Story and photos by Jim Bartlett, Editor-in-Chief
Every once in a while in this place you run into a gem of a person
who makes all the rest of the crap you deal with bearable. One
of those people not only helped me a great deal during my time
in Sarajevo but also became my friend and protector. In fact,
that was how we met. His name is Edin, and he is all of 14 years
old.
I was strolling the main drag looking at all the grumpy people
in the cafes when I stopped to buy a pack of smokes from one of
the infinite number of kids who sell them on the street. They
wanted to take me to a little pool hall they knew of and although
I knew it was probably a wolf's lair of the first order, I went
along. After all, I was ready to take care of myself if it came
down to that. And what a wolf's lair it was.
It was in the basement of a bombed-out relic of an apartment flat
and so smoky you could barely see. Sitting all over the place
were some very shady-looking kids and, except for the owner, I
didn't see a full-fledged adult. They had one battered old pool
table and I was greeted with cold stares when I came in. I knew
in an instant this place was bad news, but I was there. So I hung
out for a while as the younger kids tried to set me up with a
couple of sixteen-year olds and the older kids tried to buddy
up. Dickens meets Terminator. Definitely.
After a while, one of the younger kids started talking to me in
hushed tones, warning me of what was going down and how the other
kids were trying to set me up. The other kids kept saying he was
crazy so I took that to mean he was telling the truth. From that
moment on, he became my self-appointed protector and advocate,
even going so far as to escort me to the bathroom and stand watch
outside.
When I went to leave, some other kids wanted to walk me home,
read that as "roll the American on his way home." Edin
insisted on coming along and took me by the arm the whole way,
repeatedly drawing me aside to warn me of the not-so-friendly
intentions of his friends. When I reached the apartment where
I was staying, my landlady opened the door and most of the kids
took off, another confirmation of their evil intent. As I lay
down to sleep, I chalked the whole thing up to the weird and wild
and figured I'd never see any of them again. Boy, was I glad I
was wrong.
Next morning I woke to find my car had been towed by the
police. This is becoming more prevalent in Sarajevo and it is
done for no other real reason than to do it. While I had taken
the Croatian licvense plates off, a politically-correct thing
to do in some parts, the plate holder still had the rental logo
on it and thus it was marked. So after breakfast I set out to
recover it, fully expecting a full round of hassles and expenses
inherent in any dealings with an otherwise impotent Bosnian police
force.
Because Dayton has pretty much castrated them, the local police
exercise power wherever they can, and they do so with a vigor,
kind of like a spoiled child with a kickball. Traffic is their
new forte and they are more than happy to tow foreigners, slim-jim
the locks and steal anything of value inside. It's bad enough
with the urchins and the "Sarajevo Cowboys," but when
the police turn out to be just as bad it makes me a little sick.
War or not, I still believe in something called honor, but it
is unfortunately a lost concept with many in Bosnia these days.
Anyway, as I was walking along towards the gates of bureaucratic
hell, I heard someone call my name. I turned, and low and behold
it was Edin. I told him what was up and he volunteered to help
me out. He became my official fixer and a good one at that, although
his habit of telling people to fuck off after he asked for directions
or such was something I had to insist he stop.
A "fixer" is an essential part of covering Bosnia. They
do more than translate. They explain and have the inside track
on many issues one might face here. Their name is the best reflection
of the role they fulfill. They fix things. Interviews, show and
tells, hotels, you name it. They are worth their weight in gold.
As we began to sort out the mechanics of getting my car back,
Edin told me about himself. First, I was to call him "John"
for John Connor in the movie Terminator, of which he had
a copy. He learned a great deal of his English from Terminator,
and would quote it regularly. It struck me as completely perfect
that this boy would identify so strongly with the whole Schwarzenegger
theme as we walked down the destroyed corridor of Sniper Alley.
The place was trashed in the same way the movie portrayed modern
earth during the war against the machines.
The more he talked, the more I admired the guy. He is a plucky
little fellow who has scuttled through this war-torn city, providing
for his sister and mother for four years. His parents split before
the war and he became the man of the house at age 10. They had
the misfortune of living right next to a U.N. base and the house
was hit four times by artillery. His 12-year-old sister, Ena,
was hit by shrapnel during the siege of Sarajevo and Edin (or
John) had a number of close shaves as well. He is more than a
little street-wise.
After we rescued my car from the cops, he gave me the guided tour
of the city. He knows all the children in Sarajevo and was constantly
waving and calling out to his friends as we drove along. It was
interesting to hear the role that kids like him played during
the war. With most of their fathers either gone or at the front,
boys like Edin assumed the role of provider. Almost every day
he told me, they braved the streets to gather wood, beg for handouts,
and generally hustle to give their families a little edge. One
time it almost cost him his life.
He ventured out to gather wood one day in 1993, and went down
to an area of Sniper Alley that was particularly hot. Most of
the wood in safer areas had already been picked clean so he worked
his way up to about 50 meters from the Serb line in Grabvica.
That's when the Serbs got him in their sights and fired a rifle
grenade at him. But Edin is a quick kid. He ducked into a doorway.
Still, the thing detonated five feet over the doorway and blew
fragments into the street all in front of him. He hotfooted it
out of there pronto, but didn't drop the wood. That night his
mother cooked them the first hot meal they had had in days.
Edin is also a man of honor. While the other kids were more interested
in a quick buck off the foreigner, Edin protested loudly when
I tried to take him out for a pizza. He said it was too expensive.
It was all of seven marks but he was adamant until I told him
flatly that he was working for me as my fixer and I had to pay
him for his services. He continued to protest, saying that he
liked hanging out with me and I didn't need to pay him at all.
That's when I pulled rank and told him that as long as he was
working for me he would do as he was told. That settled the argument
and he ate his pizza.