Sarajevo 1984 to Torino 2006

On Sunday I watched the hockey final with Dzida and Adnan, who were supportive enough to cheer with me for my mother's homeland, Finland, against their arch-enemy Sweden. "Damn these slippery Swedes," Dzida said as the Finns went down a goal, "If we had Bosnian hockey team, we would beat the shit out of them, shoot them and then sleep with their wives." Bosnians have a wonderfully crude, self-deprecating sense of humour.

Bosnia has never won a medal (keep in mind that as a nation they have only competed since 1994), but the boys were jokingly hopeful. "I don't understand, we should win this skiing and shooting sport, biathlon. It's two things we're very good at," Adnan said. "Yes, we train very well with the shooting. We use moving targets!" Dzida quipped. We went on like this for a while, beside ourselves with laughter at imagining Bosnians brutalizing the Olympics.

But after Finland lost and I was feeling grumpy, the discussion turned serious. That's when Dzida told me about the feeling of watching the opening ceremony of the 1994 Lillehammer games, when Bosnia and Herzegovina participated as a nation for the very first time. I imagine that, like Dzida, all Bosnians watched with mixed pride and sadness. He was in Germany at the time, having fled the war with his mother while his father stayed on to fight. In his opening speech, IOC Chairman Juan Antonio Samaranch mentioned Sarajevo:

Ten years ago, we were in Sarajevo for the Olympic Games. A city then dedicated to sport, understanding, friendship and peace. Sarajevo, whose people for over two years have suffered so much. I invite everyone, not only all of you here in the stadium, but everywhere around the world, maybe even in your own homes, to stand up for a moment’s silence in memory of Sarajevo.

Thank you. Our message is stronger than ever. Please stop the fighting. Stop the killing. Drop your guns.

From an article about a sad effort to bring the games back to Sarajevo in 2010.It is hard to imagine how Sarajevo could host the world in 1984 in a festival of international sharing (the first and only time the games have been held in a socialist country), only to be engulfed by ethnic hatred and war only 8 years later. Today, the revitalized infrastructure that came with the '84 games is barely noticeable. The main stadiums are intact, but decaying. The ski hill used for the men's downhill was entirely destroyed, though it is now partially rebuilt and on the mend. I found these pics of the destroyed bobsled run. Bosnia's sporting system, which was thriving and wealthy after the games (including, apparently, a popular but now nonexistent hockey league), is in a sad state. A friend of a friend qualified for the women's luge, but the government wouldn't provide the money to go to Torino, even though Italy is so close.

And every once and a while you will glimpse a faded Olympic logo like the one above, and you can't help but think that there is no veneer of tolerance that cannot be utterly shattered with only a few years of focused fear and propaganda.

Mladic in multiple locations with various ailments facing several deadlines

Confusion surrounding the status of Ratko Mladic continues. Some say he is hiding on Cer Mountain near the Serbian border, others that he has actually already been arrested in Romania, and last week it was reported that he was detained in Tuzla, Bosnia. In other news, the Americans have apparently offered him $5 million to surrender, which Mladic has reportedly refused, instead demanding "tens of millions" and other bizarre requests, such as a guarantee not to be shown on television in handcuffs. And according to the Dutch foreign minister, Mladic is desperately ill and is variously reported to be suffering from a stroke, a heart condition and/or kidney trouble.

Meanwhile, just as the "informal end-of-February deadline" for his capture is about to expire, the EU appears to have a set an "end-of-March deadline," threatening to freeze EU enlargement talks. On the other hand, one EU official is saying that it will not hold Serbia to any ultimatums over Mladic.

My prediction is that the EU will set a "formal but sort of informal mid-April-deadline." Mladic will surrender somewhere between Somalia and Iceland after accepting $8.3 million and a box of bonbons. He will have herpes. Seems as good a bet as any...

Girls in the Graveyard

Counting crows

They just found two dead crows right oustide the window of the head honcho's office. They've cordoned off the area with yellow tape, the police are blocking off access and apparently men in protective suits are coming to collect the carcasses. The fun here never ends! To celebrate, I had chicken for lunch.

"The Jerk" still at large

So as it turns out Mladic is still on the loose. The Court was buzzing with the news of his potential capture, not only because people around here are naturally interested in that kind of thing, but also because it would probably mean a large increase in cases transferred from the ICTY as the Hague assumes the immense workload of trying Mladic (Milosevic recently celebrated his 4th straight year on trial).

Alas, the Butcher of Bosnia is still at large, rumoured to be surrounded by at least 50 well-trained soldiers and protected and nourished by allies within the Serbian government and military. The "hunt" continues, though it is more of a waiting game to see when Belgrade decides it can no longer afford to shelter him. And so, just another day of disappointment in Bosnia.

"They caught Ratko!"

The moment I walked into Sanjin's apartment last night, he pointed excitedly at the TV. "Look! They caught fucking Ratko Mladic!" Mladic was the Serb army's top general in Bosnia during the war. He is one of the most wanted criminals in the world, indicted for orchestrating the Srebrenica genocide, the siege of Sarajevo, and for command responsibility of Serb war crimes in general. His capture would rank as one of the biggest news stories in the Balkans in recent years. Rumours of his imminent arrest have been in the news ever since I got here, though the ingrained local cynicism means that no one will believe it until they see it with their own eyes.

We sat glued to the TV, watching the Bosnian news as the reports came in, even though I didn't understand a bloody word. Sanjin started making phone calls telling everyone "Ratko Mladic Serif Mubarek Olsun!" which is a riff on the Bosnian for "Happy Bajram"-- in other words "Happy Ratko Mladic Day!" He explained to me that there is a Balkan custom in which when you are the first to give a friend good news, he owes you a gift. "I'm going to be rich today!" he joked, as he tapped away on the cellphone.

But overall, reaction from this particular Bosnian was muted. "He was a jerk, still is a jerk, and will always be a jerk. Nothing's changed, life goes on," was Sanjin's take.

Soon it appeared that maybe nothing really had changed. The news stations started reporting that they were no longer certain he was actually captured. The Serbian government issued a denial, though that was to be expected regardless. As it stands right now, confusion reigns. Some say he is surrounded and his surrender is imminent, others that he is currently being transported to the Hague, and yet others that it was a complete hoax.

I called Adnan for his reaction. "Well, it was good while it lasted," was all he could muster, seemingly already resigned to the fact that Mladic is still at large. Perhaps before the day is out we will know for sure.

Bosnian National Library: still a hollow, burnt shell

Growing up in rural Bosnia

We began our ski touring last weekend in a tiny hamlet called Luke. It is so isolated that apparently last winter a blizzard blocked road access to the town for 2 whole months.

Only moments after we stopped our van and unloaded our skis, a small crowd of excited villagers had gathered to stare at the odd-looking foreigners. A man in camouflage pants and 3 teeth (I counted) stood sucking on cigarettes, chatting with other old men in knit caps and Adidas sweatshirts, one of whom stepped in to examine my skis and help me put on the skin (a layer of fabric glued to the bottom which provides grip for climbing). A lady in flowing linens and a headshawl tended to a few children, who stood staring unabashadely, looking part fascinated, part afraid -- sort of like how wary, curious cats behave when you hold out your hand to them. I had the impression that this was the most exciting thing to happen to them in months.

I was too shy to ask for a group photo, but I did manage to snap the above picture after I gave the kids some chocolate. I put up a few more pics of the village here.

Ski up, ski down

Me about to plunge into the great white unknown.

On Sunday I skied up a mountain in the middle of nowhere (Visocica), and then I skied down it. It was tiring, and extremely difficult. It was a thrilling experience, though I learned that fresh powder is not quite as exhilarating when it's covering your face. But the scenery was awe-inspiring and I've never done anything like it. Of course, we hired a guide, as taking off into the Bosnian wilderness on your own means toying with whatever fate the landmines might have in store for you.

See some more cool photos.

The VW Golf: The car, the myth, the legend.

Disclaimer

The Volkswagen Golf: symbol of Sarajevo. The sporty hatchback is a veritable Sarajevo institution, and not least because there is a VW factory just outside of town. During the war, the Golf won the hearts of Sarajevans as an indefatigable workhorse. Favored for its small size, maneuverability, speed and, above all, reliablity, Golfs were distributed around the city in an elaborate rapid-response ambulance system. According to one account, you might witness someone succumb to a sniper and barely a minute later, as you still stood dumbfounded, a Golf would suddenly come tearing in, swoop the injured into the back, and screech off, leaving you wondering if it had ever happened.

According to an article in Bosnia Daily last week, an astonishing 34% of cars in Bosnia are VW Golfs. People are so attached to their Golfs, or even just the abstract ideal of perseverence that the Golf represents, that the car has achieved mythological status. I have been told several times the story of so and so's friend who, when they ran out of diesel fuel during the war, poured a bottle of vodka into the Golf's tank, and would you believe it ran like a dream and saved their lives?

Adnan was elated last month when his cousin donated her old Golf to him - his first car. He proudly showed me his new beat-up 1980-something VW Golf. It is bright pink. A week later, the doorhandle tore off in his hand. But no matter - it made it through the war and says Golf on the back, and that is good enough.

"They were sharpening knives in front of us"

I've been attending the trial of Marco Samardzija, an old man accused of orchestrating the massacre of 247 Bosnian Muslim men in the town of Biljani, a poor tiny hamlet in eastern Bosnia. Samardzija was the town's schoolteacher. The massacre happened in and around the town's school.

The trial began last week when Samardzija delivered a long, rambling opening statement, claiming he was the target of vicious slander, had no knowledge whatsoever of the killings, and had always fought for "Brotherhood and Unity," the old Titoist slogan of Communist Yugoslavia.

I thought he sounded convicing -- at the very least, he had convinced himself. But the past few days the witnesses have begun testifying. The testimony today of an old lady was particularly gripping. She came into the court hobbling on a cane, wearing a headshawl, a leopard-print shirt and a pink sweater vest. I reflexively found this comical at first, but I realized they were probably the nicest clothes she owned, and her testimony was anything but amusing. The defendant sat there taking notes. He looked up once, barely, at his old neighbor. Here is my rough record of part of the testimony, based on my notes:

PROSECUTOR: Did you know Marco Samardzija?
WITNESS: Of course, yes, I knew him, he was my neighbor. He taught my children, all of our children.
P: Tell me what happened on July 10, 1992.
W: We woke up to the sounds of shooting. I went to the door, and saw that there was a man killed outside. Then 2 soldiers came into our house and held guns and took us to the school. They herded us in, walked around us. It was raining a little bit. We stood there for a while... (screaming) They were sharpening knives in front of us! (crying) I saw my son... he was being pushed in and I cried out for him and then I fainted. (crying)
P: It's OK, take it slowly madam. What happened next?
W: My daughter was washing my face from the puddles on the ground, and they laughed and said "Don't bother washing her, we will bury her anyway." (...) After that, one soldier said that they shouldn't be holding women and children. So he let us go, and we went back to our house. We heard shooting for two hours after that.
P: Did you see Marco Samardzija that day?
W: Yes, we saw him outside the school. And then when I went back to my house, we saw him on an earth-mover machine, giving orders, telling his men to pick up the bodies.
P: Did you see him there when they were picking up the bodies?
W: Yes, he was there, putting them onto the truck. There was a stream of blood on the road. They killed people everywhere. There were bodies all around. Some they put on the truck were not even dead yet.
P: How did you find out that your son and husband had been killed?
W: Later someone gave me my son's ID, but they never told me what happened. Then when we found the bodies there was my husband's. There was a sweater over his face, covering his eyes, and when they pulled it back I saw his black hair and... (crying) I just knew it was him. (crying)
JUDGE: Let us stop this for now.
W: No, I can go on.
J: Are you sure you can do this?
W: No, not really.
J: If you can't, we won't go on.
W: (still crying) Please, do not delay this. I do not want to come here again.

"I am Balkan man. Sam... is not Man."

The male species of Homo balcanicus is a curious creature.

I watched an excellently made Bosnian film the other night, Kuduz (1989), in which the letter R in the English subtitles was sometimes mistakenly replaced with a W. “Whewe awe you, whewe awe you?!” the main character screams at one point. But I digress.

Kuduz is apparently based on a true story. Kuduz is a humble man in a small Bosniak town. He is driven to madness when his emotionally unstable and neglectful wife leaves him for another man, taking his one true love with her, their young daughter. In a fit of rage Kuduz kills the wife and the lover. He spends the rest of the movie on the lam, but unable to flee the town because he cannot help himself from trying to see the little girl. Eventually he is caught and imprisoned.

Kuduz is portrayed as a sympathetic character, a good, hard-working Bosniak with a weakness for occasional bouts of anger, who is driven to the brink by betrayal and love.

It reminded me of a conversation I had with my friend Dzida a while back.

“So what would you do if you caught your wife with another man, Sam?”he asked me once.
“Uh, I dunno… I-”
“Would you hit her?”
“Um, I don’t think so,” I stuttered.
“I would kill him and then I kill her. You must,” Dzida asserted authoritatively, making a karate chop motion.
I snorted, “Yeah right, you caveman.”
Dzida chuckled and slapped me on the back. “Are you not a man, Sam?”
“Well , yeah...”
“You must be man. That is what you are. Where is your honor? Are you man? Are you a man, Sam?”
“Yeah, I…”
“No, Sam. You are not a man. You are boy. I am real Balkan man,” he said with a broad smile, puffing up his chest. “Sam… is not Man,” he declared to the others in the room, waving his hand in a broad arc. We all laughed at my expense.

Good old Dzida, the loud swashbuckler who loves telling stories, talking about anti-American conspiracies, making friends and chasing girls. I was occasionally perturbed by his backwards beliefs, but he has never been anything but generous and hospitable to me. When I mentioned this conversation to my friend Adnan, he laughed and said “Dzida is just a crazy Sanjaki,” referring to Dzida’s birthplace. Sanjak is the only Muslim region of Serbia, whose people are renowned for their militancy, hard drinking and loud mouths.

The last time I saw Dzida was several weeks ago. He was bristling under evil stares from his father, who was sitting in the back of a police car. Dzida had crashed his car into a store window in a fit of speed-hungry machismo. Since his name was not on the insurance, he had to call dad and ask him to take responsibility. I had heard a lot about this father, a former Major in the Bosnian special forces during the war. When he arrived I was surprised to see a small, diminutive, squirrelly man standing next to Dzida’s hulking frame. But in patriarchal Bosnia, the father is king, especially if he is a trained killer. Groveling to the Major, Dzida looked like a jittery little boy who had just wet his pants.

A sudden magla

I went skiing this weekend at Jahorina. Decent slopes, though it is a veritable old chairlift museum. Anyway, this was the crisp, clear view on the first day...




... and this is what it was like on day two, skiing in the infamous Bosnian magla (fog), which can be fun in the same way that driving with your eyes closed is a cracking good time. The magla is a staple of Bosnian culture, just as much as cigarettes and sausages. The entire country is mountainous and without warning the clouds can drift into the valley, covering you in a thick, gray blanket.