(zdravo) hello

With my Western mindset, grown in an age of multiculturalism and professed tolerance of all religions and ethnicities, it was a new experience to be in a European community of only one ethnicity and religion.

Gorazde, a small city in eastern Bosnia, is almost completely Bosniak (Bosnian Muslim). A five minute drive up the highway, you pass a Serbian Orthodox graveyard, and you are in "new Gorazde", a Serbian Orthodox community. Sometimes (but not always) you could determine what kind of community you were in by the graveyards -- elaborate, flower-and-candle festooned black marble Orthodox graveyards, and simple, white pointed spires in a Muslim graveyard. It is a tragedy that in some way graveyards are a visible definition of Bosnian cultural boundaries.

There was little I could find to read about Gorazde before visiting the area, but once there I learned that the region and community has a past written in war and hatred, and that it's past irreparably shapes what Gorazde is to this moment. The following explanations are over simple, and probably stupid to someone who really knows Bosnian history, but as it's impossible to explain Bosnia today without explaining Bosnia of 15 years ago, I will do my best.

Before the war of the 1990s, eastern Bosnia was religious and ethnically mixed. Farmers and city dwellers, Serb and Bosniak, lived beside each other in the religious no-man's-land of Communist Yugoslavia. Upon the collapse of that system, and the beginnings of war (I won't even try to explain all the evil politics behind it) Serbian forces began a systematic "cleansing" of eastern Bosnia, forcing Bosniaks out of their homes and either killing them or pushing them towards central Bosnia, where they attempted to reach UN-designated "safe" zones. Gorazde was one of these "safe zones", the only zone that did not fall to Serbian forces during the war.

The result is that Gorazde literally became an island of refuge, filled with Bosniak refugees. Today, in a sense, those lines are still drawn -- Gorazde is almost purely Bosniak and the surrounding area almost purely Serbian. (A strange paradox is that foreign Islamic nations like Saudi Arabia and Iran are putting money into Bosnia and building large new mosques, the spires of which can been seeing shining even in Serbian towns.)

Passing from one town to the other, you don't have to imagine the drawn lines of war. On one side of the line men who were part of the Serbian army are called death-deserving murderers, on the other honoured war heroes. In between is a space of a few kilometres.

Better than my editorializing on this difference is a chilling illustration of two infamous bridges. One bridge is an ancient UNESCO world heritage bridge in the town of Visegrad, about 35 kilometres down river from Gorazde. The other is the concrete and steel walking bridge joining the two sides of Gorazde, which sits in a mountain valley.

One, beautiful and ancient, with a chilling, bloody history. The other, chipped and graffiti-covered, a tragic necessity and refuge.

Gorazde Bridge

The bridge spans the heart of Gorazde, linking two sides of the community over the broad Drina river. On one side many essential services; the only public hospital, schools, grocery stores. On the other, stores and many homes. During the war Serbian forces beseized Gorazde on the surrounding mountain tops. They laid landmines in the hills, set up outposts and gun turrets, made forays into the city, they cut off food supplies and roads in or out, but never fully occupied the city. They did, however, control the city in a way that made the UN safe zone far from safe. From the surrounding hills and outposts, soldiers and snipers would shoot at homes and people, at random and seemingly for sport. You could be shot and killed walking to the grocery store or school, and no age or sex exempted you. People were shot and killed collecting water or trying to eke food from their gardens, walking to school or scurrying from house to house. The results was people who lived buried in their houses, gardening at night, venturing out only as neccessary.

A favoured target area was the bridge over the Drina, where people were completely exposed. So constructed under the steel belly of the bridge was a small cable and wood suspension bridge, tucked up underneath so far that an adult must duck his or her head at each steel girder. On this bridge our host family mother, Amila, and her husband, Fikret, made their way to school and work, huddled over, racing across, fearing the crack of a sniper shot at any moment.

The walking bridge still hangs there today, limp and unused, the wooden slats unsafe to cross. Amila and Fikret tell their 10-year-old son Almin about the war, the bridge, and it's terrors. But I can see that the bridge holds some kind of mystery for Almin, a young boy raised on Grand Theft Auto and military computer games. Thankfully he never experienced the horror of the war just a few short years before he was born.

Visegrad Bridge

About thirty-five kilometres upriver stands another bridge, spanning another valley in the town of Visegrad. This one is stone construction, built long ago by the occupying Ottoman Empire. It is a thing of ancient man-made beauty; it's stone arches spanning the emerald green Drina. It is also the site of the murder of thousands of Bosniaks. Ethnic cleansing took place here on a scale unbelievable. Serbian soldiers and local militia men would come to a Bosniak home and tell them they had 10 minutes to leave or they would be killed. The stories are unimaginable, as one dear elderly grandmother shared with me and our leader Michal over sweet coffee and cake.

Many women and children were sent fleeing through the formidable mountains back towards Gorazde. Hundreds of people were locked up in homes and the houses set on fire. Others shot point-blank on their doorsteps. Thousands of men and boys were separated from their families and murdered. This grandmother told us how men were taken to the centre of the bridge, forced to stand or kneel on the parapet, while the murderer crossed himself in the name of the *father, son, and holy spirit* and slit the persons throat, then throwing them from the bridge.

Above the Visegrad bridge, set back little way up on a hill, sits an Orthodox church, it's black cross on the steeple clearly visible from the bridge, it's windows providing a clear view of the horror and tragedy done here by people in the name of religion and/or ethnicity.

These are the lines drawn. The bridges that represent not union but suffering. Evil, clothed in religion, ruining lives and dividing communities. The war remains fresh, the wounds seeping. The next generation (younger than myself, even) are more objective, searching for better answers, less fundamental in their faith, but still the lines remain.

hvala

"Hvala" is Bosnian for "thank you". This word I used most frequently in this coffee-drinking, hospitality-based social culture. for some reason when the Bosnian words I did know escaped me, I reverted to Swedish. I received some odd looks when I spoke a bit of Swedish before realizing what I was doing.

There are many questions to answer. And what is the simplest way, I do not know. But as a wise team-mate of mine said, it's best to start at the beginning.  So I will post some of the basics about the city of Gorazde, (pictured) and then maybe some more personal stuff later on. 

Bosnia is being effected by the economic crisis, much like the rest of the world, but with greater severity. Roughly half of the country is employed, leaving the other half to find other means of income. The majority of those unemployed receive a small amount of pension from the government, whether it be from a past job or reconciliation for losses in the war. However, even the pension system within Bosnia is failing, as the government is fighting corruption and bankruptcy. But the people try as best as they can to live with what they get.

The city of Gorazde faces about 75 per cent unemployment and almost every family we met had at least one member of the family receiving a small pension. 

Most, if not all, people blame the hard times they are now facing on the war in the 1990’s. The former Yugoslavia was a prosperous nation for its people -- they lived a good life with job security, "peace", food, nice homes, maybe as most Europeans. Now they live in a world trapped between the high living costs of Europe and the desolation and poverty brought on by war -- the evidence of which is still everywhere you look.

Many of the families we met said it was difficult cope with the enormous atrocities of war and how it was a daily struggle just to hope for something better. Often, hope is placed in their children’s lives, with hope for a better future.

As things are, in Bosnia religion and ethnicity go hand in hand. If you are Croatian, by default, you are Roman Catholic. Serbian: Eastern Orthodox. Bosnian: Muslim. Gorazde is almost completely Bosniak (the term for a Bosnian Muslim).

We worked with one of the only non-governmental organizations left in the city, a place called the Hope Center. They run food distributions, English and adventure camps for kids, education programs and agriculture programs -- pretty much anything they can manage to meet a need. It was through this center that we purchased food to do distributions of food -- flour, sugar, salt, pasta, rice, oil -- to people who were in need.

There is so much more to say. But for now, this is a little picture of where we were... Will post more later.

cold toes, warm other things

Once again, I have been chastised for writing so little. And I deserve it, for someone who claims to love writing I hardly do enough of it.

When this much time has passed it's hard to extract a clear thought from my brain-scramble. I am starting to like lists more and more, and therefore will begin a random list of thoughts and experiences from the past while.

• The Ingrate. Whether it's the change of surrounding, or the breathing space from things that previously saturated my life and thoughts, I feel as though I have the clearest perspective I have had in some time, maybe ever. I am learning things that I wished I already knew. Gratitude. Humility. Self-control. Now if it were possible for me to simply learn something and never again return to ways of old, wouldn't that be wonderful? Not so. It seems I can even learn something and unlearn it in the same thought, having never translated learning to action or obedience.
• What Kind of Christian Am I? Swimming my way through a school project and Bibles and books, and realizing more and more I am the sorriest excuse of a Christian there ever was. My reasons for thinking this are many and long for elaborating here, but an illustration could do: Bill Murray, as a neurotic obsessive compulsive in What About Bob?, eventually succeeds in driving his psychiatrist and mentor insane while in "baby step" therapy. I have a billion baby steps ahead of me, and thank God he is a patient, willing, and never-irritable guide. Because I think I would drive myself insane.
  
• Stockholm. Martin and I spent a few days in the Swedish capital, spending our nights in an old hotel of vaulted ceilings and white French doors, the city bustle sneaking in through the old wood. We walked, spent a lot of time talking, some eating, reading, watching, touring, and hardly any shopping. The city seemed filled with more tourists than Swedes -- and in the old town, more rich Russians than anyone. From Holsbybrunn to Stockholm felt like stepping, or falling, on a 50 km/h treadmill from a dead-standstill. It stirred up strange feelings and meaningful conversations, along with sensory overload... The electronic rattle of crosswalks, honking, boom of the bass in nightclubs, the flash of digital billboards, slick, uneven cobblestones, the babble of languages more foreign than Swedish, long nails, fur, and bleach-blond heads, hurrying up to wait, juggling multiple cellphones, mostly manufactured beauty and mostly meaningless contact.
• An Ugly Girl? I have been spending some thought on what a healthy Christian worldview means, how I could live a "simpler" life. Also thinking about our collective insecurity in the Western world -- the way we look. I was recently amazed to hear that hair care products is a multi-billion dollar industry. Enough to eliminate the debt of at least a few developing countries. I don't know why I hadn't before considered how much money goes into hair care, but there it was. Interestingly, the average North American woman apparently has at least five unused hair care products sitting around her bathroom. And yet, an overwhelming majority of women are very insecure about their looks. The majority of girls I attend school with this year have admitted their insecurities with their looks. And these would be some of the more solid, mature girls I have met of the 18-25 range. It's so incredibly sad! Here we are, with a faith that a living God created us in his image, with a creed that says "it's the heart that matters," and yet we are insecure! We care about breasts and butts and 'cankles' and grey hair. I am right there in it, and yet it frustrates and befuddles me.
• On Loving Your Husband. It's 11 p.m. on a Thursday night, and Martin is bringing cheeseburgers from McDonalds. It's a taste of familiarity I cannot turn down, and I love him for it. For many other things too, and these days, the feelings of love are more present than ever. This is a nice thing, a wonderful thing. It makes me happy.  Not only for cheeseburgers, but his sweet face on the pillow, or the gleam in his eye after reffing a good game of innebandy, or that strange weird smile when he is telling me bad news. Definitely enjoying marriage.

jul jul jul

Officially done the last week of classes and things have slowed way down -- finishing up the last bits of assignments, and the others students are busy cleaning up the dorms in preparation for departure on a three-plus week Christmas break. Me, I can clean my house if I wish. Or not. We have a Christmas banquet and then the school closes until January 12. I am the only student staying in the area for Christmas.

I have no idea what to expect for Christmas. So far everything has been a (most pleasant) surprise. I've experienced my first julbord (traditional Swedish Christmas buffet), my first real month of Advent celebrations, my first Swedish Christmas desserts, and my first Lucia ceremony. 

The julbord was an very unique experience. At a mere $60 per person, you dine on cold meats, cheeses, breads, seafood of all varieties (eel, pickled herring, crayfish, and more), potatoes, pork, and of course, meatballs. The only salads were either creamy salads similar to coleslaw, or an olive pasta salad of which I was the only person partaking. We went with Martin's parents and it was an experience I won't forget! (And to those of you who know me well -- no, I did not eat eel or herring or anything that still had eyes in it.)

Advent is observed all across Sweden, by religious and non-religious alike. It is difficult to find a house that does not have Advent "candles" in their windows. (They make a killing selling electric Advent lights.) It's not an exaggeration to say that 95 per cent of the population has one or more adventljusstaken, or julstjärna (Christmas stars) in their house. Our neighbours told us about their friends who bought something like ten adventljusstaken for every window of their new home. This makes every street a beautiful, cheerful reminder of the coming of Christmas, but serves a practical purpose -- warding off the darkness. Dusk comes around 3 p.m. these days, and at times it seems that the sun has barely risen and already it sets. Depression can set in easily, but Martin says I am doing pretty well with the winter, which is encouraging to hear.

But back to Advent and Christmas. All throughout December there have been special performances, Advent singing and at church, fika after every service. (Fika is one of the best Swedish customs of all -- the best translation in English would be "coffee", except it's so much more than that.) Usually fresh bread, butter, cheeses, meats, small sandwiches with tomatoes and cucumbers, and baked goods. Most of the Swedes we know like to bake and I like to enjoy their baking. The most interesting baked good is called, literally translated, Lucia cats, an s-shaped pastry baked with saffron and two raisins. If you haven't had saffron -- it's a rare and extremely expensive spice -- it tastes pretty unique, especially baked in a pastry. People often get small smiles when I have bit into one and ask me what I think of them. Martin's cousin Erik and his girlfriend Malin were the first ones to bring them to our house, and pointed out as I tried them that they have been eating saffron pastries at Christmas since childhood, and although it's normal to them it must be very strange to me. (For the record, they are alright.)

Last weekend was also a weekend of firsts, as I sang for the first time (as an adult) in a Christmas concert and sang part of "Stille Natt" (Silent Night) in Swedish. We sang in a church built in the late 1700's, where the acoustics were absolutely astounding. (There is a point in the church where one can stand and hear, clear as day, a person speaking on the opposite side of the church. I've never experience anything like it.) Concert night saw about 400 - 500 people in the church, and I am SO glad I didn't goof my Swedish!

We also visited a julmarknad (Christmas market) in a nearby town and it was one of the loveliest experiences I've had. Martin bought freshly roasted almonds, (so hot and chewy and delicious I could have died) and we walked around looking shops and stalls in the old town, which was built up in the 1500's. 

And last, but most certainly not least, my first Lucia ceremony. This is a ceremony based on the life and martyrdom of a Christian saint named Lucia, who was tortured and killed for the vow of chastity she had made to God. (That's the short version of the story.) The ceremony now falls in December, where a young woman dons a crown of lit candles, accompanied by other children dressed in white, and carries food -- now candy -- and a blessing to people. If you have a hard time imagining what this would look like, check out this video. WARNING: It's a terribly shot video and don't watch past the first 30 seconds. I picked this video because it's the closest to the Lucia I experienced.

So, this Lucia ceremony was extra special, as staff from the school arranged with Martin to come by our house around 6 a.m. Martin didn't share this with me. The clock said about 5:45 a.m. when I awoke to footsteps in our house and singing as one, two, three, four, no, seven people filed into our bedroom singing Santa Lucia and carrying candles. They blessed us, gave us our candy, and filed out again singing, and it was one of the most surreal experiences I have ever had! The crowd included three male staff (two guys in their 20's) and one of the founders of the school who is in his late 60's. Along with his wife, and three other staff women. Now comes the exciting part. Not having been aware of all that was to come, I neglected to put on pajamas the night before! I have never felt so strange, huddled under the covers for fear something might fall out and I would be completely mortified. The two staff guys came over to bless me with their little star wands and I am sure I visibly shrunk under the covers! Check out the photo. You can barely see me and I didn't dare touch the bag of candy they put on me.

There's a little rundown of a bit of Swedish Christmas, and I am interested to see what Swedish Christmas food will be like, and how Martin's family celebrates together. God Jul and Merry Christmas!

snow

It is an absolute winter wonderland, with an inch of snow lying beautifully on every branch, bush, and twig. Beyond the scrape of my feet on the road it is so utterly still I just listen to my breathing. The sky is a black dome with curving stars and I feel stunned.

All I can think of is me and my relationship to the Creator, because I could not stand in this and think there is anyone or anything but the Creator involved.