Good Or Shit: Singing To Sarajevo

I have fallen into a state of sevdah.

It’s a Bosnian word for lovesickness. A word for yearning, pining, and longing, for a person, a place, or a time. It’s a state of being the Bosnians express with a particular style of folk music – sevdalinka – which has been around since the 15th century, when the Ottomans turned Sarajevo into one of the Empire’s bustling cities.

But sevdah is not just yearning. It’s about feeling melancholy and elated all at once.

“Yes,” our local Bosnian friend tells us over rakija in downtown Sarajevo. “It’s when you feel happy and sad, at the same time.”

We’re at Kino Bosna, an old cinema that’s been turned into a bar and music venue. It's all wooden tables and chairs, chequered table cloths and dim lighting, peacock green walls with black and white golden-era Hollywood photographs and the obligatory picture of Marshal Tito – the man who united the Balkans.

“You know what hipster is?” Our friend asks us. “This is a place for hipster.”

It’s boiling hot and cigarette smoke hangs heavy in the air but the vibe is intoxicating.

A group of young people are dancing the kolo – that traditional circle dance that every Balkan country has a version of – while a guitarist, a drummer, an accordion player and a singer make their way around the room playing to the tables. Slip a note on one of the instruments and they will linger at your table playing anything you request, your own personal concert. 

We’re going to put in a request for the friend we came to this country with.

I’ve been travelling with three of my oldest and dearest friends from Sydney, one of whom is a Sarajevan. In 1996, he and his family, after living in the city during the longest military siege in modern history, managed to escape and make their way to Australia as refugees. After some 15 years of listening to his stories, this is the first time he has brought any of us to his home. It’s exciting, it’s emotional, it’s all bit sevdah.

Since the morning we headed for Bosnia, a song has been going round in my head. A song I haven't heard in years.

Sarajevo, Sarajevo, Saraje-eh-eh-eh-ehhhh, Bosniaaaa, was so unkind.

Now, I’m actually a Cranberries fan. I owned their albums as a teenager, I sing along if Linger comes on the radio, but this song about Bosnia has a sound that is not unlike stray cats howling at night, with lyrics that have less punch than room temperature.

Bosnia was so unkind?? It was a travesty.

It’s been over 20 years since Bosnia separated from Yugoslavia and the bitter war for independence ended. But signs of it are everywhere.

Graffiti insists that Srebrenica (in which more than 8000 Bosnian Muslim men and boys were massacred) will never be forgotten; museums are dedicated to it; tour guides make it their focus; but most of all, it is written in the bullet holes and shrapnel wounds on the buildings. Shrapne, I call it.

“Get it? It’s cause it makes the buildings look like they have acne!”

My friend gives me a wry smile. I’m making fun of his war again. Not funny.

For a people who have stood in the centre of so many wars, Sarajevo couldn’t be more alive. Despite economic hardship and political bullshit, everyone we meet is generous, friendly, and wielding a cracking sense of humour.

You would need weeks to see its many mosques, museums and galleries, to walk its majestic mountains, to explore its abandoned places. But it only takes minutes to appreciate its unique character.

Sarajevo compels us to sing to it.

Sarajevo, Sarajevo, Saraje-eh-eh-eh-ehhhh, Bosniaaaa, was so unkind.

But only the city knows the good songs.

Don’t call my name, don’t call my name, Sarajeeeevooo. My mate sings throughout the week.

We have to learn the city’s songs.

We drop in to hear Bosnian punk band Skroz who have now turned indie rock, and we dance among Sarajevo’s groovy young crowd.

At Dom Mladih we see energetic rock/jazz/reggae/blues (I’m sure there’s a genre that covers this) band, Zoster, with their track about Gavrilo Princip, the young man who went out one day, assassinated Archduke Ferdinand, and sparked WWI. The ominous sound, sticks with me.

Gavrilo, Gavrilo srce uzavrelo, Gavrilo, Gavrilo, hearts boiling.

As does Iz Pičke Sam Materine, which roughly translates to “I’m from my mum’s pussy”.

Iz pičke sam materineeeeeeee, we sing as we wander along Sniper Alley looking for a cab.

We opt against seeing hip hop star Edo Majka and see a soccer game instead. But there we find music too.

From a quieter section of the stadium we watch the fans. Ninety minutes of non-stop chanting, clapping, and choreographed movement, all to the beat of a drum and instructed by a guy with a megaphone. Riot police stand at the ready and booze is not allowed.

Most of the people in our section are pretty lazy about the chanting, until the tinny sound of a guitar riff crackles through the speakers and then everyone stands to sing.

There is something about the way they are doing it. The way everybody is compelled to stand up, scarves held high, the colours of Sarajevo soccer team Željezničar out for everyone to see.

 “During the war,” my friend explains. “This stadium was occupied. The fans couldn’t come here, they could only see the stadium from afar. This song is about that time. About their hope that one day they could come back to this place.”

In a dimly lit exhibition room, the four of us sit squashed up on a bench in front of a large screen, sniffling. We’d just sat through a short film about Srebrenica and are waiting for Bill Carter’s, Bono produced, documentary Miss Sarajevo, which Carter filmed during the siege my friend lived through.

For four years Sarajevans lived without water, electricity and food, under constant bombardment from a military force that sat in the mountains, completely surrounding the city, picking off its residents. Every day, people ran — to school, to get water, to find food, dodging snipers, grenades, and the anti-aircraft missiles that were being fired at their homes.

But they continued to live, to play in the park, have parties, hold concerts, and even a beauty pageant.

As we watch the footage, all those stories my friend has been telling me for years suddenly become real. And I realise how lucky we are to have him here. When U2’s track Miss Sarajevo begins to play we all weep. Through the sorrow, I can feel my friend sitting next to me, and that makes me feel joy.

Sevdah.

“I’ve never had a holiday like this,” one of my friends says as we pack the car to leave. “Where I’ve laughed and cried so much in one week, you know? Where I’ve felt so happy and so sad at the same time.”

She gave me a knowing smile.

“Sevdah.”

I’m feeling sevdah for Sarajevo.