The first time I heard of Sarajevo, other than the 1984 Olympics, was through my Bosnian friend growing up in Calgary. Even though he and other Bosnians I came across through him were very westernized, they are among the simplest and kindest people I’ve ever met. All the more reason the subsequent war and gruesome attacks by Serb forces on such humble people shocked my world like never before.
I was no stranger to the plight of Muslims everywhere. However, the war in Bosnia was more relevant for my generation. We had become almost desensitized to the long struggles in Palestine and Kashmir, and Afghanistan was finally able to ward off the Soviets in one of the rare shows of Muslim victories. However, the images on TV screens of Bosnian concentration camps had taken their toll on young, impressionable souls like us, and I decided time was running out and the world must act quickly. After almost a year of organizing awareness events, demonstrations, fundraising drives for money, clothes and medicine to send to the crisis-ridden nation, I finally embarked on visiting Sarajevo myself.
When I landed (or, rather the airplane managed to scrape out a semi-landing on whatever was left of the airport), I was awe-struck by the amount of destruction everywhere. What most surprised me was that I could tell that Sarajevo was once a beautiful metropolitan in the heart of Europe, and its inhabitants were a very educated, western, and peaceful people. I remember later sitting down in a cafe in a typical narrow Sarajevo street, chatting with Bosnians my age. They spoke of how, during the infamous siege of Sarajevo, they were surrounded on all sides and were forced to take up arms when none had ever seen a gun in their life. Only a few days earlier they were busying themselves preparing for mid terms and school papers. I thought to myself – staring at the blond, well-dressed men and women who could easily be mistaken for westerners than Muslims – this could be a scene from back home in Calgary, and they could be my Canadian friends. It stuck with me how fragile we can all be, if we let our guard down even for a short while.
Driving around Bosnia, especially the fun and sometimes treacherous highway between Sarajevo and Zenica, I saw how beautiful the country was. Similar to BC, the mountains and natural beauty was absolutely spectacular. I visited orphans sponsored by a humanitarian organization I was representing, and was amazed at their zeal for life in spite of what they had endured. One of my favourite trips was to a remote mountain village. As I climbed towards the highest peak with my hosts, a breathtaking modern school stood atop, surrounded by clouds. I was told that when the idea of building such a marvel was first introduced to the villagers, they unanimously agreed they didn’t want any outside aid and chipped in whatever they had for its construction.
I have many stories from Bosnia, most sad and horrific, but some also accounts of miraculous heroism and human courage. My faith in God, peace and justice became all the more re-enforced, when I met ordinary Bosnians with extra-ordinary strength. If it had not been for their faith, the nation as a whole would have crumbled under one of the most brutal episodes in modern history. Yet Sarajevo has bounced back, with some help from foreign intervention, but mostly with unbelievable courage and hope from within.
The beautiful country and the warm friendships I developed during my stay, remain in my memory to this day. But the story of the Bosnians is something we should never forget – to remain steadfast in peace and never succumb to terror. Never again!