Stacy Sullivan: Nasljeđe Sarajeva

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Piše: Stacy Sullivan za Radiosarajevo.ba

Taj susret nije bio posebno emotivan – bilo je daleko krvavijih i potresnijih susreta u Sarajevu – ali, kad sam mislila o tome šta da napišem za 20. godišnjicu rata, moj um se odmah sjetio kontrolne tačke na putu za dnevni UN briefing u ljeto 1995. godine. Vojnik koji nam je pregledao iskaznice je rekao da sutra ide na liniju i pitao me bi li prodala svoju pancirku.

Stacy Sullivan je izvještavala o ratu u Bosni za londonski Times i Newsweek. Nakon rata, provela je nekoliko mjeseci izvještavajući o suđenjima ratnim zločincima u Hagu. Autorica je knjige o ratu u Kosovu pod imenom "Ne bojte se jer imate sinove u Americi". Ubrzo se prestaje baviti novinarstvom i počinje raditi za Human Rights Watch, zajedno sa Emmom Daly, koja je izvještavala o ratu u Bosni za The Indenpendent. Trenuno živi u Jeruzalemu sa svojim mužem (jeruzalemskim direktorom ureda Time časopisa), gdje odgaja sina i sprema tekst o povijesti svoje kuće.

Nisam znala koliko će mi ta pancirka trebati. Snajperi i bombardiranja u Sarajevu su bili nasumični. Ili ste bili na pijaci kad su bombardirali ili niste. A čak i da ste bili, nisam sigurna koliko će vam pancirka pomoći. Znala sam da keramičke pločice znače razliku između života i smrti za mladog vojnika na liniji; one mogu zaustaviti metak da prodre kroz meso i mogu zaustaviti putanju gelera. Ali koliko god da je bila mala šansa da mi ta pancirka može pomoći, znala sam da je ne želim dati.

"Izvini", rekla sam mu. "Ne mogu ti pomoći".

Mislila sam to na sve moguće načine.

Došla sam u Sarajevo, slično kao i ogroman broj drugih mladih freelance novinara, puna bijesa i ubijeđena da je bitno zapisivati šta se to ovdje dešava. Moja iluzija je vrlo brzo razbijena. Samo nekoliko sedmica nakon što sam doputovala, 25. juna 1995. godine, 120 mm minobacačka granata je udarila u dvorište blizu zgrade u kojoj sam živjela. 9-godišnja Sidbela Zemic i njeno troje prijatelja su se igrali preskakanja konopca u tom dvorištu. Sidbela je imala dugu plavu kosu i nije imala jedan od prednjih zuba. Tek je naučila da svira klavir i gdje god da je išla sa sobom je nosila knjigu poezije. Njen otac mi je čitao neke od tih pjesama dok je sjedio sa parčetom ružičastog džempera koji je pleo za njenu Barbiku. Pokazao mi je svih pet njenih Barbika – igračke koje joj je kupio nadajući se da će je tako zadržati u kući. Ali to nije pomoglo. Sidbela je bilo dijete koje je željelo skakati preko konopca s prijetljima pod suncem kasnog juna. 

Sidbela i njeno troje prijatelja – mislim čak da su to bili jedan Musliman, jedan Srbin i jedan Hrvat – su svi poginuli. Sidbela je rasporena i vrišteći umrla u rukama svoje majke. Njena sestra je ležala u lokvi krvi u kojoj je stajalo i žuto parče konopa s plastičnim drškama.

Predložila sam Sidbelinu sudbinu kao priču, ali moji urednici nisu bili zainteresirani. Takve su se stvari stalno dešavale u Sarajevu.

Stacy Sullivan sa sinom

Ponekad se pitam jesam li nakon toga trebala napustiti grad. Ako nisam mogla pronaći uho za priču Sidbele Zemic, šta sam onda tu uopće radila? Možda sam trebala dati svoju pancirku mladom vojniku na kontrolnoj tački, vratiti se u New York i pokušati tamo napraviti karijeru u novinarstvu. Možda bi moja pancirka spasila nečiji život; to bi, možda, bio veći doprinos za Sarajevo nego išta što sam tamo napisala.

Ali nisam otišla. Ostala sam još dvije godine i pisala za londonski Times, Newsweek i još neke američke publikacije. Ne znam da li je išta što sam napisala pomoglo Sarajevu, ali je grad pomogao meni. Naučio me je nepravdi, čvrstoći i dostojanstvu pod vatrom i o tome kako vam humor može pomoći i u najmračnijim trenucima. Sarajevo me naučilo šta je bitno i omogućilo mi je da živim značajniji život nego što sam živjela prije. Svjesna sam da sam uzela daleko više od Sarajeva nego što sam mu mogla dati.

Nakon što sam napustila Bosnu, prestala sam se baviti novinarstvom i počela raditi kao odvjetnik za ljudska prava – zajedno s nekoliko drugih mojih kolega koji su izvještavali o ratu u Sarajevu. To je teško primijetiti, ali postojalo je nekoliko puta kada sam znala da sam promijenila nečiji život - i znam da je za to zaslužno Sarajevo. U neizravnom, najgorem mogućem smislu, znam da nasljeđe Sidbele Zemic i mladića s kontrolne tačke žive i dalje i da inspirišu ostale u borbi protiv nepravde u svijetu. Mogu se pojaviti u borbi da se pusti na slobodu pogrešno optuženo dijete iz Guantanamo Baya ili u naporu da se vojskovođa iz Konga dovede pred sud, ali oni žive i dalje. To je nasljeđe Sarajeva. 

Napomena: Zahvaljujemo za posredovanje i pomoć Bobi Lizdek, koja je tokom rata radila kao prevodilac u štabu UNPROFOR-a, te za mnoge inostrane medijske kuće uključujući agenciju Reuters. 

Prijevod i obrada: Zdenko Voloder, Radiosarajevo.ba

ENGLISH

Stacy Sullivan covered the Bosnian war for the Times of London and Newsweek. Following the war, she spent several months covering the Yugoslav war crimes tribunal in The Hague and wrote a book about the war in Kosovo entitled, “Be Not Afraid, for You Have Sons in America.” After that, she left journalism and went to work for Human Rights Watch, along side Emma Daly, who covered the Bosnian war for The Independent. She is currently living in Jerusalem with her husband (Jerusalem bureau chief for Time Magazine) where she is raising her son and writing a magazine piece about the history of their house.

Sarajevo’s Legacy

The encounter wasn’t a particularly emotional one – there were far more searing and gruesome ones in Sarajevo – but when I thought about what to write for the 20th anniversary of the war, my mind went to the checkpoint on the way in to daily UN briefing in the summer of 1995. The soldier who checked our press IDs said he was going to the front the next day and asked if he could buy my flak jacket.

I didn’t know how much I needed that flak jacket. The shelling and sniping in Sarajevo were random. Either you were in the market when it was shelled, or you weren’t. And even if you were, I wasn’t sure how much a flak jacket would help.  I also knew that the ceramic plates could make a difference between life and death for the young soldier at the front, where it could stop a bullet from entering flesh and where shelling wasn’t random, but directed. But no matter how slim the chance that the flak jacket could actually help me, I knew I wasn’t going to give it up. “I’m sorry,” I told him. “I can’t help you.”

I meant that in every way.

I had come to Sarajevo, like scores of other young freelance journalists, full of outrage and sure that chronicling what was happening mattered. My notion was dispelled pretty quickly. On June 25, 1995, a couple of weeks after I arrived, a 120 mm mortar shell slammed into a patio of an apartment building down the street from where I was staying. Nine-year-old Sidbela Zemic and her three friends were skipping rope on that patio. Sidbela had long blonde hair and was missing a front tooth. She had just learned to play the piano and kept a book of poems. Her father read me some of those poems as he sat clutching a piece of pink sweater she had been knitting for her Barbie. He showed me all five of her Barbies – toys he had bought her in an effort to keep her inside. But he couldn’t keep her inside. She was a kid who wanted to skip rope in the sunshine of late June.

Sidbela and her three friends – I think it was actually a Muslim, a Serb and a Croat – were all killed. Sidbela was sliced open and died screaming in her mother’s arms. Her sister was left standing over the puddle of blood in which the little yellow skipping rope with the big plastic handles lay.

I pitched the story, but my editors weren’t interested. This kind of thing happened all of the time in Sarajevo.

Sometimes I wonder if I should have left the city after that. If I could not find an ear for what happened to Sidbela Zemic, what was the point of me being there? Maybe I should have given my flak jacket to the young soldier at the checkpoint and gone back to New York to make a career in journalism. Maybe my flak jacket would have saved a life and maybe that would have been a bigger contribution to Sarajevo than anything I wrote from there.

But I didn’t go. I stayed in Sarajevo for another two years after that – filing stories for both the Times of London and Newsweek and a handful of other American publications. I don’t know if anything I wrote made a difference for Sarajevo, but the city made a difference for me. It taught me about injustice and resilience and grace under fire and how humor in the darkest times can see you through. Sarajevo taught me about what matters and what doesn’t and enabled me to live a more meaningful life. In the end, I know that I took so much more from that city than I was able to give.

In the years after leaving Bosnia, I eventually left journalism and went to work as a human rights advocate – along with several other of my colleagues who covered the war in Sarajevo. Most of the time, it’s not easy to see results, but there have been a few instances where I know we have made a difference in someone’s life – and I know it was Sarajevo that made it possible. So in the most backwards, messed-up, indirect way, I know that the legacies of Sidbela Zemic, and the young man at the checkpoint live on, inspiring others to fight injustice elsewhere in the world. They might show up in the fight to release a wrongly accused child from Guantanamo Bay or efforts or put a Congolese warlord on trial, but they live on. That’s Sarajevo’s legacy.