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When the crisis with my parents deepened and the familiar structures of my life began to fracture, I did not immediately think in theological terms. I thought in practical ones. Something was broken. Something needed repair. And if there was a God, then perhaps He was responsible for solutions. But first I had to determine who He was. Sarajevo is crowded with houses of worship. Mosques punctuate the skyline with slender minarets. Catholic churches sit in the open, stone and deliberate. Orthodox domes rise heavy and rounded. Smaller congregations occupy renovated apartments and borrowed halls. During the communist years, we referred to all of this simply as “religion.” It was a category, not a question. A cultural accessory. Something older people did quietly. Now it became my research field.

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