Sarajevo

Woke up today and headed back to the airport, passing the likeness of Gavirlo Princip one more time to the bus stop. When I got to the airport, I wanted to change from Serbian Dinar into Bosnian Convertible Marks, but low and behold, NONE of the change houses in Serbia accepted their own currency. What kind of fucking scam was this? I ended up having to buy a set of carabiners and two bottles of Rakia just to make sure I got some use out of it as I did not know if they would take them in Bosnia. When I boarded my AirSerbia flight to Sarajevo, I used the rest to buy some vodka for the ride to finish up what I had. I was happy to get out of there. 

We landed and I learned that they would have indeed taken Dinar, but that was OK, as I had nothing left. I looked for my bag, then someone holding a sign with my name on it as I purchased a one-way ride from the airport to the hostel. I met my driver and we headed out into the Bosnian afternoon. Sarajevo, the capital of Bosnia and Herzegovina had always played an important part in my mind, not only as the focal point for the start of World War I, but much more recently during the Yugoslavian War. There was a siege of the city that would be the longest siege of any city during war in modern history. As we drove towards the city center, much like Belgrade, buildings were still pockmarked by artillery shells and bullet holes. But unlike Belgrade where their scars were cries for attention, these were tokens of survival and remembrance.  

I arrived at the hostel, thanked my driver, and entered. I was welcomed by a lovely young lady that decided on a whim to give me a free upgrade. I picked up my bags and she showed me my room. This hostel was a history nerd like myself’s wet dream. It was called the Franz Ferdinand Hostel and each room was themed on different aspects of the Great War with timelines on the floor showing the war’s progression. There was the Red Baron room, the Gallipoli room, and I was soon to find myself having a queen-sized bed in the loft of the Lusitania room. Entering the room, there was a giant mural of the great ship, the British RMS Lusitania, that was sunk on the 7th of May 1915 by a German U-Boat. Even though it would still have been two years before the Americans entered the war, a common rallying cry to join the ranks of the armed forces was “Remember the Lusitania!”

After I got my bags to the loft, which was about 15 ft up, I secured them and headed to Old Town. Bosnia was one of the few places in this part of the world where people from differing faiths lived equally and openly. Often called the Jerusalem of the West, Sarajevo had Catholic and Orthodox Churches, Mosques, and even a Synagogue all within a short walking distance of each other. When I was on the streets, I passed by women in Hijabs chatting and laughing with women whose hair shone in the sun. It was quite an interesting cultural observance. While this was lovely to see, I had one direction I was heading, to the Latin Bridge.

On the morning of June 28th, 1914, after the route was very well-publicized in the local papers, the Archduke of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and heir-apparent Franz Ferdinand with his wife Sofia headed in an open motorcar to a welcome ceremony at the town hall. It was then, members of a clandestine Bosnian-Serb liberation movement (The Black Hand) with weapons procured surreptitiously from the army, made their move for independence. One lobbed a grenade at the couple which the Archduke batted out of the sky. The grenade exploded, injuring a few people watching the parade. The Archduke kept his appointment. Dejected at their failure, the members that were not captured scattered. Sitting on the roadside of the route, eating a sandwich, was 19-year-old Gavarilo Princip. Before his eyes, he could not believe it. The ceremony ended and the Archduke’s motorcade was coming back on the exact same route. Gavarilo knew what to do. It had been planned that the motorcade was most vulnerable when it needed to make a turn to cross the Miljacka River that divides the city. Princip took his position. When the coach of the Archduke turned on to the bridge it made him a relatively stationary target. Two shots rang out. Both the Archduke and his wife died from their injuries and this event was the first domino to fall that would end up costing the lives of millions in the Great War, World War II and the echoes can still be heard to this day.  This was the story of the Latin Bridge that I was standing on. The gravity of being on the exact spot where the course of human history changed for the worse; the feeling was indescribable. However, my historygasm would not end here.

Across the street was a nondescript building that had a small sign saying Latin Bridge Museum. I walked in, paid for my ticket, and could not believe what I was seeing. This tiny museum not only had the program of the Archduke’s ceremony that day, but they had he and his wife’s bloodied clothes and even the Fabrique Nacional pistol that Gavarilo Princip used to take their lives. I stared with mouth agape for probably a good 10 minutes. 

Feeling exhausted but happy, I headed back to the hostel and took a rinse, then a nap. I was hungry so I found a nice little restaurant that served Balkan fare, and I ordered Cevapi or finger sausages. They were excellent.

I headed to the hostel and then harkening back to the good old days in ‘Nam, had some free hostel provided beer where I conversed with my fellow travelers. There was Michele from New Zealand, Neos from the Netherlands that was kind of a douche, (J)udith from Finland, Charlotte, Chole, and Alice from the UK, Inez from Spain, and Lutwan from America. There was a German couple as well. As the beer flowed and we started talking, I was absolutely horrified that the young ladies from the UK had no idea about why Sarajevo was historically important. They were younger and had just graduated high school and were here because it was a cheap place to go. They had no idea about World War I, World War II, and any subsequent conflict. They had to educate themselves by watching YouTube videos. I immediately flashed back to my time during my Junior Year Abroad when I went to Ypres in Belgium and trudging through the rain went to the British Cenotaph that had thousands of names of British boys younger than these girls that died fighting for their country. What a spectacular failure of the British education system!

After a few drinking games, since free beer night was over and we were all friendly, we decided to go out into the Balkan night and see where it took us; which was directly to a pub. We all sat down and had a few drinks and of course, the conversation turned to American politics. I guess this was because their governments knew to keep their own out of focus. The conversation switched to guns. Charlotte and the German lady believed that only the police should have them. Then they turned and asked me my opinion, especially given all the school shootings in America.

When topics go to ones like these, I usually try to deflect them and change the subject. They would not relent. I knew I was going to be losing some friends, but I was not sober enough to care. And so it began:

First off, they mentioned the Parkland shooting, I told them that the kid made very public terroristic threats, had a record of run-ins, and was being monitored by law enforcement, and that had Obama not signed legislation that kept this kid from having a felony conviction, thus not allowing him to purchase or own firearms, it would have never happened. I continued that maybe we should all go up the road to a little place called Srebrenica where when the Serbs came, the first thing they did was demand the residents hand over their guns. After, 8,000+ men and boys were tortured and murdered as well as 10’s thousands of rapes. I said to Charlotte that people in her country were being arrested for non-politically correct Facebook posts and that the government was putting restrictions on kitchen knives. I told the German lady that perhaps the Gestapo would have been more reticent to try and round up Jews if their rights for self-defense were not legislated away. I then said that Americans own 47% of the small arms in the world. Why weren’t there millions of people being killed by guns in America every day if guns were the problem?

They could not argue with my sound logic and facts. While it was a heated discussion, we all hugged it out at the end as we knew we would never agree. The German lady told me I was the first pro-gun person she ever met. I asked her, “What is that saying?”

Since the pub and city were closing, we all decided to head home. We said our goodnights and I headed up to my room, then up my ladder, and promptly fell asleep. 

I awoke the next day a little hungover but enjoyed the free breakfast provided by the hostel. I then set out with Michele for a free walking tour of the city. It was administered by two 19-year-olds and took us up and down the pedestrian walkway that bisected the city. It was a pretty good tour to get my bearings. We walked through the winding streets of Sarajevo and ended back up at the Latin Bridge. We continued further on a passed the restored national library. 

During the war, the Serbs treated the National and University Library of Bosnia and Herzegovina like the ancient library of Alexandria, setting it ablaze in the hopes of erasing Bosnian written history and culture. Given the nature of war and the winds that were sweeping across the Balkans, curators of the museum absconded with their most important works. They were perilously hidden in different homes around the city during the siege.

We then headed the other direction to the Eternal Flame of Sarajevo. It was built to mark the one-year anniversary of the liberation of the city from its four-year occupation under the Nazis. It was an important landmark. But something else grabbed my attention. Strolling through the city, there were what appeared to be red starbursts that dotted the streets and sidewalks. I was told it was to mark where either shells or grenades exploded during the Yugoslav War. They reminded me of the all-seeing eye of God, represented by a lightbulb, from the Picasso masterwork Guernica.

After the tour Michelle and I had some Bosnian coffee and headed to the aptly named Museum of Crimes Against Humanity. Letʼs just say my stance on guns was well justified. The museum was incredibly detailed in that it laid out the atrocities of the Yugoslav War in Bosnia in very human terms. Every item had a story. Some were truly awful. Like a bracelet that slid off a girlʼs wrist as she was being raped in front of her family by an open pit where they were all killed and subsequently buried, except her brother that picked it up before he was stabbed in the neck and left for dead, but didnʼt die, crawling over the bodies of his family after the guards left. Imagine a whole museum like that. It was an incredibly hard experience.

Michele and I, both being emotionally drained after the museum decided to get lunch together.  We went to my restaurant at my table and I enjoyed this time some delicious calves liver. I then came back and hung out for a bit. Lutwon and I chitchatted, and Judith came and we chitchatted some more. I then called it a night as I had a busy day. I needed to find out where the bus staion was and signed up for a War Tour as well. 

The next day, I got up, had breakfast, then headed out to mail my postcard to my nephews as well as a package home. To fuel up for my walk to the bus station, I had twosies and headed out with my trusty Google Maps. En route, I walked past the American Embassy and stopped for a moment to marvel at our flag and everything it stood for. I found the bus station and figured out what to do for my ride to Croatia. 

I, unfortunately, ran out of money yet again, so I had to go find an ATM and then headed back to the hostel to rest before my tour. We met at the allotted place and time and all of us hopped into a Subaru hatchback and headed to the outskirts of the city. 

Sarah, a pale and spritely 19-year-old Bosnian young lady that was born after the War was one of the same tour guides as the day before. As we drove past the buildings I had walked by earlier in the day to the bus station, she shared their biographies. The main building she mentioned was the former Holiday Inn (now Hotel Holiday) where foreign journalists were kept when they were covering the War. We then continued through Sniper’s Alley.

Sniper’s Alley was the main thoroughfare of Sarajevo with many mountain hiding spots as well as high-rise buildings. Even during the siege, people still had to go about their daily lives, usually running from place to place when they were not inside. No one was safe. Men, women, children, it did not matter. If you were slow, you were dead. 

We then headed to the Tunnel of Hope. This was the lifeline for the tens of thousands of inhabitants of Sarajevo. Since the airport was still under international control, brave Bosnians were able to smuggle goods into the city through a well-dug tunnel which is now a historic attraction.

After there, we headed to the site of the 1984 Winter Olympic Games luge track. While it was covered with graffiti, it was still beautiful. Looking out over downtown Sarajevo from this vantage point, I could tell why this was such an important position for Serb artillery.

We then headed to a Jewish Cemetery that Serbs used for cover while they were sniping people in the city. It was here where one of our guides shared a story. Apparently, a Russian journalist that was covering the war was invited to see things from the Serbian perspective. With Serbian troops, he went out on missions. One mission was to this very cemetery. He was given a rifle by one of the soldiers and told to make his pick. He raised his rifle, looked through the scope, and killed a woman that was a little slower than the people around her. Apparently, he then wrote about the experience at home.

When the tour was over, we headed back to the office of the tour company where I met the owner. He was a jovial guy and very nice. He told me a story about Tito that was very Tito: Apparently, when he visited Jimmy Carter’s White House, as he lit up a cigar, he was told, “You can’t smoke that here.” His reply, “Good for you,” and kept puffing away. He even told me that they made a film about all of Tito’s wheelings and dealings call Houston We Have A Problem, (which I later learned was a mockumentary.) He asked me what I did and I told him I was a web designer. He asked me to look at his site and I gave him a few suggestions. It blew his mind when I told him that there should be an option to buy tickets for his tours directly from his website.

After my tour, I dropped my stuff off at the hostel and then continued to my restaurant whose name I finally found, Sedef. Although my usual table was taken, I still had a wonderful meal of Cevapi.

After dinner, I walked around town looking for souvenirs but not wanting anything particular. I walked across a bridge that Sarah the guide pointed out that a friend’s mother said she was brave to cross, still remembering all the people that were killed on it. There was another bridge where two young people were commemorated that were the first victims of these sniper attacks. I then turned back, got some snacks for yet another tour I was taking the next day, and headed to bed after doing a little work.   

The next day I got up, had breakfast, and waited for my tour guide to pick me up. I met him outside my hostel and drove us up over and through the winding streets of Sarajevo as we then picked up a German young lady and an American Boomer. While we drove through the beautiful countryside our guide told us about where we were heading:

Slobodan Milosevich was the head of Serbia during the dissolution of Yugoslavia. He wanted to gain as much territory as possible while the new borders were being drawn. In Yugoslavia, there were many ethnic minorities in the various countries, kind of like in the United States how we have Italian-Americans, Mexican-Americans, and German, Polish, and Czech-Americans. Due to this, there were many Serbs that lived in Bosnia. Milosevich let slip the dogs of war in July of 1995 and began orchestrating plans for the Republic of Srpska, a Serbian state within the Bosnian. As there were already inhabitants in the territory they coveted, the newly formed Army of the Republic of Srpska demanded the residents leave their homes after giving up their arms. This is when the ethnic cleansing began. Bosniaks (the name given to Muslim Bosnians) were forced to flee for their very lives. Thousands of inhabitants fled to a small town that was under UN protection. Those that could be housed were billeted in a giant warehouse as the UN made diplomatic arrangements for safe passage out of the area. It was then Ratko Mladić, the head of the Army of the Republic of Srpska, took UN soldiers hostage and demanded the peacekeeping forces leave. After making a public appearance telling the world that this village was a safe zone, the head of the UN force there, Lt Col Thom Karremans, fled with the remaining UN security contingent and let the Serbs do what they wanted. This “safe” village, Srebrenica was where we were heading.

It was a long drive out there, but the scenery was pristine and untouched. We had to stop and get gas, which is where I first noticed an interesting pump. I got closer and realized it was liquefied natural gas. I made sure to take a note of it to tell my brother-in-law as his job was setting up pipelines of the stuff for export. As we went along the path and as I was in the front seat, I made conversation with the guide. He was in his 20’s and was studying History at the University. He got his tour license as a way to supplement his student bills. We talked about Bosnia, Europe, and the conversation turned to cars. My guide was a bit of a gear-head and the only thing he wanted out of life was an old Cadillac.

We continued along through mountains and plains until we arrived in Srebrenica. It was a narrow city with great mountains and hills as well as one major roadway that cut through the town. Our first stop was a nondescript depot of some type. Since we were not officially allowed to be here, our guide gave us a hurried tour of it and said that this was where the first killings took place. Dozens of men from the nearby town were taken into the garages and quickly shot. We then continued on to the cemetery.

The Cemetery of Srebrenica is a Muslim cemetery that is the eternal resting place of over 8,000 men and boys that were massacred by the Army of the Republic of Srpska. Gray obelisks with Arabic epitaphs went almost as far as the eye could see. Apparently, there are still bodies being uncovered when fields are being tilled and they are brought to this place. However, being deep within the Srpska, it was a pretty frequent occurrence for Serbian passersby to lob either porcine blood or body parts over the security fence of the cemetery as a further desecration and insult.

It was a dark sense of irony that was not lost on me that this cemetery was located directly across the street from the warehouse where these refugees were stored until they met their fates.  It was there where we went next. They turned it into a bit of a cultural center, but I was dismayed about how poorly it was being maintained. There were ersatz barracks for the UN troops in the building that housed a little museum, complete with writings of the troops stating, ‘Bosnian women smell like shit.’ Next to this place was the warehouse where thousands of men, women, and children were housed. There were no beds, not cots, and just rudimentary medical care. And these were the lucky ones, at least at the beginning. They were behind the protective line of the UN while 10’s of thousands more waited outside of the gates. 

The warehouse was incredibly austere and modestly maintained. It was just a giant room with a few alcoves and some machinery. They had a few displays, including a matrix of all the men that were currently being tried for war crimes for their actions here. It was somber.

We then headed back to the museum as our guide was able to let us sit in on a recording they were doing to commemorate the 25th anniversary of the genocide that would be happening in the next year. The curator of the museum was also a victim of it it, as his brother was murdered. He told us his story intermixing it in Bosnian and English while it was being recorded for posterity. 

After, we took a drive to the countryside, right up to the Serbian border. Our guide showed us a marker that had the names of everyone that the Serbians killed in that village. I had absolutely no idea what was going to happen next. He then went walking around the village, greeting people that he saw. He found an old woman and talked to her a bit in Bosnian. He then motioned for us to come down and join them. Sheepishly, we all walked towards her simple house. When we arrived, she invited us all to sit on her patio. She then went inside. Our guide said she offered to make us some refreshments and tell us her story. She brought us some peach juice, some cookies, Turkish delights, and some Bosnian coffee. It took a little prodding by our guide, but she told us about her experiences during the war. Through tears, she told us that all the male members of her family were killed; her husband, sons, and grandsons. I felt absolutely horrible for being part of messing up this woman’s day. But it seemed I was the only one.

The Boomer that accompanied this group was a bit of an asshole. He said he worked as a tax preparer and had not paid taxes in 25 years as he knew how to game the system. He also decided to take a piss on the side of the warehouse in Srebrenica, and here he was clumsily hitting on this woman that was pouring out her heart to a bunch of strangers, as well as this woman’s friend that came to join us. He did cross a line though. When she said she was worried it could happen again, he chimed in that Putin would never let it happen. She looked at him dead in the eye and said in Bosnian that it would only be America that could stop this again. 

After we said our thanks and goodbyes, we headed back to Sarajevo. I asked our guide about what we had seen and what his thoughts were. He said that he knew something like this could happen again. But people would never be as stupid again giving up their protection. He said that although privately owned firearms were illegal, it was the Balkans and anyone could get anything they needed for a reasonable price. As a non-practicing Muslim, he said he and his family had a plan. 

Driving through the beautiful Bosnian countryside, I thought about everything I had seen that day and during my time in Sarajevo. And it hit me right there as the sun was setting over a wheat field, I loved this country. 

I got back to Old Town as I was the last one dropped off, tipped my tour guide handsomely, and told him to put it towards his Cadillac. He smiled and said he enjoyed having me on the tour. I walked to Old Town and found some souvenirs and then went back to my hostel for my final night in Bosnia.