It’s starting to finally set in.  I have four days left in Bosnia.  Not only will I board a plane on Saturday and head to Munich and eventually land in San Francisco, but I also will leave behind my current home.  It is three months after I left California and I find myself at home and comfortable with life, as I know it here.  Bosnia has been wonderful to me and I don’t know if I am truly ready to leave.  Of course, I am ready to see my family, my boyfriend, and my friends, finish grad school, and return to my life.  But I know I will be leaving behind memories and experiences unlike any I have known before.

With two of the women who work in Srebrenica

This summer has been exceptional.  I have learned more than I thought possible.  I learned how to get my point across with my limited Bosnian vocabulary and how to tailor my words to fit any situation.  I went from talking about whether or not I am tired or hungry to having full-blown conversations about the simplicity and beauty of life despite cultural barriers (one of my favorites was about the proportionality of a little person).  I learned how to discuss a carpet, the wool that one uses to make such a carpet, and the draft that Bosnians deeply fear.  I learned that I must never go outside with wet hair.  I made friends.  I connected with an ex-pat community and made great friends with the women working at BOSFAM.  I traveled to Eastern Bosnia, Sarajevo, Srebrenica, Croatia, and Montenegro.  Most importantly, I learned the stories of the women who I have come to love.  I learned about their pain, their humility, and their strength.

Trying to get a picture with two of BOSFAM's most dedicated weavers

I wonder if I can fully explain how I am feeling right now.  I will not miss hand washing my clothes or the daily mental drain of understanding the language.  I will miss drinking coffee twice a day and knowing how my presence affects these women.  There is something about the Balkans that has grabbed onto me and has not let go.  In my fourth trip to this region, I am definitely not finished.  From the food to the people to the language, I have fallen in love.  The Balkans will be in my heart permanently.

"One City, One Love" in Tuzla

Who knows what the future will hold?  Thus far I continue to be surprised with the passing of each year.  Four years ago I never thought I would study abroad in Croatia, Serbia, and Bosnia.  Two years ago I never thought that I would spend my summer in Pittsburgh studying Croatian.  I certainly did not foresee coming back to Bosnia this summer for this peace fellowship.  As I pack my bags, I can’t help but wonder when I will pack them again.  All I know is that I have not said goodbye to Bosnia forever.

Packing up to head home

In six days I will join my fellow BOSFAM women at the Potocari memorial to commemorate the genocide. For the past week there has been a palpable shift in attitudes around here. The news is also gearing up for the anniversary and I cannot help but notice how freely the word victim is tossed around.

Remembering July 11, 1995

The word victim connotes one who has not only suffered but has also been damaged and destroyed. This so-called victim is usually helpless and weak. A victim has been wronged, but a victim has also accepted the pain and suffering. It is almost something comfortable and a feeling of safety by those who know nothing besides abuse and hardship.

What attracted me to BOSFAM, however, was the simple fact that these women are not victims. They don’t sit around wallowing in their pain or in their past. Tima and Zifa are anything but victims. Their strength is more than many of us will ever know – the pure strength to not give up and to not live in the past, which is so easy to do.

To pigeonhole someone because of her past has proven detrimental for a country like Bosnia where so many have suffered so intensely. The victim is someone to be coddled and protected. This does not allow said person to stand and walk, let alone to grow. BBC and Balkan Insight discuss the survivors of the Srebrenica massacre with the same pity that is reserved for the victims themselves. But the survivors are just that. They have survived and they have overcome their losses. Their past is something hideous that is remembered and honored, but it is not something that defines them.

Honoring the past

The country as a whole could stand to recognize this and learn from Tima and Zifa. They have overcome the deaths of husbands, brothers, and sons. Their houses were destroyed, and they were forced to move away from the only town they ever called home. They started from nothing and rebuilt their lives one day at a time. If they have been able to do all this, and to do all this without hate, why are they still victims? They have not succumbed to anything nor have they let the past define them.

Genocide. It is something that the women of BOSFAM deal with on a daily basis. No one in Bosnia was left unaffected from the war. And these women lost their closest family members: sons, brothers, husbands.

One woman, Tima, wears a hijab. When you first meet her, she seems reserved and almost harsh. She stands tall and proud and I recently found out why. She is a simple woman with not much education behind her. However, she raised all her children to be highly educated and successful individuals. They are her ultimate accomplishment amplified only by the loss of her husband in July of 1995 when Srebrenica fell to the Bosnian Serbs. That was when she put on the hijab and has not taken it off since.

Tima: truly a strong woman

Last week I visited Potocari for the first time with BOSFAM’s director, Beba Hadzic. It is the place in which 8,000 Muslim men and boys were murdered, shot point blank, in warehouses and thrown into mass graves around the country. On the way to the new BOSFAM center in Srebrenica, we stopped at the memorial cemetery in Potocari. It was almost completely deserted, much different than what I will encounter on July 11 when tens of thousands of mourners come to bury their loved ones.

The (nonexhaustive) list of names at the Potocari Memorial

Thousands of simple white graves stretched out before me. They seemed to go on for miles. I could sense a definite shift in Beba’s attitude. She lost two nephews and a brother-in-law and they were buried somewhere in the expanse before us. In less than a month we will be back to Potocari with many others. I have been trying to mentally prepare myself since the day I received confirmation of this fellowship, but I know that nothing I can possibly conceive of will compare to this experience in two and a half weeks. I have coffee every morning with women like Tima who were personally affected by the brutality of the war. I cannot imagine the pain through which they have gone and that they have surpassed.

Thousands of graves stretch before me

I cannot help but be completely inspired by Beba and her drive to help and encourage women of all ages and, more importantly, of all ethnicities. While sitting in the Srebrenica center with a blond woman, Beba turned to me and asked: “What is the difference between Milica and myself?” I looked at her like it was a trick question. I had been attempting to understand bits of their conversation, usually with no luck, so the question caught me completely off guard. Beba looked at my surprise and said, “Exactly. Nothing! She is a Serb and I am a Bosniak. There is no difference.”

Beba lost almost everything she had during the war. Her house in Srebrenica was destroyed. Twice. Instead of letting hate for the enemy control the rest of her life, she sought to help her country and found a way in which to do so. She has opened two centers for women in Bosnia – one in the Federation and the other in the Serbian Republic (which is based out of her parents’ house). Not only have these places provided all women with income generation, but she has vowed to never close her doors on those in need. Even when most of the members of the Tuzla center will attend the memorial in Potocari, BOSFAM will remain open for those wishing to seek comfort.

The new BOSFAM center in Srebrenica

Many talk about “helping people” and doing something for “the greater good”. Beba is one of those people who has done something. And she hasn’t just done something. She has given countless women forms of expression and a new, open, and inviting community. But it can’t come from nothing. The women who lost their sons, brothers, and husbands saw an opportunity and embraced the chance to heal and move forward.

NB: This is a cross-posted blog from The Advocacy Project.

This summer I will be working for the Washington, DC based Advocacy Project and I will be stationed in Tuzla, Bosnia-Herzegovina with the community-based organization BOSFAM.  This is my story.
Tuzla is a multiethnic town in the eastern part of the Federation of Bosnia. That is what sets it apart from other cities in the former Yugoslavia.

Yesterday was a day of many emotions. In the morning, I embarked upon an adventure with one of the younger women of BOSFAM, Biljana. She took me up to Slana Banja (literally meaning “Salty Spa”, but it’s more of a park area) and over to see the two salt lakes that Tuzla has.

I have learned in my week here that when Biljana and I set out on a walk somewhere, I should never expect it to be short and sweet. She is very exact in making sure that I understand and see everything that Tuzla has to offer. It is also mentally draining in that the only thing she knows how to say in English is “no speak English”. On Thursday, we were supposed to go to the post office. This turned into a two hour-long trek around the city visiting two mosques and an orthodox cathedral. Moral of the story is that I should have known what was in store.

I was completely stunned with the lakes. It was a little slice of the tropics in the middle of Bosnia. Biljana finagled our way into the park for free so “the foreigner” could see how pretty Tuzla is.

One of the salt lakes in Tuzla

Then things got physical. She had us hiking and climbing steps up to the top of a small mountain (I should remind readers that while I am from California, I do not take kindly to humidity even when it is only technically 70 degrees Fahrenheit outside). It was so worth it. We had a front row view of the nicest vista in town. We could see all of Tuzla stretched before us like a perfect postcard.

View of Tuzla on our hike

On our walk back, we stopped to eat some sour cherries and take more pictures. Biljana had worn me out. And it was only 11am. We returned to BOSFAM and had our ritual Bosnian coffee (some would attempt to call this mud, but I assure you, it is delicious). Then, one of the weavers approached me. Zifa speaks less English than Biljana but told me that there was an event in the city in an hour. It was in remembrance of Srebrenica. I had previously garnered that Zifa had lost a son and two brothers in the genocide in 1995, so I knew this was important to her. I gathered my things to get ready to leave.

When I first met Zifa, I immediately knew that I would like her. She has a very warm and inviting personality and is constantly smiling. The more I find out about her, the more I am impressed with her strength.

The event in the city happens every month on the eleventh as a constant reminder of Srebrenica and a plea that it never happens again. Mostly women attend and carry colorful cushions of the names of those killed and still left unaccounted for. They stand in silence at the main square for a few minutes, pray, and then it is over.

As we walked back to BOSFAM, I thanked Zifa for bringing me with her and sharing this experience with me. She smiled at me and said, “Vi ste moje ljepotice.” You are my beauties.

We returned and Zifa got back to work on her loom and Julia (my colleague) and I went upstairs to visit with a few of the other women. That was when I heard something that would really solidify my love for Zifa. She never goes to the square for this protest because she sees the picture of her son’s face whom she lost 16 years ago. It is too difficult. She only went because we were here. I wanted to hug her, I wanted to cry, and I wanted to just say “thank you” a million times over. I wanted to show her how much it meant to me that she showed me her past in such an intimate way. All I could do was to barely articulate, “Hvala.” Thank you.

Below is a link to my youtube video about the protest in the main square.

Remembering Srebrenica