The silence of Sarajevo

The bus continued to descend along the mountain road and gradually sank into this long and narrow city in the valley. There were a few scattered passenger buses parked at the East Bus Terminal, and the waiting hall was deserted, like a store about to close. The small window of the foreign currency exchange shop has been closed, and the girl can still be seen sitting through the glass. She knocked on the window and barely exchanged a few words, which probably meant that the exchange could no longer be done. After leaving the station, the rain outside became heavier, the sky was gloomy and dark, and the surrounding area was deserted. There were no commercial facilities, no bus or taxi stations, and no swarm of strange faces coming forward to sell accommodation, meals, and car services. . We were stuck in a quagmire and a little panicked.

In order to find out the location of the nearby bus station and to find the exchange point for Bosnian Marks, I walked around in the rain within a radius of three to four hundred meters. Because on weekends, banks and shops are closed, and there are almost no pedestrians or vehicles along the way. Occasionally, a man will whisper "TAXI" to you, which makes me feel the silence and loneliness of this city.

Searching Google Maps, a dotted line stretches from the southern end of the city, dividing Sarajevo into two parts. Most of it belongs to the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina in the west, and a small part belongs to the Serbian Republic and the State in the east. , two different entities belonging to the same country. I couldn't help but think of Berlin and Jerusalem, as if I were crossing the former Berlin Wall, or passing under the Jaffa Gate in the Old City of Jerusalem. I can't see the dotted line, but I deeply feel that an invisible ravine always cuts across this city and this country.

The Miliyac River is not wide and runs through the entire city from east to west. On the slopes on the north and south sides, there are dense red-tiled buildings and patches of white cemeteries. Life and death are in the same world. There is no distinction between yin and yang. Our house is on the south bank. Standing on the balcony on the 19th floor, we can overlook the snow-capped mountains and vegetation in the distance. Right now we see the slowly flowing river, Bosnia Street, which is almost parallel to the river, and the light rail trains that carry the bang, bang, and boring until the old age. The end of the city.

The residential area is very quiet. The strange neighbors in the elevator car say "Hi!" to each other in a calm and natural manner, and then they go up and down and in and out separately. Everything is immersed in a peaceful atmosphere. . There are varying numbers of bullet holes in the exterior walls of several high-rise buildings in the community. The damage to the walls is not serious, but it is very obvious. Walking along Bosnian Avenue towards the old city, the graffiti on the exterior walls of the buildings on both sides is like an art gallery, expressing unclear thoughts; there are also some spray-painted slogans, and the translated meanings mostly imply helplessness, grief and indignation. Even feelings of hatred. When we turned a street corner, a huge slogan more than two meters high was painted on the wall: Don’t forget Sbrebnica! In a building next to the Sacred Heart Cathedral, there is an exhibition open all year round. The content is about the ethnic civil war that occurred in the Sbrebnica region in eastern Bosnia and Herzegovina in 1992, which resulted in the local Muslim civilians being purged by their Serb compatriots. . The entrance is very narrow, the passage is very dark, and some of the pictures on the wall are a bit bloody. We took the dim elevator to the third floor and had to walk through a passage before arriving at a room that resembled a reception desk. There were two staff members, sitting quietly and not seeming to be in a hurry to get up to receive them. We thought of corpses, coffins, and tombs. We hesitated, quietly retraced our steps and exited the building. We never see the truth, all we see is the opinions of different ethnic groups.

The accusations of Bosnians seem to be floating around every corner of the city, and the suffering of Bosnians can actually be seen. Women in headscarves sell second-hand clothes hanging on the roadside walls; children in twos and threes will follow passers-by begging for food or a small amount of marks. A little girl of six or seven years old was sitting on the street corner singing, babbling and singing with great enthusiasm. There was a cardboard box in front of her. It has become commonplace for locals to come and go, just like we would dismiss street beggars in China. I stood in the distance and observed for a long time. The girl sang songs one after another, but there were very few passers-by giving. I walked up, bent down and put down a few coins and asked her where they came from. I repeated, and the girl barely understood and softly said "Bosnia". Before, I had always thought they were refugees from the Middle East.

The moment she answered me softly, she looked shy and melancholy. At the National Museum in Sarajevo, we saw many messages from Middle Eastern refugees, which meant that they were grateful to the city for giving them a chance to survive, but they hoped that fixed refugee camps could be established to solve their urgent life problems. Bosnia itself has not yet recovered from the civil war, and poverty and backwardness still exist. Even in a big city like Sarajevo, the scars of the war are preserved intentionally or unintentionally. Broken walls, bullet holes, and bullet holes are integrated into almost every aspect of the city. How do the memorial walls, tombstones, and statues in the corners take care of the refugees from the Middle East who have fled? I stood on the mountain of Huangbao, overlooking the whole city at dusk. This is a city "ruled" by mosques, minarets and white cemeteries. The invasion of the Ottoman Turks separated compatriots from the same sect. On the road of no return of ethnic and religious antagonism. Is faith for peace or war, for wealth or poverty, for salvation or self-mutilation, for heaven or hell? I'm still confused.

Sarajevo is like this, quiet and ordinary on the surface. Turbans and robes coexist with fashionable clothes, and bullet holes and glass curtain walls coexist; on one side is angry graffiti, on the other is an indifferent face; on one side is the Catholic church, on the other is the minaret, Mu Anjin’s heavy preaching sound and the church The crisp ringing of the bell echoed over the city at the same time. The great figures admired by Serbia, Walter, Princip, Tesla, and Andric, their statues and monuments can also be found on the streets of Sarajevo, and they are regarded as their common national heroes. Compared to Belgrade, Sarajevo is more like a sufferer or a depressed person, always depressed and silent.

I don’t have any faith, but I still pray deeply for Sarajevo, hoping that what is deposited deep in their hearts is the seeds of hope instead of the flames of hatred.

Text: Mao Hongge

Photography: Mao Hongge