Sarajevo: Schooling for False Gods Premium

I was born in Sarajevo in 1977, at a time when Yugoslavia still existed and no one around me seriously imagined it would ever cease to exist. The city lay in a valley surrounded by mountains that seemed permanent and protective. From above, Sarajevo looked orderly, contained, and even dignified. From within, it felt narrower. My parents brought me home to an apartment where the air carried the layered smells of tobacco, strong coffee, and old fabric. These were not unpleasant smells. They were the smells of adulthood, of stability, of people who had accepted their place in the world. My father, like many men of his generation, believed in work. He believed in endurance. He believed in what he could see and measure. He did not believe in God.

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