At The Springs

After Benedek got on the bus to Belgrade I once more walk up to the springs, this time I want to see where the path actually leads. It's getting warmer than expected, making altitude with every step I take. Some cars pass me by, obviously there is something worth going to. Indeed, not far from where I stopped the ascend last week, there is the more or less abandoned constuction site for the new spa hotel, the signs still advertiseing the project and the date of completion: December 30th 2011. In front of the fence there are outlets of two springs, the Veliko Guber (Big Guber) and Očna voda (eye water).

Two families are collecting water, the boys also climb further up the mountain to have a look over the fence. One of the women tells me something about the water, but retreats when she realizes I don't understand. They then discuss among themselves, I understand something about English and in the next moment a boy of about 14 approaches me in polite and good English. He is surpriesd that someone from Germany comes here travelling to such a remote place. They are Bosnians from Tuzla who came to visit the memorial in Potočari and get healing water. He is glad to learn that people in Germany know about the genocide of Srebrenica. Unfortunately he is not optimistic about the future of the different ethnic groups of Bosnia living together peacefully. He also translates for his father who is aveteran of the Bosnian army. When they ask what I do and hear that I will be a psychiatrist the reaction is the usual half bitter, half joking grin, 'oh no, you're reading our minds! But yes, we all need a psychiatrist in Bosnia...' The boy knows the English term post-traumatic stress disorder and the father knows what it feels like: 'You know, your emotions die inside of you, from getting used to seeing people being killed. From killing people yourself.' I feel quite honored to be trusted in this way outside of a professional setting.

When they filled all their water bottles, rinsed their eyes with eye water and get back into the cars - not without offering me a ride and leaving me a pack of juice - we are happy to have had this conversation.

I stay at the springs writing down all the unfinished blog posts in a school notebook I just got from the supermarket, drinking water and now also juice, only occasionally disturbed by a giant hornet.
After a while a British car with three young men parks in front of the fence, they ask me, first in Bosnian, if there is any way to get closer to the springs, I don't think so. Two of them don't speak English, but the third one lives in England, so we chat a little, he is happy to hear I am in med school, he works at a hospital himself. When I answer the obligatory question about my future specialization there is that crooked grin again: 'Oh well, this region's gonna need a hell o' a lotta that!' Well, what can I say... Actually I am quite surprised in a positive way that it is not a taboo to talk about psychiatric assistance.