplomatically-immune "gypsy car."

This kind of slurring is not, of course, unique to Bosnia or even Europe, but I have never seen such a large Roma (the PC word for gypsy, I guess) population as in Sarajevo. Walking down the street, they are a clearly visible ethnic group, yet live on the very margins of society. In politics, in education, in the economy -- in everything except as a hindrance to locals -- they are a complete non-factor. They are dismissed as societal leeches who "don't even want to work if they could."

It is hard to drive anywhere without being accosted by squeegee-wielding packs of young Roma children, who beg persisently for change and, if you refuse, often use some of the few english words they know: "Go fuck your mother!" Not exactly the best customer service, and it is not uncommon to see a Bosnian man burst out from his car and chase them away with a stream of obscenities.

Another distinct minority are gays, though the repression is so overwhelming that it is pretty much impossible to tell they even exist. I have never been in a country as openly homophobic as Bosnia, mostly evinced in the unavoidable, continuous slurs.

In my first week here, I met 3 Bosnians guys on separate occasions, all of whom within minutes of meeting me slapped me on the back and told me they were gay. The first time, I awkwardly said "Uh... OK, that's cool," to which the fellow in question furrowed his eyebrows, puffed up his chest and proceeded to make absolutely sure I knew he was just kidding: "No, no... it was just joke! You understand, no? Just joke! Haha, funny, you know. I like the women! Women very fine! Very fine!" I soon learned that it is a common punchline, funny because it is completely and utterly inconceivable that anyone would ever be gay, much less admit to it.

A recent article in the English-language Bosnia Daily made a rare mention of homosexuality in the country, quoting a Bosnian gay activist who said: "Families find it easier to accept if a member of their family is a war criminal than if he's gay." Very sad, but very true...

Mostar's old bridge

Pictured is the old bridge linking Mostar's Croat and Muslim halves. It was destroyed in 1993, but rebuilt with the stones recovered from the river. I put up a few more pics from Mostar here.

Milosevic's Revenge

I have been bedridden for the past several days with a very nasty case of food poisoning. Privately, I have taken to calling my illness "Milosevic's Revenge." But I have finally toppled the brutal tyranny that has wreaked havoc on my digestive system, and I am now on the road to post-conflict recovery and reconstruction.