One Day the Soldiers Came - Charles London [102]
Another war was not out of the question, but war was not, however, the major concern for the children on Mount Igman, neither memories of the war if they were old enough to remember, nor fears of a new war coming. They had more pressing concerns than politics and warfare.
“There is too much crime in the city,” Elvira said. “There are too many drugs and no jobs. It is very hard in Bosnia, you know?”
Elvira was a high school student, a plucky girl who spoke English well, fretted about boys, and enjoyed looking after the younger kids on the mountain. More than once, I saw her scold Christof for his attitude toward the weaker or littler children. She was a bright, motivated youth, who, under different circumstances, would have found life brimming with opportunities.
“The problem is,” she explained, “there are no jobs. I do not know what I’ll do after school. Even with a university degree, there is no work.” Bosnia has a 40 percent unemployment rate and young people are often anxious to leave. Elvira spoke German and hinted at the possibility she might go there, though Sarajevo was her home and she was not eager to leave it. Her family had stayed through the war, hiding in basements with their neighbors, dodging sniper fire to get water from the well or firewood to heat their home. Why would she leave now? She was conflicted and hoped the situation would change.
After coming down from the mountain and spending some time in the city, I sat on a rooftop with a group of men in their early twenties. We drank beer and looked at the burnt out towers of the twin skyscrapers, nicknamed Momo and Uzeir. Momo, a Serbian name, and Uzier, a Bosnian name, gave the towers significance before the war. They represented Bosnian unity. Because no one knew which building carried which name, both towers were destroyed in the siege. Now the corpses of the twin buildings stand as far more grim reminder of what brother can do to brother.
Next to us, the old police barracks still stood, though mortars had ripped it open and torn its guts out. The rooftop on which we sat took a hit and bore a huge gash in its side, the metal railing twisted and bent.
“They used to lob mortars at the station and hit our apartment building,” Omar told me. “I lived on the other side of the building, so it was okay. Though we still went to the basement when the shelling was close. It was an exciting time.”
Omar laughed and joked about the war. He was a young teenager during the siege and the whole thing had seemed like an adventure. He reminded me of Anna Freud’s conjecture about the children during the bombing of London in World War II; that the young could not only handle but even enjoy the chaos of war, so long as it only threatened their lives and disrupted their routine, so long as the family stayed together. He and his family survived. For him, the war was a distant memory, one that did not trouble him greatly.
“I’m not traumatized,” he laughed. “No more than anyone else in this crazy city.” He took a drag on a cigarette and ran his hand through his dreadlocks. He wore a T-shirt that read Don’t Panic, I’m Islamic that he got a great kick out of quoting every time we mentioned that I was American.
“The economy, man, that’s my problem,” he finally said, after giving some thought to the host of problems facing a young Muslim man in the Balkans. “That’s what gives me nightmares. There’s nothing to do in this town and no way to make money.” He made a little, he explained, selling small bits of marijuana to his friends.
“There are some hardcore dealers in the city too, dangerous guys. They weren