Sarajevo Roses

25 years ago, on April 5th 1992, 24 year old Suada Dilberovic, a Muslim student at the faculty of Medicine, participated in a peace rally in Sarajevo. Up to 100 000 people of all Yugoslavian ethnic groups had gathered for this march, held in response to repeated attacks of Serbian paramilitary groups on multi-ethnical Bosnia and Hercegovina. As the marchers crossed the bridge over the Miljacka river, they were ambushed by Serbian snipers. Suada and her 34-year old catholic compatriot Olga Sucic were shot and killed: the first casualties of the siege of Sarajevo.

By the end of April 1992, the Serbian Army had encircled Sarajevo, positioning their tanks on the mountain tops surrounding the city, where a mere eight years before the Olympic winter games had been held. The Olympic bob sleighs and the ski jumping hills turned into killing fields from where mortars and artillery were fired. Machine guns aimed at bedroom windows and at the living rooms of the city below.

13,954 people died. The siege only ended on February 29 1996, a mere forty years after the horrors of WWII and the holocaust, and the world said: “Never again!” again.

25 years after the siege of Sarajevo, the scars are still visible. Some shrapnel grates were not repaired, but colored red, as a reminder, a memorial, a warning of what nationalism, war and hate do to people. They are called “Sarajevo roses”.

Visiting Sarajevo is not a fun holiday in the sun. It is an encounter with history and culture, impressive, thought-arousing, and captivating. Visiting Sarajevo means learning of history and human nature. And of the human capacity to overcome and reconcile: In 2007, Suada was awarded a posthumous Doctor of Medicine by the University of Sarajevo.

The Puszta: How Vast This World

How vast this world in which we move,
And thou, how small thou art, my dove!
But if thou didst belong to me,
The world I would not take for thee.

Thou art the sun, but I the night,
Full of deep gloom, deprived of light.
But should our hearts together meet,
A glorious dawn my life would greet.

Ah! look not on me, close thine eyes,
My soul beneath thy glances dies;
Yet, since thou can’st not love me, dear,
Let my bereft soul perish here.

In the poems of the Hungarian poet Petöfi Sandor, the immense flatness of the great Eastern European Steppe, the Puszta, is a place of breathing, of grandeur, beauty and freedom. A place both humbling and inspiring, instilling patriotic pride and devotion, but, at the same time, passionate love.

Petöfi wrote love poems to his wife Julia, rendering his love inseparable from his love for the steppe. He dedicated his life to the Magyar struggle for independence from the Austrian Empire, both in word and deed: he composed the National song and joined the Hungarian Revolutionary Army. He vanished on the battlefield at only 26.

 

I’ll be a tree, if you are its flower
Or a flower, if you are the dew
I’ll be the dew, if you are the sunbeam
Only to be united with you.

My little girl, if you are the heaven
I shall be a star above on high.
My little girl, if you are hell-fire,
To unite us, damned I shall die.

Petöfi’s body was never found. Some Hungarians believe that he resurrected, like a Messiah. Some say, that he never died, that he is only asleep, somewhere in the endless planes of the Puszta.

Serendipity in the Kruger

This love that I feel,
Is It the love from you
Or is it your sparkling beauty
that reflects all the love I have
for you right back to me ?

from:
My African Queen by Mkanya Anele

When I saw these two blue wildebeests, all I thought was,
how lucky am I?
or was it only my appreciation that made the moment special?

 

Travels & Tales

The WanderWarbler is a website dedicated to ethical travel, providing information on destinations and travel related issues, travel writing and photography: food for thoughts and fuel for wanderlust.