The Heart Shaped Land
Angela Fulghum
©
Copyright 2025 by Angela Fulghum
|
Photo by Sarajevo slike on Unsplash |
It’s
hard for me to separate the details of war and government from this
trip and my education. However, for this piece, I wanted to convey
the surreal juxtapositions I observed and felt there, between the
remnant realities of their gruesome history and the beauty and warmth
of the place and the people.
Sarajevo
is a city that lines a valley like the inside of a bowl, surrounded
by the Dinaric Alps. Our house was mid-way up the hills, with an
upper balcony overlooking much of the city and the mountains all
around. The architecture felt like a melding between Genoa and
Istanbul. It was gut-wrenchingly beautiful, and not just to the eyes.
In storms, thunder ricocheted between the peaks, rumbling deep to
your bones. Throughout the day you would hear the Muslim calls for
prayer, and Christian church bells, one of the only cities in the
world to hear three different religions’ calls for prayer at
noon. It is a gem.
This
is a place where, less than fifteen years before, tanks and snipers
lined the hills shooting down into the city, while kids stole their
dad's guns to protect their homes. Hunters and farmers collaborated
to create small militia to defend their families and villages. The
Asim Ferhatović Hase Stadium (Koševo City Stadium), once
an Olympic soccer pitch, was turned into a graveyard when Bosnians
trapped within sections of the city with limited space buried their
loved ones. The pitch has since been replaced, remains properly moved
after the war, but memory and heartache remain deep with a history
like that, and the stadium is now a cultural hub.
I
was a college student, studying genocide and postwar reconstruction,
specifically in Bosnia and Herzegovina. I studied the books for
years, then traveled to that beautiful country of modern cities and
rustic villages nestled between grand mountainscapes and turquoise
rivers. A country that hosted the Winter Olympics in 1984, and then
all the brutalities of modern war only twelve years later.
Our
student group of seven flew from Minneapolis, to London, to Munich,
and finally, to Sarajevo, with only one professor’s bag lost on
the way. We were met at the airport by our translator, Aida, and
other folks helping us navigate our meetings and travel. As we were
driven from the airport, my eyes clung to all they could.
Many
of the apartment buildings had advertisements posted over entire
sides of them, massive murals of modern color and commerce. About
half the buildings were littered with bullet holes - some had been
patched. They stood next to shiny new glass offices and shopping
centers. The sidewalks and roads cradled “Sarajevo roses,"
the scars of mortar shells filled with red resin in remembrance.
Venders sold bomb fragments and bullets on key chains to tourists.
There was a Muslim cemetery fit snuggly between a travel agent’s
office and shopping mall parking ramp. It was a city of juxtaposition
in a way I had not experienced anywhere else.
We
visited with the Concentration Camp Survivor's Association, Mothers
of Srebrenica, International Court for War Crimes, the Genocide
Institute, and the International Missing Persons Comission. We met
with world renown religious experts, and attended a variety of
religious services. We learned the processes of body identification
and dog training for detecting landmines. We spoke with refugees,
survivors of concentration camps and war crimes, and fighters from
both sides.
We
met with politicians from all parties. Many spoke about how well
people got along before the war. They made comments like, “One
of the main singers in the Catholic chorus was a Muslim girl.”
And, “For Ramadan, many Orthodox and Catholic Christians would
not eat in public so as to not offend Muslim friends who were fasting
during the day time. Instead, they would go out of their way to go
home to cook meals out of sight.” With tears in their eyes they
spoke of how Sarajevo had been one of the most open minded cities in
Europe, that these people had lived together peacefully. The
betrayal, heartache, and grief of war was very present. Still, people
went about their days as best they could.
We
visited a high school. After stomaching the fear of rowdy teenagers
pointing and laughing at us, whispering to each other in languages we
couldn’t understand, we sat with them and talked. We talked
(via translators) about politics, music, school, free time, America,
Sarajevo, homework and celebrities. We visited a university. The
students there were quiet and pensive, slow to start talking, but had
the most interesting things to say. They had been old enough during
the war to carry more of its burden. They discussed family pressures
about (not) marrying someone from another religion, losing family in
the war, and current politics. Little translation was needed, and we
all enjoyed each other so much we spent another hour after class at a
cafe continuing to talk and laugh.
I
had to remind myself, sometimes, of the terrors these students had
lived through. Here we were, talking like friends back home, on a
sunny cafe patio, in a gorgeous cobblestone town square, drinking
coffee and joking around. But they had a pressure I didn’t feel
at home. Pressure put on them by their families to never forget, and
by their government to create a better future. One professor had
said, “The older generation is just too thankful to be alive,
they push for nothing more from their government officials. They are
just happy the killing is over. Their minds are also still so full of
nationalism and such horrible memories, it's the younger generation
that really needs to start a revolution and push for a better life.”
All I could think, watching them at the cafe, comparing colognes,
sneakers, and cell phones was, “But they - we - are just kids.”
Between
and after meetings we found our favorite lunch spots, and walked
around Baščaršija (Old Town) exploring all the
shops, bars, and cafes. I still daydream about the food. It was a lot
of minced and spiced meat wrapped in onions, grape leaves, cabbage or
pastries. Lots of potatoes. Lots of veal, mushrooms, spinach and
cheese. Lots of flat breads and creamy sauces. Roasted lamb, grilled
trout, cevapi, borek, local wines, and pungent rakija. One night Aida
brought her little brother to our house and they taught us how to
make stuffed peppers. Desserts were often soaked in honey and
sprinkled with nuts. Cafes served hookah, sweet rose drinks, and
Turkish coffee. It was ground to a fineness I had never seen, and
isn’t filtered when served in very small porcelain cups with
sugar cubes. I adored it. The largest open market in the country is
in Sarajevo. There, we got our breakfasts of fresh pears, bananas,
strawberries and cherries from local vendors.
A
student invited us to the Ashkenazi Synagogue, the only active
Synagogue in the country, where we had a meal. The building was
ornate and beautiful, the food was simple and delicious, and the
people were the warmest and most welcoming I’ve ever met. That
night we went out to a club with some of the students. The music
pounded and strobing lights cut through the dark as we danced - quite
enjoyable for a few college kids. Afterward, like most evenings, we
met back at the house, sat on the balcony overlooking the city, and
talked about the day.
We
traveled outside Sarajevo as well. On the winding road to Mostar we
stopped at a vendor stand selling jars of honey with the comb,
wildflower juices, olive oil, vinegar, and wild strawberries the size
of peas. Nearby, we filled our water bottles from a spring bubbling
out of the cliffside. Every day was forecasted to be over 100 degrees
so one day we went to Kravica Waterfalls for a swim. Coming from a
land of many waterfalls in northern Minnesota, I didn’t think
I’d be impressed, but I was shocked at the beauty of the
cascades falling between trees and mossy cliffs. I was less excited
about the snakes falling from said trees into the water we were about
to swim in. “They burrow into the mud, just don’t put
your feet down,” someone told me. I considered staying out, but
it was too hot, the scene too beautiful, and the whole experience too
singular to not fully participate, so I went in. It was the right
choice.
We
met with a local non profit that made prosthetics for children. Land
mines and explosives were still sometimes found by the worst means
possible. The country tried all means to find them - bees, dogs, and
rats by scent, metal detectors, and remote controlled devices.
However, because the topography is so diverse, and some explosives
don’t contain much metal, the most effective method is to suit
up in armor and probe a metal rod into the ground by hand, inch by
inch.
Some
buildings were still in ruins, not enough money around to restore or
replace them all. Trees and flowers crawled out the crumbling windows
and rubble. It was especially eerie because the interiors were not
ancient like a ruined castle, it was modern tile and carpet. I
stepped onto the gravel between the sidewalk and one of these ruined
buildings to take a picture and was quickly yelled at and physically
pulled back. There were still mines in many places, especially in
such buildings that haven't been touched since the war. “Stay
on the pavement!” I was told.
We
drove north to Banja Luka, then east to Srebrenica. The landscape was
gorgeous everywhere. Thick forests and hills waving with tall golden
grasses scattered with scarlet poppies. Many roads traced the banks
of indigo and turquoise rivers. Landmine warning signs stood along
roadsides and in fields, some near homes with children in the
yards.
Near
Tuzla we met with a self-organized student group that started in
order to reconstruct a playground in their town that had been
destroyed in the war. Their office was a single room with a table and
chairs and two desktop computers. They brought us to one of their
homes where they cooked us dinner. They worried we wouldn’t
like it but it was the best food we’d had so far. First it was
soup, then kajmak cake, then cheese and chicken borek, some marmalade
biscuits, two desserts, juice, Turkish Delight, coffee, tea, and
rakija - a feast. We sat cross-legged on the floor, scrunched
shoulder to shoulder in the little living room, and talked for hours,
mostly about lifestyles and family, comparing ours and theirs, the
differences, and what could be changed on each side.
Near
Zenica we spent an afternoon in a Roma community. We toured the
gardens they tend to feed themselves, learned their history and
challenges. Kids swarmed, waiting for us to play soccer with them.
They'd been looking forward to a good game of "football"
with the Americans all week. Even the shy ones who had been peeping
at us from behind their mothers’ skirts played with us. It was
hard to leave their wide smiles and warm eyes.
Though
remaining landmines mar much of the hills, outdoor recreation was
world class. Our group tried white water rafting up in the mountains.
I'd always been scared of rafting, shaking and heart racing,
terrified of the idea of smashing my head on a rock, but once we
started driving out of Sarajevo I became more and more relaxed
somehow. By the time we got to the basecamp, I was simply excited. We
had a breakfast of coffee, eggs, kajmak, yogurt, cheese, sausages,
cevapici, bread, polenta and juice.
Once
the van was loaded with helmets, life jackets and the raft, we found
shoes and wet suits that fit, and drove further into the mountains.
We entered just downstream of a trout fishing tournament. Aida and I
fell out on the first set of rapids, class one, the smallest kind.
The skippers shook their heads, eyes wide as if thinking, "Really?
...this will be a long day." I loved the rush of the rapids. One
moment looking at the water, choking on it the next, seeing flashes
of color all around, a quick glimpse of the sky, all the while
frantically paddling, paddling, paddling, not even sure where you'll
end up.
The
scenery was beautiful. Mountains, canyons, and spring water falling
over smooth stone. At one point two rivers met, and we abandoned the
raft on shore to walk upstream for cliff jumping. The water was
chill, but the scenery stole our attention. We returned to the raft
floating on our backs with the gentle current. The water was clear,
gushing over white, orange, and pink stones. Trout swam below. The
trees stood tall all around, they and the peaks framing a blue sky
above.
The
tranquility was epic, knowing the violence and horror that had
dominated the area less than fifteen years before. The grace and
strength of the place, of the people, to carry on despite it all,
creating a magical gem on earth. A heart shaped land to show the
world how we should and should not treat each other, how we can
continue on, and how much work there is still to be done to make
peace.
I
am an unpublished writer, but proud third place winner of a “before
and after” themed writing contest. I write in multiple
genres including fantasy, sci-fi, and creative nonfiction, often
exploring human connection. Though happiest
after writing for a few hours, I also enjoy
gardening, visiting new places, exploring new foods, and being
outdoors.
I live in northern Minnesota.
For those interested in learning more
about the war itself, which I encourage, I recommend these books:
Burn This House: The Making and Unmaking of Yugoslavia (non-fiction),
A Problem From Hell: America in an Age of Genocide (non-fiction), The
Cellist of Sarajevo (historical fiction), and Pretty Birds (fiction).
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