The first thing I hear when I get off the bus in Srebrenica is the muezzin's call. ın a town that had most of its Muslim male population murdered only 18 years ago this doesn't sound as normal to me as in all the other Muslim places I stayed at so far. Srebrenica, however, is not at all to be reduced to a crime scene. In fact, considering its size of 3000-5000 inhabitants I get to know it as a place not much different from many rural towns in the eastern part of Euıope. And more alive than many places I've come across in rural Germany. I had my directions on my inner map a bit mixed up, but I soon fınd the hostel right off the main street (Maršala Tita, of course) with a garden at the Guber, a stream now tiny after several weeks of drought, but still giving a cheerful and soothing background sound. Miloš, the owner, is still at work and his mother and I don't have a common language, so we mostly smile, drink coffee and play with the cats. When he returns we are instantly in a good conversation about things like traveling and this place, the mineral springs that form the Guber and made the town a spa resort after the big days of silver mining and manufacturing were over that first gave the place its name (srebra is the Serbian/Bosnian word for silver) and how the town has developed since. I don't feel as if I just arrived; this is a good place.
The other guests, four Dutch guys and a Frenchman return from theır rafting trip and we decide to have dinner in the most astonishing restaurant Bato. On the way there we see many children and young people play basketball on the concrete sports ground next to the maın street now the heat of the day is over. We sit on the terrace of the fancy restaurant and after the charming owner has handed us the menu a young man with a blond pony tail whom we just saw playing basketball on the pitch appears, he seems to have beamed himself up the road. Now he beams at us and explains his mother doesn't speak English, so he helps with the foreigners. His English is very good, he translates and explains the menu and creates a vegetarian dish on the spot as there is none on the menu. The evening passes in cheerful conversations with occasional visits by a crazy cat (he likes to lick people's arms...) and the young waiter disappearing and reappearing in incomprehensible speed helping his mother around the house. For the first time on this trip it actually gets a bit chilly. And after the nights spent in big and noisy cities I fall asleep at the rushing sound of the Guber this night.
On Saturday I visit the memorial in Potočari. I've seen many pictures of the lines of white marble gravestones extending up the hills, but being there is a different thing altogether. At the center there is a modern Islamic chapel without walls, an abstract fountain, a central memorial stone and, most impressive, a marble panorama listing the names and life dates of the 8373 victims of the genocide. There are quite some visitors, a school class or youth group, moşt of the girls veiled, some Central European visitors speaking French or Dutch to each other, and locals visiting graves of loved ones. It feels strange to know that on the one hand this is the memorial of the worst crime against humanity committed in Europe since WWII and one of the most shameful failures of the international community and thus a place of public interest, a place that must not be forgotten by anyone, but on the other hand it is the site of the last connection to their sons, husbands, brothers and fathers for many heavily traumatized survivors that needs to be protected and respected in its intimacy. Therefore I only take a few pictures. I feel like I need to take some, but at the same time it is weird...
On the other side of the road are the halls of the abandoned battery factory of Potočari where the Muslim boys and men were kept before they were taken away and killed. One of the halls holds a picture exhıbition describing the fall of Srebrenica and two half rooms with black walls added inside of it. One serves as a room for film presentations and as the school class arrives the documentary is started. Although I saw the same film only a few days before in Sarajevo I cry half of the time. I am not working here and thus not in a professional mode. Miloš had expressed his worries of me being some sort of shrink when I told hım I'm in med school, but even though I am half a shrink I am not here out of strictly professional interest (although it's hard to tell where that ends and begins) and so I can let things get to me.
I wander through the other halls, some still have some old equpment in them, one holds a big greeting to Comrade Tito, reminding of still older days, and there are many graffiti by Dutch soldiers who were in charge of the base that was supposed to protect the Muslims of the area.
I return to the exhibition hall and read the short biographıes displayed in the other newly added room together with one photo of the killed boy or man and one item found with the remains of his body. Then I leave, after buying a pen at the tiny souvenir and flower shop.
I am quite emotionally exhausted when I get back. Miloš tells me where to find the mineral springs and the old town walls with nice views of the town and the valley. They are both at the other end of the main street so I get to walk through most of the town again, this time in daylight. Especially after the exhibition ın Sarajevo I had expected worse. Some houses still carry holes of gun fire, some windows of abandoned flats are still covered in UNHCR plastic. Other houses on the other hand are all prim and proper and the atmosphere is basically that of a friendly calm summer afternoon. A small Bosnian town. As everywhere in the country I see many little shops selling groceries and more or less everything, people sitting outside, children on bicycles, many taxis. And there is a church overlooking the town and several mosques. In spite of the changed composition of the population there was even a new mosque and Islamic cultural center opened only a few years ago. A way to say we are still here, although many Muslım families who lived in Srebrenica until 1995 are not anymore. In turn it became the new home to Serbs not welcome anymore in their hometowns in other parts of Bosnia. War doesn't leave much unchanged.
The spa tourism infrastructure is largely abandoned, though there are attempts to rebuild it. After climbing the stairs to a former restaurant I am rewarded with a great view of both the town and what has probably changed least over the past decades: the very green and round, yet steep mountains around it. I have to take a lot of pictures before I climb down again and up another path to find the mineral springs. After passing the construction site of the lower new spa building I find the first ones, truly amazing! Every one has a different way of emerging from the stone and one of them even smells of iron, I take a sip of the water with strong metallic taste. Actually some of these spring waters should not be consumed without medical advice because of its high concentrations of metals. Darkness starts to fall and so I return without knowing if I saw all springs.
A long day ends with some hours of cheerful craziness in the garden including a hornet fight (or nearly so) and some escalations of weird Dutch, Serbian and maybe even German humor. Probably true, this town doesn't see so many mainstream guests...
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