One of those rare cases when I have to make a huge effort in order not to cry over a New York Times story. A travel story.
Emerging From the Shadow of War, Sarajevo Slowly Reclaims Its Lost Innocence, by Christopher Solomon:
Fikret Kahrovic was in the militia defending the city, but he does not offer much about the war, in a way that makes me think he could say plenty. He used to be angry all the time, he says, but not anymore.
"It was," he says, "like a very old and very bad movie that you watched once upon a time." His voice seems flat, affectless.
And ordnance. From the countless shells that had rained on Sarajevo, the craftsman had stamped flower vases. Bullets had become ballpoint pens that read "Bosnia."
Among the war's many small cruelties was how it forced residents to loathe their beloved hills; the snipers watched from those hills.
Now the city has its views back.
Sometimes, rounding a corner on a snowy afternoon, I would look up to catch a shard of sunshine passing over white roofs on the steep, snow-covered hillsides above the city, and black pines disappearing into low clouds — a glimpse of Switzerland strung between minaret and bullet-pocked cornice. [...]
I wanted to run away to Sarajevo a year ago, but instead I got pregnant and now I have Marta.