What attracted Bill Carter, a guy from Chico, California to Bosnia during the 1992-1996 Siege of Sarajevo?

Bill wrote Fools Rush In in 2005. It’s an intense memoir of the sequence of events that led him to board an aid bus to Sarajevo, evade sniper’s bullets, and as fate would have it, help U2 broadcast Sarajevo’s struggle for survival during their Zoo TV tours. You could even say this young guy from California had a hand in stopping the war.

How did Bill end up in this extreme situation, evading sniper’s bullets that were not exactly meant for him? Partly he admits to a subconscious death wish after losing his deeply loved fiancée to a car accident. And partly he describes an extreme selflessness and desire to help. In the book, he speaks of losing one’s ego — losing a sense of needing something for oneself, and in the process, being capable of extraordinary things.

I had the luck of meeting Bill Carter at a literary event in San Francisco. I was still processing my 6 weeks traveling through the Balkans and our conversation couldn’t have been timelier. I wanted to know, “How do people survive through a war like that? How do they go on?” His book describes exactly how people do survive, and how they go on. He also made the film Miss Sarajevo, the title taken from beauty pageants that continued to go on underground while the bombing went on above.

Sarajevo impacted me like no other city. Traditionally a model city where Muslims, Croats, Jews, Christians intermarried and did not label people by their religions, it is truly where East Meets West. An ancient city that has hosted everyone from weary Arabian nomads to 1984 Winter Olympiads, Sarajevo feels like a city that has survived.

During the Siege, they planted vegetables in window boxes. They hid in their basements. They braved bullets to get drinking water each day. They drank, they partied, they fought.

I will never forget speaking with an ex-Bosnian soldier, now a tour guide, who was about 15 when the war broke out. “There was no choice. If you were living in Sarajevo at this time you either fought as a citizen or you joined the army.” He was shot twice. He could have had a military career, but instead he decided to give tours of the Sarajevo Tunnel to make sure people keep talking about what happened there.

The adolescents who survived the Siege are now 30-somethings deciding the future of Sarajevo, of which Bill Carter is now anhonorary citizen. Bill told me, “It’s odd. People don’t exactly miss the war, but they miss the way that people came together to help each other. The intensity of surviving, of living life each day.” To me, that love of life defines Sarajevo.

I’ve started the school year at a small school in Sarajevo after spending 10 months teaching teenagers in Southeast Asia. Teaching assertive Bosnian students takes some getting used to; typically, half my class time in Bangkok last year would be spent coaxing trembling students to speak more loudly and loosen up. Many of the Thai children were anxious about embarrassing themselves, to the detriment of their language learning. So much of the process depends on a certain self-assurance and buoyancy, despite the inevitable mistakes that will be made (and must be made, in order to improve) – sometimes I felt the culture’s emphasis on ‘saving face’ was at the root of this inhibition in the classroom.
It seems I am now living in the other extreme: a country without a single timid citizen. At least one shy Bosnian student must exist somewhere, but I have yet to encounter this wallflower in my classroom. I am continually astonished by the children’s confidence and willingness to contribute – even the weaker students are ready volunteers. The Bosnian kids are not afraid to dive into things. And many of their accents are impeccable, which they attribute mostly to Cartoon Network and other English-language TV programming. We’ve had lots of Justin Beiber and
Twilight Robert-versus-Jacob discussions. Two of my classes have requested to talk about American slang for a few minutes at the end of every class, sessions that proved extremely diverting, one of which led one teenager to say a word so ugly and forbidden in my country that I was temporarily speechless (it starts with a N). The students saw me blanch, and were confused. “What part of what I said was not OK?” asked the girl. I explained that, were I to repeat the word in public back home, I would be instantly fired and maybe sued. “People my age were raised to know that we can’t use this word because of its terrible past,” I told them. “It’s just
something you are always aware of growing up. Your language has forbidden words, too.” This made them even more mystified. “How can that be true?” another student asked. “It’s not forbidden. It’s in half the American songs we listen to, and lots of the movies we watch. The word
is everywhere, and also, the way it’s said, it seems like it’s not even a negative meaning.”

The discussion was now in pretty heavy territory, but the kids were completely rapt. I still don’t know if I’m satisfied with how I dealt with it. I wrote the phrase ‘Reclaiming a word’ on the board and began talking about the cultural processes by which a minority group might re-appropriate a word use to oppress them. I talked about how a word might be both a pejorative and a term of endearment, depending on the source. When I started talking about the NAACP’s official stance, I remembered that I was teaching an Upper-Intermediate English class, who needed to review auxiliary verbs.
“Any questions?”
“Not really,” said the girl who had first said the word. “But it’s really strange
for us. In Bosnia, a bad word is a bad word for everyone.”
What do you say to that? I kept thinking about my class’s reaction when I got home. We had stumbled into a complex issue, but the fifteen-year-olds were more than equipped to handle it – I love that they aren’t afraid to debate the teacher, and question baffling cultural practices. People are not afraid to speak their mind.

Beggars are not only a Balkan problem; they can be found everywhere from Beijing to New York and in rich and poor countries. However beggars are definitely in high number in the Balkan. No way you can visit Bosnia or the Balkan and not have an encounter with them.In Bosnia, there is a lot of Romanies (or gypsies) begging on the streets. They belong to an ethnic group migrated northward long ago from Central Asia and India and ended up in Eastern Europe. There are few official numbers of their population, but it is difficult to come to an exact number especially in the Balkan where censuses are not done frequently. The unofficial number is about 700,000. Bosnia has the highest despite being a very small country with only 4 millions people. Romanies are seldom fully integrated in society. The vast majority is barely educated, unemployed and thus suffering a far less desirable living standards.

It’s understandable that if you are a Roma with literally no opportunity, you end up begging. By begging, the Roma have created even more negative images among the local population in Bosnia. People look down on them and consider them almost un-human and often associate the entire Romani population with begging. Bosnians say that the Roma are begging not because they are hungry but because they want to buy alcohol and cigarettes. It is hard to form your own opinion on this matter since there are two sides to the story. For one thing, I have seen Roma kids begging and running off to give money to their father who is sitting in a bar drinking. But I also saw a really skinny poor kid asking me not for money but only for something to eat.

Having other people looking down on their race and skin gradually cements a vicious circle and limits their chance to opportunities which are already scarce in Bosnia. The only way out is for the government to provide the Roma jobs and educational opportunities which is difficult since Bosnia already has enough problems without the Roma being there. The solution to this problem seems unreal with Bosnia still struggling to first solve its own problems with its divided “white” ethnic groups before even casting an eye on the “darker” Roma.The problem will not solve itself, and action is needed in order to improve the living standards of the Roma and to give them chances in life. The first Roma children in Bosnia have already gone to high school and there are a few organizations trying to give more to the Roma more. I personally think it will take a long time until Roma beggars and the Balkan are two separate things.

The Ottoman rule over Bosnia officially ended in 1908 when the country was annexed by the Austro-Hungarian Empire. They have left the Bosnia for over 100 years now, but their influence over Bosnian culture is hard to ignored. The famous burek was a traditional Ottoman food; Bosnians still drink a lot of Turkish coffee; 40% of the population are Muslims; folk music sounds remarkably Turkish; and most old buildings in Old quarters were built in Ottoman style.

Mostar bears many remnants of the Ottoman influence. Not only the Old Bridge is the ultimate Ottoman symbol, but also in the Old part of Mostar around the bridge, one can find many beautiful examples of Ottoman architecture.  There are two very beautifully preserved Ottoman houses open to public with a small entrance fee. One of them is the Muslibegovic house, named after the family who is living there. Beside being a museum, this house is also a lovely hotel where you can sleep and dream back to the Ottoman days. The other one you will recognize by the signs marking it as Turkish house.  Both houses are worth a visit; they are beautiful and bring back this exotic Oriental spirit to life.

I have been only to Muslibegovic house, which is located a little bit off the main road.  The owner is a very humble and sweet older man who speaks a mix of at least five languages when talking to people.   He spoke passionately about the Ottoman period and the house which was built by his ancestors. Spending the night there and staying and walking around among the rooms was priceless and magical.  I felt like a princess who had just stepped out of one of the stories of 1001 Arabian Nights.

I wake up at 9:30 and walk to the bakery five minutes from my door. I pay half a KM, about 25 cents, for a buhtla cokoladna – a warm roll with chocolate inside that I buy regularly but can never pronounce correctly. Returning home to eat, I watch an older episode of Oprah, which, as with all television programs in Sarajevo, is in its original language with local language subtitles. This has been a useful way to improve my vocabulary.

I leave home at 11, stopping by the Internet café to check email – there are two computers with dial-up connections at work, but there are usually teachers in line to use them. I take a shortcut through the outdoor market and when I arrive at the school, I make photocopies and short notes for my one-to-one lesson. I head across the street for lunch. That will be my main meal of the day because lasses run from 5 to 9:40. Dinner will be yogurt and fruit at my desk during the twenty-minute break.

I look forward to my one-to-one lesson every week, and it goes well. The student I work with is around my age, and she has chosen to go through the nuts and bolts of grammar with a local teacher and to focus on conversation with me. After nearly a year of this arrangement, I sometimes worry about coming up with interesting topics to discuss. Today we both take a personality test and agree that it does offer some insight into our respective characters.

When the one-to-one ends, I have about two hours to prepare for four hours of classes. I’ve taught similar lessons before, so I can get ready quickly, but usually I would need most of that time or more. I run out the door to buy my dinner at 4:45.

My first class is an elementary level group. I can speak enough of the language to translate if I need to, but I try not to. The book is designed so that translation shouldn’t be necessary, and the students signed up for the course knowing they would be “forced” to communicate in English with a native speaker. Occasionally we have trouble with instructions, but we always figure it out somehow. I like teaching this level because students can see their progress so quickly after each class.

The next class is an upper-intermediate group, and most of the students are teenagers. Only a few have done their homework, so we spend ten minutes working on that and then check answers together. Whispered conversations and giggling are not infrequent in this class. Sometimes I interrupt by calling on one of the chatters, and sometimes I ignore them. One student is a high-profile attorney in his fifties or sixties. I know this because I’ve seen him on television. He tries to help me keep the class in line.

After classes end, I record what I covered in the register so the teacher who works with the group the other day will know where to begin. I feel rushed because the front desk manager wants to go home. He keeps coming in to check if we are done. I finally finish and as I pass by him on the way out, I tell him my co-worker is writing “Rat i Mir”, War and Peace: she is writing a lot, more than me, even. He high fives me for the joke and I head out for the end of my night.
My Sarajevo Landlady [I changed this title...it fit on my blog but sounds weird and people won't know what tefl is...]
She was an old woman, seventy-five years old, she told me, holding up seven fingers and then five. The day I moved into the flat in the building her family owned, she came up the steps the first day with some homemade sirnica, cheese pie. Every week or so she would come up the stairs slowly, bearing some kind of food. If I ever knocked on her door, she would invite me in for coffee and warm up some food for me.

She told me that she did this because her mother had died when she was young. She knew what it was like not to have a mother around to care for me. When Bajram arrived, the holiday when people feast for multiple days, she made it up the stairs with a full tray of baklava. Such a big tray I don’t know how it even fit in her oven! I was in a hurry, and she said something with a number. I assumed she was trying to explain that Bajram was a three- or four-day holiday. I thanked her and took the tray, saying it was too much for me. I had a half-size refrigerator – I couldn’t fit all the balklava in there even when I redistributed it into a Tupperware container.

Later that day, I went down when her daughter-in-law was there. She was the only one who spoke English so I tried to explain in greater detail. Maybe there had been a mistake? Maybe she had meant for me to take four pieces? I couldn’t imagine why she would bring the whole tray up the stairs when she only wanted me to take four pieces, but I just couldn’t believe it was all for me. No, said the daughter-in-law, it was for me and I should bring it to work. It was difficult even to transport it on the tram there was so much, and even after bringing it to work, I had baklava to last me well into the next month.

A few months later the end of my time in Bosnia arrived. My mother had taught me how to crochet on a trip to the US, so I decided to make a scarf for her. When I presented her with it, she said she hoped she had not done anything wrong to make me leave. I tried to reassure her as much as I could in my broken Bosnian: it had nothing to do with her! In fact she’d made my stay all the more pleasant. She told me she had wanted to come up more often, and someone had even suggested she get me to teach her English. Obviously these things had nothing to do with my leaving.

An hour before I left for the bus station, she came up to give me a small wrapped package. Inside were two pairs of nylons. One for me and one for my mother.

If you are somewhat outdoorsy and planning a Balkans vacation, there is
simply no excuse not to take a Green Visions trip. Green Visions, an eco-tourism
agency based in Sarajevo, has been leading treks in the Bosnian mountains from
May to October for over a decade now (as well as offering other types of trips, such
as white-water rafting). They are well organized, decently priced, and their trained
guides have important knowledge of all the mountain areas that have still not been
cleared of land mines.
This August, my friend Ian and I signed up for a two-day hike to mine-free
Bjelasnica, a stunning mountain only twenty minutes outside Sarajevo. There were
six of us: a French diplomat and his Bosnian girlfriend, a German psychology
professor, Ian (UN intern) and I, and our intrepid Green Visions leader. Before the
war, our guide was a concert flutist with the Sarajevo Philharmonic Orchestra, and
then spent most of the ‘90s as a refugee in Holland. His runner-up location for
asylum, he told us, was Vermont – simply for its mountains.
I’ve lived in Vermont and so am spoiled for views, but beautiful Bjelasnica
and the surrounding peaks that weekend still impressed. Bjelasnica hosted the men’s
alpine-skiing events in the Winter Olympics of ’84, and the steep incline was pretty
tough at the beginning, until most of us hit our strides. After lunch, the French-
Bosnian couple requested a less strenuous pace, and our guide generously
accommodated them. By mid-afternoon, we were already in the tiny village of
Umoljani, where we spent the night in a traditional lodge. Unfortunately, Ian and I
only had 4 Bosnian marks between us (at time of writing, two dollars and sixty cents)
and so could not haggle for any of the handmade mittens being hawked by charming
roadside vendors. We also could not purchase much to drink with the (otherwise
included) delicious dinner, and this is my only real complaint about the trip. Green
Visions should tell you to bring a little money on the trail!
Despite small finance issues, the quality of the meals and company was
excellent, and the scenery was incredible. This country’s biggest assets are its natural
resources, which anyone will see by doing a Google image search for ‘Bosnian
mountains.’ Yet the German professor told the group he was travelling alone because
he couldn’t convince anyone to come to Bosnia with him. “They just think of the
war.” This is a common refrain despite the fact that the war was now fifteen years
ago. Bosnia is a gorgeous and affordable gem, especially for anyone who loves
nature. Book a tour or DIY – either way it’s a must-see.

Green Visions website: www.greenvisions.ba (it’s actually under construction right
now)

Green Visions skype: greenvisions

She was an old woman, seventy-five years old, she told me, holding up seven fingers and then five. The day I moved into the flat in the building her family owned, she came up the steps the first day with some homemade sirnica, cheese pie. Every week or so she would come up the stairs slowly, bearing some kind of food. If I ever knocked on her door, she would invite me in for coffee and warm up some food for me.

She told me that she did this because her mother had died when she was young. She knew what it was like not to have a mother around to care for me. When Bajram arrived, the holiday when people feast for multiple days, she made it up the stairs with a full tray of baklava. Such a big tray I don’t know how it even fit in her oven! I was in a hurry, and she said something with a number. I assumed she was trying to explain that Bajram was a three- or four-day holiday. I thanked her and took the tray, saying it was too much for me. I had a half-size refrigerator I couldn’t fit all the balklava in there even when I redistributed it into a Tupperware container.

Later that day, I went down when her daughter-in-law was there. She was the only one who spoke English so I tried to explain in greater detail. Maybe there had been a mistake? Maybe she had meant for me to take four pieces? I couldn’t imagine why she would bring the whole tray up the stairs when she only wanted me to take four pieces, but I just couldn’t believe it was all for me. No, said the daughter-in-law, it was for me and I should bring it to work. It was difficult even to transport it on the tram there was so much, and even after bringing it to work, I had baklava to last me well into the next month.

A few months later the end of my time in Bosnia arrived. My mother had taught me how to crochet on a trip to the US, so I decided to make a scarf for her. When I presented her with it, she said she hoped she had not done anything wrong to make me leave. I tried to reassure her as much as I could in my broken Bosnian: it had nothing to do with her! In fact she’d made my stay all the more pleasant. She told me she had wanted to come up more often, and someone had even suggested she get me to teach her English. Obviously these things had nothing to do with my leaving.

An hour before I left for the bus station, she came up to give me a small wrapped package. Inside were two pairs of nylons. One for me and one for my mother.

• Corinne van Egeraat’s Cowboys in Kosovo uses compassion and humor to show how four men who grew up together feel about the “cowboy games” they played as children after living through war.
• Jasmila Zbanic’s (winner of the 2006 Golden Bear top prize at Berlin Film Festival)Images from the CornerandRed Rubber Bootsexamines the long-lasting impact of loss and exploitive media coverage.
• Roberto Forns-Broggi’sHouse of Wisdom, drawing strong influence from the French new wave travelogue films, depicts the loss of cultural Sarajevo’s cultural artifacts after immense looting.
• Zelimir Gvardiol’sRavens is the story of a family deeply divided over a medal of bravery posthumously awarded to their son who died in Milosevic’s army;It’s Only Mineuncovers the struggle middle class Serbs are grappling with to regain their property that was seized by the Communist police;I Don’t Know Where, Or When, Or Howillustrates how the shortages of food and resources during wartime first impact the vulnerable elderly population;Father, Son, Holy Ghost
  

For press requests contact:press@millionmoviesaminute.com