It's the little things too

Over the past two weeks, I have ducked to avoid incoming gunfire several times. Of course, it was just some brats setting off fireworks, which you can buy (and set off) on any street corner over the holidays. I'm getting used to it though. I barely flinch anymore. No more "Haha, stupid tourist!!" looks, at least not for that.

At one point I sat in my appartment and listened to a long string of explosions. For a moment, I imagined hunkering down as war raged outside, sitting in the dark and listening intently to the muffled echoes of death-bearing metal. Then I felt guilty for pretending. And then I realized no one wasted time listening anyway -- time was better spent living.

You see, you would think the people of Sarajevo would be sensitive to loud bangs, but then you would be an ignorant, spoiled foreigner (or so I've been told). No one even blinks.

The other day my friend Damir showed me where the shell had entered his kitchen, destroying it in the middle of the night. Damir, 11 years old and sleeping in the room next door, didn't even wake up. When he arose hours later -- his parents let him sleep in -- he was shocked to find a gaping hole in the side of the house. Little Damir was used to being lulled to sleep by the waves of rhythmic bombing.