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What I found was an incredibly interesting city with a harrowing past and indestructible resilience, and it was one of the places I was most looking forward to on the tour.
Buildings are still littered with bullet holes from attacks that showed the Bosniaks no mercy, but more heartbreaking is the scars laid on to the people. I could have been one of them. The museum is full of items donated by children from the war, accompanied by a story from their life involving that item. We read in silence, countless stories of children who endured more tragedy in those few years than most people experience in a lifetime.
A story of one child who went to bed and woke up with his chalkboard next to his head, smashed by shrapnel. That chalkboard saved his life. A ball that brought joy to an entire neighbourhood because it was the first new toy those children had seen in years. The last thing someone was given by his father before he disappeared. His body has never been found.
However, amongst the sadness, there was hope. Hope that something like this should never be repeated; hope that they would survive. It was our first sign of the resilience these people had; the determination to lead normal lives. It reminded me of Cambodia, and the kindness of people there. It was a sobering experience, and we walked out of there realising how lucky we are. I had wanted to explore more of the old town — the bazaar and its markets and cafes along narrow streets were almost fairytale-like, and as we ran from awning to awning, I could feel the history seeping through, from the mosque to the stalls.
