We went to an outdoor weekend bazaar in Old Town Mostar. It was the most culturally diverse experience the girls have ever had. We crossed Stari Most, the historic bridge that was destroyed during the Croat-Bosniak war in the 1990s. One side of the bridge is primarily Bosnian Muslims and the other side is primarily Croat Catholics. Women and tourists are everywhere. The bazaar was crowded and run by women in hijabs. I bought Reese a skirt and Quincy a soccer jersey. There was extreme poverty everywhere but particularly on streets on the East side that were lined with mothers sitting on the ground, nursing young children and holding a hand out weeping for marks (Bosnian currency). Children came up to us and kissed our hands and begs us for marks. A 14 year old girl asked my girls to take a photo with them. They agreed, and I knew as soon as the little sister (maybe 10 years old) took our phone that we would not get it back without giving them some coins. Our hands were held and kissed and hair stroked and ankles brushed by people begging in the streets. The people were all so beautiful, and also sunbathed and had hardly any teeth. On the Catholic side of the bridge, we ate the most delicious meal I’ve ever had in my life. We dined outdoors on the cobblestone street in the middle of the Old Town bazaar and ordered a Čevapi feast platter. That we inhaled. Our server told us she visits the United States once every other year, and would give anything for a crumbl cookie 😂😂 “nothing in my country tastes like a United States Crumbl cookie! You are very lucky to be American.” We glanced around at the bullet holes in the sides of apartment buildings where children were crying of hunger and women invited us to buy their goods and a group of men collect euros and one of them jumps off the bridge every time he gets $50 € and I thought “yes, we are so lucky to be American”. In spite of the poverty, everyone was very joyful and peacefully coexisting between religions. The bazaar is a melting pot for sure. You could easily tell who owned what, but everyone was kind and civil both us us and to one another. The rebuilding of the Old Bridge was symbolic of friendship and peace. This experience was unforgettable for so many reasons.
off the bridge. I guess this is a thing and crazy people travel to Bosnia and pay big money to the Mostar Bridge Divers to coach them on how to jump off safely. Respectfully, nothing about this operation looked safe. This guy was the only one I could photograph because everyone else was in shabby too small brief underwear to dive in. Swimwear is absolutely not a thing.
This experience had me thinking about our two young missionary friends who just arrived in northern Croatia with only 12 weeks of language instruction…in Croatian. Most missionaries leave the MTC feeling somewhat confident that they have a handle on the language and then get into the field to realize how little they actually know lol. I sent Starješina Douglas and Starješina Eggars emails reminding them to to not be discouraged when they get to the field in the Adriatic North when it feels like no one understands their Croatian because they just might be Serbs or Bosniak and not understand ANY Croatian 😂. This is not like Switzerland where everyone speaks French and German and English perfectly. These individual countries have extreme religious and cultural differences and there appears to still be very little social mingling, let alone language instruction with neighbors. That also got me thinking about the Ukrainian refugees flooded into Poland seeking asylum. The news showed Polish families at the borders and train stations with food and strollers and blankets to welcome them with open arms right into their homes. I find it admirable and I wonder what our US borders would look like if we stood there to welcome asylum seekers, language and culture barriers aside. Most would argue this is an unreasonable idealistic thought. The bomb and bullet scarred homes on the borders of Bosnia tell the horrors of ethnic cleansing and border gatekeeping. The locals tell us that no one repairs bullet holes because they don’t want to forget. I am grateful to have witnessed a small sampling. The things we saw and felt changed us.
This was just such a unique country. Our hotel had a large Church Choir from Poland with tiny folk guitars and something that looks like a mandolin maybe singing on the patio below our window until midnight. The hotel lobby had photos of Christ and crosses on all the walls. We woke up Sunday morning thinking we might find a church to attend, but the closest congregation was meeting over 2 hours away in the opposite direction of our drive. When we stopped for petrol in a little village, we looked at the rows and shelves full of unfamiliar candy options. All hazelnut and pistachio and chocolate flavored of course. Even familiar brands like Kit Kat has unfamiliar packaging and flavors that made it almost unrecognizable. Then right in the center, a good old red package of Skittles. There’s not a missionary to be seen in these towns. No one is knocking or finding in these war battered streets to tell them about the restored Gospel of Jesus Christ. Abd how difficult it must be to teach abd ask investigators to attend a church that is 2 hours away.
But they’ve got Skittles. And so I say to all the young people traveling to the ends of the earth to proclaim the living gospel and testify of the savior: be the Skittles! Most people probably wander into the petrol station seeking what they know and are familiar with, but every now and again, someone will be searching for something different, and they will reach for the fruits. Just go and be present and seen in a new place! Share and testify and plant seeds until unfamiliar becomes familiar.
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