Coming home to my mother’s computer is a bit like unearthing a time capsule.¹ Buried beneath the surface (/”recent items”) are our old essays, outdated playlists and forgotten photos. Each click provides passage back to emotions and experiences past. I cringe over some items and quickly return them to the vault, but mostly this process elicits an intense sense of appreciation for my family, friends, and hard-earned life lessons.
This morning I embarked on one such expedition and uncovered treasured images from a 2001 visit to Bosnia. Perhaps it’s symptomatic of hindsight, but rediscovering this particular folder now has me reflecting… strive as we might to grasp the full profundity of certain moments as they transpire, layers and layers of yet deeper significance inevitably manifest with the passage of time.
Though Bosnia’s interstate conflict had officially ended in 1995, its vestiges were clearly visible that summer. Many of the buildings remained in disrepair, standing out like melted candles of glass and rubble upon the horizon. It seemed as though sprawling cemeteries had claimed every spare space — along roadsides, at freeway intersections, and in city hearts.
Yet, within cafés whose walls bore shrapnel scars life, laughter, and friendships abounded. In the capital city, “Sarajevo roses” (mortar wounded pavement filled with resin) decorated the cityscape in a conspicuously chilling juxtaposition of death and life, acceptance and perseverance.
Our group of twelve traveled to Bihac, Banja Luka, Tuzla, Zenica, Travnik and Sarajevo to offer a dramatic arts presentation and lead interactive workshops on topics such as prejudice, gender equality, ethnic divides, drug and alcohol abuse, extremes of wealth and poverty, group consultation, youth empowerment, and global citizenry.
I remember thinking I was at least somewhat prepared for the visit. I’d had the fortune of befriending a truly remarkable individual during my freshman year in college, and over the course of rooming together for two years and spending time with her family, I’d gained scattered glimpses into her childhood in Sarajevo. I’d also taken a few courses on international conflict, and had read analyzes and accounts of the war in Bosnia. Yet when we arrived at a camp for the women and children of Srebrenica, what once were statistics and characters in a removed reality greeted me with smiles and introduced themselves as Ajla and Amina. For some moments I guess we’re never fully prepared, but these often constitute the moments that stay with us and from which we continue to learn.
¹ Mum is slightly horrified by this unfair characterization, but I figured “coming home to my mother’s computer and plugging in her back-up external hard disk drive” was a bit too geek speak for most to relate. Maybe not? In any case and for the record, my mother has impeccable electronic filing habits.
; and am trying not to flee in panic from to master:
