What Bosnia Taught Me About Tolerance

This morning I woke up and showered before making my way downstairs to do some laundry. If the pinnacles of joy are found in the simplest of crafts than there are few experiences more sublime than pulling a clean pair of trousers from a hot dryer.

Dare I say it can even be emotional.

After folding my clothes and catching up on some reading, I hailed a cab and set out for Blagaj, a village about 12 km south of Mostar. Blagaj is known for its beautiful spring of the Buna river and Dervish monastery built around 1520.

My driver was an outgoing man named Amin. We drove mostly in silence during the 15-minute ride as I watched him skillfully weave between nervous oncoming drivers and stone walls hugging narrow streets dating back at least four hundred years. He let me off just in front of the historical tekke before recommending a restaurant I could get a nice piece of fish overlooking the river.

I thanked him for his help and made my way towards an imposing mountain that seemed on the verge of swallowing the entire village whole. It was quite the sight.

Eventually, I headed closer to the Buna River. It was a turquoise I hadn’t seen since a family vacation to Lake Louise in Alberta many years before. The color was alluring. I inched closer as if beckoned by the singing sirens in Homer’s Odyssey.

Soon it became clear I was not the only visitor with this agenda. I bobbed and weaved my way down a crowded and steep staircase. When it was finally my turn I put my hand in the ice cold stream.

After I’d had my fill I headed over to the restaurant Amin suggested.

“Do you want meat or fish?” a man asked me.

“Uh, fish,” I said.

It seemed like a unique way of dividing the masses — men or women, Republican or Democrat, meat-eaters or fish-eaters.

Thankfully, digging into a fresh piece of trout felt less polarizing.

I sat quietly listening to the sounds all around. Another expedition that took a little extra effort to make possible but had again paid off. There seemed to be a valuable lesson in all of this.

“We are a peaceful people,” he said. “If you see a Catholic priest wearing a long black robe you respect him. But if I am wearing something similar you don’t.”

Then the waiter dropped off the bottle of water I’d ordered. Below the company’s name it read, “Relax and enjoy life.”

After my meal I asked the waiter if he could call Amin to pick me up and take me back to town. He looked at me quizzically claiming the restaurant didn’t have a phone. I decided not to press the issue and just paid my bill.

I’d though briefly about making the 12 km journey back on foot. I’d done it before but with a slightly more forgiving sun.

As I strolled past the vendors that lined the quiet street, I saw a young man of about 22 playing on his mobile phone.

“Excuse me my friend,” I said. “Would you mind making a call for me?”

The man rose up and asked, “Is the number in Bosnia?”

“Oh, of course,” I assured him.

I handed him the number and told him to tell “Amin” that “Nick” was ready to be picked up in the same place where he was dropped off. A few second later the young man told me my ride would arrive in 15 minutes.

My new friend’s name was Abdel. We spoke for several minutes before the cab arrived. He was a very friendly, intelligent, and funny young man. He told me how the average family in Blagaj only made about 15 marks a month.

“It’s impossible to support a family on that,” he told me. “There’s just no opportunity,” he said.

I began to grow disheartened at the narrow prospects for someone so young and full of life.

“Well, what would you do if you could do anything?” I asked.

“I would stop the killing of my people,” he said.

“You mean, Muslims?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

He expressed his frustration in a lifetime of being misinterpreted, misunderstood, and even mixed up for someone else.

“We are a peaceful people,” he said. “If you see a Catholic priest wearing a long black robe you respect him. But if I am wearing something similar you don’t.”

He was convincing in his argument. I thought about some of the issues I was passionate about that I’d bottled up each day, perhaps unknowingly looking for an chance to also proclaim my message to anyone who’d listen.

We touched on lighter subjects, like the fact Abdel was getting married in two days.

“Wow, congratulations,” I said, extending my hand.

“Are you nervous?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I can’t wait.” “You’re definitely not American,” I ribbed him.

Just then Amin pulled up. I told Abdel to stay in touch before we hugged and I got into my black chariot. I really did wish him well and hoped some day I’d return to find him feeling a greater sense of acceptance, understanding, and hope.

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