Eight of March, also known as Women’s Day, is celebrated throughout Europe. It is a holiday with no prerequisites, except that of it being a holiday for women only. Although its roots are political, by the time I was in elementary school it transformed into the day on which we made love cards for our moms, and sisters. For many girls, myself included, Eight of March is irrevocably associated with receiving a first bouquet of flowers, and coming of age in recognition of our own femininity.

After moving to the US, I’ve been celebrating Eight of March as a gratitude day. Today, let’s be grateful for the opportunities we have,  for careers of our choosing, for rights to our bodies, and ability to freely walk down the street. I heard somewhere to measure the true opportunities of women living in any country means to look at lives of women in the minority groups. The rule applies as much as for women in our countries, as it does to those living in less fortunate corners of the world. So let’s be grateful, and let’s help where we can.

And now,  I leave you with a piece by Semezdin Mehmedinović, (excerpted from Sarajevo Blues) about Sarajevo’s siege, and a fleeting, but irreplaceable meaning of a scarf.

INNOCENT CIVILIANS

In front of the Theater-I almost bumped into her-a young woman pops out, spreading a  cloud of perfume around her. Her tight skirt cuts her steps short. But this fantastic spectacle-like a spread in a fashion magazine-is only completed by a freshly bathed dalmatian trotting over the crushed cement and broken windows. He runs and weaves happily in her path over the shards of glass: she’s beautiful, and the dog is beautiful. Don’t they care about the war? They do, because shells are falling here: here, right where they are. Of course she’s an innocent civilian, but not all civilians are innocent. There are those who, like retired couples, go out hand in hand for an evening walk in the middle of a war they inspired, the course of its future in their hands. Of course, this business about civilians can get very complicated. You might run int a soldier pointing at the tip of his sneaker and the coagulated blood there that once belonged to a professor who thought that five thousand Muslim kids ought to be killed. Which means if civilians are innocent, soldiers are sinful and guilty. But soldiers, in a normal distribution of power, are just young people whose interests should be protected by some kind of youth movement. Of course nationalistic-macho power cubed (power x power x power) holds generational interest beneath contempt since it conceives of thing in millennial and mythological dimensions. As for feminism, that is, for women who-at least in light of this formula-are simply there to be demeaned, there’s little use in war. In other words: just by looking at nationalistic attitudes regarding generational and gender interests you could see that war was inevitable. But you couldn’t have foreseen that in such a short span of time, a young woman in front of the Theater could arouse the almost forgotten memory of a world in which something whole, beautiful and fragrant exists. Something like a silk scarf.

Sarajevo Is…

The taxi driver who drove me from the airport and, when I observed that the leaves were already beginning to fall, replied: “Why, yes, first watermelons, then lessons,” which, on close analysis, I understood as representing a magic formula to describe the gradual approach of autumn.

The moment when, from Jekovac, after the Ramazan cannon fires to indicate sunset, you see the lights on all the minarets of Sarajevo simultaneously ignite.

The clatter of the first morning tram, echoing through the empty streets of the city.

The coldness of the buildings from the Austro-Hungarian era and the staircases inside them, with their treads worn by the soles that have climbed them for more than a century.

Somun—soft, white bread—(scattered with seeds) from the baker’s in Kovači.

Children’s balls, rolling in the shallow eddies of the Miljacka river.

The beauty of Sarajevo women, who always bear in them the imprint of their own past and their own future; the history of past and future changes: their faces reveal both skinny little girls and mature women, both minxes and careworn matrons.

The sfumato of a cold Sarajevo morning, before the sun steals up behind the mountains, and mist drifts up the slopes.

Škembići—tripe—at Hadžibajrić’s.

The fruit that grows on bushes throughout Sarajevo, known as “white berries.”

The slender cat, a striped market stray, that rolls on the pile of Persian carpets in Morić-han.

The round tray that rotates on the tip of a waiter’s forefinger.

The pigeons’ rally on Sebilje.

The aroma of cheese, cream, meat, and marble in the market.

The peal of church bells at six o’clock in the morning.

The way the Sarajevo accent bursts the speaker’s lips, because of the rumbling consonants and swallowed vowels, which looks particularly good on women with full lips.

Autumn leaves, ankle-deep, in Wilson’s Walk, and the sound of ripe chestnuts breaking off, hurtling through the branches, then hitting the soft carpet of leaves.

A white-wine spritzer at Ramiz’s.

The scent of old cellars: coal, dust, tubs for souring cabbage,mildew.

The lights that glint on the hills around Sarajevo at night, like stars that fall slowly, the way snowflakes do.

The sound of a deflated ball kicked around by children in the
open spaces of New Sarajevo.

The hissing of rain on streets under the wheels of cars.

Carved cartridge cases in the Kujundžiluk.

The chirping of radio stations in taxis.

The rheumatic hands of old men behind their backs as they watch a game of chess with giant pieces in front of the ghostly Department Store.

Ice cream with the flavor of “Egyptian vanilla” (whatever that is) at the Egypt pastry shop.

The green turf of Željo’s Stadium.

Asphalt full of hollows, holes, puddles, and the “roses” of shell craters, never perfect, always spattered.

The brief jerk of the head to one side that accompanies the response “Okay…” to the question, “How’re things?”

The intense colors of autumn fruit and vegetables softened by the shade of the beams at the Markale Market.

Meatballs—ćevapi—anywhere in town.

Sorrel that goes to seed in less than fifteen minutes.

The hardness of the stone you touch when you bend to drink a mouthful of water at the Gazi Husref-Beg Mosque.

The hum of Sarajevo heard from Hrid or Trebević—all the sounds of the city merged into one.

The silence that accompanies the first snowfall, as though everything and everyone were hushed with wistful excitement.

The long shadows of the trees in the Big Park on a September afternoon.

The collection of stuffed animals in the National Museum.

The statues in front of the National Bank, eternal guards of the Čeka, holding helmet-lights above their heads.

The rhythm of the tread of the elderly in Ferhadija, harmonizing with the rhythm of their conversation—a syntax of footsteps.

A cheap football shirt with the name Zinedine Zidane on the back of a grimy boy.

Tito’s portrait in the goldsmith’s in Ćaršija.

Underpants and stockings in the passage beside The Imperial.

The aroma clothes carry in them after a stay in Sarajevo: a mixture of sweat, cigarette smoke, ćevapi, washing in Sarajevo water, and drying in the open air.

The people of Sarajevo: the clever and the churlish, the greedy and the handsome, the weary and the young, youthful and crazy, rich and wretched, sturdy and sick, tall and rundown, the angry and the underhanded, the tricksters and the brilliant, the Diaspora and locals, children and adults, the faithful and infidels, the powerful and the pious—all in all, nearly four-hundred-thousand
urban atoms.

And let us be honest, there’s no end. You either love Sarajevo or you don’t.

I found these photos online, and am borrowing them to express my unusual nostalgia of that time of magical realism in Sarajevo. They are by a Bosnian war photojournalist, Rikard Larma, currently a Philadelphia resident.

Mr. Larma captured my sentiments exactly: we really were just a page out of Marquez’ books. This particular set of photos he called “A Siege in 40 pictures.” (Opsada u 40 Slika.)

1984. – Year of the Olympics.  Sarajevo, a perfect medium between East and West of Europe was chosen to host the Olympics and represent that different sort of thinking brings beauty into life too.  In war only memories remained, and this Vucko (mascot of the games) poster is now trashed, together with cans of despicable ICAR canned meat that was given as Humanitarian Aid.

A UN soldier sits here with some kids (who were my age at the time). We called the UN Smurfs – less because of blue helmets they wore, and more for the nonchalant behavior.  They did absolutely nothing to help solve anything that went on in the city.  Because of this, Sarajevans are greatly skeptical of any UN missions set up to ‘watch the peace’.

Perhaps the most affected were the elderly.  At an age when life should return upon them hard work and effort they put into it, they were forced to witness their country, their way of life, their culture, and their city collapse. Many wished they had ‘gone’ before the start of war. I often wished the same for my grandfather. Had he died just a few months earlier, in 1992, he would have died a satisfied man.

This is the City Hall, greatest library of Sarajevo. It was burnt to the ground in a shell caused fire in 1992.

Remainders. Reminders.

Definitely not an everyday picture, but still charming, very charming. No regular means of transportation, but when life gives you shit and genocide, well then you have to make your own carriage. <3.

Or wait for peace… Like this little fellow.

More photos can be found here.
More about the photographer, Rikard Larma.
I hope you enjoy them as much as I.

Yours with love,
Lola

P.S. I added descriptions to photos, but will gladly remove if asked by author.

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