blood irrigating
the vegetable gar-
dens of Dobrinje.
Sarajevo, a city
pockmarked by
hate, scarred
by the tracks of ar-
moured personnel
carriers,
divided by barriers of blood. I
remember
flying in over destroyed buildings,
putting on
my blue helmet and ill-fitting
Kevlar flak jacket,
stepping off the musty UNPRO-

FOR Yak-40 and walking
across the tarmac, an armoured fire
truck driving slowly
between us and the silent snipers.
Your refugee parents
knew no such security in Sarajevo.
Sarajevo, capital of Europe.
I remember your city before you
were born.
Nineteen ninety-five, the smoke
mushrooming
over
the ammunition
dump in Pale, the
air carrying
haunting echoes
of the massacres
at Srebrenica,
another blot on
the stained con-
science
of what we
naively called the
international
community. The
thumps of the
guns
of the Rapid Reaction Force, react-
ing at last
to the shelling of Sarajevo. Thick
clouds
of aircraft overhead, dropping de-
struction

on your besiegers. And with it,
hope.
Till the air cleared, and peace came
at last
to what would become your home.
Sarajevo, capital of Bosnia.

I remember your city before you
were born.
Nineteen ninety-six, those first ten-
tative steps of peace,
the buildings still shattered, people
grappling
with pain and disbelief as they
groped
to piece together the fragments of
their fractured lives.
And now, nineteen ninety-nine, at
the twilight
of a century marked twice by
tragedy in Sarajevo
I returned. As you grew large in
your mother’s womb,
my first glimpse from the air of re-
roofed homes,
buildings repainted in celebratory
shades
of shocking pink and yellow,
strolling couples,
children laughing as they ran
across a park,
the bustle of a city at last at peace
with itself. Sarajevo, for a day, capi-
tal of the world.
I will always remember the day you
were born.
A birth after so many deaths, the re-
assertion of the miracle of life triumphing
over the grave.
Flowers bloom in the cemetery. A
bouquet is thrust
into your mother’s hands, the tradi-
tional coin
of good fortune pressed into her
palm, a United Nations
medal of peace. We have made you
a symbol, a milestone.
A metaphor. But you are also a boy,
Baby Six Billion.
And you will grow up, I pray, in a
city
of healed wounds, bright lights,
joyous music,
chattering friends who will not
wear ethnic labels
on their belts. Let peace light
the flame on the candles
of your birthday cake, Baby Six Bil-
lion.
In Sarajevo, city of hope.