You could all but hear camera shutters clicking, preserving Bosnia and the country to which it belonged—Yugoslavia—if not in photographs then in someone’s mind’s eye. Click. See, we all got along, Muslim, Croat, and Serb. Click.
Our town had a mosque, but it also had an Orthodox cathedral; we weren’t religious, but we’d feast to celebrate the Muslim holiday of Bayram or the Serb holiday of Petrovdan; everyone went to Christmas Eve mass at the cathedral. Click. Click.
See, we spent the summers at Croatia’s beaches along the turquoise-hued Adriatic, the winters skiing the rugged mountains of Slovenia, visited Sarajevo to idle away the hours in cafés in the old Turkish quarter, went to the opera or the museums in Belgrade. Click.
We were communists, but we experimented with capitalism; here we are in front of our holiday home, our vikendica, which we built from the money we earned working in Munich. We were open to the West; we crossed to Trieste, Italy, to buy our clothes, and look: Here are the photos of us all hosting international tourists at the 1984 Winter Olympics in Sarajevo. Click.
This was the world in which the Bosnian families I came to know had once lived. In fact, it was the only world they knew. Yugoslavia’s leader, wartime resistance hero Josip Broz Tito, had governed the country from 1945 until his death in 1980. Under his rule, being Yugoslav mattered more than one’s ethnic origin, than being Muslim, Croat, or Serb. Suddenly, within a few years of Tito’s death, everything that happened to people depended on their ethnicity.
The Key to My Neighbor’s House: Seeking Justice in Bosnia and Rwanda*
by Elizabeth Neuffer