A Dream of Sarajevo © by Fred Parker 1998
All Rights Reserved
Webpage by Jilli / Fate
A Dream of Sarajevo
By: Fred Parker
I am in Sarajevo. The war is over and all around the survivors try to fashion a life from the ashes and rebuild their city. I am one of several Canadian youths brought here to see first hand what a new and fragile peace looks like.
The city's presence is constant and burning like some absent lover but for some reason I can never see it. All that surrounds me are parks, gardens and fields: forests and hills with only a hint of modern architecture seeping through.
The reporters are here also. They have come in the hope that one of us will utter some profound truth about the human condition. Something they can put up on the six o'clock news. My fellow students are only too glad to give it to them. They spew out cliches and sound bites "fortune cookie solutions" and the reporters eat it up. Someone back home will be able to rest easy in the knowledge that something good has come of this.
I hate them.
The reporters, the students. I want no part of it. When they come for me, I say nothing. I back away from the cameras and the light. I fade into the scenery.
Suddenly, I am sitting on a hill. Except for a slight wind, the universe seems to have stopped around me.
I am not alone.
She sits beside me, just out of sight. She is the leader of our little group and, though she has said all the empty words, there is something different about her. Somehow I know she is aware of her hypocrisy. She is more alive than any woman I have ever met. Hers is the beauty of someone who truly understands.
I should be attracted to her, but this is neither the time nor the place. I am here to talk and she is here to listen.
"It could happen to us," I say. "To Montreal, to Quebec. It could happen to us."
She nods slightly, letting me go at my own pace.
"When I was twelve, I watched the Olympics on television. In my entire life, that's the only time I followed the games. Sarajevo was such a beautiful city then. The beautiful city. I remember I wanted to come here
I feel a great sadness in me and I am crying inside. She takes me in her arms and the emotion flows from me to her. For a moment we are one. Her hair is warm against my face and I notice there is a small tattoo there right where the neck and shoulder meet. I cannot quite make out the design, but it is there.
I kiss the tattoo.
"Bastard," she cries, pulling back violently.
The hill is gone and we are back at the hotel. I am trying to stop her and she slams the door to her room in my face. I plead with her, begging her to tell me what I have done wrong. She screams obscenities through the door, then comes out and throws things at me. Clothes, shoes, her entire inventory.
I retreat, A crowd is gathering and I feel suddenly ashamed.
I walk briskly towards the elevator. Someone tries to stop me. I can't go out, he says. The war is over, yes, but there is still fighting in the streets. It is not safe.
I push him aside. I need to be outside, away from all of this. The elevator doors open for me, ready to take me down to the streets of Sarajevo.