Dedication for this work goes to SOFREP sister Ms. Suzanne Dixon

The Jewish bastard lived in Sarajevo, the capital city of Bosnia and Herzegovina. He certainly lived there just after the fall of the former country of Yugoslavia. It was in the year 1996, and it actually rings odd to me nowadays to hear the word “Yugoslavia” anymore. Back in the day, it was just another country. Today it’s really just a horrid memory for so many unfortunates.

The Jewish bastard, I promise you, lived in Sarajevo. At least he did in 1996 when I last saw him there. I can’t say with certainty where he went after I left there but if you ask me he is still there in that same spot, that same 40-foot by 40-foot plot of land, one with an outcrop to the south that I thought at one time be a restroom of sorts.

Bosnia in those years was a land that time, unfortunately, didn’t forget. Rather it remembered the region in the most despicable way, in a way with murder and more murder and heinous murder nearing genocide.

Wartime Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina

Time remembered all the people of Bosnia, some more than others. Time felt most of the people of Srebrenica were close, so close that time felt they should all be buried together in the same grave for an eternity. Time’s savvy that way you see. Time knows what’s best for you more so than you do.

Post war exhumations at Srebrenica

At the time I was crossing over a quaint arch of a bridge that spanned a canal that trickled through the northern part of the great city. That canal was marred, broken and fractured by the many Serbian gunners who rained shells on the Sarajevan parade. Any water that found its way into that canal was soon laterally dispersed by the many tangential tributaries wrought by the war and the shelling.

Under that bridge, I thought I knew there to be an ad-hoc daily market. I schemed to go there on this day, to engage in the nihilistic search for cheese that was not Gouda, and not from Germany. Good luck with that, I bade myself! If not the cheese then the Slivovitz, the plum brandy, I would buy. It would wash away the tarn of war from this city, or at least the part that stained my memory. At least for one night, it would.

Toward the far end of the bridge, I craned my neck over the side to spy the market. I saw nothing of the sort, no market of any kind … but I did see him, the Jewish bastard that’s who. There he sat, he, on a pile of stones, I thought. No, those were actually masonry blocks, the kind 99% of all buildings in Sarajevo were built of.