TRADITIONAL SONGS
1. Viva Orduenya
2. Si Veriash La Rana
SARAJEVO BLUES
3. War
4. The Tunnel
5. Imam Bey's Mosque
6. Expulsion
7. Exodus
8. What Will You Remember
9. Grbavica
10. Death Is A Job
11. A Relatively Calm Day
12. Zenica Blues
POEM SONGS
13. Open Dialogue
14. Adam
15. Aish Ye K’dish
—Dance for Jewish brides in Tangiers—the
movements teach of the labor that goes into bread
Viva Orduena, She is sifting in her sandy yard
CHORUS: She puts her feet in the sea, and I am learning the dance
Viva Orduena, She is sowing in her sandy yard
She is planting…She is harvesting…She is carrying…She
is grounding…She is kneading…She is eating…
—Song to keep Bulgarian Jewish girls in line
If you could see the little frog sitting on the oven, frying her fritas
and sharing with her sisters! If you could see the little mouse sitting
in the corner, shelling walnuts and sharing with her sisters! If you could
see the little camel sitting on the dough-board, rolling out filo thinner
than hair! I love you so much!
War/ And nothing is going on—I go into town to beg for cigarettes
I’ve always known your scent/but you’ve never been closer—
It’s cold in the morning, you/put my underwear on
Your joy / at the packets of humanitarian aid/ makes me happy and sad
at the same time. And I ask myself: where on earth do you find us coffee
every night
I was young and I didn’t know/ that death’s something a lot
more common than is seems/so plain/ that anything you say about it sounds
trite.
I was coming back to the Sarajevo the only way you could: through the
tunnel. Water seeped in everywhere through the narrow passageway; the
mud made it even harder to get through. Since there wasn’t enough
air, I became so exhausted that I had to stop halfway. I was ready to
lay down and die right where I was till I found a spot that was a little
wider, made to put aside the dead, so the living could pass
I just stayed right there, for hours, underground, and thought of Radovan.
—Imam Efendi Spahic had three children and
a grandchild that were killed by the shells that fell on Dairam. Before
that, his wife too; as if God had taken her to Him, to protect her. So
she wouldn’t see.
Here’s what I think: There are neither major
nor minor tragedies. Tragedies exist. Some can be described. There are
others for which every heart is too small. Those kind cannot fit in the
heart.
The Chetniks banished the mental patients from Jagomir to the city. That
day, one of them—holding the body of a dead sparrow by its claws—cam
up to someone walking along King Tomislav Street and said: “You’ll
be dead too, when my army gets here.”
Number 6705, Sarajevo, 1947, Yugoslav Communist Party local committee,
Mostar:
Call Mida C>adro in and inform her that the Party is of the opinion
that she must cut off all intimate relations with Tom Vikic’, since
the aformentioned has a wife and 3 children and the C.P. cannot agree
to him divorcing his wife, meaning that a marriage between herself and
Vikic’ will not come to pass.
In Sarajevo, it only makes sense to remember the day
that’s just passed. It’s snowing, like it’s supposed
to in January. I’m watching kids sledding. They can be divided into
those who are in love with their sleds and those who just love sledding.
I saw this today and I am very happy as I write about my discovery. I
know that, when everything passes, I’ll remember this too…
The snipers, at least those aiming at Sniper Alley, shoot from the Jewish
cemetery. Covered by the gravestones, they’re safe. Dear Lord. Punish
all those who desecrate Jewish graves. And punish me, if it was a sin
that I picked violets there as a child.
I’m running across and intersection to avoid the bullet of a sniper
from the hill when I walk straight into some photographers: they’re
doing their job, in deep cover. If a bullet hit me they’d get a
shot worth so much more than my life that I’m not even sure whom
to hate: the Chetnik sniper or these monkeys with Nikons. For the Chetniks
I’m just a simple target but those others confirm my utter helplessness
and even want to take advantage of it. In Sarajevo, death is a job for
all of them. Life has been narrowed down completely, reduced to gestures…a
man covering his head with a newspaper as he runs across the same street,
scared of a sniper’s bullet.
1. In the daily reports—when dozen of shells hit downtown, when
snipers are in action and only a few have been killed or wounded—we
are informed that a relatively calm day has passed.
2. A flustered young man begs to cut into the water line. He shoes his
plastic canister. The line twists to make a place for him.
Since he’s already loaded his canister, he hurries to the end of
the street and gets hit by a grenade. All that’s left of him is
a bloody trail on the pavement that’s like sap but is easier to
clean. Just then it starts raining and everything gets washed away: not
even a trace of the young guy is left, nor a trace of the canister. Just
water. As if nothing on the street changed, except everyone got just a
bit quieter.
The woman in a seat near you is talking to herself. Fine—she says—All
right. Just don’t touch. All eyes turn to you and you also turn
to see who’s at fault. Ashamed, you turn back, biting your shoulder.
You feel the weight of the girl sitting next to you, the warmth of her
shoulder. You find yourself in the toilet with a Sarajevo rocker—Jewish—and
while you take a leak together you bond in perfect male solidarity: That’s
how it is, says the Jewish guy. And you nod even though it isn’t
like that. Nothing’s for sure except 2 circumcisions by the flushing
bowl. Without you everything in this town will still be the same. Or almost—you
reassure yourself. So remember a few details, and all the instances that
mercilessly surround your awkwardness: the clash of teeth in a kiss, for
instance…
“What are you reading?”
“Poems by Rumi, a poet born in Afghanistan”
“Where are you from?”
“Bosnia”
“Serbs and Croats, right? Is anyone else there?”
“There are others”
“What color are your eyes”
“Green in Colorado, blue in the New Mexico light”
“So then what kind of Muslim are you?”
“White”
Spoiled , fondled by the hands of many women, I came upon you by chance,
young Adam. And before I could lay my mouth on yours, you begged me, with
the pale tender face of the tenderest lily:
don’t bite me , don’t bite me
I saw that your body was completely covered with teeth marks. Trembling,
I bit into you. You flared your thin nostrils, and edged close to me like
a burning horizon against a field.
Live on, work-horse. Relief comes while you are unaware. Your condition
is bad—I see you have no money, and you tell me, “To hell
with it all!
The gates of mercy are overcrowded. We need water, we need bread. If it
would only rain money!” Live on, work-horse. Your country is green,
full of water and pasture—but not for the poor simpleton, accepting
just what God gives. Ask, demand to know! Don’t just dream—how
often have dreams betrayed you? Haven’t we told you? Ask how! But
everything happens while you are unaware. You remain a work-horse, unaware.
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