Bullets from Sarajevo, Bosnia

I traveled to Bosnia to understand more about recent wars on earth. I bought two bullets in Sarajevo. Not to remind me of war. So …, why then? To remind me of a man I met in a very special shop in town.
The war in Bosnia lasted four years: from 1991-1995. I had seen the siege of the city of Sarajevo on TV, when the media on earth zoomed in on the town. Snipers in the hills around the town had isolated Sarajevo, so that no help could get in or out. Although the media focused on Sarajevo, the entire Bosnia was at war.
But, arriving in Bosnia on Summer Solstice Day in June of 2010, I had no idea what this war had been about. I just went and talked to the people of the country, because I wanted to hear their version of what had really happened.
This story is a happy version of the outcome of the war.

I met a man of 32. He had been a young teenager during the war with an interesting ‘job’. The Bosnian army was on the outskirts of town and he was a ‘runner’. As a child, he could crawl into town and out again. But, mostly, he worked behind the line of fire, as a messenger between higher and lower ranks.

I liked him. He smiled often and his eyes were kind. His manner was gentle and his voice soft. The store was friendly and quiet.
He now worked in the Turkish market area of Sarajevo, in a store owned by his father. They sell copper.
It is very hard not to speak about the war in Sarajevo, but it is harder to ignore the fact in a shop where the shells of bullets, mortars, cannons and automatic rifles are sold. The young man was using a chisel to decorate the copper casing of an anti-aircraft shell. It was in the middle of the day and blazing hot. Being the only customer in the shop I had the opportunity to ask him a few questions.
I have to be very honest and admit that I do not have the faintest idea of what to ask in certain situations. Could I bluntly ask: “So, how was the war?” Because, I wanted to ask, I really wanted to understand more about war. I did not travel to Bosnia for the museums or ‘touristy stuff’. It was a personal journey about war.

We both had time that day. I had told him that I had no desire to purchase anything, because I was a backpacker. I had planned to travel for two more weeks in the Balkan countries and I did not want to carry any souvenirs. He didn’t mind. He admitted that he would rather talk to me too, because he had never met anybody from Africa. We chatted about South Africa for a long time. It was 2010 and the FIFA World Cup Soccer was in full swing. So we talked about soccer for a while.

He was proud of their shop. During the war they had collected copper after the shelling from the hills. There was copper everywhere. The siege of Sarajevo continued for four years and it ‘rained’ copper.

What I did not know was that ammunition was made from sturdy copper. I cannot imagine the number of shells one could pick up in the hills surrounding Sarajevo. In the hills the enemy snipers had comfortably positioned themselves to get the best view of the streets and alleys of the capital city of Bosnia. They killed the residents of Sarajevo with single bullets, mortars and massive explosions by cannon fire. After these explosions the shells of the ammunition were scattered in the hills and in town.
His father gathered the copper shells with the help of his two sons.
He then used a chisel to make patterns on the shells and turned them into flower pots. He called the project: "Fear to Flowers and Blood to Beauty."

I stood in the shop and realized that there would be no simple answer about the concept of war. One man made a plan to use free copper to make flower pots. The shape was already perfect and he could decorate copper easily.
Project ‘Blood to Beauty’ had been on TV. Presidents of other countries, who came to Bosnia after the war, received a flower vase. There is one in the White House, given to Mr Clinton. I stood in the shop on the spot where the newspaper photo of him was taken.

The Bosnian man was happy. He loved his job and showed me the shapes he liked best. I sat with him while he worked in his father’s shop.

There were beautiful old Turkish carpets on the floor. The walls were lined with copper shells, organized by size. All the flower pots were polished and shining in the different colours of copper.
I bought a small decorated copper flower pot and he gave me the raw bullet shell, as it would be if someone had not changed it. Both of these stand side by side, close to my bed where I look at them when I wake up. It is meant to remind me that I too have to make a choice every day: bullet or beauty?
I understood that some people are not filled with hatred after a bloody war. They move on. They change something. Bullets become copper pots.

There is no doubt in my mind that the man in the store had not only been a ‘messenger’. It is never that simple. He must have seen death and dying and fear. The noise would have been overwhelming. The desperation in Sarajevo would have been almost unbearable. His school friends died, his family were scattered and some never returned to Bosnia. He had to wash the blood off bullets, under the guidance of his father who had made a plan to use the free copper.
I have two M-19 bullet shells from Sarajevo in my bedroom. Their shape and size is exactly the same. The bullet is dirty and fading.

I polish the flower pot often. It shines.

Image credits: Audrey Nolte Painter (me)
Story written in Sarajevo Bosnia when I visited and wrote most if this.