Big, brown, inquisitive eyes in a cute but dirty little face stare at me intently. It's Sunday morning 9 o'clock and the streets of Sarajevo are the territory of Roma and streetdogs still. As the first tourists of the day, we are easy targets to the begging children. I hestitate what to do. The Christian in me just want to give and care. But for now the cynic wins the internal conflict: giving only makes me part of the problem, not the solution.
On our way to the interdenominational Evangelic celebration the contrasts of this city reveal themselves. Small, lively Eastern style artisant streets seemlessly change into wide lanes with proud architecture followed by contemporary glass skyrises. Tall, beautifully dressed ladies trud past a women sitting in the street with a blank stare. What appeared before these hollow eyes? What has she witnessed in this lush valley?
The buildings show equally damaged faces as the broken women. Bullet holes in facades and wounded souls. Will they ever be mended?
The tourguide confirms the images during the afternoon walk: complex, incomprehensible, and everybody lost. Eventually, I give in and donate a mark to a Roma lady with a baby on her arm. What do I know about problems and solutions? It is my small act of rebellion against harshness.