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Every time I fly into Sarajevo, and my plane cruises low over Mount Igman, crushing the thick, grey clouds, I hear that fairy-tale voice inside my head: Once upon a time, in a place not so far away, a city on the river, a city in Europe at the end of the twentieth century, fell under siege. It was a time of great darkness for the people. Inside the city, which was surrounded by mountains, there was no water, electricity, heating, petrol, food or comforts.
Packs of hungry wild dogs roamed the streets, picking up pieces of human flesh. Hundreds, sometimes thousands of artillery shells fell on the once-beautiful city on the river, which was smashed to pieces, and evil snipers perched on hillside mounts, taking aim at women and children running across the street. The soft flesh of knees and thighs was particularly vulnerable: easier to hit. People burned their books to keep warm and gathered twigs in the city parks.
The elderly died in their beds, freezing to death, alone, clutching at dirty sheets. An old man was shot between the eyes by a particularly accurate sniper. As for the children who came of age during this siege, they learned to live with fear, to comfort their parents during artillery attacks, and to understand madness. Schools stopped and time froze. There were no birthday parties, no cakes made with fresh eggs, no chocolate bars, no Christmas trees for the Christians or toys for the Muslims at Bajram, or play dates or singalongs.
There was no future and there were no dreams. Once upon a time, in the city on the river, 11, people were killed, 1, of them children. Some 19, people were injured and the damages were nearly always horrific: gunshot wounds, amputations and paralysis. There were so many stories. The young teenage swimmer who lost her breast. The boys who loved soccer who lost feet, legs. The girl who became Miss Sarajevo dyeing her hair with lye.
