June 30, 2010:
We were sitting at breakfast this morning on the patio outside our hotel, eating bread and drinking strong Bosnian coffee, when suddenly Vahidin put down his cigarette. “That man with the moustache was in charge of all the mass graves in Sanski Most,” he said, nodding toward a white-haired man who had just walked in.
We all looked at him, startled. His face was composed, though he had lost the jovial tone now so familiar and beloved to us. (Vahidin is a Bosniak—an imam, in fact—who lost many family members and village neighbors to those mass graves during the war.) He continued to explain, saying that the man now held a government position in Sanski Most. (The law now requires representatives of all three ethnic groups to hold office, even in areas like this one where Serbs committed most of the war crimes.) So when Vahidin’s father had had to go to the municipality office to sign the paperwork relinquishing all his land, that man was the official who watched him sign. Now, Vahidin said, he sees that man and his wife around, but he still has not been able to say hello.
And to add insult to injury, it seems, the man with the moustache is now a member of the national Bosniak party. “That’s why I hate politics,” Vahidin finished, and returned to his cigarette.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Processing.
June 29, 2010:
For some reason, I’m feeling really… numb tonight. I left the café before the Spain-Portugal game ended (gasp!) to come back to the hotel and spend some time catching up on my research and just being alone—I haven’t done that in a while, and it’s necessary. Thankfully I’ve been running every morning in Sanski Most, which helps keep me human. The run is beautiful. Eric and Melanie and I always go the same direction: we leave the hotel and pass the bakery, which smells awesome, and then go past the fruit stand and the building under construction (the workers always give us curious glances). When we hit the stoplight we pause, then cross the road and pass the Catholic church with the mysterious sink in the yard. There’s a slight uphill, a cemetery on the right amidst the rest of the neighborhood, and then eventually the road splits. We always go to the right, which takes us out of town onto a country road. It winds past the most beautiful home in the world (it’s just a little, sorta run-down brick country home, but it’s nestled next to a stream, half-hidden by trees, and right on the outskirts of Sanski Most, right at the base of the mountains. I want to live there). Eventually the road becomes gravel; I assume it continues to wind its way up into the mountains, but we haven’t run far enough to see where it goes. If we didn’t have to do an out-and-back every day, I’d love to run through the countryside. The view is enough to keep me going—that and the funny looks and comments we get from the Bosnians we pass, who apparently rarely see people running. Because we run early in the morning, we always pass old men walking slowly along the side of the road, who usually respond to our “Zdravo!” with a confused look and some mysterious phrase, which I’ve taken to mean “Crazy Americans.” I don’t speak much Bosnian, but I bet I’m pretty close with that translation.
The last two days in Sanski Most have been occupied by time in various internships. As I wrote yesterday, some of our group members are working at Krajina Tear, looking for some grants and learning more about their work in the area. Others are working at the Center for Peacebuilding, which is GYC’s partner organization in Bosnia and is one of the most awesome grassroots organizations for peacebuilding I have ever encountered. I am consistently amazed by Vahadin’s work, expertise, and connections, and the success that the Center has encountered. Amazing. The other students are at an orphanage outside of town, where I hope to spend tomorrow if I get my research done tonight. (Yeah. About that.) But Heidi and Erika and I don’t get to stay at one location—we’re the “documentation team,” so we’re trying to balance visiting and documenting all three locations with doing a lot of research on the people and organizations we’ll be meeting with when we return to Sarajevo: the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe, various agencies of the United Nations, representatives of the Interreligious Council in Sarajevo, the American embassy, and other NGOs, civic organizations, and government groups. It’s fascinating, but complex, and requiring a lot more time than any of us were really anticipating. Plus, we’re trying to work together on a blog for future funding and recruiting purposes, and keep up our own personal journals so we can eventually write a comprehensive program report. Whew. But it’s exciting work, and we’re certainly learning how much work goes into grant-
writing, keeping nonprofits alive, and funding programs like this one.
But other than those logistics… a review of the day. This morning we visited one of the two sites in all of Bosnia where forensic anthropologists identify and piece together the exhumed remains of mass graves. Located in an old warehouse on the outskirts of Sanski Most, the Center for Missing Persons is filled with white body bags, each carefully labeled with the date of excavation and location where the bones were discovered. Thousands of people were reported missing after the war, and though the work of recovery and identification has been going on for years, the fate of thousands remains unknown.
Honestly, as troubling as it is to walk into a large warehouse filled with the remains of thousands of people, their bones did not horrify me as much as I thought they might. Instead, I was fixated by pages and pages of tiny pictures taped to a wall, each depicting a single person who is still reported missing by their surviving family members. Their faces smiled happily off the wall, cropped out of pictures where they are surrounded by loved ones or caught unaware and happy in daily life. Now their bones sit in big white plastic bags, mixed with the remains of other murdered victims. A few of the bags had been marked with identification tags; I memorized one of the names and went to find the corresponding picture on the wall. There he was: a dark-haired young man, smiling innocently at the camera. And there he was, dead.
Sometimes war becomes very, very real.
This afternoon we went to the Center for Peacebuilding to help paint the outside of the building. It started pouring after we had finished one wall, so we went inside and watched No Man’s Land instead while we waited for the storm to pass. Watch it. Yes, you will probably end up extraordinarily frustrated by the United Nations mission in Bosnia (UNPROFOR). But that’s probably an appropriate response to the politics that prevented the international community from intervening and saving the lives of some of those people whose bodies now lie on the cement floor of a warehouse.
I don’t mean to end on an angry note, but as I process what happened today, I cannot help but be frustrated. As I researched this afternoon, I read over and over about the myriad of challenges facing Bosnia in its recovery from the past. How to reintegrate a divided society? How to heal the wounds of war? There are no easy answers.
Pray for Bosnia.
For some reason, I’m feeling really… numb tonight. I left the café before the Spain-Portugal game ended (gasp!) to come back to the hotel and spend some time catching up on my research and just being alone—I haven’t done that in a while, and it’s necessary. Thankfully I’ve been running every morning in Sanski Most, which helps keep me human. The run is beautiful. Eric and Melanie and I always go the same direction: we leave the hotel and pass the bakery, which smells awesome, and then go past the fruit stand and the building under construction (the workers always give us curious glances). When we hit the stoplight we pause, then cross the road and pass the Catholic church with the mysterious sink in the yard. There’s a slight uphill, a cemetery on the right amidst the rest of the neighborhood, and then eventually the road splits. We always go to the right, which takes us out of town onto a country road. It winds past the most beautiful home in the world (it’s just a little, sorta run-down brick country home, but it’s nestled next to a stream, half-hidden by trees, and right on the outskirts of Sanski Most, right at the base of the mountains. I want to live there). Eventually the road becomes gravel; I assume it continues to wind its way up into the mountains, but we haven’t run far enough to see where it goes. If we didn’t have to do an out-and-back every day, I’d love to run through the countryside. The view is enough to keep me going—that and the funny looks and comments we get from the Bosnians we pass, who apparently rarely see people running. Because we run early in the morning, we always pass old men walking slowly along the side of the road, who usually respond to our “Zdravo!” with a confused look and some mysterious phrase, which I’ve taken to mean “Crazy Americans.” I don’t speak much Bosnian, but I bet I’m pretty close with that translation.
The last two days in Sanski Most have been occupied by time in various internships. As I wrote yesterday, some of our group members are working at Krajina Tear, looking for some grants and learning more about their work in the area. Others are working at the Center for Peacebuilding, which is GYC’s partner organization in Bosnia and is one of the most awesome grassroots organizations for peacebuilding I have ever encountered. I am consistently amazed by Vahadin’s work, expertise, and connections, and the success that the Center has encountered. Amazing. The other students are at an orphanage outside of town, where I hope to spend tomorrow if I get my research done tonight. (Yeah. About that.) But Heidi and Erika and I don’t get to stay at one location—we’re the “documentation team,” so we’re trying to balance visiting and documenting all three locations with doing a lot of research on the people and organizations we’ll be meeting with when we return to Sarajevo: the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe, various agencies of the United Nations, representatives of the Interreligious Council in Sarajevo, the American embassy, and other NGOs, civic organizations, and government groups. It’s fascinating, but complex, and requiring a lot more time than any of us were really anticipating. Plus, we’re trying to work together on a blog for future funding and recruiting purposes, and keep up our own personal journals so we can eventually write a comprehensive program report. Whew. But it’s exciting work, and we’re certainly learning how much work goes into grant-
writing, keeping nonprofits alive, and funding programs like this one.
But other than those logistics… a review of the day. This morning we visited one of the two sites in all of Bosnia where forensic anthropologists identify and piece together the exhumed remains of mass graves. Located in an old warehouse on the outskirts of Sanski Most, the Center for Missing Persons is filled with white body bags, each carefully labeled with the date of excavation and location where the bones were discovered. Thousands of people were reported missing after the war, and though the work of recovery and identification has been going on for years, the fate of thousands remains unknown.
Honestly, as troubling as it is to walk into a large warehouse filled with the remains of thousands of people, their bones did not horrify me as much as I thought they might. Instead, I was fixated by pages and pages of tiny pictures taped to a wall, each depicting a single person who is still reported missing by their surviving family members. Their faces smiled happily off the wall, cropped out of pictures where they are surrounded by loved ones or caught unaware and happy in daily life. Now their bones sit in big white plastic bags, mixed with the remains of other murdered victims. A few of the bags had been marked with identification tags; I memorized one of the names and went to find the corresponding picture on the wall. There he was: a dark-haired young man, smiling innocently at the camera. And there he was, dead.
Sometimes war becomes very, very real.
This afternoon we went to the Center for Peacebuilding to help paint the outside of the building. It started pouring after we had finished one wall, so we went inside and watched No Man’s Land instead while we waited for the storm to pass. Watch it. Yes, you will probably end up extraordinarily frustrated by the United Nations mission in Bosnia (UNPROFOR). But that’s probably an appropriate response to the politics that prevented the international community from intervening and saving the lives of some of those people whose bodies now lie on the cement floor of a warehouse.
I don’t mean to end on an angry note, but as I process what happened today, I cannot help but be frustrated. As I researched this afternoon, I read over and over about the myriad of challenges facing Bosnia in its recovery from the past. How to reintegrate a divided society? How to heal the wounds of war? There are no easy answers.
Pray for Bosnia.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
The perilous life of of non-profits.
From June 28th:
Udruženje Krajiška Suza (or “Krajina Tear”), a local organization in Sanski Most, is perhaps the most underfunded community outreach program I have ever witnessed.
We arrived at their headquarters mid-morning today and toured the small, two-story building. The space has been split into a variety of office and meeting rooms, where we met and talked with various staff members about the mission and struggles of the organization. Krajina Tear supports seven full-time staff, who were trained by a German psychotherapist to provide psychological support and healthcare to low-income war survivors in and around Sanski Most. The center’s staff and 35 volunteers, all war widows themselves, provide services to more than 400 client members within a 20-mile radius. But international funding has dropped to 40 percent of its former levels, causing a drastic cut in services. Now, the center is funded by one Swiss church, whose support will also dry up in two years.
On its shrinking budget, Krajina Tear offers a free clinic, home visits for psychological counseling and healthcare provision, a social center and support group for the elderly, and workshops on peacebuilding, reconciliation, and foreign languages. The building’s top floor has been converted into a room for preschoolers with special needs, for whom there are currently no services in Sanski Most. Complete with colorful carpet and bright pictures on the walls, but lacking funding, the room sits empty.
Downstairs, a similarly grim situation confronts the women who work for Krajina Tear. In the free clinic, one doctor, one nurse, and one psychotherapist see daily walk-ins facing a variety of health problems. Their small crew also provides in-home services for elderly patients confined to their houses or living in remote villages. Most of the patients cannot afford basic hospital services and depend entirely on the healthcare provided by Krajina Tear. Over 90 percent of the center’s 200 elderly clients depend entirely on the center’s free provision of their prescription drugs (which are not provided for Krajina Tear by the government; they must be purchased privately at full cost). In addition, despite the traumas of war which have affected the entire area, there are no private psychologists in all of Sanski Most. The hospital is inadequate for the needs of the community—the two rooms that hold its “psychiatric wing” are staffed only twice a week by a doctor from Prijedor. Thus, the few trained therapists of Krajina Tear bear the burden of an entire community’s wounds of war, fighting with the stigmas of mental illness, small-town social pressures, and their own personal histories.
In the early afternoon we accompanied one of the workers on a site visit across town. In a big white van, we drove across Sanski Most to a neighborhood on the city’s outskirts. As we piled out of the van and filed through the gate to the yard, we were greeted enthusiastically by an older man, whose friendly grin and eager hand-pumping clearly indicated his anticipation of our visit. Leaving our shoes at the door, we entered the living room and greeted his wife and two young grandsons, who were sitting on the couch waiting. The woman from Krajina Tear visits this family twice every week to check on them; as we sat and talked for half an hour, we quickly discovered why.
Stories of war surface quickly from people here. Mere minutes into our conversation, our jovial host had hiked up his pant leg to show us the gangrene that had infected his leg, blackening and leathering the skin all the way up his shin. He was stabbed 13 times during the war, including on his feet, and the scars and infections trouble him. But he was quick to add that he was grateful just to be alive. He knew many people with a different story.
The war has taken a toll in a different way on his wife. Now crippled by rheumatoid arthritis, she sat and cried and talked of suicide, telling us that without her grandsons she would certainly be dead by now. Those in our group who spoke Bosnian were quick to jump in and comfort her, but her battle with depression is a daily one, exacerbated by a lack of adequate psychiatric or medical care. As the doctor at Krajina Tear told us, antidepressants are no longer on the government’s list of necessary medications, and thus are not provided. For this woman, who (along with her husband and two grandsons) depends on her daughter’s salary of 200 marks a month, such expensive medication is out of the question. Instead, she relies on a bottle of Tylenol that expired in 2003 and a motley assortment of herbal remedies prescribed by the pharmacist. Nothing in her jam-packed pink shoebox of drugs actually suited her mental or psychological ailments.
The work of Krajina Tear is heartbreaking. Inspiring, but heartbreaking. The turnover rate for the center’s volunteers is high, and understandably so: with such enormous problems, and so few resources, it is a daily battle to improve the living conditions of women, the elderly, and children affected by war and poverty. The center is desperately in need of money—it was their greatest and most simple request. Members of our delegation will be spending the next two days working on grants for the organization, but this post is also a plea: become involved in the reconstruction efforts and the human rights work being done in Bosnia. The challenges are great—there is a long way to go—but with the faithful work of people like the women of Krajina Tear and with the support of others, progress can be made.
I'm hoping to send stories to Decorah Newspapers back home. Krajina Tear is one of many organizations that desperately need and deserve support from philanthropists around the world, and the more people that know these stories, the better.
So if you are reading this and want to donate, below is the contact information for Krajina Tear:
k.suza@bih.net.ba
Contact person: Almira Selimović
Udruženje Krajiška Suza
Vahidbegova b.b.
Sanski Most, Bosnia
Udruženje Krajiška Suza (or “Krajina Tear”), a local organization in Sanski Most, is perhaps the most underfunded community outreach program I have ever witnessed.
We arrived at their headquarters mid-morning today and toured the small, two-story building. The space has been split into a variety of office and meeting rooms, where we met and talked with various staff members about the mission and struggles of the organization. Krajina Tear supports seven full-time staff, who were trained by a German psychotherapist to provide psychological support and healthcare to low-income war survivors in and around Sanski Most. The center’s staff and 35 volunteers, all war widows themselves, provide services to more than 400 client members within a 20-mile radius. But international funding has dropped to 40 percent of its former levels, causing a drastic cut in services. Now, the center is funded by one Swiss church, whose support will also dry up in two years.
On its shrinking budget, Krajina Tear offers a free clinic, home visits for psychological counseling and healthcare provision, a social center and support group for the elderly, and workshops on peacebuilding, reconciliation, and foreign languages. The building’s top floor has been converted into a room for preschoolers with special needs, for whom there are currently no services in Sanski Most. Complete with colorful carpet and bright pictures on the walls, but lacking funding, the room sits empty.
Downstairs, a similarly grim situation confronts the women who work for Krajina Tear. In the free clinic, one doctor, one nurse, and one psychotherapist see daily walk-ins facing a variety of health problems. Their small crew also provides in-home services for elderly patients confined to their houses or living in remote villages. Most of the patients cannot afford basic hospital services and depend entirely on the healthcare provided by Krajina Tear. Over 90 percent of the center’s 200 elderly clients depend entirely on the center’s free provision of their prescription drugs (which are not provided for Krajina Tear by the government; they must be purchased privately at full cost). In addition, despite the traumas of war which have affected the entire area, there are no private psychologists in all of Sanski Most. The hospital is inadequate for the needs of the community—the two rooms that hold its “psychiatric wing” are staffed only twice a week by a doctor from Prijedor. Thus, the few trained therapists of Krajina Tear bear the burden of an entire community’s wounds of war, fighting with the stigmas of mental illness, small-town social pressures, and their own personal histories.
In the early afternoon we accompanied one of the workers on a site visit across town. In a big white van, we drove across Sanski Most to a neighborhood on the city’s outskirts. As we piled out of the van and filed through the gate to the yard, we were greeted enthusiastically by an older man, whose friendly grin and eager hand-pumping clearly indicated his anticipation of our visit. Leaving our shoes at the door, we entered the living room and greeted his wife and two young grandsons, who were sitting on the couch waiting. The woman from Krajina Tear visits this family twice every week to check on them; as we sat and talked for half an hour, we quickly discovered why.
Stories of war surface quickly from people here. Mere minutes into our conversation, our jovial host had hiked up his pant leg to show us the gangrene that had infected his leg, blackening and leathering the skin all the way up his shin. He was stabbed 13 times during the war, including on his feet, and the scars and infections trouble him. But he was quick to add that he was grateful just to be alive. He knew many people with a different story.
The war has taken a toll in a different way on his wife. Now crippled by rheumatoid arthritis, she sat and cried and talked of suicide, telling us that without her grandsons she would certainly be dead by now. Those in our group who spoke Bosnian were quick to jump in and comfort her, but her battle with depression is a daily one, exacerbated by a lack of adequate psychiatric or medical care. As the doctor at Krajina Tear told us, antidepressants are no longer on the government’s list of necessary medications, and thus are not provided. For this woman, who (along with her husband and two grandsons) depends on her daughter’s salary of 200 marks a month, such expensive medication is out of the question. Instead, she relies on a bottle of Tylenol that expired in 2003 and a motley assortment of herbal remedies prescribed by the pharmacist. Nothing in her jam-packed pink shoebox of drugs actually suited her mental or psychological ailments.
The work of Krajina Tear is heartbreaking. Inspiring, but heartbreaking. The turnover rate for the center’s volunteers is high, and understandably so: with such enormous problems, and so few resources, it is a daily battle to improve the living conditions of women, the elderly, and children affected by war and poverty. The center is desperately in need of money—it was their greatest and most simple request. Members of our delegation will be spending the next two days working on grants for the organization, but this post is also a plea: become involved in the reconstruction efforts and the human rights work being done in Bosnia. The challenges are great—there is a long way to go—but with the faithful work of people like the women of Krajina Tear and with the support of others, progress can be made.
I'm hoping to send stories to Decorah Newspapers back home. Krajina Tear is one of many organizations that desperately need and deserve support from philanthropists around the world, and the more people that know these stories, the better.
So if you are reading this and want to donate, below is the contact information for Krajina Tear:
k.suza@bih.net.ba
Contact person: Almira Selimović
Udruženje Krajiška Suza
Vahidbegova b.b.
Sanski Most, Bosnia
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Welcome to Sanski Most.
View from the bus window
We left Sarajevo this morning by bus on a five-hour trip to northwestern Bosnia and the small city of Sanski Most. The drive was lovely—I sat next to the window and kept my eyes glued to the scenery, gaping at the forested mountains and soaring rock precipices. Homes and villages are scattered throughout the highlands of Bosnia, grouped in red-roofed clusters under a bright blue sky. It’s hard to believe people fled through these mountains a decade and a half ago—the hills are already ridiculously steep and would be even more treacherous filled with land mines. (Many still are.) Nowadays, the scenery is idyllic, with cute little towns and homes with cheerful, flower-filled windowboxes. But occasionally you glimpse the bombed-out ruins of a home on the hillside, or a cluster of grave markers memorializing the slaughter of a family, and the reawakening is a harsh one.
Such is life in a world recovering from war.
We stopped at a gorgeous waterfall midway through the drive—at just about the perfect time, actually, because I was starting to feel motion sick from the winding drive through the mountains. It was lovely. I’ll try to put up a few pictures eventually… but we all know how bad I am at taking pictures.
Hey look! The waterfall!
Around lunchtime, we arrived at Sanski Most, which reminds me a lot of home. (I was being teased about Iowa again today… I think they’re just jealous. Or insecure, right, Mom?) It’s much smaller and quieter than Sarajevo, which is a pleasant change for me. I love Sarajevo—it’s beautiful—but I feel much more comfortable in this city. We greeted a group of about 15 Bosnian high schoolers when we arrived; together, our two groups will be working on conflict resolution exercises for the next few days through the Center for Peacebuilding in Sanski Most. Today we talked about the origins of conflict, primarily, and discussed the complicated, multifaceted factors which lead to internal, interpersonal, and large-scale conflicts. It’s important work which remains unfinished and is really applicable everywhere, not just in places which have been wracked by war. I’m glad to be learning how to more effectively be, well, a peacemaker.
Tonight after dinner we wandered around Sanski Most, getting our bearings and enjoying the city. It felt a bit like Nordic Fest, actually, with tons of people outside enjoying the summer night and walking around downtown with their families and friends. I love that we actually get to meet people in Sanski Most, and that there are almost no tourists, so we get to integrate into the life of the community itself a little bit. (Well, actually, I felt like we got rock star status tonight as we walked around—everyone’s like, ‘Whoa, a big group of Americans; I wonder why they’re here’… ha, if only they knew that we’re not as cool as they think...) But then it started raining suddenly, so we booked it back to the hotel and now it’s time for bed. I get to run in the morning!
By the way, speaking of… running? Bosnian ice cream is awesome. And Bosnian pastries. Mm. Mmmmm. I miss fruits and vegetables—it’s a lot of meat and bread here. But it’s delicious. And! I’m very slowly learning Bosnian. My favorite word is still jabuka (apple), which I learned from Jack—the girls who speak Bosnian think it’s hilarious that that is the one and only vocabulary word I came into the country. I suppose that is kinda weird… ha.
Oh, and p.s., Eric and I sent a postcard to the Calvin international relations department yesterday. I think that forever cements our nerd status. Woot.
A completely nerdy post, if I may.
From Thursday, June 24, 2010:
Our first full day in Sarajevo. And a very exciting day at that: we went to the Office of the High Representative! Aaaaahhh!!!
Some explanation is probably required for those of you less nerdy than I am. The Office of the High Representative is the international body appointed to oversee the internal affairs of Bosnia and Herzegovina. When the war was ended at the American-brokered Dayton Peace Accords of 1995, the country was split into two separate geographic entities: the Republika Srpska (RS) and the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina. Serbs primarily inhabit the RS; Croats and Bosniaks (Bosnian Muslims) live mainly in the Federation. One tiny corner of the country, the Brcko District, was a hotspot of violence and contention during the war, and was put under international jurisdiction at Dayton because the RS and Federation simply couldn’t agree over its rule. Bosnia has a national government that oversees both entities, but each has its own government as well, making the bureaucracy really complicated and divided. In fact, the ethnic divisions of the war are still built into Bosnia’s government, with a three-member presidency (one Bosniak, one Croat, and one Serb) and ethnically-delegated seats in Parliament, etc. (It kinda sucks to be a minority—for example, Jewish or Roma—in Bosnia. You’re out of luck if you want to run for office.)
Just to make all of that even more complicated, the Dayton Accords included one other important provision. Because Bosnia was unlikely to succeed in post-war development without significant international assistance, the international community established the Office of the High Representative, another level of bureaucracy with power to oversee all of Bosnia’s internal affairs. So, although the country has sovereignty in its foreign policy, fiscal policy, etc., the High Representative (an appointed delegate from somewhere in Europe) has the power to adjust laws, hire and fire Bosnian bureaucrats, and so on.
Furthermore, the OHR is overseen by the Peace Implementation Council (PIC), a group of countries with varying levels of interest and commitment to Bosnia and its post-war development and reconstruction. Yes, this is a complicated system, and far from ideal. To be honest, the OHR has lost much of its effectiveness and its reputation in recent years, especially as corrupt and nationalistic politicians have undermined its efforts in the state’s reconciliation and political reconstruction. Similarly, the PIC has undermined the OHR’s work in Bosnia by not giving it sufficient support and resources or by failing to back up its promises. Really, the OHR was never intended to last this long—the mandate was set to expire in 1996, and then again in 2006. Clearly, its continued existence in 2010 indicates some problems.
But regardless—we got to meet the Deputy High Representative, Raffi Gregorian, this afternoon, which was a total geek experience for me after a semester of studying the OHR/PIC and NATO in Bosnia. I was so excited. Gregorian oversees the Brcko District, which has seen much more success in areas like multiethnic education than the other two entities. He spoke candidly and openly to our group on all sorts of topics—the work of the OHR, issues with the PIC, the upcoming October elections, the development of civil society, etc. It was an honor and a joy to meet him—I think our whole group left with great admiration (and some dreams of being just like him when we grow up).
On a less nerdy note, I went to the American embassy this morning to replace my passport. To be honest, it left me with a strange taste in my mouth. Not only is the US embassy guarded by men with guns and surrounded by a huge fence, unlike every other embassy we’ve seen here, but I felt like a real jerk just gallivanting up to the front of the line because I was a US citizen. I understand that it is “my” embassy, but I still felt guilty being shuffled into the short (aka non-existent) line at the American window while a large group of Bosnians applying for visas waited in a miserably long line outside. I guess, knowing the troubling policies of the American immigration system, it was hard to walk by so many hopeful people, knowing that few of them would receive the visas they hoped for to emigrate to the United States. But I am grateful to have the passport stuff figured out—we’ll go back next week to pick it up. My new picture is atrocious, but hey… such is life.
Tomorrow we’re off to Sanski Most! I like Sarajevo a lot, but I am excited to see what it’s like in northwestern Bosnia… and I’ve heard the drive through the mountains is fantastic. Maybe I’ll finally remember to use my camera. Whoops.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Welcome to Sarajevo.
I made it to Sarajevo!
Currently I am sitting in an internet cafe with the other two students who have arrived for the GYC program, all of us emailing home with reports of safe arrivals. There is Bosnian music blasting in the background and it's smoky in here--pretty typical, from what I've experienced thus far. There is a heavy Turkish influence in Bosnia: lots of the same decor, etc. It's cool and very unlike any culture I have been in before.
Sarajevo is beautiful. We flew in through a thick white, woolly blanket of clouds, descending through gray-white mist to suddenly emerge right above the mountains which surround the city. Red rooftops of houses are scattered along the hillsides, and the city proper stretches through a valley and sprawls up the base of the surrounding mountains. There are skyscrapers downtown, flanked by a confusing maze of streets full of half-tattered, half-restored buildings still bearing bullet scars from the war years. The city is a perplexing mix of old and new, destroyed and rebuilt. It's beautiful. And somehow kinda sad. Maybe that's just the dismal weather, but there is something melancholy about the city. There are huge cemeteries scattered along hillsides and in the middle of the Old Town, where our hostel is located--very present memorials to the wounds of 15 years ago. I am anxious to spend more time here and get to know Sarajevo better.
I arrived here in the afternoon yesterday, taking a taxi from the airport to the address of our hostel... or so I thought. When I arrived at the front door, the woman working gave me a blank stare when I asked her about my reservation, so I showed her the address I had and was told I was in the wrong place. By then my cab driver was long gone, so I asked if I could walk to the correct hostel (even though it was raining). She gave me a map and pointed me in the right direction, so off I went, trundling down the cobblestone streets with my rolling suitcase bumping along behind me, map in hand, getting soggy from rain. The situation struck me as so funny that I couldn't help but laugh as I walked, which may have contributed to the already-curious looks I was getting from passerby... ha. (I could read it in their faces: stupid tourist girl. Dang.)
But eventually I made it through the confusing maze of streets that is the Old Town and found the correct hostel. (Thanks, Dad, for a good sense of direction!) I settled in and took a little nap, and then met the other student who had arrived early for the program. We went out walking to get food and our bearings, which was great--there are some awesome views of the city from atop hills in Sarajevo. However, I hadn't moved my passport out of my purse yet, which was an admittedly-dumb mistake. I have traveled enough to know better. So we were walking around, and at one point I let go of my purse to look at some monuments. Suddenly I remember looking up and looking at my reflection in a shop window--I think I must have unconsciously noticed getting bumped or something. And then I realized that my passport was missing.
Oops.
But here is the cool thing: although I lost some cash and my passport, my wallet (with my other ID and my debit card) was still safe in my purse. Whew! And, thankfully, the verses I had been memorizing with my campers at SB2W were the very first things to come into my mind, even before I could really react to having my passport stolen. Somehow, my thoughts started with "I have learned the secret to being content in all circumstances, whether in plenty or in want... for I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me" (Philippians 4), followed by "Be joyful always; pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus" (1 Thessalonians 5). Man... I am SO thankful a lot of campers had repeated those verses to me last week!
So we went back and contacted the program director and the US embassy, and it's all getting figured out. I should have a new passport by the time we leave Sarajevo for Sanski Most on Friday. (So I even get to replace my old passport picture! Hooray! Not that the new one is any better...). I am bummed to lose my cool Cambodian visa, but I guess now I just have a reason to go back there. (Ha ha.)
I think I want to end with a list of things I'm thankful for.
-I'm in Bosnia! Aaah!
-This happened once I was in Bosnia already, not while I was trying to get here.
-I was pickpocketed, not mugged.
-It happened before everyone else got here, so I don't have to inconvenience 15 other people in trying to figure it out.
-My parents have taken it really well.
-Nothing was taken that was harder to replace, like a debit card.
-It's only money. Honestly, whoever took it probably needs money more than I do.
-People have been really kind and helpful in figuring out what to do next.
-Humility, humility, humility.
-I get the chance to actually live out what I say I believe about joy.
So altogether? I'm actually pretty thankful this happened. Woo! Adventures in Bosnia!
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Hurry up and wait.
I'm sitting in the airport in Vienna, eating an overpriced cup of fruit (well, I assume it's overpriced... it's an airport, after all... but I don't know what the exchange rate really is to euros. That might be for the best). I'm waiting for them to open up gate C39 so I can check in for my final flight in to Sarajevo! It doesn't take off for another two hours, so I have plenty of time to sit here and people-watch... heehee.
So! I've made it to Vienna safely! My grandparents dropped me off at the Detroit airport on Monday a couple hours before my flight was scheduled to take off, but due to bad weather literally everywhere (apparently), the line was super long to check in and I ended up speedwalking through the Detroit airport to get on the plane on time. Whew--what a way to begin my first international trip alone! But I made it just fine, and arrived in Washington, D.C. about an hour later. There it was a pretty quick turnaround (complete with a stop for Chipotle [hey Jack!] because I was really hungry) and on to a massive plane for the flight from D.C. to Vienna.
The flight to Austria was pretty nice. Nine hours is a long time to sit in a tiny little chair, but I'm not super tall, so I don't have anything to complain about. (And, I got a window seat.) :) Plus, I had a really interesting seatmate--a 22-year-old guy from Kosovo named Bejar who gladly talked with me about Kosovo, how to pronounce words in Bosnian, what it's like for him to be Muslim in the United States, his wife waiting for him in Kosovo, why he thinks Kosovo is way better than Orlando, etc. I was sorry to see him leave. It was nice to have a travel buddy for a little while.
And then... Vienna! My layover here is four-and-a-half hours long, so I decided to be adventurous and leave the airport. (Though clearly not all that adventurous since I'm already back.) I bought a roundtrip ticket for the train that runs directly from the airport to the city center, and took the 16-minute trip to downtown Vienna, just for the chance to walk around and stretch my legs and actually put my feet on European soil. (For the first time ever! Let's all celebrate this momentous occasion!)
Vienna is beautiful. Granted, in the hour I was downtown, I certainly didn't really get to see much of the city, but the view as the train whizzed through and the part I did experience while walking around was lovely. If you're a woman traveling alone through Europe, I highly recommend Vienna--I felt totally safe and comfortable walking around there. The streets are narrow and mostly one-way, with tall, well-maintained, old stone buildings packed along the streetsides. Everything is really clean, at least downtown; I even passed a city employee in a bright orange vest picking up little pieces of trash with a long stick. Really, I just wandered around, trying to follow the signs to what I assumed was a monument to Radetzky. (He was an Austrian general; there's a famous march dedicated to him, so nerdy me saw a sign reading Radetzkyplatz and wanted to find out more.) I never found it. But what I did find was a gorgeous Catholic church, complete with tolling bells and a flock of pigeons around the fountain out front. So what does any good, self-respecting person do in that situation? You feed the birds, of course! I hadn't eaten my breakfast sandwich from the plane, tucking it into my bag instead for lunch... so I sat on the bench and threw bread crumbs and enjoyed the sunshine and generally felt like an old man. It was wonderful.
But enough rambling from me. I'm going to go check on C39. I met an elderly couple also going to Sarajevo, so perhaps I'll find them. (Don't worry, Mom... I only talk to nice strangers.) :)
So! I've made it to Vienna safely! My grandparents dropped me off at the Detroit airport on Monday a couple hours before my flight was scheduled to take off, but due to bad weather literally everywhere (apparently), the line was super long to check in and I ended up speedwalking through the Detroit airport to get on the plane on time. Whew--what a way to begin my first international trip alone! But I made it just fine, and arrived in Washington, D.C. about an hour later. There it was a pretty quick turnaround (complete with a stop for Chipotle [hey Jack!] because I was really hungry) and on to a massive plane for the flight from D.C. to Vienna.
The flight to Austria was pretty nice. Nine hours is a long time to sit in a tiny little chair, but I'm not super tall, so I don't have anything to complain about. (And, I got a window seat.) :) Plus, I had a really interesting seatmate--a 22-year-old guy from Kosovo named Bejar who gladly talked with me about Kosovo, how to pronounce words in Bosnian, what it's like for him to be Muslim in the United States, his wife waiting for him in Kosovo, why he thinks Kosovo is way better than Orlando, etc. I was sorry to see him leave. It was nice to have a travel buddy for a little while.
And then... Vienna! My layover here is four-and-a-half hours long, so I decided to be adventurous and leave the airport. (Though clearly not all that adventurous since I'm already back.) I bought a roundtrip ticket for the train that runs directly from the airport to the city center, and took the 16-minute trip to downtown Vienna, just for the chance to walk around and stretch my legs and actually put my feet on European soil. (For the first time ever! Let's all celebrate this momentous occasion!)
Vienna is beautiful. Granted, in the hour I was downtown, I certainly didn't really get to see much of the city, but the view as the train whizzed through and the part I did experience while walking around was lovely. If you're a woman traveling alone through Europe, I highly recommend Vienna--I felt totally safe and comfortable walking around there. The streets are narrow and mostly one-way, with tall, well-maintained, old stone buildings packed along the streetsides. Everything is really clean, at least downtown; I even passed a city employee in a bright orange vest picking up little pieces of trash with a long stick. Really, I just wandered around, trying to follow the signs to what I assumed was a monument to Radetzky. (He was an Austrian general; there's a famous march dedicated to him, so nerdy me saw a sign reading Radetzkyplatz and wanted to find out more.) I never found it. But what I did find was a gorgeous Catholic church, complete with tolling bells and a flock of pigeons around the fountain out front. So what does any good, self-respecting person do in that situation? You feed the birds, of course! I hadn't eaten my breakfast sandwich from the plane, tucking it into my bag instead for lunch... so I sat on the bench and threw bread crumbs and enjoyed the sunshine and generally felt like an old man. It was wonderful.
But enough rambling from me. I'm going to go check on C39. I met an elderly couple also going to Sarajevo, so perhaps I'll find them. (Don't worry, Mom... I only talk to nice strangers.) :)
Sunday, June 20, 2010
The countdown begins.
In exactly 24 hours I will be boarding the plane to Bosnia!
Okay, technically I'll be boarding a plane headed for Washington, D.C., and then from there another one to Vienna, and then another to Sarajevo. But still, it's an exciting thought.
I am sitting in my grandparents' house in Michigan surrounded by piles of laundry and miscellaneous other things from camp. I hate packing. Seriously, I have a deep personal abhorrence for picking clothes ahead of time, folding them neatly, and arranging them in a big suitcase. Camp was way more my style: I'd get dressed in the dark and didn't look in a mirror for days on end. And at the end of each day, I'd shower and be clean for a few hours, just long enough to fall asleep, and then wake up the next morning and get to run around again. It was wonderful.
Speaking of camp being wonderful... it really was. The first few days of orientation were hard; I was on the verge of tears more than once, feeling really out-of-the-loop and overwhelmed and lonely. But God is faithful. Always. Eventually I began to understand what it meant to really be at camp for the kids instead of for myself, something I thought I had grasped before but needed to relearn. I began to feel closer to the other counselors, which was great... and then the kids arrived, and everything got even better! I loved my girls! My co-counselor and I had eleven 10-year-olds in our cabin, which is like having eleven adoring younger sisters. (Sorry Kendra.) I learned a lot from them, and was amazed by the depth of questions they would ask and their willingness to be vulnerable. One day a question showed up in our anonymous question jar about why God would create people who he knew wouldn't follow him. Hmm. Yeah. It's tricky to talk predestination and original sin with a 10-year-old.
There were so many beautifully sweet moments that I can't even hope to share them all. I'll end this post with a prayer request: that in Bosnia, I wouldn't forget camp. And that when I eventually go back to camp, I wouldn't forget Bosnia. And when I say camp and Bosnia, I simply mean places where God is working--in very different ways, but definitely and evidently working.
For more information, here are links to camp and the program in Bosnia. Woohoo!
Okay, technically I'll be boarding a plane headed for Washington, D.C., and then from there another one to Vienna, and then another to Sarajevo. But still, it's an exciting thought.
I am sitting in my grandparents' house in Michigan surrounded by piles of laundry and miscellaneous other things from camp. I hate packing. Seriously, I have a deep personal abhorrence for picking clothes ahead of time, folding them neatly, and arranging them in a big suitcase. Camp was way more my style: I'd get dressed in the dark and didn't look in a mirror for days on end. And at the end of each day, I'd shower and be clean for a few hours, just long enough to fall asleep, and then wake up the next morning and get to run around again. It was wonderful.
Speaking of camp being wonderful... it really was. The first few days of orientation were hard; I was on the verge of tears more than once, feeling really out-of-the-loop and overwhelmed and lonely. But God is faithful. Always. Eventually I began to understand what it meant to really be at camp for the kids instead of for myself, something I thought I had grasped before but needed to relearn. I began to feel closer to the other counselors, which was great... and then the kids arrived, and everything got even better! I loved my girls! My co-counselor and I had eleven 10-year-olds in our cabin, which is like having eleven adoring younger sisters. (Sorry Kendra.) I learned a lot from them, and was amazed by the depth of questions they would ask and their willingness to be vulnerable. One day a question showed up in our anonymous question jar about why God would create people who he knew wouldn't follow him. Hmm. Yeah. It's tricky to talk predestination and original sin with a 10-year-old.
There were so many beautifully sweet moments that I can't even hope to share them all. I'll end this post with a prayer request: that in Bosnia, I wouldn't forget camp. And that when I eventually go back to camp, I wouldn't forget Bosnia. And when I say camp and Bosnia, I simply mean places where God is working--in very different ways, but definitely and evidently working.
For more information, here are links to camp and the program in Bosnia. Woohoo!
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