SCATTERED LIKE LOST WORDS

Sometimes I forget. Sometimes I don’t remember. Sometimes I have no idea. How was it that I lived that way? I left the last time alone for Sarajevo March 22, 1999. It seems like I am always going to Bosnia. I have a story to tell you. This indefinable you. I start here, as there is nowhere else. I have no idea what I shall write. Is it my story? Is it there story? Is it their story? This debit I owe. This task I undertake. How to write a dream atop an Athol on? So patient as if it never needed to be done. I remember this night five years ago in Zenica more than I did then alone in a strange and far off land. I had arrived in Bosnia in April and in my three months I hadn’t learned too much language, but I think I got my points across. It was the satellite receiver the head of mission couldn’t figure out anyways that got me started. The month MTV Europe was no longer free and Srebrenica was so ethnically cleansed. The war was almost over or so it had to be after so many years. Sarajevo was still closed and the communal koan of peace, the street car beat, was silent. How could it be imagined, who conceived who knew this Srebrenica to come? It was the only time I spent in Bosnia and understood fully I was not Bosnian. I was not from here. I had arrived to bare witness the end. We were all there from every nation on earth and they for the most part had been no where else. I processed Srebrenica as yet one case in point that the international peace mission, which I was apart jaron, was just what Helen Keller described as the “Tragic Apology for wrong conditions.” I was a volunteer and it was different for me. I had come for a bed. That is my story. They had survived for the end. That is their story, but as I watched their faces on that day five years ago, I didn’t see anyone. Everything could be worse…no one is prepared for that, and so I continue this journey tonight following the path which I have followed to exhaustion. How will it come out of me? It came out of them slowly as I watched the months roll by. So shall this from me. I keep in mind two things, the words of a man my uncle crossed the Atlantic with so long ago:
“Perhaps the sentiments contained in the following pages, are not YET sufficiently fashionable to procure them general favour; a long habit of not thinking a thing WRONG, gives it a superficial appearance of being RIGHT, and raises at first a formidable outcry in defense of custom. But the tumult soon subsides. Time makes more converts than reason.”
And that peace finally did arrive and the street cars sing Sarajevo peace today.