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The Sarajevo that I have chosen

"Hi, do you speak English?" Asking me is a girl sitting on one of the steps in the courtyard of the Gazi Husrev-beg Mosque. It is the beginning of my visit to Sarajevo and, in any case, the beginning of this story. Also because starting with a girl is always a great starting point.

She had seen me a little bewildered while I was looking for the entrance to the mosque. With my wife intent on taking pictures a little further on. I had spoken with her remotely in Italian and perhaps for this reason I was asked if, by chance, I also spoke English.

"Yes, I speak English."

The girl speaks good English. And she starts giving me advice on when to visit the mosque, but also on the other attractions of the city. It's not her profession: it can be noticed from the approximation of her indications and information. And for this reason I appreciate it even more. She is simply a local girl, eager to help a tourist by sharing some of her knowledge of the city. I would probably do the same in Rome and be just as vague. But equally diligent in trying to improve the visit to one or more travelers.

"How long will you stay in Sarajevo?"
"Eh, unfortunately we only have today to visit it."
"But one day is not enough!" she disputes me
“I know, I realize that. But I can't do otherwise. I will be forced to make choices... "

It is certainly not the first time that I have had to visit a place in a limited time, therefore it is not the first time that I have been faced with the problem of having to make a selection of points of interest. But it is instead the first time that I have identified a fairly clear separation on the type of path to be made. Sarajevo has two souls, two ways of knowing it. And of course also an infinite mixture and combination of them. But the main ingredients remain those two: the cultural Sarajevo and, unfortunately, the Sarajevo of remembrance, the one tormented by the war. If we want to simplify, we can say that there are two main routes to visit Sarajevo.

The path that honors life and the one that honors death...

The girl says goodbye to us. And I stay there thinking about it, in the courtyard of the mosque. Instinctively, but also for convenience, we begin the visit of the city from this. Everything has the rhythm of everyday life. There are not many tourists in the early morning. Therefore I am a foreign observer, but a not too intrusive one. I look around, I try to immerse myself in the perhaps still sleepy cadences of that day. There is a certain serenity in the air, a certain peaceful inertia.

Before anyone gets a doubt, I try to dispel it immediately: the pandemic seems to have never happened here. Life apparently flows with the same rhythms and habits that we all had up to three years ago. And this matters, it matters enormously. But it will take me a while to figure it out...

We leave the mosque and venture into what is the cultural center of the city: the Baščaršija. Touristic as much as you like, but extremely attractive. Dense, full of charm, sun and visual appeals. Plus another easy allure: the rituality of Bosnian coffee.

But it's too early for that: "Shall we go up to the Yellow Bastion and take it once we get off?"
"Ok."

We do exactly like that. Among other things, the climb to the Yellow Bastion runs along one of the cemeteries that house many of the people who fell during the terrible conflict of the 90s. The two souls are (unfortunately) inseparable. This helps me to postpone my choice.

But soon after I find myself sitting in a coffee shop, as I had planned. I have a map of the city in my hand and I am waiting for my first Bosnian coffee to be served. The guy who brings it to us speaks excellent English and doesn't just carry it. He also provides us with explanations on how to consume it (or at least try to do it) according to tradition.

The coffee must first be stirred in a certain way. This phase will be carried out directly by the boy for us, probably to make us avoid messing around and thus ruining the experience. He also explains that coffee is usually unsweetened, but that's why another slightly sweet drink is brought alongside. I couldn't get the name of it, but I don't think it's important. In many other cafes this other drink is simply water, which can be sweetened with sugar cubes if desired. But in my variant it was already sweetened. And, yes, I also had the sugar lumps. However, the ritual remains more or less the same: a sweet sip, a bitter sip.

Does it suggest something to you?

I get almost blinded. This is clearly a coincidence, but everything seems to converge. The sweet and the bitter, the life and the death. Everything returns, everything coexists.

But today I can't afford it, today I'm forced to make a choice. I can sip Sarajevo however I want, but I will never be able to drink it all. Not in a single day.

We pay and leave the cafeteria. "Let's go along the riverside and see what we can do." After some time we arrive at a synagogue. It was about to close. But a girl (again) tells me: “Okay, you can come in for a few minutes. I'll give you some explanations. " She takes us to the upper floor, which is the part that still serves as a synagogue and tells us a little about its history. Also of the fact that the founders of that synagogue have North African origins and arrived in Bosnia after several generations, passing through Venice. She herself claims to be a descendant of them, even through the centuries. She is kind, nice. But above all, she is smiling. After over two years, I can appreciate people's smiles again. And with the usual proxemics, the one I'm used to. The one that lets me celebrate life in front of me, the closeness with another human being. Not a potential enemy. It is the triumph of life!

And for me then the direction is clear and the choice is consequent. "Today I want the Sarajevo of the living." After two years of disease, wars, price increases, alarms and prophecies of doom I could not have opted otherwise.

One thing I didn't tell you: Bosnian coffee usually ends with tasting a lokum, which is sweet. I think it's fair: the needle always hangs in favor of life. I taste my soft sweet and dive into the lively Sarajevo.

I will think of death once dead.