Sam

The North

2008-08-01T17:10:00.000+02:00

I spent the past five days in Northern Uganda. War raged until only a few years ago, but now the main town of Gulu is rapidly recovering and overrun with NGOs. There is even a wine shop advertising “Italian Wine – All Varieties Available,” for the foreign aid workers. People there I spoke to talk about the war as if it were already over. Gulu seems little like the bombed-out villages of Bosnia, given that Uganda’s war was more about “low-tech” atrocities than snipers and mortars. It is at least quiet, clean and a welcome escape from the overcrowded, dusty streets of Kampala. The residents are Acholi – they speak a different, more guttural language, and have much darker skin than their countrymen in the South.

I quizzed a few locals about the ICC. While those who know better maintain that the ICC is almost unanimously reviled for having delayed peace, the handful I spoke to gave a different perspective. In their minds, Kony is not a rational actor who can be negotiated with. He has ordered his rebel troops to cut off the right leg of anyone caught riding a bicycle, prescribed immediate execution for owning a white chicken, and said that anyone owning a dog should be cut up such that their dog eventually attacks and eats them alive. The only way to bring him down is to kill or capture – and at least the ICC makes the latter a bit more likely. To them, any peace negotiations are just a ruse. Indeed, most recently the LRA negotiated for over a year and arrived at the final wording for an agreement with the government, only to have Kony simply not show up at the final signing.

We also visited a school for war-affected children – a euphemism for former abductees of the LRA. According to the artist who took us there, over 90% have been forced to kill. Many of the girls, barely into their teenage years, were raped or “assigned” to LRA commanders and now have small children. Many were forced to murder their own parents, relatives or friends. They were controlled by a steady stream of horror. The excellent book “Aboke Girls” by a Dutch journalist – about 109 girls from a posh boarding school abducted by the LRA – relates one incident of a girl forced to gnaw off the leg of another man. (I ended up giving away the book to some local politicians we met who lived very near the Aboke school, but who had never even heard of it – it’s even available in Canada!)

I stood a bit stunned in the middle of the brightly coloured campus, with inspirational slogans on little signs all along its pathways. Boys and girls, some looking as young as 7 or 8, milled about. I smiled at their seeming normalcy from afar, but when I tried to chat a couple of the boys up – showing them how you can see photos on the back of my camera, which usually elicits giggles and makes instant friends – they remained sullen and unenthused. They seemed suspicious of me, rarely smiling or waving back. I admit it felt a bit spooky, but mostly very sad. At least, unlike many, they have already escaped and have a shot at a “normal” life.

In non-war related observations, we also visited a very cool project called BOSCO (Battery Operated Systems for Community Outreach) which provides solar-powered computers with long-range wireless internet to the internally displaced persons camps. I thought it sounded a bit absurd at first to be providing computers to starving refugees who lack even clean drinking water, but apparently some have already been able to use the internet access to win grant proposals, to contact relatives abroad and have money sent back, to look up information about health and diseases, start up personal blogs, read the news, etc. My skepticism was overcome by the clear enthusiasm of the locals themselves, who saw the computer as their first and only outlet to a wide world of opportunities. If the internet can cause such excitement amongst desperately poor Africans living in crowded mud huts, perhaps it will indeed save us all from ourselves in the end. Except the innumerable stupid cat videos on YouTube, which help no one except my sister (and me, on a rainy day). Thankfully, the internet here is too slow for such abuse.

Reconciliation, corruption... and truth?

2008-07-24T17:23:00.000+02:00

The NGO I work for hosted a private conference this past weekend on national reconciliation: “Building Consensus on a Sustainable Peace for Uganda.” We invited a couple dozen parliamentary MPs to attend a workshop on transitional justice, to get them thinking about moving past Uganda’s legacy of conflict.

There was some fascinating discussion. It looks like Uganda may be moving towards a South African-style Truth and Reconciliation Commission. If it does, I may be able to say I was in the room when it was first discussed.

Although, believe it or not, there was a lot of discussion about whether to include the word “truth.” Like Jack Nicholson, they fear many won’t be able to handle it, particularly with regards to the government’s abuses in the North. Internationally, the war with the Lord’s Resistance Army is seen only through the lens of the atrocities of mad, mad Joseph Kony with his 40 wives, thousands of kidnapped and brainwashed children and his quest to install a government guided only by the Ten Commandments. But in fact the Ugandan army is also guilty of atrocities, as Human Rights Watch has recently pointed out. One friend told me that at one point the sodomizing of civilians by government soldiers became so widespread that a whole subgroup of male Acholi society received a nickname meaning “Those who find it hard to bend at the knees.”

So, the LRA is sometimes explained (though not justified) as somewhat of a response to government brutality and a North-South imbalance in political power. In turn, Museveni is seen to have used the LRA’s horrors as a pretext to maintain militarized political power, holding an entire population at ransom. Some believe that President Museveni has deliberately kept the LRA alive and kicking – indeed it is a bit puzzling that the army has been unable to subdue a few thousand rag-tag rebels.

All of this is why many eyebrows were raised when the ICC indicted LRA commanders and the Chief Prosecutor, Luis Moreno-Ocampo, appeared at a triumphant press conference hand-in-hand with a smiling President Museveni. One-sided justice, to be sure. The ICC also comes under fire for interfering in a peace process that may have lured Kony out of the bush. Now he certainly has no incentive, with an international arrest warrant hanging over his head. And so the war continues.

As for me, I’m still trying to figure out what I think of the ICC’s involvement, but the local consensus is hard to ignore: the ICC is widely seen as a huge impediment to peace. They say it doesn’t fully grasp the willingness of Ugandans to forgive, reconcile and move on. Indeed, one wonders where South Africa would be today if, just as Mandela was negotiating reconciliation, the ICC swooped in and indicted F.W. De Klerk. It’s all a bit of a shock to a Western law student bombarded with talk of the moral righteousness of the ICC.

But perhaps one of the most telling lessons of the weekend had nothing to do with reconciliation, and more to do with the reason nothing ever seems to get done by African governments. First, the conference had to be moved from a more modest location to the glitzy Imperial Botanical Beach Hotel after the MPs threatened not to show up. Then they demanded “motivation” in order to attend, amounting to a $75 “travel allowance.” Of the 30 or so invited, at least 5 simply didn’t bother to show up (and a couple left early). And when we were there, they complained about all manner of petty things, particularly the fact that at coffee break they were forced to pour their own tea. At the workshop itself, they seemed more interested in hearing their own voices than on having any genuine discussion. I even saw one MP browsing the local movie reviews as the RLP presenters discussed mundane issues like war crimes and how to achieve sustainable peace. I also got an interesting souvenir that pretty much sums it all up – an MP’s business card with standard government info/look on the front, and on the back an advertisement asking me to invest in his “Rise & Shine Projects & Investments”

Happy Radovan Day

2008-07-22T13:58:00.001+02:00

The Butcher of Bosnia is caught, at long last. Back when I was in Sarajevo, I was sitting in my friend Sanjin’s small apartment when the newscaster breathlessly announced that General Ratko Mladic – the second most wanted after Radovan Karadzic – had been captured. Sanjin immediately poured large shots of plum brandy and jubilantly wished me a “Happy Ratko Day.” Of course, that news report later turned out to be false, but I experienced a bit of the joy that is undoubtedly being felt in Sarajevo today. So, Happy Radovan Day, old friends.

In an odd coincidence, a friend a few days ago also sent me a report speculating that Karadzic may have been around Foca, a small town in Eastern Bosnia, in April 2006 (this also makes a good read). It just so happens we were there visiting at the same time. It was an odd little town, one where you suspect that everyone you see on the street is a closet mass murderer, hiding some sinister past as they sip coffee. Probably a bit like it feels to live in Rwanda today. I wouldn’t be surprised if Karadzic was at one time being sheltered by the residents there, just as I wouldn’t be surprised if elements of the Serbian government have known for a long time that he’s been practicing medicine just outside Belgrade under a false name. Something deep inside the establishment must have shifted.

"His Excellency, Barack Hussein Obama"

2008-07-09T17:58:00.002+02:00

How a workmate just referred to him, adding "Coming soon."

Lost in translation, Part I

2008-07-09T17:52:00.003+02:00

Most Ugandans never learn how to swim. Even some of the fisherman. So "swimming" means something different - basically getting wet up to your waist.

Before I figured this out, I asked Rosebell whether it was possible to swim in Lake Bunyoni, wanting to know about parasites and the like.

Her response: "No no no, it's too deep."

Uganda Headlines

2008-07-09T17:37:00.004+02:00

RAPE: THE MEDICINE THAT COULD SAVE YOU FROM HIV
- The New Vision (ostensibly trying to refer to a new drug that can prevent contracting HIV if taken shortly after sex)

NORTH LEADS IN POLYGAMY
- The New Vision, August 17, 2007

I DID NOT EAT DRC PYGMIES
- The Daily Monitor, June 1, 2008

WHY UGANDA IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN MANCHESTER UNITED
- The Daily Monitor, June 2008 (an argument that actually needs to be made)

Thanks to my roomates for collecting some of these.

UGANDA ISLAMIC INSTITUTE FOR THE STUDY OF EVIL SPIRITS
- prestigious academic establishment just outside Kampala

AFRICA CHRISTIAN INSTITUTE FOR DEVELOPMENT (Trust ACID)
- sign in Hoima

"SUFFER NOW, ENJOY TOMORROW"
- motto of Kitana Primary School, near Murchison

"GAIN BUMS QUICKLY (No side effects)!"
- ubiquitous advertisement in Kampala

Bunabumali

2008-07-04T15:40:00.003+02:00

There is not much to say about this past weekend that Siena hasn’t already said better, but I’ll prattle on anyway.

A 7-hour bus/taxi journey with multiple transfers, detours and delays (the usual), then a hike through the hills until we reach Bunabumali. Norman’s orphanage is perched halfway up the hillside, surrounded by green mountains, every inch of them cultivated. The kids sing for us, most dressed in little yellow uniforms. We hand out a ball we’re donating, and play for hours. We sleep in a dusty hut, listening to Norman’s brothers rustle around in their hammocks through the mud walls in the room over. Woke up to an insistent rooster at 4:30am. Not even bloody dawn yet! So much for that theory. Climbed the mountain, finding houses all the way to the summit. At the top truly feels like the middle of nowhere, even though I’m sort of standing on someone’s front lawn. On the way down, we meet Norman's excitable and energetic grandmother who nurses her shin splints as she asks me to marry her and take her back to Canada (awkward). Then I get acquainted with the village bathroom, having been handed two sheets of crumpled looseleaf paper to use as TP.

Just before dinner, Norman suddenly brings up the topic of circumcision as I’m biting into a mango. His tribe is the only one in Uganda that does it, but not until the boy turns 19! He was covered in yeast, and not allowed to sleep or bathe for 3 days. Apparently the idea is to make you so pissed off you don’t even care if your tip gets snipped. Then the entire village gathers around (Norman says 30,000 attended his), perform some ceremonies, and do the deed. The boy musn’t move or make a sound. And then you’re a man, except you have to wait a few months to heal. Norman said the only truly difficult part of the whole process was “After, when you see a very nice girl and you get happy down there, it hurts sooo much.”

Apparently our stay was only the 3rd time white folk had ever slept in the village. The usual curious looks everywhere we go. Norman’s family is exceedingly gracious and thank us profusely for coming, but they reluctantly admit that our presence might make the neighbours jealous. When we leave, Norman’s sister does her hair, puts on her best dress, polishes her shoes and walks us to the bus stop. She talks to Siena about her dream of attending Columbia University.

Refugees

2008-07-04T15:21:00.002+02:00

More photos from the camp here.

Kyangwali in photos

2008-07-04T15:18:00.003+02:00

The settlement

2008-07-01T19:12:00.001+02:00

The 56-year old woman – ancient, by African standards – sits cross-legged on the grass in front of me, under the shade of a mango tree. She is a refugee from Sudan. She holds her palms up to show me her thick calluses, to prove that she must do all the farming now that her husband is too sick and elderly to work. Every day she has to bathe him. There are also 7 children to care for. Her face is creased, her skin dusty. A series of triangular scars on her forehead. The interpreter tells me they are characteristic of the Dinka tribe, a kind of identifying badge.

I ask her why she has come to talk to me. She says she has no problem a lawyer can solve. Inside I sigh – today I’ve had too many people with problems I can’t solve. Over the past two weeks of 12 hour days I feel I’ve started to become too hard, a bit too inhuman. I am the only white person in a camp of 20,000 and refugees follow me everywhere, expecting perhaps that I have a couple of flight tickets to Canada tucked in my back pocket. We are staying in the camp church, and every morning I come out with a towel around my waist to find refugees camped outside my door. At one point I even gather around a crowd and tell them I’m not a lawyer, that they should go talk to one of the other team members (all Africans) who are in fact my bosses, that just because I’m a mzungu it doesn’t mean I have “magic powers.” They all laugh at this – at least I got a few smiles – but no one goes anywhere.

It’s not the horrific stories that wear you down so much, but having to tell so many people each day that there is nothing I can do for them. We’ve come to report on the human rights situation in the camp, as well as help some refugees who have tangible legal problems we can solve. Criminal accusations, land disputes, problems with the authorities – things like that. I’m tasked with doing intake of individual refugees, identifying potential cases. My everyday makeshift “office” is a patch of shade under a mango tree next to a primary school. Nearby, giggling girls in pink-uniforms play some kind of handball at recess – after staring at me for a bit.

The “camp” is not in fact a camp, but a “settlement,” I am told more than once. Each refugee is issued a small plot with a field to cultivate crops. The government has a “self-sustaining” refugee policy in which the 300,000 refugees in Uganda are expected to provide for themselves (after being given land and some initial assistance). The result is actually quite an idyllic-looking village with lots of space and greenery, dotted with mud huts with reedy rooves. Not the tightly-packed rows of tents I was expecting. Some have been living in such settlements for decades. But grave problems persist, not the least of which is that every last inhabitant seems to suffer from PTSD. All live in absolute poverty.

I issue those who come to sit around my tree little slips with numbers on them and my signature. The first few days when I didn’t, it was chaos. A few times someone comes up with a fake slip, and I rip it up and call them a liar. They slink away, and then later I feel bad for snapping at someone who is more desperate for help than I ever will be.

90% of those I talk to essentially want “resettlement,” the buzzword for being sent to what is seen as paradise: Canada, the US, Europe or Australia. Typically this can only be done if the refugee cannot live a secure life in the country of asylum – perhaps they are still being pursued by their persecuters there. But the demand is overwhelming and it is usually impossible to tell which claims are genuine. Sadly, humanitarian agencies are overwhelmed by exagerrations and fabrications, real solvable problems getting lost in this mass of desperation. A general mistrust of refugees pervades the NGO community. A UNHCR representative I meet calls resettlement a “poison” in the system. My colleagues warn me to fight this creeping suspicion, but every night we all chuckle at some of the more outlandish stories.

So whenever what looks like a resettlement request comes up I tell them my organization can’t help them, that we are mandated to improve the lives of refugees in Uganda, not to try and ship them out. Crushing so many hopes takes a toll. Every day a few cry. I start to get annoyed, exasperated. Occasionally I yell at refugees following me, the ones who try to thrust letters in my lap as I eat lunch.

At least this old lady before me has warned me that I won’t be able to help her. She doesn’t ask for resettlement. She only says that she wants to tell me her story so that when she dies someone will remember it.

Debora lived in Mading Bor. She was a Dinka, a tribe of cattle herdsman inhabiting the vast savannah of southern Sudan. When she was young they carved the angular scars on her forehead, forever indicating her clan affiliation.

As a young woman she wanted to marry another man of the same generation. But her father didn’t allow it – the man was poor and wouldn’t be able to pay the required bride price in cattle. So she was promised to a much older man, the one she bathes every day now.

The younger man felt his honour impugned, which is everything. One day he arrived at Debora’s house. He held the old man on the ground and cut out one of his eyes with a knife. Then he turned on her, beating her viciously. He promised the old man that he would come back to claim the other eye – and to kill Debora.

Together Debora and her husband fled the town. The coming tide of cyclical Sudanese wars pushed her ever southward until she reached Uganda. Now she lives in Kyangwali refugee settlement. Relatives have warned her that if she returns to Sudan, her former husband-to-be is waiting to murder her. In the camp her life is unbearable. There is not enough food to feed her 7 children and the husband is incapacitated. She says she will die soon and asks me to remember her, to carry on her story.

I promise I will, but as I say it I wonder if I actually will. She shouts out something, and grabs my arm, smiling. She begins to tear up as she speaks rapidly. The interpreter whispers in my ear: “She is blessing you, thanking you. She is glad her story will survive outside of... here” He motions to the landscape, to the settlement, to Africa.

Other stories stick with me too. The 10-year old boy in primary school who wanted to be a professional footballer and talked about his alcoholic father – in a free-association art exercise he drew a picture of two people having sex. The children who had been taken away from their parents, had been living outside until they stopped to ask for water at a pastor’s home, filthy and confused. The sad-eyed guy cradling his broken arm, injured in a fight with Ugandans around the camp who dislike their foreign, resource-sucking presence. The Sudanese lady who I thought was motioning for me to take her picture, but was in fact asking for money, and whose photo I kept taking as everyone around laughed. Seeing Congo in the distance across misty Lake Albert. Betty, 18, who was raped by the lakeshore and has a 2-year old baby as a result – her foster family has since tried to sell her to another man. The raft of young widows with families to raise who complain about drunken men knocking at their doors late at night. The woman who told me her father had arranged to have her husband killed – the father had offered him up as repayment in blood for a murder the father himself had committed – and now she is being fought over by several brothers, each of whom promise to kill her should she marry one of the other brothers. The earnest, soft-spoken Congolese pastor, caught up in Lendu-Hema tribal conflict at the camp, who grabs my hand and says just wants to live in “peace,” repeating that last word like a mantra. Jean Bosco, who was enslaved by the SPLA at home, forced to carry manure, tortured and accused of being a spy. The pretty Acholi woman who breastfed in front me and answered my questions with the oddly appealing, melodic “Aaayyy” in place of “Yes”. Mark, who seemed to find me wherever I was in the camp, grabbing my arm and pleading with me to save him because his father had killed someone and the victim’s family was out to get him, an all-too-common story of Sudanese blood feud. The local refugee leader with a leopard-skinned cowboy hat who told me people were out to poison him because they were jealous he had spent 9 months in Japan. Coming upon a man bleeding from his ear after a fight between government soldiers and refugees – a disputed goal in a football game led to a soldier striking him with a baton. The dead-drunk Congolese mathematics teacher whose wife and daughter had been executed and who tells me he simply can’t live much longer – he shows me his blistered hands, explaining that he won’t survive as a farmer. The mother with a 2-year old girl on her back – the infant had been raped by a 10-year old boy the week before. Jane, 17, who had been lured back to Sudan by her uncle only to find that he wanted to force her into marriage – she only wanted to finish school. Susan, the 15-year old rape victim in a torn grey dress, who spoke so softly I had to put my ear to her face to hear her (I got one of the lawyers to take her case). The Sudanese refugees boarding buses returning to Sudan, seemingly gleeful to be going home, but leaving behind those too scared to depart, those stuck in this torturous limbo.

Really, there is too much to say about the visit, which is why I’ve been too shy to even start blogging it. But there is my stream-of-consciousness for now.

To Kyangwali refugee settlement

2008-06-09T16:03:00.002+02:00

Tomorrow I head off to Kyangwali refugee camp in western Uganda, near the town of Hoima. I’ll be there for two weeks, helping to provide legal services and surveying conditions in the camp. Most of the refugees come from the Congo, and so I will also serve as unofficial French interpreter, though any hint of a Quebecois accent seems to confuse them.

I suppose I haven’t even mentioned where I work yet: a local NGO called the Refugee Law Project. I work in the Legal Aid Clinic, where I mostly pretend to be a lawyer, helping our clients either gain refugee status or deal with other problems, like medical, employment or security issues.

Every person who walks in our doors carries a long history of harrowing, gut-wrenching tales. I have been conflicted about whether to write about some of them here, due to confidentiality issues. In any case, I imagine I will have much to report from my own eyes when I return. Until then.

Murchison Falls

2008-06-09T15:44:00.003+02:00

I headed up to Murchison Falls National Park this past weekend. My first safari. It was beautiful, and I finally got to see the legendary African animals in the wild (not to mention the legendary Nile River), but the whole experience was a tad too sterile for my liking. Everything was guided and organized, you can’t step out of the car, and you can’t get away from all the other safari cars with armies of tourists poking their cameras out the window, gratuitously snapping away. The animals even seem to have become accustomed to the vehicles. I suppose I’m more into wandering around on one’s own, interacting personally with nature or people.

That said, it was worth it. My favourite was seeing a giraffe run – so graceful and deliberate, it actually looks like you are watching it in slow-motion. Second was hearing a hippo outside my tent in the middle of the night munching grass and flapping his ears. They trek far from the water to find soft, short grass, and are frequent visitors at the campground. But their rotund, jolly appearance belies the fact that they are vicious and territorial, known to charge tourists (and can run faster than any man). So I had to desperately hold it in until the hippo lumbered away.

Wildlife roll-call: baboons, guinea fowl, colobus monkeys, water bucks, buffalo (and their ubiquitous bird-on-the-shoulder sidekicks), all manner of antelopes (obiri, kop, etc. and a tiny, dog-sized one that is apparently the rarest animal in the park), a pride of lions with 9 cubs play-wrestling, giraffes, elephants, hippos, crocodiles, birds galore, warthogs, and a couple insane Australian girls who talked about drinking the whole trip up, drank the whole time, and complained about their hangover the whole way back.

Photos (though not of the Aussies – also very territorial):

“OBAMA VICTORY EXCITES UGANDA”

2008-06-05T16:45:00.003+02:00

The bold, capitalized headline taking up half of the front page of today’s New Vision.

Last week I was at a bar and ran into a World Bank employee. We got into some deep stuff – the kind of world-shattering discussion that tends to happen after a few beers amongst idealists. “How do we stop all this war and suffering, man?”

Anyway, for someone reason I mentioned the phrase “Since colonialism in Africa ended...” Ronny, the off-duty club DJ, overheard me and leapt into the conversation, a little irritated.

“But what about neo-colonialism? That’s still here. You know, all this money you give us is great, but you tie us down. You still control us.”

“So how come you can’t deal with your problems on your own?” said World Bank.

“Well, we are so poor, we are suffering. What can we do?”

“So you need the money. But if we give it to you, you’ll accuse us of controlling you, of being colonialists. How can we win? How can we fix this?”

Ronny, only 10% joking: “Elect Obama, man!”

The Jam

2008-06-05T16:43:00.002+02:00

Above: the “taxi park” in Kampala where the matatu minivan-taxi-buses congregate to pick up passengers before dispersing in all directions, following some incomprehensible (to me) series of unmarked routes, stopping at unmarked places.

Roughly speaking, I live in the northeastern part of the center of Kampala and work in the southwestern part. It’s about a 45 minute walk. By moped, it’s about 10 minutes. But by matatu during rush hour, it takes at least an hour.

Kampala traffic is unbearable (the locals just call it “the jam”). Why is anybody’s guess. Some local friends tell me it’s simply plain old bad urban planning from the 1950s. The lack of traffic lights can’t help – there are only 2 functioning ones in the entire city.

All that idling of diesel engines and old cars means that on a hot, still day you can chew the air. When you blow your nose, sometimes it comes out with specks of black. Yum.

Democracy shmocracy (cont'd)

2008-06-03T14:53:00.002+02:00

Just after I painted a slightly rosy picture of press freedom in Uganda, news comes out that the government is setting up a special “Media crackdown” taskforce. And insiders from the Independent and the Daily Monitor have told me that despite their critical tone, much is often left unsaid.

I also somewhat misguidedly mentioned that Museveni had brought “stability” to Uganda. Relatively speaking – compared to the pre-Museveni era – this is undoubtedly true (as it is with all dictators). But I forgot, of course, to mention the conflict in the North. Technically there is still an ongoing “war” in Uganda, although it has calmed significantly in the past few years. But strangely, if you talk to locals in Kampala, the troubles in the North are rarely even mentioned. It’s as if it isn’t even part of the country. News about the momentous ongoing peacetalks – which have recently stalled, perhaps permanently – make page 4 and beyond of the local newspapers, while the same story might be featured on the BBC homepage. More on the North later, particularly after I visit in a month or so.

From the glass-half-full department, however, comes a report that the Constitutional Court has boldly struck down a law requiring that public protests be pre-authorized by the government. The language of the judgment seems awfully, well, Canadian. Should be interesting to see how this plays out.

Ssese Islands

2008-06-02T13:46:00.004+02:00

I set out on Friday for the secluded Ssese islands in Lake Victoria for a little R&R. I took a 3-hour ferry ride from Entebbe, sitting by the rails, with the spray tempering the equator sun.

By Saturday night, I was dancing to traditional German music with an elderly German lady. “Mama,” I only knew her as. I was the only guest at the Hornbill Camp, sleeping in a leaky tent on a private beach. The owners were a crazy middle-aged German couple who took beer with breakfast. Mama had come to visit her son and the owners threw a 30-person pig roast in her honour, attended by an assortment of locals from this tiny island, including a rather sharply dressed reverend. The food was delicious – cassava, plantains, bean salad, fried beans, beans-beans, assorted local vegetables, and of course the pig, whose squealing slaughter I had woken up to that morning. But there wasn’t enough pork, as Mama had broken into tears at the thought of killing the second pig. She had named him “Fritz.” The owner privately assured me Fritz would meet his maker after Mama left.

I had made the mistake of telling Mama I spoke a little German, having taken a couple years of long-forgotten classes in high school. Mama didn’t speak English, and I suppose was feeling a bit lonely, so throughout Saturday she sought me out on the beach for long conversations of which I didn’t understand a bloody word. The only things I really understood were when she approached me at the pig-roast and complained that there was too much African music on the stereo. Out came the German folk tunes. And Mama insisted I have the second dance with her (the reverend was first). A giggling crowd of Ugandans cheered us on. The next thing I understood was Mama telling me that the reverend had been a better dancer.

The night before I had sat on the beach to watch a quiet sunset, as the local fishermen (none of whom, I was told, can swim) paddled home in their rickety boats. And then the noisy Ugandan night came alive. Croaking bullfrogs, chirping grasshoppers, a cicada-like buzzing, angry ducks roused from their slumber, and mostly an assortment of very loud unidentifiable sounds, including a high-pitched, reverberating plinking that sounded a bit like a steel-drum band. Overhead was an unfamiliar sky, only recognizing an upside-down Big Dipper emptying into the horizon. Across the lake a lightning storm fizzled, dark clouds slowly rolling across the water towards me. A stray dog (there are no other kind in Uganda – as my friend put it, Africans find it very strange that we North Americans take “beasts” into our home and sometimes even sleep with them) came by to keep me company. Screw the fleas, I gave him a good rub down, glad to have a new friend. But this meager show of affection meant that he followed me around all weekend (all the way to when I boarded the ferry back), and even attacked my tent at 3am, bolting me awake with andrenaline pumping to see the outline of a jaw through the tent wall (I suppose he thought the tent had eaten me). When the inverted Big Dipper slowly disappeared behind the coming storm, I decided to turn in.

Other wildlife encounters included some mischievous monkeys eyeing my plantain chips and, especially, all manner of birds: the African Screaming Fish Eagle; brownish hawks circling above; the Grey East African Plantain Eater (apparently); a huge toucan-esque bird whose enormous wingflaps could be heard from far away and whose un-aerodynamic, grotesque beak made the air buzz as it passed (I thought I’d heard a small plane, at first), fleets of little yellow chirpers, and small fisher birds who hovered over the lake and then plunged in like missiles. A bird-watcher’s paradise.

Also – a 8-yearoldish local girl named Tina who spoke only Luganda. She found me on the beach. Tina squealed with delight when I showed her how to skip rocks. And then later she brought her friends to chase around the “mzungu” (‘white man’) and climbed all over me as I tried to read. At least I took the opportunity to get Tina to pose for a picture with The Fate of Africa, an enormous tome I finally polished off this weekend:

So while I didn’t get the absolute peace and quiet I was looking for, I will miss all my new friends. Auf wiedersehen, Mama!

Manchester United's secret fanbase (continued)

2008-05-28T10:28:00.000+02:00

Last week Manchester United won the Champions League title. I witnessed a delirious fan rip off his shirt and pour an entire beer over his head.

But this report from yesterday’s New Vision takes the cake:

Fans of Champions League winners Manchester United based in Masaka held a two-day bull roasting to celebrate the club’s success. The fans under the Nakayiba-Nume Manchester United Development Association later had a transnight disco.

Sipi kids

2008-05-27T14:56:00.001+02:00

To Sipi Falls and back again

2008-05-27T13:10:00.001+02:00

At one point on the way to Sipi I counted 25 people (including small children stuffed into gaps here and there) and 2 live chickens in the matatu, a small minivan that by law would only carry 12 back home. Squeezed against the window, somehow I even fell asleep. There is something oddly comforting about the total lack of personal space in Uganda, as if you are somehow less alone.

Along the way any momentary pause in a town resulted in masses of hucksters thrusting meats, fruits, newspapers, and grilled corn (delicious) through the windows. In some sections of road there were more potholes than asphalt. All the while the poetry of the Ugandan landscape rolled by. I leaned out the window, feeling a bit like I had finally arrived. Lush greenery against red dirt, thick jungle and then stretching plains, interrupted by small villages with brightly coloured buildings, mud huts and locals cooking, selling and loitering.

When we finally got to Sipi, I pointed out to Zou, my Morrocan traveling mate, that we had only traveled 250km in 8 hours. Zou shrugged his shoulders. “T.I.A.” TIA? Putting on his best Leonardo DiCaprio from Blood Diamond impression, he intoned “This Is Africa, mate.”

The next day, on the way back from Sipi, upon reaching the outskirts of Kampala we found out that the bridge we intended to cross was shutdown. We took a detour through a small village, only to get stuck in some thick mud and had to backtrack. We tried another way, but gridlock dictated otherwise. So we took another 2-hour detour, the sun fell, and the impatient matatu driver roared through the African night.

When I finally got home to Kampala, the power in our house was out. TIA!

Yellowed wigs

2008-05-26T17:29:00.002+02:00

I went to visit the Supreme Court of Uganda with some of the local law clerks at my NGO. We were supposed to be watching a murder case, but due to some scheduling mishap we ended up in a mind-numbing session on electoral laws. Here are the notes I took, before I started to nod off:

Sitting in the Uganda SC. Smallish, non-descript courtroom. Nothing remarkable about it except the faded country crest. Rickety ceiling fans spin. Water stains. Waiting for trial to begin.

The judges enter! Ha, they’re all very old men with the white wigs from colonial times. Lavish (but slightly dirty) red robes with gold embroidery. “My lords” says the lawyer. His client hasn’t even shown up and he awkwardly and vainly scans the audience behind him. A couple wigs are yellowed. You can tell who’s been here longest.

Judge begins drawling away, reading judgment about some electoral issue. At one point he motions sternly for a clerk to come pour a glass of water for him, from an already pre-opened bottle right in front of him. Some roosters are crowing outside.

Rain break

2008-05-20T16:58:00.001+02:00

When it rains, Kampala grinds to a halt. Bodas scurry off, and denizens huddle under awnings. During the dry season, the weather usually clears soon enough. So they wait, betraying nary a hint of impatience, keeping to “Africa time,” until the skies open and then the hustle and bustle suddenly springs back to life.

I woke up the other morning to a downpour. My roommate urged me to wait it out – no one would be at work yet. I puttered about the house for a bit, but, being naturally impatient, I decided to set out. As I got on the boda, the rain suddenly picked up and I arrived completely soaked, 2 hours late for work. Barely anyone was there, just the lucky few with cars. They had a good laugh at my expense – the silly, over-ambitious Westerner who would have to sit in damp pants all day.

Manchester United's secret fanbase

2008-05-20T16:53:00.001+02:00

As far as sports go, English Premiership soccer dominates local fandom. Last week I went to a local hole in the wall with Norman to watch Manchester United’s last league game. The “bar” was packed tightly with plastic chairs and rowdy spectators. I was definitely the only white man in the joint. One guy asked me, incredulous: “What are you doing here when you can be back in Britain watching the game there?”

When ManU won, the celebrations were so loud I could barely hear myself. The speakers starting pumping out a song in Luganda (one of the many local languages) – “Manchester fans, stand up!” And so they all stood and waved their arms, with me awkwardly joining in for fear of standing out even more.

With most Ugandans being ManU fans, tomorrow’s Chelsea-Manchester Champions League final is bound to have a World Cup atmosphere.

Democracy shmocracy

2008-05-20T16:50:00.000+02:00

“[This is to] make sure good leaders like Brother Museveni do not leave power simply because of elections” – Colonel Muammar Gaddafi, describing a recent trip to Libya of some pro-Museveni activists for training in “revolutionary” tactics. (The Daily Monitor, May 13, Kampala)

Uganda is what you might call democratish. The President, Yoweri Museveni has been in power for over twenty years since he staged an armed coup. Recently he had the Constitution amended to abolish term limits, and won another 5-year mandate to rule until 2011.

Despite this, there seems to be a healthy quasi-free press. There is the government-owned rag, the New Vision, that pumps out sunny headlines about Uganda’s bright future. But other papers, like the Daily Monitor or the Independent, offer up often scathing criticism. Then again, many journalists, like the editor of the Independent Andrew Mwenda, get rung up on manufactured sedition charges.

While Museveni is widely considered to condone rampant corruption, it seems to be assumed that even if the 2006 elections were rigged, he would have won anyway. He has, in the end, brought 20 years of stability to a country that before his ascension in 1986 had been torn asunder by decades of war.

Shakedown

2008-05-15T12:35:00.001+02:00

I was taking a rather lame picture of the old Kampala railway station when a man tapped me on the shoulder. “Excuse me sir, do you have permission to take that photograph?” What do you mean, I protested, this is a public place and I had just taken photos of the Parliament and other surely more sensitive buildings. “How would you feel if I came into your home and started taking photos everywhere without your permission?” he responded sternly. We argued for a while, and then he produced an ID claiming that he was a “POLICE OFFICER.” His ID reminded me of a 19-year old trying to get into an American bar. He was dressed in plain clothes.

He insisted that I come with him to “chat” with his superior. I decided to call his bluff and abruptly turned around and walked away. He did not follow, and only plaintively yelled out “Er, ok, ask permission next time!”

I was left a little angry and discouraged after so many friendly encounters with locals. But when I told my roommates, who have been here for a year, and even some locals, they only said “Get used to it. Welcome to Uganda!”

Quaint crimes under the Ugandan Penal Code

2008-05-15T12:19:00.000+02:00

s. 40 – sedition

Sedition is often used to prosecute uppity journalists. Dozens are currently on trial, including the editor of the Independent – one of the few publications often critical of the government – for merely publishing a quotation from a former government soldier claiming he had been ordered to masquerade as a Lord’s Resistance Army rebel and commit massacres to discredit the movement.

s. 53 – Defamation of foreign princes
s. 118 – Writing or uttering words with intent to wound religious feelings
s. 165 – Chain letters
s. 168 – Rogues and vagabonds.
s. 266 – Cattle rustling

Boda boda

2008-05-13T15:36:00.000+02:00

Warning to my mother: do not read this.

In the first 15 minutes I saw Africa in daylight, I feared for my life. I went to work with my roommate on a boda boda, a motorcycle taxi, the most common mode of transport in Kampala. I hopped on the back and before I could even figure out how to stay on the narrow seat, we were roaring off. The driver winded through rush hour traffic at high speed, sometimes right down the dividing lane as cars zipped past on both sides. I arrived with dust in my eyes and adrenaline pumping, and a little excited, as if having taken a rickety rollercoaster that only cost $1.

“Road safety” is an unknown phrase in Uganda. There are maybe two traffic lights in the entire city, but they are never on. I like to imagine they were the result of some colonial imposition, long since abandoned as impeding the natural chaos of urban Africa. Traffic accidents are said to kill more people on the continent than any disease or war.

I have started taking the bus to work.

Planet Obama

2008-05-08T16:25:00.000+02:00

On the drive from the airport, Norman fired through conversation topics at high speed: Ugandan corruption, landslides, the war in the North, the orphanage he had founded. Sometime just after I realized that there were no seatbelts and Ugandans actually do drive on the left side of the road, Norman wanted to talk US politics: “It is getting hot there, no? So very hot!”

Norman is an Obama supporter, along with, by his estimation, 85% of Africans. No surprise there. What did surprise me, though, was his knowledge and clear interest in the Democratic primary. His take on the race – Hillary’s policies are good, but she is only in it to win power. Obama has a vision for the world and has the ability to speak to the globe. Right on the mark, if you ask me.

Clearly far more than just “bitter” working class whites in Pennsylvania have a stake in Election 2008.

A New World

2008-05-08T16:23:00.000+02:00

Africa! My first time on the continent.

In a Nairobi airport bathroom, a booming voice from behind startled me as I zipped up my pants: “Hello sir! How are you today?” The janitor smiled broadly, and went back to cleaning.

At the Entebbe airport, Norman – a contact of Siena’s who neither of us had met before – greeted me with a big hug. He had invited three of us his other friends to make the 1-hour drive from Kampala, just to say hello and welcome little old me.

My Lonely Planet travel guide tells me that Ugandans are “smiling and friendly, with an openness absent in other places – truly some of the finest folk in Africa.” I guess they did their homework.

Goodbye Sarajevo... for now

2006-04-17T15:49:00.000+02:00

I leave Sarajevo on Wednesday morning after 6 months in Bosnia. I am certainly sad to go, but thankful for everything I have experienced and learned here. Life goes on.

In the chaos of trying to wrap up my Bosnian life, I haven't had the time to sit down and provide some final thoughts. I will do that when I get back home next week, as well as put up some new pictures.

At the risk of sounding sentimental (which never stopped me before), I would like to quote from a classic Bosnian folk song that invariably induces groups of drunken Sarajevans to fling their arms around each other and belt out the words. It goes:

Sa Sa Sarajevo,
It has a magic power,
Anyone who comes here once,
Must come back again,
Oooh Sa Sa Sarajevo...

I have a feeling this will not be the last time I see Sarajevo.

Mostar, 6 months later

2006-04-13T11:55:00.000+02:00

Bruce Lee statue in November 2005; what's left of it in April 2006.

Yesterday I returned to Mostar, Bosnia's UNESCO heritage town, for one last look before I leave the country. My heart broke when I saw that Bruce Lee had disappeared, ostensibly taken down for repairs. Apparently the kung fu hero's likeness had been so vandalized that someone concluded that the only thing more embarassing than a shiny gold Bruce Lee in your main park is a vandalized shiny gold Bruce Lee statue in your main park. Is this a sad sign of Bosnia's decay? Or just a casualty in an underground ninja war? Or does it mean anything at all? Who knows...

I do know that although Bruce is missing, and Mostar itself has much more visible war damage than Sarajevo, the drive there revealed that Bosnia is indeed very much a country on the move. I was with Selma and Armin, who hadn't driven to Mostar in over 6 months, and for the entire trip they marvelled at the new patches of road, new lights in the tunnels, new houses under construction, new tourist signs, new rest stops, and even a big new shopping mall. It was comforting to see concrete, indisputable signs that the country is indeed improving, and, more importantly, the rare excitement of my local friends at these positive changes.

I wonder what it will be like to visit Bosnia five years from now, and whether I will even recognize it. While I have immense affection for the way it is now, despite its warts (and maybe because of them), I hope that when I do come back it will be like entering a brand new country, and Bruce, in all his nunchuck-wielding glory, will have returned to his rightful place.

Selma 1

2006-04-11T17:11:00.000+02:00

I was walking with Selma and suddenly she stopped.

“Here it is. Remember, I was telling you about it. This is where I got this.” She pulled back her sleeve and showed me the long scar she earned when she was a 9-year old girl living in a city under siege.

"My mother and sister were in front of me, and suddenly a sniper started shooting from over there.” She pointed to a distant high-rise. “They ran around the corner, and I don’t know what happened, but suddenly bullets were shooting up dust around me.” She started to re-enact the scene, but laughing the whole time as if it were on the same level as her telling some funny story about the time she got drunk and threw up on her friend’s face. “They were yelling at me to run and I sprinted, starting here.” She started jogging in slow-motion, exaggerating her movements, giggling. “I ran as fast as I could, but I slipped on some broken glass right here,” she pointed again, “and that’s how I got cut. The sniper was still firing, but somehow I got up and got away. I don’t know how. It was craaazzzy!” she exclaimed, laughing harder now. Then she sighed. “This kind of close call happened to me so many times. My family thinks I am their lucky charm,” she beamed proudly. I chose to laugh along with her, which seemed to be the right reaction, and we went on walking.

Selma 2

2006-04-11T17:10:00.000+02:00

I was on a lunch break downtown with my colleague Selma (a different one), and she pointed to an apartment building. “That’s where my father died,” she said. “He was upstairs on the top floor and a bomb hit the roof. The explosion didn’t kill him directly, but his mouth was open and the blast of air exploded his lungs.” I didn't know what to say, but she didn't seem bothered, telling me as if it was just another story.

“Did people try and keep their mouths closed all the time?” I asked. Selma laughed at me: “Yeah right.” I should have known better by then – life went on in Sarajevo, as it always had, despite the bombs.

Bosnian Superstar

2006-04-10T15:12:00.000+02:00

I was on TV! Here's the picture to prove it. My rise to Bosnian superstardom begins. Unfortunately I only have a week to cash in on the groupies and wild parties.

The interview was for a news special about youth in Bosnia. Almost 70% say they would leave the country if they could, and so they asked me and a few other foreign interns why on earth we would actually go out of our way to come here for work. I have been told by my honest friends that I did not say anything overly stupid, but was too serious. Jealous plebeians!

Too much history

2006-04-10T10:01:00.000+02:00

I neglected to mention last Thursday that April 6 was commemorated in Sarajevo as the "Day of the City." April 6 is the day that:

* ... the Nazis first bombed the city in 1941;
* ... the city was liberated in 1945 ;
* ... the first bombs fell on Sarajevo, and the first victims were killed, in 1992;
* ... and the UN recognized Bosnia-Herzegovina as an independent country, in 1992.

Now you know why they say the Balkans has too much history for its own good.

Second sentence for war crimes at the Court of BiH: a small step forward

2006-04-07T14:20:00.000+02:00

The Court of BiH; High Security Courtroom 6 (where the sentencing took place).

Today the Court of BiH handed down its second ever conviction for war crimes, and its first for direct responsibility for crimes against humanity. Nedjo Samardzic was sentenced to 12 years imprisonment for 4 counts of crimes against humanity perpetrated in the town of Foca (which I visited a few weeks ago). Among them were 2 counts for forcible imprisonment and physical abuse of civilians, and 2 counts of rape. Within the latter charges, Samardzic was found guilty of taking a 15-year girl into sexual slavery, and repeatedly raping her over a period of several months. Because of insufficient evidence, he was also acquitted on 6 counts, amongst them several rapes and one of participating in the mass murder of 30 civilians.

I just came back from the courtroom, where the entire procedure lasted about 15 minutes. The presiding judge, a diminutive Bosnian woman, seemed nervous. It is the second ever war crimes trial concluded at this Court, based on laws that were drafted only a few years ago, so I suppose I can't blame her. But her concluding statements, where she offered that "I think we have done the best job we could," and "Both sides are entitled to appeal, and they probably will do so," were, I think, probably gratuitous.

In front of me sat three creepy-looking goons, who I was told by a colleague were friends of Samardzic. They betrayed no emotion and left the building as soon as it was over. But not everyone was emotionless. Outside on the Court steps, the prosecutor was accosted by the head of a society called Women War Victims. In front of the TV cameras, presumably enraged by the charges Samardzic had been acquitted for, and the 12-year sentence, she told him in no uncertain terms that he should be ashamed for the job he had done. "You were more concerned with your salary than on paying for witnesses to come here to testify," she said. Another woman quietly cried, as she laid a wreath of flowers by the Court entrance.

The one question that is on my mind right now is: why was Nedjo Samardzic smiling? Indeed, as he was led away in handcuffs, a small grin crept across his face. Was he happy that, as a middle-aged man, he would again see the light of day and be able to hold his wife and children? Or was it simply a last, desperate grasp for a shred of dignity, after it had just been announced to the country that he was a monster who, among other egregious crimes, had repeatedly raped a 15-year old girl?

It is hard for me to say right now what I think of all this. On the one hand, Samardzic got off on many counts -- perhaps justifiably, although there are also mumblings that the prosecutor botched the case. Above all, Samardzic will only be in prison for 12 years. This, unfortunately, is the paradox of many war crimes cases. For complicated and sometimes mystifying reasons, often mass crimes during war result in lesser sentences than a single, similar crime in peacetime.

But on the other hand, the Court, and Bosnia, took a small, historic step forward. It has shown that it is capable of putting justice back in the hands of the people of Bosnia, by trying local war criminals fairly and efficiently. The people who work here feel that, despite the often inevitable shortcomings of justice, something tangible has been accomplished.

The case is not closed, as there will most likely be appeals from both sides. Nevertheless, Bosnia has today opened a new chapter in reckoning with the decade-old atrocities that clearly still haunt its people.

The Great Bosnian Pyramid

2006-04-06T10:04:00.000+02:00

I took this picture from the plane just after taking off from Sarajevo. Coincidentally, I somehow captured the great Bosnian pyramid. Pyramid? In Bosnia? If "What the hell?" was your reaction, then you are no different than most Bosnians, who reacted the same when it was recently reported that what was once assumed to be just another hill near the town of Visoko was in fact an ancient pyramid, situated only 30km outside Sarajevo. If you answered, "I knew it! The aliens are coming!" then it's time to drink the kool aid.

Some say that it may be the oldest pyramid in the world. This would make Bosnia home to the first-ever pyramid, first-ever Bruce Lee statue, and first-ever use of the word "ethnic cleansing." If you ask me, this is an unbeatable 1-2-3 tourism punch.

Some more info on the pyramid here and here.

Another picture: Bosnia from the sky.

Brussels: the outside world

2006-04-04T14:35:00.000+02:00

There's me, pretending to be important

For the past two weeks I have been submerged in a torrent of work, which explains the recent dearth of posts. I had been helping to prepare an enormous presentation for the Court's donors' conference at the European Commission in Brussels. The downside was, well, the work, but the upside was that I got to travel to Brussels last week with the Court's management and most of the bigwigs in the Bosnian government.

The trip was enlightening in a several ways. It was my first "business trip" and thus first taste of the bountiful glory of all-expenses-paid. It also gave me a behind the scenes glimpse at diplomacy, revealing how much of it really involves trying to find a dignified way to beg for money. Incidentally, in the end, we received only about 30% of the funds we asked for. There was some initial disappointment, and I got the feeling that the international community is often willing to invest in a project in order to get it off the ground (and on CNN), but unwilling to follow through with the long-term commitment the country needs. But, I think, in the end, the money will come. There will just have to be a good deal more begging (probably less dignified).

In general, the trip was also my very first time outside of the ex-Yugoslavia in almost 6 months. I hadn't realized that in that relatively short time span, already I had become accustomed to the absence of things that are routine in Western Europe. Tall buildings, and with no bullet holes! Traffic! Brand name clothing! Oh my! Another surprise was ethnic diversity. Somehow it had slipped my mind that I had been living in a city that is almost 99% white.

The traveling itself revealed more of my naivete. For the average Bosnian, venturing outside the Balkans is a huge ordeal. One must first obtain a visa, a very difficult process in and of itself, and, along the way, continually assure border officials that you are not trying to illegally immigrate, nor are you a Muslim terrorist. I had completely taken for granted the freedom of travel that I enjoy as a Canadian, when for most Bosnians taking a simple trip to western Europe is nearly impossible. I overheard more than one nostalgic comment about the old days of the widely-respected Yugoslav passport. As one official at the conference put it, "Many Bosnians today feel as if they're living in a glorified minimum-security prison."

Finally, the most noteable part of the trip was the fact that little old me, a 23-year old Canadian in Sarajevo for only 6 months, somehow ended up wearing a nametag identifying myself as a representative of Bosnia at the European Commission! I also spent a lot of time with the higher-ups in the Bosnian government -- the Prime Minister, the Minister of Justice, the Minister of Finance were all there, to name a few. To be more accurate, I spent a lot of time in close proximity to them, since none of them spoke much English and my Bosnian still barely extends beyond ordering another beer. But they seemed a jolly lot. I noticed that they had basically none of the trappings that we expect of Western governmental officals -- almost no security personnel, no enormous entourage, no diplomatic passports, no first-class tickets.

Minister of Finance & Prime Minister of Bosnia

The oddest moment of the entire trip has to have been the post-conference dinner, where I found myself at a table with the Minister of Finance, the Chief Prosecutor, the Bosnian Ambassador to the Europe Union and some others -- and not a single native English speaker amongst them. I learned a lot of new words that night by osmosis, such as "More booze!" I also got the impression that the Minister of Finance, a gregarious old lady who was constantly telling the Prime Minister to shut up, was winking at me. I admit to being mildly terrified.

All in all, a great and fascinating trip. Now I'm back in Sarajevo for a few more weeks, with my final departure scheduled for April 19. I am already sad to leave after such an amazing and diverse experience, but at the same time looking forward to new horizons. There's still a couple weeks left though, so it's too early to get sentimental.

You can see some more pics from the trip here.

Dragan

2006-03-28T18:13:00.000+02:00

I’ve been working with Dragan, an AV technician here at the Court, on putting together a promotional DVD for the Court. We huddle around his computer screen in the AV office, sorting through old footage of the war, the Court’s construction, trials and other relevant bits.

Often this involves me asking dumb questions and Dragan and the tech guys making fun of me. Going through some grainy video of long-bearded soldiers, I asked: “Who’s this? Are these Serbs?” Ady, another technician sitting across the room who spent the war in Toronto, jolted me out of my seat when he screamed and leapt to his feet. “Serbs!! What?! Run!” We all cracked up, including Dragan, a Bosnian Serb whose first loyalty, like thousands of other locals, had always been to Sarajevo, not to his contrived ethnicity.

Dragan rolled his eyes. “Serbs, Sem (roughly how my name usually gets pronounced). Serbs? Ha! Look at them. What do those look like?”

“Uh—"

“See the beards - they’re mujahadeen. You know Bin Laden and them, da da da. Ha! Serbs! Ha!”

“Hehe, sorry, I’m just a dumb Canadian, you know. We don’t have these mujahadeen or this Bin Laden, whoever he is.”

Dragan, quick off the mark as always: “Sure, yeah right! They are there. You just don’t know it yet! Ha!”

Once, after many dry-eyed hours of editing, Dragan announced a cigarette break. The snow had at last melted, and I went out to stand with him on the Court steps.

"So, you like it here in my town, Sem?” Dragan asked, gesturing to the minaret-dotted hillside across the street.

"Yeah, I love it here. It’s a special place.”

Dragan looked down and took a long pull on his cigarette. As sometimes happens here in hyper-emotional Sarajevo, it seems I’d unexpectedly struck a chord.

"You know… this is my city, my home... I got married to Muslim woman during war. But special… before war was special. So many different people here from so many places. You wouldn’t believe. The old Sarajevo, maybe it is hiding in smokey café somewhere. I don’t know… Everything is so different now… Still, yes... you are right, it is special place. It is…” Dragan is a true poet of broken English. He took a last puff and stamped out his cigarette. “Ok,” he announced. “Let’s go, Sem. Back to work.”

Dubrovnik, Take 2

2006-03-22T19:33:00.000+01:00

With the drama of trials ratcheting up, accompanied by their daily litany of horror, everyone at work has been feeling a bit phased. So, a group of us decided to take off to Dubrovnik in Croatia (I was there in October too) for the weekend and escape the pesky, neverending Sarajevo winter. I drove for 5 hours from snowy mountains to sunny coast, took a dip in the Adriatic, climbed around the city walls, took a boat to a remote island, saw peacocks, killed several million brain cells and saw a few posters cheering on an indicted war criminal. All in a day’s work in the Balkans.

Clockwise from top left: 1. The definition of a happy man; 2. This Croatian fisherman is probably pretty happy too; 3. Poster for indicted war criminal General Ante Gotovina; 4. Peacock on the island.

A few more pics.

Milosevic's Shadow: From the Balkans to Iraq

2006-03-20T19:01:00.000+01:00

Slobo's funeral happened Saturday with little controversy or fanfare. Although a throng of 80,000 showed up to honour the former tyrant, there were signs that times have changed. His wife was unable to attend, having been indicted for corruption by Serbian officials. More symbolically, the floppy-eared hero of a Greater Serbia was buried in his little backyard in the town of Pozaravec, having been refused a resting place in Belgrade's main cemetary.

But nevertheless, Milosevic's shadow remains long and dark. His death has brought to the fore the ugly undercurrent of hardline nationalism in the ex-Yugoslavia, a disease that no international idealism has been able to stamp out, one so persistent that it begs the question whether democracy imposed at international gunpoint can ever really succeed. It is not, as some journalists seem to imply, that Milosevic's croaking has plucked Serb nationalism from the grave -- anyone who has read this blog knows that I have often commented on the continuing influence of radicalism in the region. It is only that Slobo's death has given the utlra-nationalists a new soapbox, and while that is scary in itself, the effect will likely be temporary. The truly terrifying fact is this: 45% of Serbia voted for the Serbian Radical Party in 2004 (see post below).

It is unfair to point the finger solely at Serbia. For example, when the ruthless Croatian General Ante Gotovina was arrested in December on war crimes charges, tens of thousands of Croatians took to the streets in protest. More generally, the people of the Balkans are still haunted by despairing poverty, an infestation of crime and corruption, and in many places, a thirst for vengeance. Without a doubt, the wounds from 1992-1996 are still fresh. In Sarajevo and towns around Bosnia, the scars are tangible. Nary a Bosnian can spend a single day without walking by a bomb crater or a neighbour's demolished house. 10 years is but a scrap of breath in the scope of Balkan history.

I do not seriously believe that the region is close to war, even if the ultra-nationalists were to gain power. As long as there is a sustained international presence here, peace-building can continue to hobble along. But every day I spend here makes me realize how long, arduous and often seemingly impossible a task nation-building really is. The Balkans, referred to as one of the most succesful post-conflict stabilization programs ever, is often contrasted with the miserable failure of Iraq. There is much to be thankful for in post-war Yugoslavia, but it is far from recovered or being a fully stable region. One ugly, big-eared, 64 year-old man's heart attack has brought back all the old fears and reminded us of how fragile the peace really is. Potential conflicts still loom in Kosovo and Macedonia.

Given how long the road ahead is for the Balkans a decade after war, I would not be surprised if Iraq is still in utter chaos 10 years from now. Indeed, Iraq bears some scary resemblances to pre-war Yugoslavia. Namely, it is a geographically diverse nation inhabited by three distinct ethnic & religious groups who have for many decades had their identities supressed by secular dictators. Both collapsed into chaos and internecine warfare after the rigid authority structures that had held them together for so long suddenly crumbled away. With no sense of security, Iraqis, just like ex-Yugoslavs, are turning to the most base of comforts: their sense of ethnic belonging.

If only Bush had drawn a few lessons from the Balkans before eagerly strapping on his pistols and galloping away into the Persian Gulf. But it is too late now. After my experience here, I am not one who believes in a rapid withdrawal from Iraq. The bed has been made, and now we must lie in it. In a bout of refreshing honesty, a Canadian general recently estimated that Canadian troops should be in Afghanistan for at least a decade. If you ask me, America and Britain had better brace themselves for a very, very long commitment in old Mess-opotamia.

A Bosnian Joke

2006-03-16T17:41:00.000+01:00

Two Bosnian peasants, Mujo and Sujo (the protagonists of just about every joke) are walking along a narrow road in the countryside during the war. Both have had far too much to drink. It's night time and they are almost home, when suddenly Mujo spots a human head lying by the side of the road.

He gasps and shouts, "Hey Sujo, there's someone's head!"
Sujo: "What? Really?!"
Mujo: "Yes, it's a human head! Wait... hold on... it's our neighbor Dino!!"
Mujo holds the head up to the moonlight, and says, "See, it's Dino. Poor Dino..."
Sujo furrows his eyebrows in disagreement. "Nah, what are you talking about? It can't be him. He was much taller!"

The new Milosevic

2006-03-15T11:21:00.000+01:00

The handsome Vojislav Seselj, radical nationalist and potty-mouth extraordinaire.

This BBC article echoes something I wrote about several weeks ago after my trip to Belgrade:

If Kosovo does, indeed, become independent, the resulting nationalist backlash could well bring the Radicals and their hardline allies back to power.

A host of Western diplomats have already assured Kosovo's independence -- some even say by the end of the year. This means you should keep your eye on one man: Vojislav Seselj, head of the Serbian Radical Party referred to in the quote (if you want to know what this party is all about, read their name). Seselj is currently behind bars for crimes against humanity in the same prison where Milosevic recently keeled over. He has shown the same penchant for using the ICTY as a forum for frenzied rants, albeit with a little extra flair. In preliminary hearings, Seselj declared:

To all you members of The Hague tribunal you can only accept to suck my cock.(...) And you can just go on hampering my Defence, go ahead, but ultimately you are going to have to eat all the shit you excreted. Fuck you all, beginning with Hans Holthius, and so on, including that motherfucker.

Good one, Vojislav. Thankfully (or maybe not, for humour's sake), Seselj has been deprived of further outbursts -- he is still awaiting trial, in custody for almost 2 and a half years now. With Serbian anti-West, anti-world paranoia jolted by Milosevic's death, Seselj's supporters are already warning that he might succumb to the same Hague conspirators who "poisoned" Slobo.

Imagine, if you will, that you are good old Vojislav, enjoying a glass of brandy and a lollipop as you watch the news in your comfortable Scheveningen prison cell. Would it not occur to you that your death, in suspicious circumstances, might just be the jolt that ultra-nationalists need to overcome the fragile democratic movement in Serbia? Your party won 45% of the votes in the 2004 presidential election -- victory is only a martyr away. Thankfully, I think, we can count on Seselj's selfish opportunism to keep him breathing.

But the people of the Balkans have had no shortage of bad luck -- what if Seselj chokes on a twinkie, or trips over his teddy bear and breaks his neck? It is strange to pray for the good health of mass murderers, but such are these delicate times.

A Butcher's Legacy

2006-03-14T11:26:00.000+01:00

Need a refresher on why Milosevic's shrewd escape from justice is so tragic? Read this wonderfully concise account of his crimes. (Hat tip to Owusu)

Ode to Sarajevo

2006-03-13T17:16:00.000+01:00

These photos were not taken in the last week, but they might as well have been - recently the season changes by the hour. Such is fickle mountain weather, which dovetails nicely with the fickle Sarajevo women.

Local reaction to Slobo's death

2006-03-13T13:49:00.000+01:00

An isolated sample of what some twenty-something Sarajevans think about the death of the Butcher of the Balkans:

Selma: "I am disappointed, but it is good because he was running Serbia from jail, and now also the Serbians do not have their #1 entertainer. I am worried, though, that they will make a big deal for his funeral right before the elections and the nationalists will win."

Armin: "I don't know what to think. Nothing will really change."

Dino: "My life won't change at all, no one's here will. It doesn't mean anything."

Sanjin: "Why do you even ask me this? I don't care. He was dead to me in 1990."

Slobodan Milosevic dies

2006-03-11T15:05:00.000+01:00

Woke up this morning to have my hangover compounded by the news that Slobodan Milosevic has died in his prison cell in the Hague. If you ask me, this is the worst possible result (aside from complete acquittal) to the 4-year saga of his trial. Milosevic had never recognized the tribunal, and oftentimes it was more personal political soapbox than long-awaited moral reckoning (a tactic mirrored today by Saddam Hussein). And with his death, still no leader has been held truly responsible for the wars that ravaged the region. Although there is some glimmer of hope that Ratko Mladic and Radovan Karadzic will one day be captured, Milosevic has escaped for good.

On top of it all, there are rumblings in the conspiracy-loving Balkans at the fact that this is the second high profile detainee in Scheveningen prison that has died in less than a week. On Monday, Milan Babic, a Croatian Serb leader who ostensibly repented and testified against Milosevic, committed suicide in his cell in an undisclosed manner. In addition, recently the tribunal had denied Milosevic's request to be flown to Russia for heart treatment, saying that there was no reason he couldn't receive the same care in the Netherlands. Milosevic's wife has said that "The Hague has killed my husband."

Milosevic's Serbian defense team is demanding that his body be returned for an impartial autopsy and burial on home soil, and radicals are already touting the fact that old Slobodan (whose name means "freedom" in Serbian) will be interred an innocent man, his guilt never having been officially established.

Grbavica

2006-03-08T16:55:00.000+01:00

Keep the name Grbavica in mind for next year's Oscar season. A Bosnian film, it recently won the Golden Bear award at the Berlin Film Festival, ostensibly the 4th biggest film prize in the world. I saw it last night and was, frankly, deeply moved. It is about living in Sarajevo in the aftermath of war and, specifically, of rape. Although I wouldn't really know, it seems to brilliantly and subtly convey the everyday scars of life in a war torn country.

Before and After

2006-03-07T22:04:00.000+01:00

In a small town in eastern Bosnia called Foca, my friends Elias and Owusu wait for the hunchbacked lady to approach. Traveling with Owusu can be an eye-opening experience -- people are constantly staring and pointing, especially children. It seems rural Bosnians have never seen a black man, much less a black man on crutches. Owusu takes all this in stride, waving and joking that he is their returned prophet.

Before the war (1991):

Name: Foca
Population: 40,513
51.6% Bosniak (Muslim)
45.3% Serb
3.1% other
Number of mosques: 14

After the war (1998):

Name: Srbinje ( "Place of the Serbs") *
Population: 24,000
Estimated fewer than 100 non-Serbs
Number of mosques: 0

No data is available since 1998 from this "closed, dark place", site of some of the war's worst crimes against humanity.

* In 2004, a Bosnian court ruled that the name change to Srbinje was unconstitutional, and so it is now officially Foca once again. I'm not sure what the locals call it.

"Safe Area" Gorazde

2006-03-06T14:00:00.000+01:00

Gorazde, like Srebrenica, was a majority Bosnian Muslim town along the Serbian border. Also like Srebrenica, the UN had declared it a "UN Safe Area," which meant practically nothing besides the intermittent presence of passive blue helmets. Telling is the fact that the term "Protected Area" was initially rejected by the Security Council.

Gorazde was continuously bombed to bits by Serb artillery, turning it into an isolated hellhole. From what I could see when we drove through the town last week, much of it remains in rubble. But unlike Srebrenica, it was never overrun and is known as the only eastern town not ethnically cleansed by the Serb army. As a result of creative map-drawing, it remains in the Muslim-Croat Federation.

Wudu'

2006-03-03T14:45:00.000+01:00

Devout Muslims are required to wash their face, hands and feet several times a day before prayer, a ritual called wudu'. You can find these outdoor taps all over Sarajevo.

Igor's day

2006-03-03T14:35:00.000+01:00

I found big Igor* pacing back and forth on the Court steps in an animated, contentious phone conversation. "Everything alright?" I asked. He told me he had been arguing with his ex-girlfriend's current boyfriend, who had somehow discerned through his network of informers that she and Igor had had lunch together that day (she works in the same building, so this is not exactly shocking). Igor had agreed to meet the boyfriend mano a mano after work, in the parking lot. Memories of my all-boys high school came to mind: "Meet me in the locker room after recess to settle this, dipshit."

"He'll probably just warn me to stay away from her," Igor said.
"Any reason to be worried?" I asked, "You need my help?"
"No, not really. He is bloody crazy though. A year ago he was always parked outside my apartment, watching me. I suppose he might have a gun."
"A gun? Shit."
"Eh, it's easy to get a gun around here, not uncommon. Don't worry mate, it's just a chat."

Nevertheless, we made a plan whereby I would interrupt their meeting after 15 minutes to give him an escape route. After work, I watched the parking lot from my office window: there was the paranoid boyfriend, screaming, arms waving wildly, and Igor calmly smoking cigarettes. At the appointed time, I came outside, shook their hands and pretended as if I had no idea what was going on. The boyfriend seemed annoyed, prattled on in Bosnian to Igor for a little while longer, then abruptly walked away.

"What did he say?" I asked Igor.
"Nothing special. I hate this stupid papac ("peasant" or "redneck") shit."
I laughed. "Just another day in the Balkans, eh Igor?"
"Yeah, sure," he chuckled. "I guess you could say that, mate. Never a boring day."

* Name has been changed in order to avoid me being a gossipy jerk.

Old man, young bike

2006-03-02T09:45:00.000+01:00

In the small town of Foca. I actually saw him riding it later -- he seemed to be showing off.

Sarajevo 1984 to Torino 2006

2006-02-28T11:24:00.000+01:00

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

2006-02-27T13:56:00.000+01:00

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

2006-02-24T15:58:00.000+01:00

Counting crows

2006-02-24T12:08:00.000+01:00

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

2006-02-22T17:34:00.000+01:00

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!"

2006-02-22T09:23:00.000+01:00

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

2006-02-20T10:44:00.000+01:00

Growing up in rural Bosnia

2006-02-15T17:13:00.000+01:00

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

2006-02-14T18:37:00.000+01:00

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.

2006-02-13T17:15:00.000+01:00

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"

2006-02-10T17:45:00.000+01:00

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."

2006-02-07T16:34:00.000+01:00

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

2006-02-01T15:34:00.000+01:00

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.

Banja Luka

2006-01-30T17:19:00.000+01:00

Last week I took a trip to Banja Luka, the second biggest city in Bosnia and the capital of the Republika Srbska (Serbian Republic), the nation within a state. The RS is officially an "Entity" of Bosnia-Herzegovina, a darkly comical term chosen because it hovers between the too weak "province" and the politically charged "nation." For all intents and purposes, however, going to Banja Luka from Sarajevo is like stepping into another country.

For one, the road signs change to the Cyrillic alphabet immediately upon crossing the "border," perhaps to confuse nauseating internationals. In reality, the prevalence of the Cyrillic alphabet in the RS is the product of post-war legislation designed to artificially erase as many similarities between the two halves of Bosnia as possible.

For another, the denizens of Banja Luka pay allegiance to a different flag. Take the above photo, for example, which is from the main Serbian Orthodox Church in town. The mosques in Sarajevo only rarely carry a green banner with the crescent and star, but this is at worst an ambiguous symbol for it represents Islam in general. But there is no mistaking the message behind this flag in Banja Luka. It is that of Serbia with the "CCCC" logo on it, which roughly translates to "Only Unity can Save the Serbs." Seeing an enormous national flag flying from a church was a surprise in itself for this Westerner; seeing one national flag in a different country is another; but seeing one emblazoned with an extremely charged nationalistic motto is a step above. I do have to give props to the Serb nationalists -- they never do anything half-heartedly.

Sadly, the desire for a "Greater Serbia" is inextricably intertwined with the Serbian Orthodox Church. The Patriarch Pavle, the Church's holy father, has repeatedly called for the dismantling of the ICTY and the freedom of Karadzic and Mladic, the most wanted war criminals in the world. The infamous Arkan, whose "Tigers" ravaged Bosniak towns along the Serbian border, once called Pavle his "supreme commander."

As for mosques, this is what one looks like in Banja Luka. There were 8 before the war, and they have all been utterly demolished. Having seen plenty of bombed out buildings in Bosnia, you realize that razing an edifice down to its foundations must have taken plenty of dynamite and enormous effort. All that is left of this particular mosque are a few broken tombstones, watched over by a little UN hut. The officials of Banja Luka continue to refuse to grant a building permit to the Muslim community seeking to rebuild. In fact, this mosque was for many years used as a parking lot! By comparison, Sarajevans will tell you with pride that not a single church in Sarajevo was destroyed during the war. Where I live in downtown Sarajevo, you can find a Serbian Orthodox Church, a mosque, a cathedral, and even a synagogue, all within a stone's throw of each other, all many decades old. It may just be the only place in the world like that.

There is not much else to say about Banja Luka, except that I had a great time when I wasn't thinking about war and politics (something which is very hard to do in this country). For example, I highly recommend the club Titanium if you want to experience Euro-trash (with an Eastern Europe twist) at its finest. There is enough hair gel, cigarette smoke, leather, scantily clad women and thumping techno music there, that if you found some way to bottle the club's essence you could probably provide heating to the Ukraine.

I also wish to note two other important things from the trip. 1) There be homies in Bosnia too. 2) Who on earth would find this ad appetizing?

See more photos from Banja Luka and of Jajce too.

Bascarcija metal shop

2006-01-27T17:36:00.000+01:00

One of the many trinket shops in the old Muslim part of town, Bascarcija.

Land of 155 governments

2006-01-26T14:00:00.000+01:00

It dawns on me that I have yet to explain Bosnia's political system. Bosnia is a country of 4 million people run by 155 governments. There are 140 municipalities, 10 cantons, 3 "Entities" and 1 federal government. The Entities are the Republika Srbska (for Serbs), the Federation of BiH (for Muslims and Croats), and the Brcko District (a multi-ethnic, strategically important border town administered by the international community). The federal government consists of a parliament and a three-headed, rotating Presidency -- one Muslim, one Croat, and one Serb.

You probably didn't catch all that, but the point is that this system really sucks. It is designed around ethnic identity, entrenching divisions and hanging the "others" out to dry. Furthermore, no legislation can be passed without the agreement of all three groups (and the two Entities), which means nothing ever gets done because disagreeing with the other ethnicities is usually the raison d'etre of all Bosnian politicians -- if they aren't too busy taking bribes. Finally, it is an enormously bloated bureaucracy, with over 50% of Bosnia's GDP going towards sustaining its own government.

The only thing keeping the system in check is the High Representative, who represents (from on high) the international community and is appointed by the European Union. The post is currently held by Paddy Ashdown, a British Liberal Democrat, who is soon to be replaced by a German diplomat. The High Rep's job is basically to sack anyone he pleases, as he did last year when he removed the Croat Presidency member on charges of corruption. Beyond that, I can't really figure out what he does except absorb endless criticism for being an "international dictator" and attend a lot of cocktail parties.

The government(s) are currently in the midst of re-negotiating the constitution, which was written in 1995 on an American Air Force base in Dayton, Ohio. But the newspaper the other day reported that the talks had ended without any progress and will be put off for a few more months. In the meantime, the 155 governments will go on happily twiddling their thumbs, blaming everyone but themselves for doing nothing.

Sarajevo Tram

2006-01-23T16:06:00.000+01:00

I am alone

2006-01-21T17:36:00.000+01:00

I discovered the other day that my name, "Sam," means "alone" in Bosnian. This explains all those strange encounters with girls.

"Ciao, my name is Alma."
"Hi, nice to meet you. I'm alone!"

Belgrade

2006-01-20T18:06:00.000+01:00

In the main park of Belgrade. I do not know where or when this artillery was used -- I can only speculate, but I'd rather not. See more photos from Belgrade.

I came to Sarajevo with an open mind. I believed the war was simply a human tragedy and that there was no use in pointing fingers. But living with the victims of war means having those assumptions constantly challenged. The Serbs were the villains, you are told. They attacked unprovoked, killed thousands of innocents, and, worst of all, continue to deny and antagonize. I listened respectfully, but continued to insist to myself that these were just natural responses to trauma, in fact dangerous beliefs.

But as time went on, cynicism seeped in, tolerance faded. It began with anger. The siege of Sarajevo, the longest in modern warfare, must rank as one of the great crimes of history. I stared at bullet holes and shell craters in residential neighborhoods every day. Most of all, there were the horrifying anecdotes from people I knew.

But maybe this happened to both sides, I told myself. They were just stories, possibly exagerrated and not representative. So I turned to the facts. There were, for example, the rulings of the ICTY. Nearly every major Serb political leader and military commander had been indicted or convicted for crimes against humanity. On the other hand, the highest ranking Bosnian Muslim sent to the Hague was General Sefer Halilovic, in charge of only one region of Bosnia and accused of massacres against Croats in the west. He was recently acquitted.

Serbs often charge that the ICTY is biased, funded by vengeful Americans. But I have read the judgments, and there is no denying the mountain of evidence. I also work with many former prosecutors from the ICTY, and I know they are dedicated and impartial. Most importantly, I still can't figure out why America would spend so much energy and billions of dollars on villifying a tiny country like Serbia (Serb nationalists say it is because they were Communists, or that they are a vital trade conduit between East and West, or a number of other delusions).

What of the history? There is much debate, but here is a telling fact: no battle was ever fought on Serbian soil in the 1992-1995 war. How could Serbs claim to be defending themselves if their country was totally unscathed? Almost every historian has concluded that the Bosnian war amounts to a clear case of a "war of aggression," not a "civil war."

So it was with a sense of trepidation, but mostly burning curiosity, that I traveled to Belgrade last weekend, accompanying my best friend Knute to the airport for his flight home. I wanted to get a feel for Serbia, to prove to myself that it was just another poor, struggling country trying to right itself.

The first night we had dinner with a couple Serb friends of Knute's family. We were talking politics, and I almost choked on my food when one of them mentioned that 45% of Serbians had voted in 2004 for a party called, believe it or not, the Serbian Radical Party (at least they're honest). Their leader is a man named Vojislav Seselj, who commanded extremist Serb paramilitaries during the war and was one of its most despicable criminals. In a 1996 documentary he bragged about the effectiveness of his ethnic cleansing campaign, and he ranks amongst the worst mass murderers of the war. Today, Seselj sits behind bars in the Hague. Together with Milosevic's old SRS Party, almost 50% of Serbian voters in 2004 supported parties whose declared leaders are in prison for crimes against humanity. I dread to think that the ongoing controversy over Kosovo's independence will give the Radical Party the few extra percentage points they need to take power. Since I discovered this fact, I take those who tell me that war will come again to the Balkans a lot more seriously (nearly every Sarajevan believes this).

Of the Serbs I met, mostly young people, I asked a few of them if they had ever been to Sarajevo. None had. "It would be weird for me. I don't really want to," one guy explained. I was taken aback. Many of the young Muslims I had met in Sarajevo had visited Belgrade. It's a great party town, after all. They had even given me recommendations of good clubs to visit. Sandra, who told me about the election results, had been to Jahorina, a Bosnian Serb ski resort only 20km from Sarajevo, but never to the city itself. I can only speculate, but I suspect this is partly due to the perception of Bosnians their culture imbues them with, but also a sense of deflected guilt -- they would have to see with their own eyes the devastation wrought in the name of their country.

Speaking of devastation, one can see several destroyed buildings in Belgrade, the result of NATO bombings in 1999. Rumor has it the government purposely leaves them unrepaired. Regardless, the few buildings, which compare laughably to the widespread devastation of Sarajevo, are emblematic of the myth of Serbian victimization.

A pro-soccer player, Boska, who once played for a Sarajevo team and told me he loved the city because the people were so accepting of him, told me about the devastating demographic toll Serbia had taken for experiencing 3 wars in 10 years (1991 in Croatia, 1992-1995 in Bosnia, and the 2-month long bombing by NATO in 1999 over Kosovo). Boska said that because of these tragedies, the ratio of women to men in Belgrade was 7 to 1. Sandra told me 9 to 1. This was a great confidence booster for me, as I prepared to be marauded by hordes of beautiful, desperate Serbian girls. Needless to say, expectations were set a little too high. A simple Google search reveals that the ratio is actually more like 1.07 to 1. Maybe Boska just misplaced the decimal.

At a bar I met a young Serb named Vlado who worked in London for Deutsche Bank. He had recently graduated from Rutgers University in New York. I asked him if he had received a scholarship from the American government, as many Bosnians often do. He chuckled and said "Of course not! Only these Bosnians who claaaim they were in concentration camps get money. It's such bullshit."

I wanted to like Serbia. I wanted to be able to return to Sarajevo and tell my Muslim friends that Serbs were just like them, that it was all a big misunderstanding and you should all sing kumbaya and be friends. If you avoid politics, Belgrade is a fascinating, fun and vibrant city of 2 million people. But something is undoubtedly rotten in the state of Serbia.

Driving back from Belgrade, we got lost in the Serbian countryside near the Bosnian border, the heart of extreme nationalism. We rolled through town after town of delapidated towns sunk in the depths of poverty. They looked just like Bosnian villages. The same brick huts and tile rooves, the same groups of tired-looking old men sitting on benches. The same kids kicking around an old ball. The same garbage-ridden rivers, beat-up Yugos and VW Golfs, and weathered faces. Only there was a steeple on their church instead of a minaret, and instead of nestled among mountains they were surrounded by muddy plains.

I recalled the dinner in Belgrade where I was offered a "Serbian delicacy," cevapi, a sort of hamburger. In Sarajevo they call this a "Bosnian delicacy" and in Croatia it is, of course, a sacred dish of ancient Croats. Language is another exmaple. Basically everyone speaks the same language in the former Yugoslavia, only slang varying by region. And yet people will tell you, depending on where you ask them, that they speak either Serbian, Croatian or Bosnian, even though the differences between them are probably less than between English in New York and Boston. If there is one thing that continuously baffles me about division and hatred in the Balkans, it is how utterly similar the various "ethnicities" actually are.

It is worthless and wrong to blame the Serbian people writ large, for as a whole their only crimes are ignorance and desperation. As I realized from the drive, their contact with the outside world probably consists only of what the few state-run television networks tell them. Propaganda under Milosevic was thorough, and the war can largely be characterized as a gang of thugs and murderers hijacking a weak-minded populace. Then again, I can't explain why some choose to be misled even now, like the Rutgers graduate, presumably educated and enlightened, who was so dismissive of Serbian atrocities. I have heard that it is often the emigrants who are the most extremist.

A theme emerges, I think. As Hemingway said, "The closer to the front, the better the people." Bosniaks and Sarajevans have seen with their own eyes what evils nationalism brings and realize that the only real protection against hatred is peace. But in Serbia, little of what they know of the war is real or tangible. They live much as Germans did after WWI -- in a landscape largely untouched by war, convinced of their own victimization, and sure that if only they had pushed a little harder they would have defeated the enemy once and for all. Perhaps once and a while the radicals mutter to themselves: "Maybe next time." As one author put it, Serbs live "with their backs to the world," and until something forces them to turn around and look at what has been done to their own neighbors in the name of a Greater Serbia, war may indeed return one day to the streets of Sarajevo.

Stumbling out of the starting gate

2006-01-17T16:02:00.000+01:00

The international community's support for prosecuting war criminals gets the most publicity here and abroad, for it is the priority of hearts and minds. But in fact most of America's money, to name just one donor, goes towards dismantling the all-powerful organized crime element in Bosnia. Simply put, it's wise investing. From their perspective, war crimes cases are a decade old and serve only to heal old wounds. But breaking the mafia's stranglehold on the economy opens the way for investment and, ultimately, gives a better return on the dollar.

Recently I attended the trial of a former Bosnian President, accused of widespread corruption and involvement in Croat crime syndicates. He was sacked last year by the international quasi-dictator, the High Representative Paddy Ashdown, and brought before the Court. Nevertheless, he remains a major player in Bosnian politics. In fact, just today he was quoted in the newspaper after leaving a negotiation session on reforming the constitution. Such is life here, where thieves and murderers help formulate the country's founding principles.

I understood relatively little of the trial discussion when I was there, but I will relate a brief episode which demonstrates how the court system here is only just learning how to tackle these immensely sensitive cases. It would be unfair not to mention first that the Court is overall praised for how it has handled the cases thus far. But once and a while someone slips up and reminds us that we're only just getting out of the starting gate.

The defense was questioning a police officer on the witness stand. At one point, the attorney stood up and said he would like to discuss a confidential police document which indirectly reveals the location of a protected witness. Could the public please be asked to leave the coutroom? So we filed out and waited in the lobby. 20 minutes later we were called back in.

I had only just sat down and put on my earphones when the policeman, in the middle of answering a question, said: "No, I was not made aware of (so and so's) location in Norway at the time. I was..." He was interrupted by the lawyer, who groaned audibly, but it was too late.

I swear, the judge had a look on his face that told me if it were appropriate in a high profile, public coutroom, he would have banged his head against the desk repeatedly and yelled, "Aww, COME ON! You can't be SERIOUS!!"

We were taken aside after the session and reminded to keep our mouths shut. Which is why Norway is not the actual country; in fact, it's... -- just kidding.

Minaret in winter

2006-01-13T15:24:00.000+01:00

There are not many places in the world where you can find a centuries-old mosque covered in snow.

Money MD

2006-01-12T15:40:00.000+01:00

My good friend Owusu, the intrepid Ghanian, broke his leg playing soccer. The loud, sharp crack was heard by an old man sitting all the way up in the stadium seats, and occasionally I hear it again while lying in bed or brushing my teeth and wince. He received surgery in the local hospital, then shipped off to London to be with his family and recover. Once in a British hospital, the doctors examined his x-rays and, much to Owusu's horror, advised him that his Bosnian surgeon had fixed his leg at an unnatural angle and that he would require corrective surgery... after they re-break the leg. Ouch.

My friend Adnan is a diligent medical student at Sarajevo University. He is having trouble passing his anatomy exam, the highest hurdle in medical school. He told me with a sense of resigned frustration that it is simple for one to pay one's way to an MD. A student can slip the professor around 2000 Euros to pass a major exam. Adnan estimated that about 1 in 5 do so at least once. Not sure which half of the brain does what? No problem! Just run a few errands for the local mafia boss and you won't need either half.

This tells you a lot about the extent of corruption in this country. To be fair, there are many experienced surgeons in Bosnia, thanks (I suppose) to the war, and no one expected Owusu's operation to go wrong. But now, one can't help but wonder if his surgeon took a few of his exams under the table rather than on it.

View from the Bosniak war cemetery

2006-01-11T16:57:00.000+01:00

A rare sunny winter day in Sarajevo. In the foreground is the Muslim 1992-1995 war cemetery.

Justice only just beginning, a decade later

2006-01-06T15:42:00.000+01:00

I have been reluctant to write about my workplace because everything I do is either strictly confidential, exceedingly boring, or both. Part of the boring aspect is that much of my service work over the past couple of months has involved administrative matters ("editing bad English") in preparation for the commencement of war crimes trials, which, until very recently, the Court has not been prepared to undertake. But in the past few weeks, the trials have, one by one, quietly been launched. I am fortunate enough to be here during this exciting and unique period. There is a new energy to the Court now that the institution is tangibly relevant.

As a lowly intern, I am allowed to leave my internet surfing station ("desk"), to watch some of the trial proceedings, all of which are open to the public. I will try and relay some of my observations in the coming weeks.

A couple weeks ago I attended the trial of a Serb officer accused of taking part in the mass execution of 24 people. It was in a small courtroom, and I found myself only a few feet away from the defendant himself. He was a diminutive, skinny man with big glasses and an awkward moustache -- the class nerd 30 years later.

One seems to look at a war criminal differently than a serial killer, perhaps because he is perceived to be free of homicidal inclinations outside of war, and thus not entirely psychotic. Or perhaps this is a corollary of the taint on human nature which allows some to consider mass murderers heroes, as long as the killing is done for a political cause. In any case, I doubt I would have been as calm sitting next to Ted Bundy. (Sadly, this sentiment is reflected in the fact that sentences for war crimes, even for multiple murders, rarely exceed 20 years.)

On that day, a woman whose husband had allegedly been murdered by the defendant testified. In all trials, the most dramatic and shocking of statements are relayed in English by a dull interpreter's voice through headphones. I shifted uncomfortably as the voice droned on robotically about how she had finally found her husband's body, a dirty skeleton with a crushed skull. She managed to identify the remains by his distinctively curved spine and a pair of scissors found in his pocket.

She ended her testimony with: "At his funeral, we could hear shooting in the distance..."

It's the little things too

2006-01-04T15:28:00.000+01:00

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.

Dino

2005-12-30T12:31:00.000+01:00

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

2005-12-27T16:40:00.000+01:00

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

2005-12-22T15:45:00.000+01:00

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

2005-12-19T16:51:00.000+01:00

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

2005-12-12T15:35:00.000+01:00

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

2005-12-07T15:17:00.000+01:00

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

2005-12-05T14:04:00.000+01:00

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

2005-12-02T16:08:00.000+01:00

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

2005-12-02T16:03:00.000+01:00

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.

Bruce Lee, uniter of divided Bosnia

2005-11-28T15:36:00.000+01:00

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"In the city where everything is divided, we want to remind everyone that there are numerous things outside the magic circle of national conflict that are common to all Mostarians. Bosniaks, Croats and Serbs, left-wing and right-wing, everyone likes Bruce Lee." - Mostar Urban Club

The story goes that young activists on both sides of divided Mostar decided to bring old Croat and Muslim enemies together with a unity monument in the city centre. After much debate, the only thing they found that they had in common was an unabashed devotion to kung fu hero Bruce Lee.

I had heard about plans for the statue before coming here, and last week I read in the newspaper that the official unveiling would be on Saturday. A couple of friends and I decided that the event was unmissable, not only for its comedic value, but also because it was an historic, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Saturday, November 26, marked the unveiling of the first ever Bruce Lee statue in the world -- in Mostar, Bosnia. The second statue was unveiled on November 27 in Hong Kong to mark Bruce's would-be 65th birthday.

The first Bruce Lee statue in the world... in Bosnia??!! How could we not go? So on early Saturday morning we hopped in the car and headed south. I began to worry when we got caught in a traffic jam on part of the only 12 kilometres of four-lane highway in the entire country. But in the end we made it with enough time to first take a quick look at Mostar's UNESCO heritage site: the rebuilt, historic sloping bridge which unites the Croat and Muslim sides of town. The destruction of that bridge during the war was seen as emblematic of the disintegration of centuries-old multiethnic harmony in Yugoslavia.

When we arrived at the city park, a crowd of some 300-odd people had already gathered, mostly young Muslims and Croats. In the middle of the crowd stood the statue covered with a white sheet and protected by Bosnians clad in orange kung-fu suits, presumably Bruce Lee disciples. I had read that there had been some controversy as to whether to point Bruce east (towards Muslims) or west (towards Croats) with his offensive stance, but eventually they had settled on north, presumably where there is no one to offend (although the Serbian Republic is north... hmm).

The air was thick with anticipation. TV cameras and lights hummed; shutters clicked. At one point, a man who had climbed up a tree to get a better view came crashing down with a loud crack, the branch striking me on the shoulder. The crowd laughed uproariously and the uninjured, blushing fool took a bow.

Curiously, the ceremonies began with extensive martial arts demonstrations. Bruce Lee followers from around Bosnia had shown up to demonstrate the wicked moves and devastating attacks their hero had pioneered. We saw sword-fighting, staff jousting, flying kicks, flips, and plenty of kung fu screeching. At one point, the evident sensai of the group, who had been sitting on his lawnchair throne for most of the performance, finally got up and demonstrated how one could disarm a handgun-toting opponent by having one of his pupils hold a gun to his head, back and then chest.

I began to wonder whether this was all a joke, and it seemed the crowd agreed. There was plenty of chattering, raised eyebrows and laughter. A couple of 12 year-old kids continuously yelled apparently hilarious taunts from up in a tree. And then came the politicians. A gray-haired man gave a long winded speech no one could understand because he neglected to speak closely enough to the microphone. Then the Chinese ambassador took the stage, prattled on in a quiet voice in seemingly broken Bosnian, and was received with polite applause.

And then finally the main event! The organizer of the whole thing, a young Croat named Veselin Gatalo, got up and gave a rousing speech. I later found out he said: "This does not mean that Bruce Lee will unite us, because people are different and cannot be united and we will always be Muslims, Serbs, or Croats," Gatalo said. "But one thing we all have in common is Bruce Lee!" An article in today's newspaper reported: "(Gatalo) said Lee - a hero to Bosnian young people in the 1970s and ’80s - epitomized justice, mastery, and honesty, virtues the town had badly missed."

Gatalo then walked to the statue and, as the applause mounted and the crowd whistled, he slowly pulled off the sheet to reveal... a shiny gold, polished Bruce Lee! Bruce was holding nunchucks in his right hand and had his left outstretched in an offensive stance. The inscription at the base said only: "Bruce Lee 1940-1973. Your Mostar."

Just at this moment, the rain began to pour down. Nevertheless the crowd rushed in -- everyone wanted a picture with the man himself. An old lady stoically held an umbrella over Bruce's head. Eventually the mob dispelled and we headed back to Sarajevo, chuckling all the way.

Looking back, this was truly one of those events where I can say that I don't know whether to laugh or to cry.

A sad footnote: the newspaper mentioned today that on Saturday night the Bruce Lee statue was vandalized -- apparently his nunchucks were stolen. Wine bottles were found littered around the park. I am flabbergasted. How could they defile something so pure and so good?

See some more photos from the unveiling.

Another sunset

2005-11-24T13:41:00.000+01:00

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Sunset over the Bosnian countryside.

Plitvice National Park

2005-11-23T13:25:00.000+01:00

The weekend before last I traveled to Plitvice National Park in Croatia with my good friend Knute and his father. It is famous throughout Europe, and deservedly so as you can see from the pictures here.

Like everything else around here, even the Park has a war story attached to it. In 1991, tensions between Serbia and Croatia were mounting and armies began to mobilize. The spark hit tinder when Croatian Serb paramilitaries backed by Belgrade occupied the Park, demanding its tourist revenues and a removal of the Croat administration. The Croatian police responded with force and a Croat policeman was killed in the ensuing gun battle. This is largely recognized as the very first casualty of the Yugoslav Wars.

Thankfully, I didn't see any signs of war -- just totally groovy waterfalls.

Bosnia's other war & the Ahmici pig farm

2005-11-23T13:20:00.000+01:00

(Not my picture)

On our way to Plitvice National Park we passed through northwestern Bosnia, where some of the fiercest fighting of the war took place. First a little history. The Yugoslav Wars began in 1991 with battles between Serbia and Crotia, largely on Croatian turf. In 1992, war spread to Bosnia, with Serbia and Bosnian Serbs pitted against the Bosniaks (Muslims) as well. In 1993, Croatia turned on their nominal allies the Bosniaks, attacking them from the west in what was essentially a land grab while the Muslims were weakened and occupied fighting the Serbs. At that point, Bosnia had become one large battlefield for a three-way war, with Bosnians caught in the crossfire between Serbs and Croats while at the same time defending themselves on two fronts. But the Bosnian-Croat conflagaration lasted just under a year before the two sides again joined forces against their common Serb enemy.

Today Bosnia is divided into two entities: a Muslim-Croat Federation and a Serbian Republic. Nevertheless, animosity between Croats and Muslims lingers even today. Some of the worst atrocities of the war were committed by Croats against Muslims and vice versa, and some of the most notorious pictures and stories of modern concentration camps come from Croat camps holding Muslim prisoners.

As we passed through the town of Ahmici, Knute's father Merritt, who has been working for the US government in Bosnia for the past 10 years, told me an interesting story. Ahmici is a divided Croat-Bosniak town, infamous as the site of the Ahmici massacre, when 100 Muslim men, women and children were brutally murdered on 16 April 1993 by Croat militia and former civilian neighbours. Ahmici is perhaps even more famous for pictures of its toppled minaret (shown above), which was shattered on that same day. As we drove through the town, Knute excitedly pointed out that the minaret had been re-erected.

Just 5 years ago, the minaret was still on its side as Merritt came to Ahmici to coordinate an American project to build an elementary school. It was to be situated on the impoverished Bosniak side of town, where Muslim refugees had returned to reclaim their homes. Planning for the school had been in the works for weeks, but when he arrived at the site on the morning of the ground-breaking he found a group of Croat men with guns slung across their backs building a wooden fence.

"What the fuck are you doing? We're putting up a school here."
"No you're not. We're building a pig farm," they said.

Knute's father was incensed, and marched to the Croat mayor to demand an explanation. The mayor claimed to have no control over the group. The next day, Merritt met with the Muslim community and was alarmed to find they were already dusting off their old war rifles, retrieved from under beds and behind refrigerators, as well as their old war rhetoric. They saw no choice but a return to blood-letting. Merritt convinced them to hold back while he negotiated a solution, but over the next few days violence broke out and a man was killed.

Eventually, Merritt was able to persuade NATO to bring a few troops on the scene as Madeleine Albright was scheduled to visit Bosnia in a couple weeks and would want to see the fruits of US investment. The "pig farmers" were forced to leave after Merritt promised investment in a Croat school on the other side of town. And so in 2000, war was barely prevented from returning to Ahmici.

There was an article in Bosnia Daily yesterday about elementary schools with both Muslim and Croat students. Part of the Dayton Peace Agreement stipulated that joint schools be created in Bosnia, but people have found insidious ways to pass their hatred on to their offspring. Although Muslim and Croat children have school in the same building, they have separate entrances, attend classes on separate floors, and even the schoolyard is divided by its own Berlin wall -- they never even see each other. I am not sure whether the Ahmici school which was almost a pig farm is one of these.

Bosnian economics 101

2005-11-21T13:20:00.000+01:00

Among Bosnia's long list of problems is, of course, its economy. It is ahead of only Moldova and Albania among the poorest countries in "Europe," and its unemployment rate is Europe's highest, hovering at an unbelievable 44%. Although Sarajevo is vastly better off than the mostly decrepit, polluted rural towns, the effects can still be seen here. A simple demonstration of the unemployment rate, for example, can be had by standing on a corner of the main walking street at any time, any day of the week and watching the hordes of people strolling back and forth. Bosnians love to walk for the sake of walking, strutting up and down the sidewalks with no destination in mind, simply chatting away or engaging in a little of the old "see and be seen." I used to think there was some kind of Richard Simmons-esque obsession with light aerobic exercise here -- now I realize that many just don't have anything better to do.

Almost all of the young people I meet here are enrolled at university in any number of subjects, ranging from medicine to mechanical engineering to English literature. Those with real jobs are the exception. And even for the university students it is unclear whether their education will ultimately amount to employment. They all take their studies very seriously, but I've encountered so many people who are just going back "for one more year," even though they were already supposed to have graduated. Perhaps they are postponing the harsh reality of the real world -- kind of like me, the unpaid intern, or employee of my parents if you want to look at it that way. Anyway, a guy I met named Hrag (incidentally, a member of the miniscule Bosnian Jewish community) admitted to me that of those enrolled in his management economics degree, a significant percentage will not find jobs. Nevertheless, mysteriously they all seem to have some kind of disposable income to be able to go out and get coffee whenever they please and adamantly refuse to allow me to pay for even one drink.

Of course, the 44% unemployment statistic is somewhat misleading as a large proportion of "unemployed" people work for organized crime. Most educated locals will tell you with a disgusted scowl that the entire political establishment is dominated in one way or another by the mob. The mafia has an enormous influence in Bosnia, and it is hard not to notice the mafiosos themselves. Many of the Sarajevo strollers referred to earlier are brawny men in leather jackets doing what they do best: skulking around town, stroking their gelled hair, puffing on classy cigarettes and making sure you don't make eye contact with them.

There are also a large number of people unaccounted for in the informal economy, i.e. the black market. I in fact stumbled upon The Black Market itself last week, a vast conglomerate of little huts down an alleyway near the main square where you can purchase Gucci jeans for $5 and Microsoft Office for $2. Governments of the world: if you're looking for it, I found it.

A Bosnian friend named Adnan, who goes to university in Austria, explained to me that one of the best things about living in a poor country is the incredibly cheap price of Playstation games. But this in turn leads to too much time spent on video games and less on working or finding a job, thus weakening the economy even further, which in turn cheapens video games yet again --and the vicious cycle continues...

Sarajevo sunset

2005-11-18T17:40:00.000+01:00

Sarajevo is constantly hazy. As the air cools, fog descends from the mountains.

Today it snowed for the first time. Zima (winter) is here!

All-purpose mechanic / mess-creator

2005-11-16T13:20:00.000+01:00

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I came upon this man's shop while strolling around the old part of town.

At left is a carton of the eponymous Drina cigarettes, the local brand, which I find to be an odd name because it refers to the Drina River that divides Bosnia and Serbia -- not to mention the fact that the Srebrenica massacres were carried out by Mladic's Drina Corps. Not that it really matters -- I'm sure a Bosnian would smoke a pack of cigarettes even if they were labelled "Mass Murder." Come to think of it, that would probably be an appropriate name for a tobacco company.

By the way, a pack of Drina cigarettes costs 1.70 kM, or around $1 US.

Reminders of war, 10 years later

2005-11-14T16:32:00.000+01:00

Clockwise, from top left: A mortar shell impact crater with shrapnel spray, a common sight beneath your feet. Those that caused casualties are filled with red paint and called "Sarajevo roses"; inhabited appartment block riddled with bullet holes; one of Sarajevo's few tall buildings, shelled out; man rakes fall leaves in front of destroyed buildings.

God designed Sarajevo for a siege in modern warfare. Its orange-rooved buildings are bunched together amongst narrow alleys, surrounded on all sides by green hills with perfect vistas. One day driving into town, I stopped at a popular outlook and wondered at the marvelous view. I was told it was formerly a primary artillery position and, indeed, watching a war documentary the other day I jumped up as I recognized the very spot, this time featured in footage of enormous guns thumping away rather than as a tourist viewpoint. It is strange to stand there and imagine that instead of admiring the landscape, it instead occurred to someone to think that this would be a great vantage point from which to lob explosives at defenseless civilians.

Approximately half a million shells were fired into Sarajevo during the 4 years of the war. This amounts to around 1 shell per resident. 12,000 people were killed and 50,000 wounded. It was the longest siege in the history of modern warfare. If there were any doubt as to whether the siege was a war crime, one need only listen to the audiotape of Bosnian Serb General Ratko Mladic issuing the order to "Target Muslim neighborhoods - not many Serbs live there. Shell them until they're on the edge of madness."

Sarajevo tourist guides tell visitors that it was the policy of the Serbian Army to kill only a few civilians every day, lest they attract too much international media attention. Indeed, when large massacres took place, it was often the result of one bomb in peculiar circumstances, as it was with the Sarajevo "market square massacre" when 68 civilians were killed because the shell happened to explode on a plastic awning a dozen feet above the ground, spraying hot shrapnel over a crowded marketplace. For some reason, the world is capable of differentiating between 68 killed in one day and 1 killed each day for 68 days. Indeed, the "market square massacre" prompted worldwide media attention and gave Clinton the public backing necessary to intervene. At that point, approximately 200,000 people had already died in the war.

Sarajevo buzzes with the sounds of construction work. The city is definitely on the mend, but war damage persists. I wonder whether they should leave some of it as it is. Of course, it would be impossible for the residents or their children to ever forget, but visitors should be reminded lest Sarajevo become another Dubrovnik: a cleaned up, smiley-faced, tourist dollar machine. Presently, the tourism industry is stagnant and most foreigners you meet are working in development agencies or for governments. But mark my words, 10 years from now Sarajevo will be bustling with tourists, just as it was when it hosted the Olympics in 1984. It's as if people still believe there's a war going on here, an ignorance about which I have heard many Bosnians profess deep bitterness. Indeed, my Canadian friend joked before I left home: "Try not to get shot!" But in fact Sarajevo is safe, cheap, lively, beautiful, and each footstep is soaked in history. One day soon it will rise again.

Giving back

2005-11-10T12:15:00.000+01:00

Bosnians are famous for their hospitality and openness. In Canada, as children we are always taught "Don't talk to strangers," much less accept candy from them. But in Sarajevo they must tell the kids, "Go on, chat 'em up! Strangers are cool, and I've heard their candy is damn tasty too!" A guy I met named Ibro makes it a habit to approach bewildered looking foreigners in the street and invite them to whichever bar he's headed to. Invariably, they take a half-step back and the thought "What kind of scam is this Eastern European trying to pull on me?" is written on their foreheads. I thought the very same thing when within minutes of arriving in Sarajevo at 5:30am a woman approached and bombarded me with advice on settling in. It is not considered strange to exchange phone numbers and offer to meet up with someone shortly after first meeting them. We Canadians are used to keeping our heads down and getting to where we're going. In Bosnia, every walk is a social opportunity.

It has become cliche to talk about the welcoming attitude of Bosnians, but it's definitely true. I have met a couple guys who claim that it's all a facade, that outwardly Bosnians are friendly but inwardly are elitist and petty. But I have found that said belief is usually accompanied with a story about how "I took this girl out for like 17 coffees, and never even got a bloody kiss!"

As a result of all this kindness and hospitality, I have been fortunate enough to meet many locals. I learn much in my work at the Court, but what I am learning about this country through the people who live here is invaluable. So, out of a sense of charity towards those who welcomed me with open arms into their country, I decided to donate my iPod and wallet to the region. The former I gave away on the train from Budapest to Sarajevo, a decision made while I was sleeping. I'm sure it ended up in needy hands and that its new owner is now enjoying my fine music collection far more than I did. The wallet was donated on a crowded tram on the way to work. I had been walking around with it in my pants pocket, an open offer to some poor soul who I figured would take it when they really needed it. I never got to meet the receiver of my gift, nor his friend the old lady who accidentally bumped into me at the same time he secured my donation. But I'm sure they'll write me a thank you letter some day. It feels good to be good.

Waterfall in the fall

2005-11-09T12:45:00.000+01:00

Skakavac waterfall, just outside of Sarajevo. See more photos from the hike.

Srebrenica

2005-11-07T11:48:00.000+01:00

Yesterday I visited Srebrenica, site of one of humanity's worst crimes. During the war, Srebrenica was a Muslim enclave just over the Serbian border which was declared a "UN Safe Area" and "protected" by Dutch peacekeepers. On July 1995, it fell to the Drina Corps of the Serbian Army, under the command of General Ratko Mladic. Serb forces proceeded to massacre approximately 8000 Bosniak males. Mladic is said to have used a special paramilitary unit called "the Scorpions" to perform most of the killing, and a number of Scorpion bit-players are on trial or have been convicted at the Hague. But although Mladic has been indicted for genocide and war crimes, he remains free and in hiding. Radovan Karadzic, the Bosnian Serb political leader, was also indicted for war crimes at Srebrenica and he too remains free and in hiding. He recently released a book of poetry, published by a Serbian company.

It is easier to talk about the visit in pictures:

The Srebrenica Memorial is located outside the city, in a town called Potocari. There are roughly 2000 graves at the Memorial, consisting of all identified bodies from the massacre. Enormous warehouses full of unidentified corpses exist north in the town of Tuzla, where the International Committee for Missing Persons continues to analyze remains. Pictured here as well is the quasi-mosque structure at the Memorial, with tiles representing each of the victims.

Next we drove to the town itself. Many Bosnian towns have oversized chessboards in their parks. In Sarajevo, they are surrounded all day by crowds of old men. In Srebrenica, the town square is littered with garbage and the chess pieces are scattered.

Left: Srebrenica means "silver city," and was once a mining town for the company Energoinvest. Here, the old Energoinvest building lies abandoned and decaying. Right: just another Srebrenican house.

Left: This hotel was called "Hotel Fresh Air" by the locals during the war because of the constantly shattered windows. It is abandoned and, of course, still full of plenty of fresh air. Right: This was the de facto hospital during the war. In front are some journalists doing an interview. They were travelling with a large group of Muslim high school students.

Left: A Serbian flag flies beside a Bosnian and cantonal flag at the UN Development Project headquarters in Srebrenica. Right: This is the mountain road south of town where Dutch UN troops maintained observation posts. Facing the Serbian offensive in July 1995, the Dutch retreated without firing a shot. In 2002, the Dutch government resigned over a report detailing their failure at Srebrenica.

Left: one encouraging sign was the presence of a mosque in Srebrenica, along with a banner wishing a happy Bajram to all. The mosque is counter-balanced by a large Serbian Orthodox Church a couple blocks away. Right: the main square of Srebrenica.

The Memorial was certainly depressing, but at least its very existence can be seen as a positive development. The town of Srebrenica, on the other hand, exudes hopelessness. "Srebrenica" is a name that almost everyone in the West recognizes, and yet its current and former residents must feel completely forgotten. It is a desolate, foul, decaying ghost town.

One of the sad truths of the war is that the ethnic cleansers won. Eastern Bosnia was largely vacated of Muslims, of which Srebrenica is one example. Often the UN was complicit in this, as their mandate was to evacuate the towns for humanitarian reasons. In the end, this was exactly Milosevic's ultimate goal. Srebrenica, once a vibrant Muslim city, is today largely inhabited by Serbs. Before the war, 37,000 people lived in Srebrenica, 73 percent of them Muslim Bosniaks and 23 percent ethnic Serbs. Today, 6,000 Serbs and 4,000 Muslims live there.

On the drive in through the beautiful countryside, we stopped at a gas station where, out of curiosity, I purchased an audiotape with pictures of Mladic and Karadzic on the cover. We of course couldn't understand the lyrics, but it was essentially classic Serbian folk music. Later, as we walked through the town square, I recognized -- though I can't be absolutely sure -- that same style folk music emanating from a cafe where a small crowd had gathered to eat and dance. Anywhere else I might have been encouraged by this small, innocent celebration going on around so much sadness. But in the context of history, I couldn't help feeling nauseous as the cheery tunes echoed through Srebrenica's empty streets like twisted carnival music.

Old men and chess

2005-11-05T12:48:00.000+01:00

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All day you can find a crowd of old men smoking and playing chess near the centre of town, by the bombed-out shopping centre. Shortly after I took this picture, the man on the board cursed, kicked over his pieces and stormed off shouting angrily.

Happy Bajram

2005-11-04T06:21:00.000+01:00

Last night was Bajram, the final day of the holy month of Ramadan, throughout which Muslims eat and drink only after sundown and before sunrise (including water!). I actually fasted a few days ago in order to join some Bosnian friends for iftar, the daily breaking of the fast at sundown. It wasn't so bad, really -- the only thing I truly missed was coffee. Let's just say I did a lot of staring at my keyboard that day.

Anyway, many Muslim residents of Sarajevo also give up drinking alcohol for Ramadan. But on Bajram, the restrictions end. What this means: PARTAY!! Indeed, Sarajevans were out in force last night, the women wearing their finest outfits and the men in full suit and tie. I of course was not aware of said dress code and showed up in jeans and a t-shirt, yet again singling myself out as a stupid tourist. This is not exactly rare, considering that the relative looseness of my pants, and the fact that I do not immerse my head in the requisite one litre of shiny hair gel, usually allows the locals to immediately label me a Westerner.

I was warned that Bajram is the most raucous night of the year. With all those burly men returning to their beloved pivo (beer) after a month's hiatus, it is a situation latent with bar brawl potential. I did not witness any fights however, only crowds of rosy-faced, jolly Bosnians. I wonder how different Sarajevo will be for me now, considering I arrived here only just after Ramadan began.

At this point I should say a bit about religion here. Bosnia is essentially the last enclave of Islam in Europe, the only comparable region being the south of Spain around Granada, though most of the Muslims there were expelled hundreds of years ago. Bosnia gets its Muslim character from its ancient status as the Western-most province of the Ottoman Empire 550 years ago. The brand of secular Islam practiced here is quite unique. Aside from the architecture and loudspeakers blaring the daily calls to prayer, Sarajevo is in many ways just another lively European city. Most people wear Western dress, drink, smoke, date, etc.

I have no way to verify this, but I've been told that since the war, people have clung to their religion more feverishly, but not in the way that you might think. Religion in the former Yugoslavia is less about the faith itself and more about national identity. Serbs are Orthodox Christians, Bosnians are Muslims, and Croatians are Roman Catholic. Prior to the war, Milosevic had orchestrated a massive church-building program, a way to boost Serbian pride. The other ethnic groups responded in turn. Around Sarajevo today, you can still see new mosques under construction, often with bizarre modernist features. Religion, essentially banned under the 35-year Communist rule of Tito, saw a resurgence with his death and the birth of extreme ethnic nationalism.

So, many Muslims here who otherwise lead secular lives, and do not consider themselves very religious, take Ramadan seriously. Party animals forego their beloved booze for weeks. Nicotine addicts (i.e. everyone) tap their feet all day, waiting for the cursed sun to flee. And obeying the rules of the fast is a matter of personal honour. Of course, there are many devout Muslims here, such as the old women with headscarves who shuffle about the old part of town, but as far as I can tell they are the exception. One need only note the masses who turn out at the clubs and bars for Bajram to prove this, as in truly religious circles the last night of Ramadan is a night of family gathering and prayer. But in Sarajevo, it's time to get jiggy!

I do greatly admire the restraint and ideal of purity embodied by Ramadan, as well as the shameless other side of the coin: the spectacular hedonistic, Bacchanal celebration that is Bajram. But overall it is hard for me not to conclude that the rebirth of religion in the Balkans is anything but just another arbitrary line in the sand between arbitrary enemies.

Subscription fixed

2005-11-03T13:30:00.000+01:00

Sorry, the subscription thingy at right sent out drafts of some things I had written rather than real posts. Should be fixed now.