Tag Archives: Bosnia

Bosnia Reflections – Part 3 … Lovers, a cat and the Mozart Café

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I found these two journal entries I made in September 2002 and February 2003.  I have been writing about Bosnia this week.  This one has a Valentine’s day theme … sort of.  These are notes I made 11 years ago while I was visiting there.

Bosnia and Herzegovina    September 10, 2002.

I am in Tuzla this week.

If Sarajevo is the Montreal of Bosnia, then Tuzla is its Hamilton. Not much to do here in the evenings except wander the streets with many of the rest of the people who live here.  During the day I work teaching principles of Family Medicine to local doctors.  At night I am on my own.

Last night was a bit rainy and I thought I would wander downtown for some dinner.   While I was looking for some keys in my knapsack, I came across the Stuart McLean Vinyl Café book that friends had given to me for Christmas a couple of years ago. I had brought it along with me, knowing that it would be good for short reads on the plane or while waiting for my meal in a restaurant.  I tucked it under my arm and headed out.

I ate in a restaurant called Cite del Sale, a Bosnian version of an Italian restaurant and I was actually able to order Vegetarian Lasagne – not bad in a country that sometimes seems to worship meat.  The beer, a local Tuzla variety, smelled a bit sulphury but it tasted OK.  I started into a story about Dave and Morley and Harrison Ford’s toes and smiled to myself, all the while hearing Stuart McLean’s distinctive voice tell me the tale.

AUT_8445After the meal I decided to head down to a café called Mozart that is a short stroll along the main walking street in the city. I often go there for a cappuccino in the morning – a replacement for my Canadian Starbucks habit.  The café has a small outdoor section that  was not busy since it was misting rain, another large main room and then a wicker- furnished salon at the back that  is kind of separate from the rest.  I usually sit back there in the morning and read a bit while having my coffee and at 8 am, I am often the only one there.  In the evening, I discovered,  the music is louder – sort of Euro Disco.  I wondered as I ordered my tea if I would be able to concentrate on my book.

There were three couples spread around the room.  I pulled out the Vinyl Café  and started to read.  Soon I was distracted, not by the beat of the music but by the sound of kissing which seemed to be going on all around me.  I quickly realized that I had stumbled into a make-out area of the café.  So, here I was,  a middle aged foreigner, sitting at a little table in the middle of the room, reading Stuart McLean and trying not to look up  at the couples surrounding  me who were fiercely groping at one another.  This felt worse than the week before when I had accidentally found myself in the middle of a Nudist Colony on the Adriatic coast!  But that is another story.

The stereo sound of smacking and sucking seemed to rise above the music. I was having trouble concentrating.  I casually looked up. One couple, kind of fat were making most of the noise.  The guy had a sort of Henry VIII look to him. I imagined that he makes similar noises as he tears into his chicken legs for dinner.  Another couple had ordered both coffee and coke to drink. They must have wanted to stay awake. They smooched away between drags on their cigarettes.  The third couple were in the corner and at first I thought they were having a bit of a tiff.  I decided that if I had to look up, I would gaze in their direction. Soon, unfortunately for me, true love rose to the surface and they started kissing away, the woman also chewing gum between slurps.

I thought maybe I would leave but I had ordered a veliko caj (large  tea), which came in a cup the size of a sink.  So I was stuck, feeling a  lot like a High School Hall Monitor.

Just as I was starting to feel sorry for myself, a small kitten appeared at my feet.  It was a nice little grey striped thing that was sharpening its claws on the carpet.  It started to pounce around and jump like it was being poked by an imaginary stick.  I put my hand down to play with it but as it got closer,  I noticed that its right eye was oozing and crusted and swollen shut.  I withdrew my hand, thinking that I didn’t want to catch anything. But this didn’t deter the cat.  Soon it was pouncing on my feet and grabbing at the laces of my sneakers and climbing my pant legs.  I tried to look inconspicuous, periodically shaking my  leg to detach the tiny sharp little claws from my pants.  The kissers broke apart and looked over at me as I tried unsuccessfully  to discourage the cat. I ended up downing the rest of my tea as quickly as possible and headed back to the hotel.

February 20, 2003

I am back in Tuzla.

I find the breakfast at the hotel simply annoying. It usually consists of  dry buns, scrambled eggs that have turned greenish black from sitting in the warming pan too long and “orange juice” that is a cross between Tang and Fanta , a watery orange coloured sugar water that is sometimes even effervescent.  My preference is to start the day on a more positive note, by walking to a local Pekara or bakeshop to pick up a fresh bread roll filled with cherry jam. I then  head a bit further down the street to the Mozart café for some coffee.  They don’t serve food there so they don’t mind if you bring your bun in a bag and eat it while you have your drink.  And I usually go to the Wicker room at the back of the café that I have come to view as the nocturnal lair of lust.  In the morning, however, it remains bright and cheery and almost empty.  This morning was no exception.

I ordered my coffee, pulled out a journal to read, and got the cherry bun out of the paper bag.  I put the bag on the chair beside me rather than have it obviously displayed on the table.  I was trying to be discrete about bringing food into the café although I know that this is a common practice and the waiter really doesn’t mind.

Cat 1I hadn’t counted on the rustling sound of me getting my food out of the bag to attract…the cat.  Suddenly this little grey striped beast ran from the other side of the room and jumped up on my chair to quickly begin exploring the empty bag.  Within seconds he was halfway buried into the bag.  He pulled his head out of the bag and stared up at me. We hadn’t seen each other for five months.  He had grown but was still scrawny and where his right eye should be was now a hollow socket.

Cat 2We sat together, the cat and I, reacquainting.  Periodically he would  chase the shadow of a bird on the roof, bounding over the furniture as he ran around the room.  I crumpled up the bag and he batted it around on the floor. We played and visited while I drank my coffee.  When I got up to leave, he lay back on the chair pad and cocked his head to look up at me with his good eye.  I imagined him thinking, “Nice to see you again”

cat 3This little cat has it’s niche in a café here in Tuzla.   I   travel all over but I can  still come back to find this friendly kitten here several months later.   “Strangely comforting”, I thought, “how small this world really is.”

Bosnia reflections – Part 1 … Rebuilding after a war

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A government office building in 1999 and after reconstruction in 2009.

A government office building in 1999 and after reconstruction in 2009.

Actually this is probably more like part 1000 for Bosnia itself. But it is part one of three blogs I am going to post this week reflecting on my experience in Bosnia in the past several years. The opening of the Winter Olympics in Russia may have spurred some of this thought since the Olympics in 1984 were in Sarajevo.  So much has happened there since then.

I first went to Bosnia in March 1998. I remember flying into the airport in Sarajevo and looking down at rooftops of houses blown off by war. Others were new and bright orange tile. You could see where things had been somewhat repaired.  But the view told the story of a country torn apart by war.

The photos of Syria which have circulated on the internet this past week have reminded me of what I saw in Bosnia. And I was there about 18 months after the war had officially ended.  There were still some tanks on the streets and roads and bridges were broken down. Some cities looked like…a war zone.

I took some photos in 1998 and sent them back to the Kingston Whig Standard with an article, one of my first for the newspaper. They suggested that I get some people in the photo for “interest”. The photos were of bombed out houses and deserted desecrated neighbourhoods where no people now lived.  They missed the point.

Zetra - the Olympic arena in 1984

Zetra – the Olympic arena in 1984

The stadium in the centre of Sarajevo that hosted the 1984 Winter Olympics was in ruins. The fields surrounding it turned into graveyards.

So many of my photos of those early trips to Bosnia were of war damage. And it was everywhere.

Digital photography was quite new then and my camera

1984 Olympic fields transformed into graveyards after the Bosnian war.

1984 Olympic fields transformed into graveyards after the Bosnian war.

was a state-of-the-art point and shoot 1 megapixel camera. You likely have 5 times that on your phone now.  So the photos are grainy.  But I think they make the point.

Over the 11 years I worked and lived in Bosnia I saw a lot of change.  It took a while but new buildings sprang up – mosques tended to be the first to appear.  The people in Sarajevo, who all wore black and looked very sad on my first few visits, gradually became more animated and even smiled.  Some of the buildings that stood as monuments to war were refurbished into shiny new buildings, the windows replaced and the pock-marks on the walls from grenades gradually filled in.

The appearance was that Bosnia was slowly recovering.  Unfortunately, underlying ethnic tensions were not too far below the surface and often led to problems of governance.  It is hard to forget war.

My last trip to Bosnia was in 2009.  New buildings were springing up along the main thoroughfare in Sarajevo.  Glass and escalators, clothes from Italy and flat-screen TV’s.  On the surface it looked like things were recovering.

Looks can be deceiving. It takes more than new buildings to recover from war.

In March '98 I stayed in an apartment near the centre of Sarajevo. There were bullet holes in the wood floor and on the walls. The view out the street was of a hill, most buildings damaged. By 2008, these had been restored.

In March ’98 I stayed in an apartment near the centre of Sarajevo. There were bullet holes in the wood floor and on the walls. The view out the street was of a hill, most buildings damaged. By 2008, these had been restored.

Later we stayed in a house on the west side of town. At the bottom of the hill was the "front line" during the war. I was always intrigued by this house which was eventually torn down and replaced.

Later we stayed in a house on the east side of town. At the bottom of the hill was the “front line” during the war. I was always intrigued by this house which was eventually torn down and replaced.

This neighbourhood was particularly hard hit. It was uninhabitable in 1998 but by 2006, the buildings had been restored and it appeared like a "normal" neighbourhood street.

This neighbourhood was particularly hard hit. It was uninhabitable in 1998 but by 2006, the buildings had been restored and it appeared like a “normal” neighbourhood street.

The Newspaper office on the main street was demolished (although it continued to operate out of the basement throughout the war. Eventually the frame was used to construct an office tower..with a revolving restaurant on the top.

The Newspaper office on the main street was demolished (although it continued to operate out of the basement throughout the war). Eventually the frame was used to construct an office tower..with a revolving restaurant on the top.

Bosnia reflections, Part 2 … People

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Earlier this week I posted photos of how the buildings and streetscapes changed during the time I worked in Bosnia from 1998 to 2009. Over those years I also got to know and become friends with many people, Serbs, Croats and Bosniaks alike – Muslims and Catholics and Orthodox and agnostics.

I watched them recover slowly from the trauma of war.

I heard horrendous stories and visited places that made me weep.

I shared lots of smiles, laughs and good food Bosnian beer with the people I worked with, Bosnians and Canadians and other internationals.

But I also got to know some of the people in the neighborhood. There was a bakery at the base of the hill where we lived and every Saturday morning I looked forward to walking down the hill and buying a freshly baked apple (jabuka) turnover to eat with my coffee and the Globe and Mail crossword I could download onto my laptop. The young man who was behind the counter was always there. Always. He spoke little English and I knew only enough Bosnian to say good morning and ask for my bread. Over the years I watched him grow up, covered in flour and serving up bread at the bakery. We exchanged greetings in the store. He, no doubt, was watching me age as well.

hljeb then and now

There were also two little waifs who lived in a house just below ours. My understanding was that their family were refugees, squatting in a house that had been abandoned by people who fled during the war.

Semir and Kiko with toques that I brought for them from Canada.

Semir and Kiko with toques that I brought for them from Canada.

I am proud to say that kids generally like me. And these two little fellows were no exception. They would come together early in the morning and ring the buzzer at my door. I would take them to the market and sometimes buy them something small. Once I took them to a restaurant and bought them each a slice of pizza and a coke. I remember them sitting there like they were princes and thinking that they may never have eaten in a restaurant like this.

Once I was cooking on our barbecue and realized that I and no flipper for the burgers. The kids were hanging around and they saw that I had no utensil to turn the burgers.  They disappeared and within about five minutes returned with a nice new barbecue spatula. I suspect that they swiped it from somewhere. They reminded me of the Artful Dodger.

One of the neighbourhood photos that the kids took with my camera.

One of the neighbourhood photos that the kids took with my camera.

One winter I loaned them my digital camera to take a few photos. I would see the neighborhood through their eyes. When I got the camera back I found they had taken it inside their house. There was their mother sitting under a blanket in bed beside an oven door open for heat, and smoking a cigarette with an ashtray of butts on the floor beside the bed. Out of respect for her privacy I have never printed that photo but I look at it and smile.

One year when I returned the family had moved away. Occasionally I would see the mother at a bus stop or the kids in the schoolyard. A few years later I chanced upon one of them, a teenager now, working in a local garden.

I wonder what became of those kids. I hope they are doing OK but they may be part of the large proportion of young Bosnians who are unemployed, disgruntled and fed up with their lot.  There is growing unrest among the unemployed and disadvantaged in Bosnia and last week it boiled over into anti-government protests in several Bosnian cities.

Semir grown up. Where is he now. He would be about 21 now.

Semir grows up. Where is he now? He would be about 21 now.

What famous figure, alive or dead …

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I am sure that you have all played this game. “What famous figure, alive or dead, would you like to meet?”

I keep this at “famous” figure as there are many deceased relatives that I would like to visit with again. I would really love to meet my grandparents, now, as an adult. How different it would be to relate to these people and see them for who they really are rather than through a child’s eyes.

And when I look online at the choices people make they range from Jesus Christ to Lady GaGa.

Today my choice is Angelina Jolie.

Apart from being incredibly beautiful, this woman intrigues me. I know very little about the Brangelina stuff that I see on the tabloids as I check out of the grocery store. I have not seen the Lara Croft movies (or any of her movies, in fact) nor do I have any desire to do so. I have, however, seen television interviews in which she has surprised me with her insight, intelligence, eloquence and general “down to earth” demeanour.

I have been impressed that Angelina Jolie has used her celebrity to promote awareness of problems in the developing world and has even adopted children from these areas. She is a United Nations Special Envoy for Refugees and has worked for the UNHCR for some time. In some ways her adoptions have followed the principles espoused by Peter Singer in “The Life You Can Save”. Enjoy the fruits of your work and privilege but also share some of that with others less fortunate. She has three kids of her own and has balanced that with three more that were adopted from the developing world. She has struck a chord with me as I think she has made a genuine effort to use her celebrity to help others.

I am anxious to see In The Land of Milk and Honey, a film that will be released in North America next month – one that Jolie wrote and directed. The plot revolves around a love story of a Serb and a Muslim in Bosnia during the war in that country. I worked in Bosnia for several years and heard horrible stories of violence, rape and ethnic hatred that tore families apart. The film is fictional but the setting real. So real, in fact, that Jolie ran into problems getting permission to shoot the film in Bosnia as originally planned and had to move filming location to Hungary. The film was shot in both Bosnian (with subtitles) and English. I want to see the Bosnian version. I admire Jolie’s gutsy decision to tackle this subject and put her reputation on the line at the same time as writer/director rather than actor with a film that will not be a blockbuster but will explore a delicate topic.

But today’s news was the topper. Angelina Jolie has revealed in the New York Times that she has had a bilateral mastectomy in order to reduce the risk of her acquiring breast cancer after finding that she carries the BRCA1 gene for the disease. Her mother died of breast cancer in 2007 and she is at significantly increased risk herself, being found to carry the genetic mutation that will elevate her lifetime risk of breast cancer significantly. She has made this decision so she can reduce her risk and be available for her children. This must have been a huge decision for a movie celebrity to make. By being open with this Angelina Jolie has also done a great service to other women who face the same risks. Once again today’s revelation by this celebrity also strikes home to me as my wife died of breast cancer at age 48 and one of my daughters, already touched by breast cancer at a young age, has elected bilateral mastectomy with reconstruction to minimize her risk of recurrence. I was proud my daughter for making this difficult life choice and I can relate to the angst that Angelina Jolie must have suffered as she made the same decision (at almost the same age).

We often look at celebrity through a very tainted lens. We see them through Hollywood gossip columnists and papparazzi. But under the movie star veneer live real people who live with personal challenges just like the rest of us.

Today my celebrity hero is Angelina Jolie. I am free for lunch tomorrow if she is.

A story rivalling Romeo and Juliet in Sarajevo …

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“For never was a story of more woe, than this…”Prince Escalus,  Romeo and Juliet.

Last month I posted a blog that contained references to my first spring in Sarajevo and the “Grandmother’s Breath” that swept the city that spring.

This spring I am in a production of Romeo and Juliet in Kingston that will happen in a couple of weeks.

This is the bridge in Sarajevo where a tragic real-life love story happened in 1993. I took this photo in 2005. At that time only a small bow and dried flower bouquet marked the incident.

This is the bridge in Sarajevo where a tragic real-life love story happened in 1993. I took this photo in 2005. At that time only a small bow and dried flower bouquet marked the incident.

Today I came across a wordpress blog article by a Bosnian blogger. His article combines the two themes in a story that is as poignant as Shakespeare’s play only a real-life event – a Muslim woman and a Serb man gunned down as they met to escape Sarajevo over the Vrbanja bridge at the start of the ethnically-driven war.

I share it with my readers. It triggers memories of similar sad stories I heard when I worked in Bosnia. I crossed the bridge where this tragedy occurred many times and sometimes stopped to note the small plaque that had been erected there.

You can read the whole story here:         Romeo and Juliet in Sarajevo.

Grandmother’s Breath

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It is 15 years, almost to the day, that I first went to Sarajevo to start work with the Queens Family Medicine Development Programme in Bosnia and Herzegovina.   I find it hard to imagine where those 15 years have gone.

I remember arriving in Sarajevo, flying into the airport over houses whose roofs had been destroyed by the recent war.  The city had been devastated and in the dreary spring weather looked particularly tired.

On March 24 we had a light snow and a cooler dip in temperatures to about 2 degrees.  The locals called it “Grandmother’s Breath”.  I always wondered why that might be the nickname for this last burst of winter.  I always had associated grandmothers with warmth and comfort. Maybe it was grandmother winter saying “I’m not done yet.  There is still breath in me.”  Just when it looks like spring is on the way, there is a brief and surprising turn to the life of old winter.

photoThis past two days we have experienced Grandmother’s Breath in Kingston. We wake up in the morning to a fresh whallop of snow.  As the day goes on the sun quickly warms our spirit however and melts much of the snow on the sidewalks and streets.  Winter saying, “Don’t give up on me yet, I am not through.”

This reflection made me look through an old journal entry I had written on March 25, 1998.  It was the start of  an adventure in Bosnia that lasted for 11 years and my foray into International Development that has taken me in a direction I would never have imagined.

It is also obvious that digital photography has come a long way in the past 15 years!

 Sarajevo. March 25, 1998.

The apartment where we are staying is very interesting. It is an old, high-ceilinged place on the top of a hill. It has a great view from the balcony overlooking the main part of the city and the mountains beyond.  There are several places in the wooden floors that are splintered from bullets that would have come through the windows during the war and the outside of the building is pock-marked with the shelling from grenades.  Buildings nearby remain totally gutted.

The view from our Sarajevo apartment in March 1998 after "Grandmother's Breath" had dumped a bit of snow on the city.

The view from our Sarajevo apartment in March 1998 after “Grandmother’s Breath” had dumped a bit of snow on the city.

There has been a light dusting of snow. The locals call it Grandmother’s breath, the last winter’s snow. It is about 2 degrees. Today the sun is shining. There are a lot of funny things about living here. The water is often shut off during the middle of the day or at night which makes flushing the toilet a bit of a problem. You have to plan your washroom activities around the water or let it sit there until the water comes back on.

Many of the buildings in Sarajevo had been destroyed by the recent war.

Many of the buildings in Sarajevo had been destroyed by the recent war.

The food is great. The Bosnians tend to be meat and potato people. Lots of Lamb and Veal but they have some other great vegetable dishes as well. Today for lunch we went to a little restaurant to have Cevapcici, a sort of pita  thing made a local bread called Somun filled with grilled sausages, vegetables and onions. This is a popular meal like a hamburger in North America. Last night we went to another little restaurant that was like a deli with lots of good selection of local foods. The local beer (pivo) is called Lachka (or something similar) and I have had a few cans.