A sigh of relief.

Three weeks, at least ten phone calls, and five trips to the embassy later (which, by the way, is 15 miles of walking)… and I have a passport again!

I’ve been keeping this saga secret, not wanting to worry my family unnecessarily (sorry, guys). But now that it’s all resolved and the passport is sitting securely in my bag, I can tell the whole story. It’s a good one.

So! My passport was nabbed my first night in Sarajevo. The next day we went to the American embassy to apply for a new one, and since I would be in the country for three weeks, decided to just skip the temporary phase and send to the States for a full-fledged permanent replacement. No problem. It was supposed to arrive in a week.

When we got back to Sarajevo after a week and a half in other cities, I went back to the embassy to pick it up, expecting it to be there. The first trip was on July 5th, which was unfortunate, because Americans working in foreign embassies get American holidays off as well as the holidays of that country… so no luck. I went back the next day at noon, during our lunch break between meetings, only to be told by a security guard that the entire embassy was on lunch break from noon to 2 pm and no one—no one at all—could talk to me. And that they closed again at 3:30. (So apparently, if you don’t want to work long hours, the embassy is the place to be!)

So, okay, no big deal, I called them a few times to set up a time… and then got some bad news. My passport, which had been mailed from the States on July 1st, hadn’t arrived yet. But passports which had been mailed later had already made it to Sarajevo, so they didn’t know where mine was. Oh well, I figured—I had until Monday, so I would just wait. I called every day, only to be told, “Sorry Kelly, it’s not here yet… try again tomorrow.” (Pretty soon, the lady at the consulate greeted me by name before I even said anything… we’re pretty much best friends now.) Ha.

So on Friday, becoming a bit worried, I talked to my embassy lady and reminded her I was leaving the country on Tuesday and would need some way to get home. They still didn’t know where my passport was—they said sometimes they’ve been mailed to Bogota instead of Bosnia. (Uh, wrong continent.) I was fine with the idea of an emergency passport, except for the fear that I needed to send my passport to Northwestern when I get home in order to get my Romanian visa for this upcoming fall semester… and I wouldn’t be able to get the visa on a temporary passport. She told me to wait until Monday. I did. I called at 9 am. No luck. I went to the embassy at 10:30 to file the paperwork for an emergency one, thankfully in possession of two extra (ugly) passport photos. She told me to come back at 4:00 to pick it up. I did. When I entered the complex, the security guard greeted me with, “Cao, Miss Larsen,” which made me laugh—even the security guard was sick of seeing me, I guess! They ushered me in—I made small talk with some guy from New Jersey who works for the OSCE, which was a pleasant diversion—and then I heard my embassy lady call my name. I turned around and went up to the window, where she grinned and waved the two passport photos at me. “We didn’t need them,” she said, and handed me my official passport. It had finally come.

Just in the nick of time. Amen and hallelujah.

:)

Kyrie eleison.

July 11, 2010:

An excerpt from my journal:

I don’t feel like writing. We’re back in Sarajevo, safe and clean and comfortable in our hostel, and now sleep is tempting. But I want to write about today. It’s important.

We awoke early to walk down the one main road in Potocari, the village just down the valley from Srebrenica. Potocari is where most of the killing took place. Beginning on about the 11th of July, 1995, the RS army (Bosnian Serbs led by Mladic, who remains free to this day!) encroached. They took a few UN hostages and threatened to kill them unless the Dutch UN soldiers stationed there gave up the supposedly-protected enclave. They did. They let the Serb soldiers separate the men from the women and children, and shipped the women and children off to Tuzla in buses. Some men took the road our hostess lived on and walked towards Tuzla—many were killed along the way, but a large number did survive and finally made it there. But for the majority of the men, who stayed closer to where they thought they’d be protected (the UN headquarters, now taken over by Serb soldiers), the next few days were hellish—executions of over 8000 people: the worst genocide on European soil since the Holocaust. Many of the bodies were moved to secondary graves to hide the evidence.

Today was the largest memorial service—the fifteenth anniversary—since the 1995 genocide. The town, which is normally sleep and abandoned, practically swelled to bursting: this morning, 70,000 people filled the street and the entire memorial site and cemetery. It was like the crowd at a really morbid rock concert. Foreign dignitaries from all over the world came rolling in with their sleek cars and security guards; buses full of people from all over Europe arrive; groups of hikers who had followed the route from Tuzla came. It was really beautiful to see the mass of humanity. But my reaction was mixed, honestly. I mean, where is the media attention, where is the rest of the world, on July 12th? On November 28th? (I know I also write as one of those foreigners who comes and leaves, but still!) A bunch of diplomats gave speeches commemorating the occasion, and promised “never again,” and that’s nice I guess, but I couldn’t help but think… where is your support on the days there are no TV crews in Srebrenica? And where were you fifteen years ago, with the promises of “never again” still ringing in our ears from the Holocaust, when the international community could have intervened earlier and didn’t?

Much of the day was hard. The never-ending line of green caskets, borne on backs up the hills to already-dug graves—like rafts floating in an endless line on a sea of heads and hands. Tears and wails. Hands upturned in prayer. The endless drone of victims’ names, lasting for more than an hour. Even worse, the terrible silence when they stopped. But the moment I broke down and wept was when I saw the fresh grave of the one Dutch soldier. There was a cross on it, and a mound of flowers. I suppose he’s seen as a hero of sorts, one of the few who did the right thing and fought back. But I couldn’t help but weep. There was only one.

Only one.

One cross in that whole cemetery.

Serbs are generally Orthodox. The Dutch UN troops were primarily Christian. So HOW, WHY could such atrocities have been committed? Why did so few sacrifice?! For me, that one cross proved the failure of Christians, over and over and over again, to actually live as Christ (and to die is gain). Why do we stand by?
I think I wept more for the ways we have failed to love God and His people than for anything else.

Lament. Songs of lament. They will speak to me now of hot sun in Bosnia, beating down on thousands upon thousands of mourners, upon the grieving mothers and lonely widows, upon the impossibly-beautiful mountains and the impossibly-long line of cars and buses belching exhaust and heat. Upon Srebrenica.

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy. Kyrie eleison.

Srebrenica.

July 10, 2010:

An excerpt from my journal:

We’re currently on the bus, driving to Srebrenica from Sarajevo through the most beautiful countryside.  In my mind, it’s a mix of Custer State Park and Yellowstone and the Sound of Music.  Thatched roofs sit on houses scattered through warm, soft, sunny meadows filled with yellow and purple flowers.  Hills rise steadily in the distance.  The sky stretches long above us, perfectly blue and jumbled with brilliantly white, cotton candy clouds.  The road enters a stretch of woods and winds through trees, vibrant green and towering overhead, rooted far below where I can see, as the ground plummets downward from the edge of the road, suddenly surprisingly steep.  A gap in the trees changes the flickers of sunlight that have been tickling my arm to a wash, warming my chest, arm, hand, fingers, as we move out of the forest and into the sunlight that envelops these mountains.  “It’s absolutely beautiful,” Heidi says, and I nod, trying to take a picture to bring back home and share, to capture the vast enormity of grandeur surrounding our bus.  But I cannot, of course—and there is something right about the fact that the little metal box in my hands cannot capture or contain the patchwork greens and yellows of fields along the mountainside, like a huge familiar quilt, or the reddish-brown tiles of rooftops that sit warming in the sun as we approach a town, nor the hulking mass of forested mountains far off in the distance.  My pen cannot capture it either, but at least in writing I feel able to worship.

(Hours later)

Srebrenica’s memorial to the massacre of fifteen years ago stretches so far that it becomes unreal.  At first, the endless rows of white tombstones reminded me of pictures I’ve seen of Arlington National Cemetery.  But then we got closer and saw the coffins—775 of them, green plastic-covered caskets, carried in on men’s shoulders and lined up neatly in long lines.  We were there for the last 300 coffins or so (oh dear God, 300 coffins), just watching.  People stretch out their hands to touch them as they pass, but the men in green shirts handle them deftly, smoothly and quickly setting them in order.  There was one young boy carrying coffins who looked about 16.  (What sort of world is this, where a 16-year-old carries hundreds of coffins?)  There’s only bones in them, so they must be light.

To be so close to so much grief is troubling.  (That word is so callously inadequate.)  This is not about me at all; I simply found myself swept away in the grief all around me.  This is the world’s sorrow.

Our talk of how we looked in headscarves (oh, Allie…) was quickly silenced when we approached the caskets.  There we saw people grieving: women weeping silently, stroking the green plastic cover gently, caressing with worn fingers the face, hair, hands they still see in their minds’ eye.  Families gathered to approach a specific casket, each of them apprehensive, faces crumpling one by one as they remembered and relived their last memories with their brother, son, father, husband.  Men crouching and weeping, some openly and some with faces hidden, all unabashedly grieving.  One woman saw the name on a casket and went into shock, convulsing.  Others began to wail, their cries hauntingly penetrating the air.  Death is terrible.  May Your kingdom come quickly, God!  Tomorrow the grief will be amplified a thousandfold, and still not everyone who died is represented.  It’s supposed to rain tomorrow.  Heaven should weep for Srebrenica.

The nutshell version.

Friday, July 9, 2010:

It’s been a busy few days in Sarajevo, hence the lack of substantive blogging. So here we go with the whirlwind version of what the group has been up to this week:

Monday:
• Tour of part of Sarajevo with Miki
• Mennonite Central Committee meeting
• War Crimes Tribunal and Courts of Bosnia and Herzegovina meeting

Tuesday:
• United Nations meetings
     o UNDP: United Nations Development Program
     o UNICEF: United Nations Children’s Fund
     o Director of the entire UN mission in Bosnia and Herzegovina
• National Gender Agency meeting
• Women to Women (NGO) meeting

Wednesday:
• United States Embassy meetings
     o Deputy Chief of Mission
     o Culture and Education branch of Public Diplomacy
     o Media and Information branch of Public Diplomacy
• Research and Documentation Center meeting
• Nasa Stranka (political party) meeting

Thursday:
• Bosnia and Herzegovina Ministry of Defense meeting
• Jewish community meeting
• Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE) meetings
     o Advocacy for Roma and other national minorities
     o Education reform

It’s been an astounding week—especially in terms of access. I don’t know how Miki, our program director, knows absolutely everyone who’s anyone in all of Bosnia (and around the world, for that matter), but somehow we have gotten to meet some of the most prominent movers and shakers of this country. I won’t fill this post with the details of what we’ve learned in meetings—I’m writing separately of some of the things that have challenged and interested me most. But I felt like I needed to at least write an overview of what’s been going on. My imagination has been ignited, dreaming of coming back as an intern…

Exposing the truth.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010:

We visited the Research and Documentation Center this afternoon, a nondescript building in downtown Sarajevo putting out some of the most intensive war documentation imaginable. We were tired and hungry as we approached the meeting, but I was distracted from my grumbling stomach once we began. Inside the RDC’s large, nondescript, Communist-era building is a clean and comfortable modern office, with books lining the shelves and luxurious chairs facing a wide-screen TV monitor. We listened to two Bosnian women explain their research and watched on the TV as they showed us pieces of their various projects, which are almost all available on the internet. I’ll throw in the link later.

The RDC was organized in 2004 with the mission of empowering Bosnian citizens with true information about the crimes and events of the war. The Center’s other goal, the women explained, was to create a database with that information that would be accessible from around the world, so that the Bosnian diaspora population would be able to access those facts, and so that other people in other countries would learn from the tragedy of what happened here. At the beginning , the project was attacked by many nationalist politicians, who claimed manipulation of the results. However, the research done by the Center is meticulous, and outside evaluators have overseen the project from the start. The results of the work of the RDC are astronomical in scope and sobering in content. But as our presenters explained, they want the information to spread globally, “so that everyone will know what happened and not let it happen again.”

Among their most troubling work was the Memory and Memorials project. During the war, memorials would often appear in places of extreme violence, etc.—but sometimes those memorials were not built for the victims, but for the perpetrators. The RDC was interested in how both innocent victims and nationalistic rhetoric were memorialized, so it began seeking out these places and recording them. Some of the resulting finds are scary: for example, monuments built for Serb soldiers at former detention camps where Bosniaks and Croats were held seem to twist the meaning and sentiment of memorial. But some are beautiful, home-created markers of love and memory that speak poignantly of loss.

The other project which I want to mention here is the Bosnian War Crimes Atlas. Really, it’s a compilation of all the RDC’s work, available online with Google Earth. After downloading the project from the RDC website, you open Google Earth and fly down to Bosnia, zooming in to a map covered with little icons. Each icon represents something from the war—the location of a mosque, the site of a mass grave, a sniper murder, etc. Each is clickable, and opens up to a description, accompanying photos and video, and/or links to related post-war court proceedings and decisions. Each mass grave marker includes a list of victims; each icon has a story. It’s fascinating and troubling. If you want to explore it yourself (and I highly recommend it), check out www.idc.org.ba.

For my siblings.

I took this picture of graffiti in Mostar with Karl and Kendra in mind... just kidding.

Singing in the rain.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010:

Nothing beats singing Christmas carols from the roof of a hostel in Sarajevo.

Plus... the Dutch are going to the finals of the World Cup! Wooooooo!!!!

OK, we met with important people from the United Nations today, and went to a sweet museum called the Bosniak Institute, and met with the head of the National Gender Agency and this great NGO called Women to Women. And, Vinny and Melanie and Allie and I had a great and hilarious lunch at this restaurant that had this huge menu but only, like, three things were actually available. But right now I’m still most excited about singing from the roof.

Time for bed.

Here's the view from the roof of our hostel:

When push comes to shove.

Monday, July 5, 2010:

 Tonight has challenged me unexpectedly, and I think I need a continuation of my last post: all are invited to come and feast in the Kingdom of God.

I’ve been really struggling with what to do with begging.  The Roma (Gypsy) population in Eastern Europe is totally discriminated against.  It’s horrible.  As a result, they do constitute the majority (if not all) of the people I’ve seen begging here.  It’s especially common for them to send their children out to follow you around and beg for money: dirty, bedraggled kids, who stand there with hands outstretched muttering, “Please… please, money,” and looking utterly pathetic.  I just want to hug them and talk to them, but I don’t know the language.  I don’t give them money.  It tears at me.

On the way to Sarajevo from Banja Luka we stopped at the Bosnian equivalent of a tourist trap—this little town with a ton of food vendors, etc., right by this lovely little stream.  Needless to say, our group of Americans quickly attracted a couple little kids, who approached me with hands outstretched and the now-familiar question.  One girl asked, “What’s your name?” and I responded and asked for hers.  Esmerelda, she said.  I saw her again and again in the 30 minutes we were there.  I never gave her anything.  Two little boys came up to us as we were getting ice cream and asked for money—Melanie and I let them choose a flavor and bought them ice cream cones instead.  But still.  I didn’t really give them anything.

Every time!  I cannot meet a person begging and not be torn apart inside—and yet I ignore them every time!  Of course, I rationalize and wrestle; I know all the reasons not to give monetary handouts.  I know it’s not an effective long-term solution.  I know it sometimes just allows child abuse.  I mean, I remember one day in Cambodia actually seeing the kids run from our bus back to their dads, who were just lounging in the shade watching and angrily greeted their kids’ empty hands.  I was furious at that moment.  But I also remember, in Cambodia, walking past three beggars as we left the killing fields, and then getting on our shiny tourist bus and driving away from two examples of humanity in need.  Only one of those examples was already dead.

But even though I know the reasons not to just hand people money, I can’t help but read my Bible and feel like when Jesus says things like what he says in Luke 6:27-38 (go look it up, right now, seriously), he means it. 

So what does that mean for the Roma woman who tried to rob me tonight?  (A group of us were walking back to the hostel when suddenly I felt something, so I turned around and saw two women right behind me; I saw one of them whip her hand out of my backpack, leaving the pocket dangling wide open.  I had only put pens in that pocket, but still, I was rattled.)  I just zipped my bag up, grabbed on to it, and walked on.  I should have stopped.  I should have said I loved her.

All are invited to feast in the Kingdom of God.  Including those of us, like me, who are too wrapped up in our own security to love people who desperately need it.

Luke 6:27-38

“But I tell you who hear me: Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you.  If someone strikes you on one cheek, turn to him the other also.  If someone takes your cloak, do not stop him from taking your tunic.  Give to everyone who asks of you, and if anyone takes what belongs to you, do not demand it back.  Do to others as you would have them do to you.

If you love those who love you, what credit is that to you?  Even ‘sinners’ love those who love them.  And if you do good to those who do good to you, what credit is that to you?  Even ‘sinners’ do that.  And if you lend to those from whom you expect repayment, what credit is that to you?  Even ‘sinners’ lend to ‘sinners,’ expecting to be repaid in full.  But love your enemies, do good to them, and lend to them without expecting to get anything back.  Then your reward will be great, and you will be sons and daughters of the Most High, because he is kind to the ungrateful and wicked.  Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful.

Do not judge, and you will not be judged.  Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned.  Forgive, and you will be forgiven.  Give, and it will be given to you.  A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap.  For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.”

The church feels like home.

Monday, July 5, 2010:

I just got back from a long walk in the rain to and from the American embassy to pick up my passport, only to arrive there and discover that they weren’t open today because yesterday was Independence Day. Dang patriotism.

Anyway… moving on…

What a day. Eric and Melanie and I went running this morning at 6:30 (ugh), up and down the river that cuts through Sarajevo. Eventually Eric and I reached a nice shady sidewalk, and we actually saw other people exercising! Thirteen of them, to be exact. We felt far less obnoxious with fellow crazy runners on the road. The day was then full of meetings: we spent our morning with a guy who works for the Mennonite Central Committee in Bosnia (which I am really interested in, by the way) and then visited the War Crimes Court and Prosecutor’s Office of BiH, which was really interesting and intense. But what I really want to write about is this morning.

Here's the church I'm so excited about... read on...

Our day started with a partial tour of the Old City with Miki, our program director. Sarajevo is an incredible place—full of history, full of culture, full of religious and ethnic diversity. The assassination that kick-started World War I took place on a bridge just down the road from our hostel, and the neighborhood we’re staying in was on the front lines of the Serb onslaught during the Bosnian war. We walked to Miki’s family’s apartment and his mom waved down to us from the balcony. The building is large and yellow, pockmarked by bullet holes and scarred by mortar fire, but window boxes full of cheery red and purple flowers do speak of resurrection. As we walked down the narrow street, Miki told us stories of the siege: here was the alley where everyone from all of Sarajevo came to fill buckets with water; here was the place where thousands of people lined up for usually-inadequate packets of food aid from the UN; here was the primary school he went to where his sister’s boyfriend was killed; on and on and on. For me, the war only comes alive with stories, with faces, with my fingers touching the bullet holes in concrete buildings.

After the war, someone filled in some of the shell- and mortar-caused holes in sidewalks with red cement. They’re known as Sarajevo roses. Today as I walked back in the rain, a Sarajevo rose was glistening on the pavement in front of me, wet like blood. A moment of reality.

We stopped at a Franciscan cathedral this morning, too. Miki said the Franciscans were well-respected in the city and gave much more effective aid than the UN soldiers, who were bound by shoddy mandates or crippled by corruption. I love it when the church embodies Christ. I was so proud of the Church this morning! Funny, because for much of the trip I have been wrestling with the wounds that Christians cause—after all, during the war most Bosnian Serbs claimed Orthodox faith. But if I can go on a little CMS tangent (oh, I love my minor!)… the cathedral we visited was awesome. In every sense of the word. On the one hand, personally it was wonderful—it felt holy, and I appreciated the few moments of peace and worship and familiarity and comfort, feeling at home in this building that houses my family of faith. The Franciscan church in Sarajevo had it so right! They preached the gospel in their love and aid for their neighbors (most of whom, by the way, were and are Muslim—but that’s a whole different topic for another post at another time). And their building reflects gospel! Its simple elegance and grandeur feel holy, and its artwork is bold and clear and tells a story. When you walk in, there are three long stained-glass windows in the front of the sanctuary. The one on the left depicts the Nativity scene—God made flesh, become incarnate. The middle shows Jesus crucified, nailed to the cross with “INRI” above his head—the story of salvation, of love and sacrifice. And the right panel has the resurrection, with Jesus standing triumphant over death and sin. Gospel. Simple. Beautiful. Below those three windows is a large mural, which depicts Jesus standing at a table offering bread, surrounded by people. They aren’t just his disciples; he’s not exclusive. People are walking up to the table, apparently welcomed to this feast which is the kingdom of God, and the posture of Jesus is welcoming even to those standing at the doorway of the church. It’s beautiful. It’s a picture of the kingdom of God, the living out of the three glass panes above it. Welcome to the Kingdom. All are invited to come and feast.

Mostar.

Sunday, July 4, 2010: 

A visit down south!

A group of us traveled to Mostar today on our first free day of the trip.  It was lovely—Mostar is a beautiful town with an extensive and gorgeous cobblestoned old quarter, complete with the world-famous stone bridge that’s been named a World Heritage site by UNESCO.  As nice as the views were, and the history and the sight-seeing and the browsing (sorry, friends, I don’t really buy many souvenirs…) the best part of the day was the bus ride down in the morning.  I sat alone in the back of a nice, cool, air-conditioned bus (which is a novelty in itself) and listened to music on my iPod and thought and prayed and worshipped and was really at peace.  The highway from Sarajevo to Mostar is really stunning.  It was like God had timed the ride to the tempo of my music, so that every curve in the road revealed a new view of his majesty.  I am really craving Christian fellowship, but yesterday I got to be with God, so that is enough to sustain me.

The view from the other side.

Whoops.  I haven't written for a while... sorry to all those ardent followers out there.  (Ha.)

We're in Banja Luka!  I know I've said this about every city we've been in, but it's beautiful.  From my third-story room in a hotel, I can see typical medium-sized cityscape: the rounded dome of an Orthodox church and tree-lined streets with mountains in the background... yeah.  Bosnia is absolutely lovely.

Banja Luka is the capital of the Republika Srpska.  So, for those of you not paying attention to my earlier Bosnian politics and history lessons, when the war ended in 1995 and the Dayton Peace Accords were signed, the country was split into two halves: the Republika Srpska (RS) and the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina (FBiH).  Most of Bosnia's Muslims and Croats live in the Federation; most Bosnian Serbs live in the Republika.  (OK, on a side note, I was talking to one of the girls on the trip last night about those particular names for the three people-groups in Bosnia, and we decided they're unsuitable.  All the people from Bosnia are Bosnians.  Serbs and Croats, though, call themselves a different nationality; Bosniaks (Bosnian Muslims) are associated to their religion.  Isn't that weird?  Serbs generally are Orthodox and Croats are generally Catholic, but that religious tie isn't used in their "national" identification like the Muslims' is... it's strange.  But anyway.) 

Until two days ago, we had spent all of our time in the Federation.  Crossing over to the RS made some of our group members nervous--apparently in past years they have been refused service for being Americans, etc., and the Muslim members of our group feel very uncomfortable here.  But I still think it's important that we came, and I have actually really enjoyed Banja Luka.  The Serb narrative about the war is really different from the Bosniak narrative, which is troubling because (in my opinion, and the opinion of many international observers) the Serb side did assume the role of perpetrator far more often than the Bosniaks or the Croats did.  But that doesn't mean that some Serbs weren't victims--really, in war, everyone is a victim.  It's just interesting to come to a place where the overwhelming narrative of what happened is strikingly different from the story as we have come to understand it.  I do think that counterpart is important, though.  Without it, we would have a very one-sided view of the war... and there happened to be three sides.

We have spent our time in Banja Luka primarily in meetings.  The highlight for me was yesterday morning, when we met with the Genesis Project.  They're an NGO funded by UNICEF and the Canadian government (woot woot!).  They do amazing work with kids in primary schools all throughout the RS, using puppet theater and little TV spots and in-school workshops to educate kids on ethnic reconciliation, conflict resolution, and land mine avoidance.  (Yes, it's sad that they have to teach kids about land mines.  But it's reality here, and the approach they use is so whimsical and entertaining and well-done that you can't help but admire their work!)  It was such a joy to talk to them.  It actually made me really excited to go back to camp!  Youth are so impressionable, and the way we are formed as children affects the way we will view the world for the rest of our lives.  That potential, then, is awesome, and I am so thankful for the work of the Genesis Project in teaching children lessons of peace and reconciliation.  Bosnia will probably require generations to "recover" its multiethnic identity, but organizations like this are an important step in that process.