1/1 - eCommons@Cornell - Cornell University

drank beer in a crowded disco.
Culture is a means of survival, hope,
normality. Young men alternate between
fighting at the front and pursuing
their studies in tutorial sessions
with professors, reading by the light of
a single candle during the 15-hour winter
nights.
We distributed most of our 240
pounds of provisions to students who
appeared particularly undernourished.
Pero, for instance, whose family had no
resources, hadn't eaten anything resembling
a meal for over a week.
As four of us walked in the city,
a tiny red flare floated soundlessly
over our heads. I didn't
realize the danger until the others
pulled me toward the building.
It had been meant for us. Crossing
the bridge at night on the way
home, another silent floating red flare
missed its mark.
Everyone had lost touch with members
of their family, had been through
the agony of death or injury to someone
close. Scarred by the war, young
people seemed too old for their years.
Vibrant, elegant, sophisticated Gordana
was the life of a New Year's Eve
party. "We never took notice of nationality,"
she said. "We were Yugoslavs
from Bosnia. I can't call myself
Serb or Moslem or Croat. My grandparents
were Serb and Croat. My
mother is Moslem. I don't want to be a
refugee. I am Bosnian and Catholic.
Bosnian Moslems who practice their
religion are Bosnian," she said. She
talked about her 11-year-old brother's
injury, the shock of sitting in a car next
to the driver when the man's skull was
blown to bits.
Christmas weekend had been
peaceful as was the Monday when Ilja,
a champion skier and physics student,
proposed a tour of the city. We were
looking at displays of food and drink
being sold in the central market, "special"
for the coming New Year festivities
(low-grade meat $16 per pound,
bone included), then converting the
price of an unknown brand of Scotch
from German marks into dollars ($76)
when an explosion sent everyone
shrinking into corners. Stalls emptied
instantly.
The shell seemed to have hit just
outside the 16th century stone market.
The tour was over, as was the holiday
truce which had lasted three days. Daily
he library was
now an empty,
faceless
shell... As it
burned, snipers
shot at those
who tried to
save rare
manuscripts
and books. All
that was left
were traces of
exquisitely M
carved marble
pillars, mosaics,
frescos, a
few burned
pages of books.
bombardment became the rule. Was
that noise a truck skidding, carts being
pulled to fetch water, a shell on its trajectory?
No house or building, no street or
neighborhood was safe. There was no
escape, either, from the climate of fear,
the constant strain, the perpetual sense
of insecurity.
Sarajevo stretches out for ten miles,
like fingers in valleys, surrounded by
hills. In Sarajevo's Olympic mountains
Serb irregulars from the countryside
and the Yugoslav People's Army, with
its heavy artillery, bombard the city.
Shells rain down from the mountains;
snipers fire rifles. You are always in
range of guns.
The day before the New Year, a day
of reprieve, we set off through the ruins
from one scene of devastation to
another, through shattered streets of
burned-out buildings where gaping
holes had once been windows, past tree
roots and blasted walls. Ilja pointed out
the remnants of sculptures on cracked,
pock-marked facades. The post office
had burned for six days while snipers
turned their guns on the fire fighters.
The library was now an empty,
faceless shell. An Austro-Hungarian
edifice and the pride of Sarajevo, it had
been one of the largest in Central Europe.
As it burned, snipers shot at those
who tried to save rare manuscripts and
books. All that was left were traces of
exquisitely carved marble pillars, mosaics,
frescos, a few burned pages of
books.
After a last look at a statue of the
Pieta at the gate of a seminary, a shell
exploded nearby like a thunderbolt.
Smoke trailed into the sky. One after
another, shells fell from one end of the
city to the other. We ran along empty
streets. We ran through the center of
town, past a heap of debris and a huge
bloodstain on the main street.
The following day I lost my nerve.
We flew out on a British military plane,
one that carries rations into the city.
Departure brought relief and shame. By
leaving I had somehow failed the people
of the city. A voice from Sarajevo cries
out in despair, "Send us coffins, not humanitarian
aid, for you have condemned
us to death."
In March 1994, Elinore Schaffer returned
to Sarajevo.