“It’s been a long time since I last sat down to write something more meaningful than a simple Facebook rant. It hasn’t been because I haven’t wanted to but sometime life gets in the way. I have been far too busy painting and even though my true love is writing, the painting pays whilst the writing doesn’t.
One of the reasons, in fact the biggest reason I paint is down to my daughters love for football. It isn’t cheap. Between club fees, travel costs and kit requirements my day job simply doesn’t cover everything. I do smoke but anyone who knows me will also know that my social life since the start of December has consisted of an afternoon at the bingo so my one vice will remain for now. The plus side however, so long as she remains in the national squad, is there are opportunities to travel. So, in October when she was selected to travel with the U17 squad, it took about two seconds to make the choice, I would be heading to Riga, capital city of Latvia.
Riga is a place I would never have chosen to travel to without a very good reason. It just didn’t appeal to me. I know that since the fall of the Iron Curtain it has garnered itself a reputation as a bit of a party city. Stags and hens saw it as the perfect venue as it is only a two hour flight from London and the cost of getting inebriated for a weekend was far cheaper than even one night in a UK city centre. There was also a far more relaxed attitude at the turn of the century to sexual ‘freedom’ in the city. It wasn’t free but it was certainly not the taboo subject that it still is in the UK. That said, as I have no need or desire to ever pay for sex, am teetotal and as far away from getting married as the day I was born, it ticked none of the boxes that matter to me.
One thing did appeal though. It would allow me a chance to practice my Russian, or so I thought. A language I last used in the early noughties, I figured incorrectly that this would be a perfect opportunity to show off my polyglot tendencies. Riga has a very chequered history. I will not bore you with all the details but a brief synopsis is vital in understanding how a city, and more importantly, its inhabitants behave the way they do. The passing years leave more than just a physical mark on things as obvious as architecture, it imprints itself in the psyche of its people.
Latvia is a Baltic state. A proud independent country now, and at several times throughout modern history, it has also been the stage for invasion and occupation. Because of the Bolshevik uprising, Latvia ceded from Russian rule, becoming a sovereign state. This brief glimpse of autonomy was ruined by World War II and it is the aftermath of this war that is still so evident in everything that takes place there. The Molotov-Ribbentrop pact was initially seen as a non-aggression pact between Hitler and Stalin but hidden away in the minutiae were some telling statements. Latvia and its neighbours were going to fall under Russian control again, regardless of the outcome of the second world war, but few saw how this would happen, or the horrendous cost that would need to be paid.
At the outbreak of the war, Russian forces moved in. Almost immediately a purge took place with the systematic killing of all military officers that could be found. This was then followed up with the deportation of high ranking civilians and government officials to Siberia. Few returned. However, whilst the land was initially seen as a buffer zone, almost a neutral territory, it was one of the first that saw the advance of Nazi footsoldiers when Operation Barbarossa unfolded in 1941. History tells us that this Operation was ultimately unsuccessful as Hitler failed to heed the folly of Napoleon’s ill planned attempt to reach Moscow in 1812. What is often overlooked is that at the outset however, the Nazi war machine was very much in the ascendancy and Latvia was steamrollered into submission. The occupying Russian forces retreated within a month and with little to stop them, the Nazi ideology was left to unfurl unchecked.
My accommodation was based in the infamous Maskavas district. If you look on most travel guides, this is the one part of the city that you do not visit as a tourist. Denied the luxury of choice due to financial restraints, it was to be my shared home for seven days with a good friend, the father of one of the girls that also played in the same team as my Grace. I throw this in at this point because it has relevance. The district we stayed in, in fact the very street we were on, was the ghetto that was formed by the Nazis. 30,000 Jew’s were ‘liquidated’ in this ghetto initially. I can’t help but feel nauseous at the inappropriateness of that word ‘liquidate’. It has a far more pertinent synonym, genocide. The reasons for the holocaust are well known but the facts are often overlooked, they prick too easily at the subconscious of a generation that haven’t felt the impacts of war personally. Whilst these 30,000 Jew’s were murdered, it was only the first glimpse of the barbarism that was to follow. Extermination camps in Eastern Europe were filling up too fast, so this little part of Riga was used to house that overflow. When it filled, it was ‘liquidated’ again. During the three years that the Nazi’s held power in Riga, over 75,000 Jew’s were killed, 30,000 alone in two months in the nearby Rumbula forest. A point worth noting here is that 120,000 Latvians fought alongside the German forces during World War II. There is a holocaust museum that lists all those who died, lanterns painted with images of some luminaries allowing them an immortality denied to many, and a painting by a young artist that depicts all six million who perished during those most shameful of years. A wagon that was used to transport those destined to die stands silently, and despite the horrific events that these things recollect, they do so in a touching and sombre manner. It moved me to tears.
Following the Russian reoccupation of Latvia in 1944, things would get worse for the Latvians. Forced migration of Russian civilians into the newly occupied territories would not only cause unease amongst the local populace, it would mark the city forever. Since the fall of the Soviet Union, Latvia has again become an independent state. It is a state that wants very much to be part of the west, but is always casting a worried glance over its shoulder to the hammer and sickle wielding bear to the east. What is left now is a city that has forgotten how to love, a city that has forgotten how to be true to itself and a city that above all else has forgotten how to trust. It is a cold, cynical place in which to live.
Whereas in most areas of the world that have suffered from such acts in centuries passed, rejuvenation was a stepping stone to recovery, yet Riga had other ideas. The streets and the tenements that were once the ghetto are there today as a stark reminder of what was. The buildings that bore silent witness to such depravity cast shadows from the past on the generations of today. Grey building competes with grey building in a skyline that seems only to be missing the dogfighting Messerschmitts and Yak fighters from a bygone era. The despair that lingered here during those darkest hours has not dissipated, it has permeated the walls and more worrying, the skin of generations that should not be forced to live with the stained diaspora of the past.
If you simply scratch the surface of Riga, it appears as any other city would. There are affluent areas and there are run down areas. Riga, for any casual tourist however is about one place only, the Old City. It is a beautiful place, there is no denying that. The eclectic architecture of Soviet, Latvian and Scandinavian origins creates a perfect backdrop to the cobbled streets. Of course, there are nods to the desire of Latvian’s to modernise and adapt to cosmopolitan ideals. All the usual western invaders have descended en masse, McDonalds, Starbucks and Subway now the generals of an advancing army once more, but these are incorporated into the feel of a town that dwells in the past, rather than adding a veneer of modernity.
The war museum is a must visit, with ivy clad walls throwing off a fantastic array of emerald hues as the breeze catches the leaves. Inside is a treasure trove charting Latvian military history from medieval times to the present day. Weapons, dioramas, photographs, letters and uniforms, nothing is left out and is a good way to while away a couple of hours. You can visit the old interrogation cells of the KGB, even looking to be treated as a captive if that is your desire. It wasn’t mine.
There are large parks within the city, huge areas of greenery which should be the playground of young children and courting couples but are sparsely populated other than for stray dogs and squirrels and oddly coloured magpies. The Daugava river runs through the centre of the city, splitting it almost symmetrically into two halves. Even the river, an estuarine affair is choppy and unwelcoming. Riga wants to be loved for sure, it throws out a claim to have the largest market in Europe. Perhaps this is true. Four huge buildings, once hangars for the German airship fleet, do indeed house markets. One is devoted entirely to fish. If your nose is strong enough it is possible to glimpse ocean fare that would make you wary of ever setting foot in the sea again. Another hangar is full of land animals. Dead animals of course, butchered and prepared in every way possible. The other two are a mismatch of the even larger outdoor market. It would seem the stalls are beyond count, but the reality is that there are probably only six stalls, repeated again and again to provide scale. There is quantity for certain, but quality is absent.
Here I first witnessed what seems to be a very common problem in Riga, alcohol. To walk down a street with an open drink is supposedly illegal but to sit down inebriated is deemed acceptable it would seem. I sidestepped majestically to avoid one careering drunk before he teetered onwards another twenty yards where he fell headfirst against the corner of a market stall. People just stepped over him. That is the problem with this city. If the buildings and parks are the skin of a city, the people are the soul, and this is a soul that simply refuses to forgive.
People are so mistrusting that to gain eye contact with someone is a Herculean task. It simply does not happen. There are no casual encounters on a busy street where you both step the same way before laughing with each other. There is no laughter to be heard anywhere. Other than my own laughter I heard none for a week. The old town only truly comes to life when the hens and the stags arrive on a Thursday evening and if this is what is needed to breathe life into a city such as this, it should be left to wither and eventually die. Whereas the West may have a lot to offer what Riga has captured is the worst. More drunks to match their own, intent on visiting the seedier side of the town. On three occasions whilst having a cheeky cigarette outside an overpriced restaurant I was approached and asked if I needed my wildest dreams satisfied. I don’t think they could cater for my desire to be a cigar taster in Havana so they were of no use to me anyway.
I do understand the reason, if not the logic behind this mistrust. The Latvians in general despise the Russians, the Russians despise the Latvians. Of course, the logic that is being ignored is that they are all part of one melting pot now. Eavesdropping conversations, the mutual hatred is quite open and therefore nobody can move on. Each generation is being further ingrained with hate, not being taught that the sins of our forefathers are theirs alone to carry, not ours.
There is an even murkier side to Riga however. Lurking outside of the old town boundaries is not something a casual tourist should even consider. My travel companion and I mistakenly took a right turn as opposed to a left, and walked ninety minutes in the wrong direction. I have been in situations in my life where even though I would hesitate to say I was genuinely scared, I was, for want of a better expression ‘on my toes’. A ninety-minute walk into the depths of the Maskavas district is one time where I genuinely felt fear. Of course, I hid it, the best of us do, but that doesn’t dull the senses any. There is abject poverty in this rundown former ghetto area. As we walked down streets that seemed to decrease in width in direct correlation to the increase in height of the towering soviet style high rise tenements to their side, I was prepared for anything to happen. Hidden alleys appear as if by magic and you get the sense of being watched. That sounds overly dramatic but for the denizens of this little dystopia a tourist on the wrong track could disappear without a head being turned. I was glad to return home that evening with nothing more than some sore feet and a need to have a well-earned cigarette.
I would often stand outside our apartment, back against the wall to enjoy a cheeky smoke and this only served to enhance my dislike for the Latvian capital. People would be rooting through bins, ladies of the night would become ladies of the day and old women, wizened and hunched would be making their way to work with dustpan and brushes made of sticks. What made this worse was the terrible juxtaposition of wealth and poverty. No more than a two minute stroll from my front door was a Mercedes garage. Everything that is wrong in Riga is symbolised by this.
Riga wants to be a modern city but the shackles of the past are so firmly attached that everything seem out of place, a lack of authenticity in everything it does and offers. The scars of the past are not hidden, why should they be, but they are toyed with and played, leaving them fresh and sore for all to see. They continue to fester and no amount of modernisation will change the mindset of this foreboding, wretched place.
In a bar one evening, a group of us parents discussed, should our daughters be fortunate enough to be selected for the next round of the football tournament that had brought us here, the places we wished to avoid. One stood out. We could have been drawn to play in Portugal, Spain, Greece or France. Denmark, Holland, Belgium or even Iceland. We didn’t want to travel to Bosnia, we all agreed on that. When the draw was made, there was an air of inevitability about the destination, we were going to Sarajevo, capital city of Bosnia and Herzegovina.
Now when I thought of Sarajevo, three things immediately sprung to mind. The start of The Great War, World War 1, brought about when Gavrilo Princip gunned down Austrian Archduke, Franz Ferdinand and his wife. The second memory is all purple as a former policeman and insurance clerk created figure skating history to Ravel’s Bolero. The third, and the most recent memory is one that was played out on TV from 5 April 1992 to 29 February 1996 (1,425 days). The siege of Sarajevo by the Serbian army.
Yugoslavia was a conglomeration of several countries formed after World War 1. After the Second World War ended the Yugoslav’s seemed to go their separate way from both the Western powers but also the Eastern powerhouse of the Soviet Union. A socialist state, Tito was an open critic of both NATO and the Warsaw Pact countries but when he died in 1980 there was a surge of nationalism amongst the Yugoslav states. Most sought autonomy but Serbia wanted to become the powerhouse, and when a Bosnian referendum voted in favour of ceding from the Yugoslav state, the fuse was lit.
What happened was unforgivable, or so you would think. The Serbian forces committed atrocities that shook the world, ultimately leading to UN intervention and the use of ground troops to bring events to a head. Sarajevo had been decimated, over 13,000 killed and of that total almost a half were civilians. I have ripped the following statistic straight from an external source, but when you read it you can forgive me for thinking that if Riga had carried the past into its present, then it was a foregone conclusion that the Sarajevan’s would be worse.
UNICEF reported that of the estimated 65,000 to 80,000 children in the city, at least 40% had been directly shot at by snipers; 51% had seen someone killed; 39% had seen one or more family members killed; 19% had witnessed a massacre; 48% had their home occupied by someone else; 73% had their home attacked or shelled; and 89% had lived in underground shelters. It is probable that the psychological trauma suffered during the siege will bear heavily on the lives of these children in the years to come.
It is also worth noting that during the Balkan wars of the nineties, 49 British servicemen lost their lives, four in Sarajevo itself. I could hardly wait to visit yet another city that was nothing more than a ghost.
The parallels between the two cities didn’t end there though. The religion in Sarajevo was surely going to be a problem. A city with almost an equal mixture of Muslim and Christian, in a world plagued with terror, surely the tension would be felt. Throw in a large proportion of Serbians still living in the city and I half expected there to be open hostility on every corner.
Arriving late at night, on my own in a strange city I really didn’t want to be in, I hardly slept. When I did wake from my slumber brought on by a two day journey, I opened the door to the apartment through a sense of duty to watch Grace play football, and try to blank the rest out. My first port of call was a bank, because the Euro doesn’t cut it here. You need to change them into Bosnian Marks.
So, into the bank I strolled and was amazed to see that the tellers were not barricaded behind glass screens like prisoners, rather sat there with a smile behind office desks. I changed my money, headed to the nearby supermarket and bought the essentials, cigars and diet coke. I then double timed it back to my apartment and took the time to appraise what I felt. I felt something and it was not what I had expected.
A couple of hours later I ventured out again, with more confidence and an open mind. One of the best decisions I ever made. My apartment was located alongside the Miljacka river, and this was the easiest means to navigate. I was almost equidistant between the Otaka stadium where the matches would be played and the old town of Sarajevo. The walk to the stadium was a huge eye opener. The river is not the dirty stinking morass that the Daugava was. Shallow enough to see the riverbed, this was a river in its youthful stage, a tributary to the larger Bosna river, with its source found in the Dinaric alps that surround this city. Ducks cavorted on the water and the pistachio green water glittered like Christmas tinsel. It was hard not to be impressed. Alongside the bank of the river runs a main throughfare (more of this later) with a tram line bisecting the carriageways. There is a wide walkway, with a cycle path on most parts, that runs the length of the river from the old town to at least as far as the Otaka Stadium. Numerous bridges connect the two banks and at almost every street corner is a kiosk. Not some grotty affair but newly constructed with chilled drinks, sweets, magazines and cigars. The prices are incredibly cheap and the owners friendly, happy to chat as best they can when you do not share more than a handful of phrases in each other’s language.
Interspersed along the pavements are tiny restaurants, bakers and cafes, bars as well, and they are populated in great numbers by the locals. If you are picturing a scene from Ayia Napa or the like, you are a million miles from the truth. This is Parisienne, cultured, with laughter filling the air. At regular intervals, there are small playgrounds and apparatus and young families ensure they are never left unused. You just should pause and take in the scenes. This is a city that wants to laugh, and does so against the backdrop of some stunning scenery. The hills I mentioned earlier are rugged but beautiful with typical Slavic houses perched at angles and intervals so seemingly in such a haphazard manner confuse the eye of anyone who has not seen this type of thing before. With the buttermilk shades of stone and occasional green and red roofs it is like gazing at an extravagant delicatessen display. Everywhere is the smell of summer, and the sun shining overhead adds to everything.
I mentioned religion earlier and it is everywhere yet never encroaching in a forceful manner. Minarets are scattered with equal measure with orthodox churches, crescent and cross allies, not at war. This rarity is seen amongst the couples strolling by, with Muslim and Christian often in love rather than at war. Marriages between the two faiths are not uncommon in this cosmopolitan city. The West are often shown images of bourka clad women covered from head to foot. This is not the Islam on display here. Colourful headscarves in pastel shades are commonplace with light silk robes. If Islam is an oppressive, dangerous force in other parts of the world, nobody seems to have informed the Bosnians here. Two women and two prams epitomised to me what the world should see and how they should live. Walking along the river, both pushing strollers with babies ensconced safely within, was the beginning of a joke, yet it wasn’t. This was a beautiful twenty something with a pair of Timberland boots on, jeans, t-shirt and a proudly displayed gold cross at the end of a necklace, talking to her friend who was wearing the Islamic clothing that I mentioned earlier. They were clearly the best of friends, and even with my Bosnian being extremely limited, there was enough understanding to realise these were just two women, two mothers, enjoying life. Religion was no barrier, if anything it unified these two youngsters.
A moniker often thrown at Sarajevo is ‘The Jerusalem of Europe’. I have visited Jerusalem and whilst I saw diverse religious beliefs within the same city walls, this was a cause of conflict not celebration. Here, amongst the citizens of this fine city, you can see that there is hope, that religions need not collide, that one does not need to usurp the other, there is room for all. Never have I been more moved to see something so incredibly simple yet poignant.
Walking back from the game, after a heavy defeat, it would be easy to feel deflated but this city will not allow you to sulk for too long. The walk along the river saw day turn into night and with it a chance to appreciate this city still further. The road that runs alongside the river was now closed to all traffic. This happens every night and now it was full of families, walking, cycling, running. Just enjoying life, and making an absolute mockery of what we term as ‘quality time’ back home. This was not some orchestrated display of an enhanced attitude towards family values, it was everything that we should aspire to. Couples were sitting on benches along the river, others were sat at barside beer gardens but nowhere was there even the faintest threat of drunken dishevelment or binge drinking.
My second night’s sleep was a lot better than my first. If Sarajevo was a woman, I’d be in crush territory by now. My second full day in the city saw me traipse the other way along the Miljacka, my destination the old town. The walk took around an hour but with everything so unhurried it never feels like time will catch up with you. You set off and you arrive, the rest is merely an experience you must allow to happen.
A leisurely walk allows you to take in the vista that unfolds. The bars and the cafes and the bakeries are all there but so are the banks, the shops hawking western goods and the franchises. Even in a town of this size, there is only one McDonald’s. I like that, it shows that even though there is room for western influence, it is not an overriding theme. Whilst there is an open embrace for the west, it will not be allowed to smother the ideals already in place. Walking past the town hall and other civic buildings you soon come upon the old town. This is where the city was founded half a millennia ago. This is Europe but the Ottoman and Arab influence on this area is obvious to anyone. Hookah cafes, Lebanese, Iranian, Yemeni and other Middle Eastern staples are everywhere. There are side streets that taper off with an almost laissez fare nonchalance that draw you in to gaze upon the stalls. Beautiful rugs, Persian in origin, headscarves and kaftans, brass cook ware and ornaments and beautiful wooden iconology and carvings. This IS Sarajevo, the occasional stall selling souvenirs reminds me of such, but it could so easily be Cairo or Istanbul. There is the Gazi Husrev-beg’s Mosque, built in the 16th century and the largest mosque in Bosnia but it is not prominent in the way so many ancient historic buildings are. It is sprawling and the central player around which the old town is built. It is hard to place the feeling you have in this area. There is an assault on the senses, where aromas can be recognised before instantly being replaced by another. Spices, fruit, smoke, incense. It is an exercise in futility to even offer up a description of what a serene place this is.
Slightly removed from the old town is the Sarajevo Cathedral, an impressive building over a century old and though compared with the Gothic monoliths we are used to in the West, this is almost a tiny building, more believable as a place of worship rather than a centre of mind control. It says so much about the city, where grandeur is displayed within the people rather than the architecture. Nothing is overly done to impress; it just does through simplicity and authenticity.
I stopped and spoke to people, something that was impossible in Riga. I spoke with the young and the old, and their humility is tangible. I have already talked of the suffering these people endured and in such recent times. They do not hide this, there are buildings that carry the bullet holes on every street, a stark reminder of what happened. Rather than look at these things as a scar that needs to be picked at or exposed as a reason for their own frailty, there is a clear message that this city and its people convey without words. They appreciate life, they appreciate the light for they know only too well the darkness, and as such will live each day to the fullest. They will love, they will cry and they will celebrate that today is a good day, it is a day to be thankful for who knows what tomorrow may bring.
I mentioned the women walking along a river bank but another image will stay with me as well from my visit here, this idyll I have been privileged to travel to. At the site of the Otaka stadium are two other buildings, one a huge mosque, recently built, and a leisure centre. Whilst watching the game that brought me here, we were treated, and it was a treat, to the sound of the Adhan, as the Muezzin’s recorded voice echoed out from a loudspeaker atop the minaret. Two hundred yards away in a window of the leisure centre were scantily clad youths enjoying the waters of a swimming pool. There is no sanctimonious caterwauling for religious favour, nor the need for apologists to betray their own belief to allow for that of others. There is simply acceptance that the people here are, despite their diversity in religion and ethnicity, their age or their gender, simply Sarajevan.
The cities of Riga and Sarajevo are so far removed from each other that it is delusional, even arrogant to think that a poorly worded piece like this can convey even a tenth of what I would like. There are philosophies and morals to these two cities that are entrenched and will never be changed. Whilst Riga is very much a victim, a city that wants to be loved because it feels that a debt is owed due to the scars that it openly throws in your face at every turn, Sarajevo doesn’t. Its former wounds are not concealed; it feels no reason to for these were acts that were committed upon it rather than from it. Sarajevo lays its soul for all to see and as such, the beauty that lays within it captures you completely.
I never wanted to come here, but as I leave a part of it will be with me forever. If I could be immortalised, if just one brick could bare my name for eternity, then I would want it laid here.”
Photo credit: Milos Golubovic on Flickr
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