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.

Good morning to you, too.

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.

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.

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

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.

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!

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.) :)