A Sarajevo overture

by Yervant der Parthogh

Sitting at the bar in a wondrous little hotel in Zagreb, I wondered where and what I was headed for - a place called Bosnia - so distant and dreamy. Perhaps it would turn out to be scarier than I imagined, or perhaps as distant as I wished.
Needing that day or three to get one's bearings straight is something we all have a craving for, even when we're on holiday. But this was different, and so were the silly questions I occasionally blurted out.
where can I get my films developed and printed? 
is there a photo shop at the hotel? 
what's the cut-off time for room service? 
And gradually, reality bit from a distance. Was there room service and was there a hotel to speak of in the first place. The answer was a simple no all around and across the board.
Gradually, I say, because this is the pace at which it dawned upon me. A brief flashback took me to the top of a tent at a British base in Cyprus, circa 1974, when I wanted to feel the breasts of the luscious girl who was next to me and with whom I shared my first wet and nervous kiss.
Hell on Earth read the melodramatic signpost in my head, as I was riding shotgun in an  armored Land Rover headed for Sarajevo.
The countryside was so beautiful. It was an almost lissome and luscious beauty that had fallen victim to human rape. When the elephants fight - goes the African adage - it is the grass that pays. Humans as blades, I thought. Discomfort and fear set in. Which is worse - the fear of what we see or what we imagine. The mind starts reeling and Sarajevo draws nearer.
Draws nearer.... yes the experience does render you somewhat passive, but the reality is rough, ready and most undoubtedly real.
The driver was a goon of a human and bad company, although I didn't really pick up on this at first. I, on the other hand was a procrastinator and not interested in being the one man bandí our masters were in the market to obtain in exchange for the usual daily stipend.
I think back now and my mind reels back and struggles through the alcohol sodden stupor. It was, and remains true to this day. The smell will never go away, even though we went and left. The moment of fear will always be frozen and tangible.
Choose your distance, choose your weapon. That's the easy bit. The difficult question to answer reminds me of that kitschy poster dating back to the sixties. The one with a mushroom cloud with a single, inane, "why?" inscribed underneath.

Humbly yours,

Yervant der Parthogh

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