Today, a small and solemn ceremony was held in Sarajevo. To the casual observer, the Vrbanja bridge looks quite nondescript, an otherwise drab and crumbling concrete structure in the center of Sarajevo carrying traffic and pedestrians over the River Miljacka. To the north lies the former parliament building of the Bosnian government, and to the south lies the residential suburb of Grbavica. However, it was on day seven years ago that the longest siege in human history claimed its first victim on this bridge. And while the horror of the Siege of Sarajevo is now but a mere memory, this small ceremony and the current campaign of ethnic cleansing in Kosovo are serving as poignant reminders of the city's darkest period.
On the weekend of April 4th 1992, a mere five weeks after Bosnia-Hercegovina declared independence from Yugoslavia following a unanimous public referendum, Bosnian Serb paramilitary units began erecting barricades around Sarajevo, hoping to choke its residents off from the outside world. Upset by the actions of the Serb aggressors and the specter of war in their country, thousands of Sarajevans took to the streets on Sunday morning in a peace protest that started in the suburb of Dobrinja. As the crowd made its way to the Bosnian parliament building, they were joined by thousands more, all chanting the same message, "mizmo za mir" ("we are for peace").
The protest continued well into the night and into Monday morning, April the 6th, with over 100,000 people pleading for a peaceful resolution to the crisis. One group broke away from the main crowd and marched south down Vrbanja Street, with the hope of peacefully removing the barricades that had been erected on Vrbanja Bridge. However, on the other side of the Miljacka River, hidden amongst the trees, Serb gunmen were waiting. Intoxicated by the high emotions and comraderie of the occasion, the peace protesters blindly walked into the firing zone.
The first to fall was Suada Dilberovic, a twenty year old medical student who had seen the devastating effects of war on her home, the Croatian coastal city of Dubrovnik. Her last words, before succumbing to her wounds, were "Oh please do not tell me this is happening to Sarajevo". Unfortunately, she was far from being the last victim. Over the next four years, over 10,000 more Sarajevans died and 50,000 were injured as the Bosnian Serb forces tightened their strangle hold on the city. The Vrbanja Bridge itself saw a number of victims during the siege, including the 'Romeo and Juliet' of Sarajevo, Bosko Brkic and Admira Ismic, a mixed Serb-Muslim couple that were cut down by sniper fire while trying to flee the city in a bid to start their lives over in Belgrade.
Today, Sarajevo is rebuilding, trying to push back the memories of war. New construction is gradually erasing the legacy of Milosevic's brutal campaign against the people of Bosnia-Hercegovina, and for the most part, it's business as usual. Well-dressed office workers chat on cell phones as they navigate through the crowds in the Ferhadija shopping district, children hurry to morning classes, and fashion-conscious teens hang out in the numerous cafes around the city. The Zetra sports hall, built for the 1984 Olympic games and incinerated by shelling during the siege, has been repaired and is now re-open to the public. And Kosevo hospital, which continued to provide medical care despite being under constant attack, has just opened a new wing with another under construction. All over the city, the concerns of basic survival have become displaced by far less pressing matters.
However, despite the arrival of better times, there are lingering reminders of what happened and what can still happen. The local media are filled with a steady stream of pictures and stories of the conflict in nearby Kosovo-- the human toll in Milosevic's latest campaign is a situation that Bosnians cannot help but appreciate. In addition, a new batch of refugees arrive in Sarajevo everyday by foot and by bus, and are left to wander the streets in search of food and a place to sleep. They all tell similar stories, having fled the primarily Muslim Sandzak region in Serbia, where ethnic cleansing is also underway. They have all left behind their homes and businesses with little more than the clothes on their backs, and to add further insult to injury, they are forced to pay 200 DM (about $130 US) to Serb authorities for the 'privilege' of being kicked out of their own homes.
Around the city, 'Sarajevo roses', the skeletal-like impact craters of artillery shells, can be seen on sidewalks and the sides of building. Paper placards adorn street corners, etched with the names of those cut-down by sniper fire. The Bosnian parliament still stands empty, the empty shell of a building that was hollowed out by constant enemy fire. And on Vrbanja Bridge, a plaque and some flowers are dedicated to a young woman who fell there seven years ago.
The current mood in Sarajevo is optimistic yet cautious. Though the Bosnian people wish to put the memories of the siege behind them, they have not forgotten. Today, Suada Dilberovic was remembered by a small group of mourners. As they dispersed, they left a bundle of freshly-cut flowers, a symbol of both the lingering memories of the city's darkest period, and the hope that it will never happen again.
Article by Anthony Leong © 1999
