THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Thursday, October 5, 1995 TAG: 9510030093
SECTION: NORFOLK COMPASS PAGE: 02 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: GUEST VIEWPOINT
SOURCE: BY SHERMAN EDMONDSON
LENGTH: Long : 150 lines
She came to me the last week in May: 32 years old, 5 feet 9, 118 pounds. She was gaunt and drawn. The feeling that overtook me the first time I saw her was that feeling of pity and compassion you feel when you walk through the animal shelter and your eyes connect with those of an abused puppy. Behind the dark, sad eyes you instinctively know the capacity for unconditional love remains.
Sanja Omanovic was not a refugee from Bosnia but a professional journalist who had come to America on a fellowship grant from the National Forum Foundation. I was to serve as her American host. Our relationship was supposed to be simple. I was to provide food, shelter and a ``normal'' American lifestyle experience. She was to serve as an intern at The Virginian-Pilot, assigned to the international team.
The first two days were somewhat strained. Sanja was more than a little timid. I sensed that she did not want to be any ``trouble.'' She was extremely guarded in her conversation and moved through the house like a cat. Quiet, subdued, not wanting to disturb anything.
On the evening of the third day, I decided that she needed to experience some night life. I was hopeful that getting her out into a club might help her relax. My brother happened to be performing at a comedy club in Virginia Beach that evening, so we had planned to go to the 10 o'clock show.
By 9 p.m. we were getting dressed to leave, I in my room, she in hers. Suddenly, I heard footsteps down the hall and heard my name called in a voice of sheer terror. I turned just as Sanja entered my doorway. I was met by her eyes, wide with fear and welling with tears. ``What is that noise?'' she asked. ``. . . Are they shelling?''
I had heard no noise, but as I quieted her, I listened. The Memorial Day fireworks had just begun at Town Point Park. To me, the sound was insignificant, but to Sanja it triggered a trained response. She sat on the love seat in my dressing room, held her head in her hands, balanced on her knees by her elbows, put her hands to her ears and rocked and cried as the explosions two miles away rang through the night. Regardless of the extent to which I tried to provide comfort, nothing could overtake the sound and the horrid fear she was trying so hard to contain.
From that night until the end of her visit, there was not one fireworks display in Hampton Roads that Sanja did not see. It was important for her to be able to SEE the fireworks. She could not bear the sound without seeing the display in the sky.
Not only did it help her accept the sound, which before had been so terrifying, but it also provided her a mental picture to take home with her. Now, when the shells are falling outside and all she can hear is the sound, she will visualize the beautiful displays in the sky and imagine that she is sitting at the Oceanfront or in Town Point Park being thrilled and excited by artistic pyrotechnics. That is a far better scenario than the truth: that her city, despite some recent moves toward peace, is still under vicious attack by aggressors who target innocent civilians, killing defenseless men, women and children.
By the end of the first week, Sanja and I had bonded to the point that she felt comfortable allowing me to see some of the real person who had remained hidden behind the protective mask she had donned at the beginning of the war. Sitting by the pond, sipping wine and marveling at her fortune to be in America, she began to share with me what her life had been like over the past three years.
``This is so peaceful,'' she said. ``The street lights cast such a pleasant glow to the evening. We have no street lights anymore.''
I asked her about Sarajevo before the war.
``Before the war, we were just like you,'' she said. ``We lived in houses that look very much like yours. We drove cars to work, shopping and to the movies. We went to cafes and restaurants for evenings out and enjoyed very much getting together in the evenings with friends for coffees and cigarettes and talking.
``Now, we spend our nights in basements or cellars. Holes in the ground like rats. Our cars are useless without gasoline, except for the batteries. We have been using the car batteries to run generators to give us electricity. That worked well for the first two years, but now the car batteries are wearing down, and we have no more. Our food is through humanitarian aid. About three ounces per day, per person is provided. Mostly rice, beans and macaroni. We have no light. We have had no electricity for three years. We had been using candles for light, but most of them have been used up. We can get candles on the black market for one German mark apiece, but we have no money. Sarajevans have become very creative, though. We have learned to make candles of cooking oil, scraps of soap, anything that will burn.''
The night before she left Sarajevo, she burned the door to her bathroom to build a fire to bake bread so that her husband would have bread to eat for a couple of days after she was gone.
I cannot imagine the personal strength it takes to survive under such conditions. Lesser people would have given up long ago. I know that my first inclination would be to flee to someplace better. Sanja's commitment, though, is to the people of Sarajevo. She is confident that if there is an opportunity for peace in the Balkans it is with the people of Sarajevo.
Finally, I asked what we Americans could do to help. What was the one thing that the people of Sarajevo needed but did not have?
``Peace,'' she said. ``If not peace, light. Light and information.''
Without electricity, there is no news. The people trapped in Sarajevo do not know when gas is flowing through the pipes, so gas explosions are a daily tragedy. They do not know when the shelling has stopped, except by listening for the quiet calm that follows the attacks.
The winter is the worst time because it gets dark so early. The worst cold is the stagnant cold of an unheated house, basement or cellar. Without light, the cold is colder and the dark is darker and the sound of shells is heightened. With just a little light, the people would feel more human and less like rats trapped in a hole.
That conversation was the genesis of ``Let There Be Light, Virginia,'' a fund-raising drive for the people of Sarajevo.
I knew that providing lights requiring a fuel source would be fruitless, because the need for fuel would be continuous and beyond our abilities to provide. Solar energy is a renewable source of energy and one that the Serbs cannot control.
Sanja is physically gone now. She is back in war-torn Sarajevo. She has left me with memories that I will cherish for a lifetime. The thrill of watching her enjoy a day at Busch Gardens, riding every ride time and time again with the joyful abandon of a child. Sharing her mixed emotions of joy and sadness as she was able to speak on the telephone to her father, mother and brother for the first time in three years. (Her family is in Serb-held territory, and communication is prohibited.) Helping her learn the words and music to the Holy, Holy we sing in church each Sunday in preparation for the Eucharist. She said she wanted to learn how to sing it so she could continue to share my faith from 8,000 miles. Watching in amazement as she ate and ate and ate - and assuring her that she needn't feel guilty. I wanted to fatten her up for the coming winter.
Sanja has put a face, a feeling, a personality on the war in Bosnia. It is no longer a war in the Balkans that we should do something about. It is a war that threatens the life of someone for whom I care very much.
I love Sanja as I love my own sisters and brothers, and the thought of sending her back to face death at the hands of a sniper, as a victim of a Serb rocket, or through starvation was not a reality I was prepared to face. I do not have the power to protect Sanja as I protect my family. But if I can raise the awareness of the American public, I must. If I can make one more American care, I must. If there is anything that I can do to make life in Sarajevo just a little more tolerable for the people who are trapped there, I must.
``Let There Be Light'' has as its goal the delivery of 100,000 solar lanterns and radios into Sarajevo before the onset of winter. We need your help to meet that goal. Please do all within your power to help us get the word out that the people of Sarajevo have a right to survive, a right to human dignity and a right to light. MEMO: Sherman Edmondson is Norfolk's assistant director of city planning
and codes administration. She lives in Lafayette-Winona.
To help bring light to Sarajevo, send contributions to Let There Be
Light, Virginia, 1501 Lafayette Blvd., Norfolk, VA 23509.
ILLUSTRATION: Sanja Omanovic
Journalist has returned to Bosnia
Sherman Edmondson
Norfolk resident was Sanja's host
by CNB