This is one of the most difficult blogs I've ever written.These are shells from the war in Bosnia. These shells were found all over Sarajevo and turned into artwork for people to purchase. I was a bit hesitant to post these because I don't want to appear to be one of those people who like to collect disgusting things. To me, it is remembrance and I can only hope that the people who make and sell these feel the same way. We must remember the war in the former Yugoslavia. But friends, I have to tell you something very alarming. It is being remembered in bitterness, hate, and rage all over the world. I can only pray that by saying I bought these remnants of the war that I'll remember the tragedy and pray for healing.
I was eating dinner with some friends recently. At the table were two Americans and three Bulgarians. The Americans were women. The Bulgarians were two men and one woman. I suppose the topic of the war in Bosnia came up because I had recently returned from visiting it. These words came out of someone's mouth, "We supported Serbia. We don't like Muslims."
They echo between my ears and the reverberation makes my heart ache, "We supported Serbia. We don't like Muslims."
This calls to my memory a conversation my mother and I had while we were in Sarajevo. We were visiting the brother and his wife of a friend of my mother. We sat in a beautifully renovated apartment on the top floor of a block only a few hundred meters off Sniper Alley. He told us how people say Sarajevo looks so healed. It is so well renovated, remodeled. "Nothing has changed here. Bosnia is ready for war again."
"Bosnia is ready for war again."
When my Bulgarian friends declared their alliance with the Serbian position and their dislike of Muslims, I held my tongue. I couldn't argue with them. I couldn't tell them that the most love I've received in this country is from my Muslim friends and family here. I couldn't tell them that lowering themselves to such base hatred makes them lesser creatures than their own perception of the people who are objects of their low emotions. I couldn't explain how the war in Bosnia was much more complicated than just religious tensions. But it's what I wanted to say.
I watched Hotel Rwanda last night. I had to stop it occasionally and use the food on the stove as an excuse to take a break from the intensity of the film. When it was over I laid on my couch and sobbed. SOBBED. I was 13 years old in 1994.
A 13 year old girl in America can tell you about the private lives of her favorite film and pop stars. She has begun sexually maturing and has likely had a sexual experience if not intercourse. She knows about fashion. She knows how to find friends all over the internet. She knows the latest gossip in Hollywood. She's aware of the president's latest scandal, but nothing of his politics. She may know the name of her state governor, and perhaps what political party he aligns himself with. She probably cannot tell you what a senator is.
All I ever knew of the war in Bosnia was from the Cranberries song, "Sarajevo." I didn't know ANYTHING ANYTHING about Rwanda.
As I laid on my couch last night and sobbed, I cried outloud, "How come I never knew? I was thirteen years old." When the war in Rwanda ended I was thirteen years old and I knew nothing about it. Who's fault is that? My parents? The media? My own? The UN?
It's the world's responsibility to stay aware. To educate each other.
In my elective classes this year, I'll be doing units on genocide. I will include Rwanda, Kosovo, Bosnia, Afghanistan. My students do not know. If you know of any websites with lesson plans on these topics then please email me. If you have any books on these topics which are not terribly difficult to read, please mail them to me (I'll give you my mailing address).
If you have a story WRITE IT!!
If you have a picture SHOW IT!!
If you have a song SING IT!!
MAKE SURE THE WORLD KNOWS!
2 comments:
Those shells are beautiful.
They make me think, just as I did about my grandmother's ring: did that bullet kill anyone? Wound anyone? Did it miss? Would that make a difference to how I feel about it? What's the story of the person who fired it? What's the story of the person it was fired at?
Both sides of what makes us human, all wrapped up in one. The urge to create superimposed on the urge to destroy.
I remember Rwanda. I was sixteen. I remember it happening, and wondering how on earth people could get to the point where they think mass killing is the right thing to do.
I did a subject at uni a few years ago called history's killing fields. It covered many acts of mass killing and genocide, including the Australian Aboriginies, Rwanda, WWII, Cambodia and others. If you like I could dig up my old course guide and reader and send them to you (although I would like them back at some point). Send me your address if you're interested.
This was a great and very important post, Maegen. I watched Hotel Rwanda in the states in the theater, and unfortunately didn't have the chance to take breaks from it. I didn't know how much it affected me til I got home and broke down and cried hysterically, to the point I couldn't breathe. I remember Rwanda happening. I remember seeing the news and hearing about it in class. But I thought, "well, it's just those Africans killing themselves again." And that is why I cried. Because too many people think the this way. Myself included. Too many people can look at another group and not see them as human, as brothers and sisters, but as Them. Whether we see these people as Africans, Muslims, Roma, or whatever, it is one of the worst traits we have as a society. Thank you for reminding us. I hope and pray that someday we will see ourselves, the whole world, as brothers and sisters without any other constuctions.
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