This drawing brought back memories (see below). We had tea that day in 1998 in one of the low buildings to the left of the wide opening just before the bridge.
Goražde
Up the Drina River, past the
hydro-electric dam and the reservoir, Zlatko pilots his Peugot through a dozen
tunnels. A railroad track with its own network of tunnels snakes along the
opposite side of the river. In ten minutes we reach Muslim-held territory.
There are, contrary to my expectation, no borders to cross. Since the Dayton
Accord, explains Thomas, this is one country.
Border or no border, the
tension in our little car rises as the familiar ruins begin to appear, Serb houses
this time. We have been welcome in the Republika Srpska – two Serbs, the author
of Justice for Serbia, two translators of that text, and the journalist
who demonstrated that the ITN photos of the concentration camp at Trnopolje
were a fiction. The welcome wouldn’t be as warm here.
“Here” is a town stretched
along both banks of the river. Fierce fighting with machine guns and artillery
has marked, has scarred the once prosperous face of Goražde. Between the highway and the river rises the
brilliant white tower and five domes of a new mosque. Goražde was taken by the Serbs and retaken by the
Muslims. It is connected now by a thin corridor to the Muslim-held area around
Sarajevo.
In less than five minutes we have passed through the town. We’ll come back this way tomorrow.
Goražde
Late afternoon. Where the
bridge over the Drina meets the main highway, we sit in front of a cafe and
drink “chai,” which Zlatko pronounces with a careful and delicate Muslim lilt.
No reason to attract attention,
he says.
Across the street is an
apartment complex. With laundry hanging to dry in every window and on every
balcony, the building looks like a ratty overstuffed couch. A white truck
stands in front of the building: UNHCR – United Nations High Commander for
Refugees. Stacks of firewood rise high in the courtyard.
Three children run past the
café. Two of the boys wear tennis shoes. The third runs with a practiced
shuffle in the adult shoes he wears, their backs flattened like slippers. He
looks up and smiles at us before following his friends down the riverbank.
A woman with a wheelbarrow full
of kindling shoves pieces of wood into a basement window.
The main street of Goražde is called Marshal Tito Street.
Good for them, Žarko says. It’s a crime that most Serbian towns
have renamed their streets. You can’t just wipe out forty years of your
history.
No comments:
Post a Comment