One man's truth....
....is the other man's propaganda.
I went to Belgrade this weekend, and it was a confusing experience. Partially because of the female hosts, who were very charming, and partially because it made me realise that my view on the region is largely defined by the war in BiH. If not solely defined by that war.
Until 1991 Yugoslavia was just another eastern European state to me; a holiday place for my parents in the fifties, sixties and seventies. No more, no less. The break- up of the state and the war in BiH particularly where part of the rhythmn of European life when I was a teenager- I grew up with the news about it. In law school, the war was used in case studies, and as an intern at the ICTY it was my bread and butter. I never visited it when it was prosporous, and for a foreigner who works on war crime trials in BiH and who grew up watching the news about the war, it is still omnipresent here; it is my frame of reference. To cut a long story short, I have a horrible confession to make: BiH for me is not Ivo Andric, Dino Merlin, Danis Tanovic. It is not Haris Silajdzic, Vranac or Neum. It is not even Nenad, Gabelina 12 or propuh- it is it's recent history; it is 1992- 1995. I wish it was different, and I wish it was less pathetic, but it is a fact.
History is what you make of it, and it is often made by the journalists who write about it, and of the memories of people who lived it through. History is not an abstract science, where only facts count- a society is build up by the interpretation of those facts, the history. So my view of the war here is the view my friends give it, and their interpretation of the truth. And my friends live and lived in Sarajevo. And although they are surprisingly forgiving for what happenend here, and although they have very heterogenous groups of friends, and although they have been to Belgrade, their stories colour my picture of the Balkans, and even more than I was willing to admit. Since I am not from the Balkans, seeing the perspective that my friends have, and understanding the subtleties they understand is difficult; as a foreigner you tend to miss those. Things tend to stay black and white, even if you think they are grey.
Therefore Belgrade was an abstraction for me, further away than it actually geopgraphically is from Sarajevo. It was a mandatory place to see, but a trip to Morocco via Budapest and London was easier planned.
Belgrade was great. Our hosts were more than lovely, and they went out of their way to entertain and impress us. Their question why I never visited the city before, was therefore not just justified, but also painful, and at that moment impossible to answer. Maybe this blog is the answer.
Belgrade has its own history, linked to that of Sarajevo, but not by definition intertwined by it. And admittedly, the latter is was what I thought. It has its own war, the one of 1999. And I am sure that if I would live there, that that would be my frame of reference. The scars of that war look cleaner than the ones in Sarajevo; NATO laser guided bombs leave different marks than RPG and mortars. However, they are obviously there, in the city and in the minds of it's inhabitants.
As the outsider that I am in this region, it is unfair to be judgemental. By virtue of my work, it is impossible not be so. However, I can demand of myself not to make it cloud my opinions, and not to think in black and white about places I have never seen, and peoples I have never met,and situations I can not judge.
Therefore going to Belgrade was confusing: because of the hosts, and because it, and they, opened my eyes.
I went to Belgrade this weekend, and it was a confusing experience. Partially because of the female hosts, who were very charming, and partially because it made me realise that my view on the region is largely defined by the war in BiH. If not solely defined by that war.
Until 1991 Yugoslavia was just another eastern European state to me; a holiday place for my parents in the fifties, sixties and seventies. No more, no less. The break- up of the state and the war in BiH particularly where part of the rhythmn of European life when I was a teenager- I grew up with the news about it. In law school, the war was used in case studies, and as an intern at the ICTY it was my bread and butter. I never visited it when it was prosporous, and for a foreigner who works on war crime trials in BiH and who grew up watching the news about the war, it is still omnipresent here; it is my frame of reference. To cut a long story short, I have a horrible confession to make: BiH for me is not Ivo Andric, Dino Merlin, Danis Tanovic. It is not Haris Silajdzic, Vranac or Neum. It is not even Nenad, Gabelina 12 or propuh- it is it's recent history; it is 1992- 1995. I wish it was different, and I wish it was less pathetic, but it is a fact.
History is what you make of it, and it is often made by the journalists who write about it, and of the memories of people who lived it through. History is not an abstract science, where only facts count- a society is build up by the interpretation of those facts, the history. So my view of the war here is the view my friends give it, and their interpretation of the truth. And my friends live and lived in Sarajevo. And although they are surprisingly forgiving for what happenend here, and although they have very heterogenous groups of friends, and although they have been to Belgrade, their stories colour my picture of the Balkans, and even more than I was willing to admit. Since I am not from the Balkans, seeing the perspective that my friends have, and understanding the subtleties they understand is difficult; as a foreigner you tend to miss those. Things tend to stay black and white, even if you think they are grey.
Therefore Belgrade was an abstraction for me, further away than it actually geopgraphically is from Sarajevo. It was a mandatory place to see, but a trip to Morocco via Budapest and London was easier planned.
Belgrade was great. Our hosts were more than lovely, and they went out of their way to entertain and impress us. Their question why I never visited the city before, was therefore not just justified, but also painful, and at that moment impossible to answer. Maybe this blog is the answer.
Belgrade has its own history, linked to that of Sarajevo, but not by definition intertwined by it. And admittedly, the latter is was what I thought. It has its own war, the one of 1999. And I am sure that if I would live there, that that would be my frame of reference. The scars of that war look cleaner than the ones in Sarajevo; NATO laser guided bombs leave different marks than RPG and mortars. However, they are obviously there, in the city and in the minds of it's inhabitants.
As the outsider that I am in this region, it is unfair to be judgemental. By virtue of my work, it is impossible not be so. However, I can demand of myself not to make it cloud my opinions, and not to think in black and white about places I have never seen, and peoples I have never met,and situations I can not judge.
Therefore going to Belgrade was confusing: because of the hosts, and because it, and they, opened my eyes.
Labels: Belgrade
posted by David Hein at 11:53 AM
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