DAY TWO
Military trappings are everywhere: combat boots stomping through the snow; green camouflage uniforms and AK47's, carried even by local police; "state of alert" warnings disturbing quaint, old-world settings; rolls of barbed wire across "off limits" areas; and big, lumbering, white tanks, with the familiar NATO Implementation Force (IFOR) label.
As our nation focuses on American troops joining their NATO partners in Bosnia, I find myself reflecting on the moral foundation for our involvement. My visits today to two humanitarian projects provide a ground more solid than any philosophical argument.
War is tough on everyone - but hardest on the kids. Not only are they physically more affected by deprivation, but their young egos are especially vulnerable to the onslaught of violence. My first visit is to a therapy center for children traumatized by the war.
How do you reach a child who has watched her mother raped, his father beaten and killed, her playmates terrorized? Words often can't touch the terror; but movement, music, and drama can. As guest of honor, I have a front-row seat. Actually there's only one row for the audience, because this is really about the performers.
The show opens with a dozen young girls dancing to raucous music, while one young superstar holds a play microphone and cuts loose as lead singer. All are dressed in black, with dramatic makeup, flowers, and glitter - glamourously adorned. The choreography allows no wallflowers. When they're finished, we applaud and whistle our approval.
In return, I sing for them - "Morning Has Broken" - as I sit on the floor picking out the chords on a synthesizer in my lap. The hopeful theme of the song seems especially apt for this new dawn of Sarajevo. One sweetheart asks if she can kiss me. Exuberant, the girls surround me, smothering me with kisses.
The second piece is a skit by the boys, dramatizing peace negotiations in Geneva. A map of Bosnia is spread across a table as young Clinton, Chirac, Yeltsin, Kinkel, and Akashi pore over boundaries, arguing about how to divide up the territory. They shake their fists at each other, their voices growing louder and louder. Finally, grudging agreement reached, they are interviewed individually. Each takes the mike. Shouts - distorted and shrill - pierce my ears. My interpreter whispers, "Those aren't words; they're just making noises."
I leave the center, wondering how much we could learn from the children, if only we were wise enough to listen.
Maybe it's appropriate for the season that my second visit is to an inn that has no room. The former hotel for single people now houses hundreds of refugees; every possible space is filled, and newcomers must be turned away.
The wall is smooth now, where only a few weeks ago there was a gaping hole from a mortar shell. The windows, like most in Sarajevo, are covered with plastic.
Children are laughing and playing in the halls, although I notice small mounds of bright red pellets, poison tempting not only to rats but also curious kids, I would guess. Our guide leads us with pride to the cold, dark, unlit basement, where five showers have been installed. But we can't reach them, because a chest-high pile of wooden logs is in the way. Oh well, it's winter, she reminds us. People mostly shower in the summer.
Sure, I'd be interested in seeing a room. We knock, and the door opens into a 12-by-15-foot space, which for two years has served as a cramped home to a family of five. The building is allotted gas only every second day, so a small iron stove, piped out the window, converts back and forth between wood and gas. A tin plate with porridge is bubbling on top of the stove. Laundry hangs above it.
Grandma invites me to come in and sit down. She is knitting brightly patterned socks, to be sold for $3 on the black market. The scarf on her head frames a heartwarming smile.
I can accept the fact that Grandma's constant grin is toothless. She has lived a long life. But her 18-year-old grandson standing by the window has only one of his six front teeth. The aggression of war is everywhere - even in a smile.
I listen to the story of the flight from their village, a 13-day ordeal of terror. But then I remember, they are the lucky ones. Hundreds of thousands were horribly brutalized - or simply shot.
They realize, as well, their good fortune. No talk of going home. Or of regaining their life savings. Or ever living again with their possessions. They, like two million others, are starting over.
So Grandma squeezes my hand with delight, to say thanks for an elegant Christmas card I leave with her. And when I ask, if she could have just one wish, she whispers, "to live in two rooms."