Time for Reconciliation, my Bosnian friend…


Man is born out of earthly flesh and blood,’

He is all the same everywhere, the same heart,

The same set of emotions with the same desire to live…

When the Lord did never segregate, who are you to?

Phases like ethnicity, race and religion,

Are all defined by the human you,

It is your cast, it is your creed, and it is your society,

All concepts out of your human mind,

For the almighty only wanted you to live,

He did not authorize you to differentiate his creations from one another,

Neither did he want you to mark ethnic characteristics, religious features,

Never did he want his most powerful creation,

To define roots for each other…

As an outsider, when I saw those kids,

The pain underneath their smiles,

I couldn’t pick the Serbs out of them,

Neither could I point out the Muslims, nor the Croats,

All I could guess from their common fair complexion,

And their sharp rugged features,

That they were sons of Bosnia, the future of this blood-thirsty land…

It’s time to seek repentance,

Vent out sins, time for confession,

It’s also time for the blessed few from the far nooks and corners of the word,

To help undo years of brain-wash,

To help direct the Bosnian youth,

Towards prosperity, peace, ethnic tolerance, and hard-work…

This is just a new beginning,

A resurrection of the Bosnian end,

It’s time for brotherhood to thrive,

It’s time for reconciliation, my friend…


From Sarajevo, He played on…


Surrendering himself to the Sun,

Now gleaming through craters in the temple of Bosnian literature,

Balancing his cello on one those bombed blocks of Austro-Hungarian history,

He played on…

A graveyard resembling the grandeur of Moorish-Mamluk architecture,

A graveyard of 3000 manuscripts, 6000 periodic titles,

Of evidence against Bosnia’s multi-ethnic history,

On the heap of charred Orientalist Pseudo-Moorish remains,

He played on…

Out of the Sarajevo Opera Orchestra,

Affected by the sight of mortar-shell grasping twenty-two souls at a go,

Innocents of Sarajevo, waiting for relief, food and nowhere to go,

Shell-shocked, from the annihilated National Library of Bosnia,

He played on…

Sarajevo was torn apart,

Cleansed of its inherent Muslims,

On tunes of his cello, destruction danced ceaselessly, for twenty days,

He played on…

Flames reflected on his cello’s shiny ebony,

On it shone, both faces of man,

While one sunk in notes of melancholy,

The other was sunk in war, sunk in gore,

On tunes of the cellist, rolled on the carnage, it sought harmony,

Seated up against snipers,

He played on…

He played on to mourn his loves ones,

He played on for you to take notice,

He played on for Sarajevo’s future,

As if serving a uniform live funeral to thousands of his unfortunate countrymen,

He played on…


(Based on Vedran Smailović’s performance from the National and University Library of Bosnia and Herzegovina during the Siege of Sarajevo’1992 ; Steven Galloway’s ‘The Cellist of Sarajevo’)