Bosnia Herzegovina: Finding glue for a broken community
Banja was starving. She traipsed from soup kitchens to charities begging for food, but was turned away every time. Each made excuses, even apologies, but the real reason was rarely spoken. She was from the 'wrong' ethnic group. Years before, Banja had fled Bosnia Herzegovina, when 'ethnic cleansing' had seen bitter conflict among Serbs, Croats and Muslims. Now, she had been told, it was safe to return.
Was it, though? A decade has passed since the war ended in this part of the former Yugoslavia, leaving 6% of the population dead, 50% homeless and, in the worst hit regions, up to 85% unemployed. The shelling has long since stopped, but the memories still burn.
"This war was not a remote event we watched on television," a humanitarian leader tells us. "It happened in our streets, in our neighbours’ homes, in our own homes. Terrible things were done. Immoral acts. Atrocities one should never witness in a lifetime..." He reaches for words to explain, but the words do not come. He concludes, with a shrug, "Now we still live on the same streets as these neighbours. They raped our daughters. They murdered our spouses. They stole from our houses. And we must all live together as if it never happened."
This is why the 'Banjas' of Bosnia Herzegovina struggle. The fighting may have closed, but the chasm which ruptured their society has not. Nor is it easy to know how to bridge the abyss. It is not just an issue of mind; it is also one of matter.
Life in the aftermath, for example, is marked by a bizarre sort of etiquette. "You are invited to a neighbour’s home for tea and, when it comes, it is served out of cups that once belonged to you," a resident tells us. "But you say nothing. It is not polite to comment, even when both you and your host know whose cups they were originally."
The problems become more nuanced as their scale increases. Surreal as the need may be, tea cups can be replaced. Homes are a different issue. In the heat of fighting, when a family’s apartment was bombed, those who survived ran to empty apartments for safety. These were easy to find because hundreds of thousands among the residents had fled the country for refuge elsewhere. Today, though, the ones who left, like Banja, are coming back.
Many are finding other families have re-built their lives in the apartments that once belonged to them.
Aid workers observe: "Refugees trying to reclaim their old homes face an often painful game of musical chairs."
Local residents tell the other side of the story. "I live in terror. I have a constant nightmare that, one day, a key will turn in the lock of my home and the original owner will turn up. Where will I go then?"
No one seems to know the answer. It is not obvious who owns what or how one puts this broken community back together.
Banja’s personal quest concluded with a visit to a humanitarian group that Crossroads routinely helps. It works cross-ethnically, both in the staff who manage it and the people it serves. Banja stayed well past the meal she found here. She stayed for the acceptance they offered and the chance to build her future through their job training programme.
Nonetheless, "Lines of discrimination are still being drawn," they tell us. They meet questions: "Why do you help the enemy? Why are you not loyal to those of your own kind?"
Their reply: "Bosnia has no future if its people don’t learn to live with people unlike them."
The argument is compelling. The alternative is too awful to be considered.
Crossroads has sent a shipment to help these dedicated men and women equip a new centre that will provide further education to combat high unemployment levels.
