History is in the Eye of the Beholder

The people I meet traveling are almost always more memorable than the places I see. And sometimes the people I DON'T meet leave a lasting impression, too. 

At a photo exhibition in Mostar, Bosnia I saw a girl in her thirties. She was wearing leggings, a baggy sweater and a scarf. Her hair was in a ponytail and she was pushing a bike with a wicker basket just like mine. This photo was different than the faded black and white war photos I'm used to with people in strange clothes with funny hairdos.  The girl looked like she could have been my friend.  The photo was taken in 1993 and she had just crossed the Mostar Bridge (which was bombed later that same year).

Maybe she was out to fill her basket with groceries and fresh flowers or returning from a cafe where she'd just met a friend for coffee.  The war lasted so long that most people had no choice but to continue trying to live their lives. This girl was living history.

Most of you are living history, too.  The history of the Covid-19 pandemic. But I'm not. I'm hiding in my tiny house in my tiny town in Italy. And when I'm not home, I'm close to home in the big field next door. I don't watch news about the coronavirus because I don't have a TV (my choice). And even though I could get updates on the internet, I seldom do that either (my choice).  I was frightened  by the costumed men that came to test my neighbors for the virus on February 22 and since then I've done my best to avoid other unsettling images.

I should probably be embarrassed to admit that I wonder if I'll regret my choice. But the truth is, I am embarrassed and I do wonder. I'm an observer, not a participant. Actually, I'm not even an observer.  I haven't walked through an eerily empty piazza. I haven't heard the announcement at the grocery store that the folks in aisle 4 have to keep their distance. I haven't bought bread at the bakery that allows one customer in at a time and I haven't had pizza delivered from the masked guy on his Vespa. The only images I have of life in Italy during the pandemic are the ones I've created myself.

I hope the girl on Stari Most (Mostar Bridge) is still alive and sitting in a cafe in Bosnia (or her new country, if she fled as a refugee) telling her friend that she remembers the last time she crossed that beautiful bridge on her bike. And I hope one day in the future when I'm in a bar (cafe) in Italy and my friend tells me that she remembers seeing a hearse, a priest and one onlooker in front of the town's church I'll finally have the courage to listen without humming loudly and plugging my ears. But I'll remain silent.  Walking hundreds of miles in the field next door and living 63 (and sadly counting) days with no pizza is far from tragic. I'll have no stories to share because history is in the eye of the beholder and I haven't beheld.



(!!!Please note:  I'm well aware that life during the Bosnian War and the coronavirus pandemic are worlds apart, but living on lockdown has made me think about life during war times.  I cautiously broached the subject with my Bosnian friend in Chicago who wasn't offended and said that in fact, there are some similarities.)