For nearly 2 weeks this June, I had the priviledge to explore Bosnia and Herzegovina with eight fellow Disciples of Christ seminarians. We were guided by my dear friend and long-time mentor Amy Gopp, Director of Disciples' Week of Compassion - and by her Bosnian colleague Dzevad, who works for Church World Service. It was a powerful trip, full of stories, sounds, sights, smells, tastes, songs and people that are now ingrained in my heart. I'm going to try to describe some of our experiences, bit by bit. Here's the first installment...
Day 1 (June 12) – Sarajevo
Last night on the way from the airport to our hotel, as we drove over the hill and caught our first view of the city spread out in the valley below us, the taxi driver proudly proclaimed, “This is my Sarajevo.” Our drive had taken us past the section of Sarajevo marked as the Serbian part of the city, and the driver seemed to be saying that his Sarajevo was not one which made distinctions between Serb, Muslim and Croat, but rather the heart of the city where all people come together. This is the place where Catholic cathedrals, Orthodox Christian churches, Muslim mosques, and Jewish synagogues co-exist side-by-side. It’s a place that I am quickly falling in love with.
Today we walked the city with our new Bosnian friend Dzevad, a local employee of Church World Service. We visited museums describing the local history, we drank strong cups of sweet coffee, we admired the colorful scarves and shining copper items in the shops of the winding Turkish quarter. We ate ice cream in the shadow of a minaret and waited to hear the Islamic call to prayer. We soaked up the atmosphere as we admired the beautiful mountains surrounding the city on all sides. These are the very mountains that held the city prisoner for nearly four years, as snipers fired on the city below and launched shells which killed around 11,000 residents, including 1,500 children. In spite of the bullet holes still marking the sides of so many buildings, it was hard for me to imagine looking to those spectacular mountains and feeling fear. What made it real was hearing Dzevad’s personal stories about life during the siege, as we wandered through the city. He pointed out the spot where a mortar shell had fallen on people waiting in line for bread, killing dozens in an instant. Places like those are called Sarajevo rose
s, because the scars in the pavement have been filled in with red wax as a memorial to the victims. As we stood beside a memorial fountain dedicated to the children who died during the war, a young girl rode around on her bicycle. In the tourist shops, they sell empty shell casings that have been engraved with hearts and flowers. Out of pain and death, the city is rising again. The ruins are being rebuilt. I hope that those residents of this resilient city can still look up at the mountains and see something beautiful and enduring, even after all they have been through.
Day 1 (June 12) – Sarajevo
Last night on the way from the airport to our hotel, as we drove over the hill and caught our first view of the city spread out in the valley below us, the taxi driver proudly proclaimed, “This is my Sarajevo.” Our drive had taken us past the section of Sarajevo marked as the Serbian part of the city, and the driver seemed to be saying that his Sarajevo was not one which made distinctions between Serb, Muslim and Croat, but rather the heart of the city where all people come together. This is the place where Catholic cathedrals, Orthodox Christian churches, Muslim mosques, and Jewish synagogues co-exist side-by-side. It’s a place that I am quickly falling in love with.
Today we walked the city with our new Bosnian friend Dzevad, a local employee of Church World Service. We visited museums describing the local history, we drank strong cups of sweet coffee, we admired the colorful scarves and shining copper items in the shops of the winding Turkish quarter. We ate ice cream in the shadow of a minaret and waited to hear the Islamic call to prayer. We soaked up the atmosphere as we admired the beautiful mountains surrounding the city on all sides. These are the very mountains that held the city prisoner for nearly four years, as snipers fired on the city below and launched shells which killed around 11,000 residents, including 1,500 children. In spite of the bullet holes still marking the sides of so many buildings, it was hard for me to imagine looking to those spectacular mountains and feeling fear. What made it real was hearing Dzevad’s personal stories about life during the siege, as we wandered through the city. He pointed out the spot where a mortar shell had fallen on people waiting in line for bread, killing dozens in an instant. Places like those are called Sarajevo rose
s, because the scars in the pavement have been filled in with red wax as a memorial to the victims. As we stood beside a memorial fountain dedicated to the children who died during the war, a young girl rode around on her bicycle. In the tourist shops, they sell empty shell casings that have been engraved with hearts and flowers. Out of pain and death, the city is rising again. The ruins are being rebuilt. I hope that those residents of this resilient city can still look up at the mountains and see something beautiful and enduring, even after all they have been through.
