Music, Memory, Madness

Past tense: In the 1990s, I read Chris Hedges' daily New York Times dispatches from Yugoslavia while I nursed our newborn boy, my grounded career as a photojournalist silently juxtaposed to Srebrenica's horrific mass graves. I wished I could cover the war in Bosnia, even while I was safe and content on the couch, listening endlessly to Kate Rusby and watching Josef grow.

Present tense: Adm and I are producing Enisa's story of coming to America from Bosnia, distilling her courage and strength into a tight two-minute narrative. Simultaneously, a few days ago, big news of Serbian war criminal Radovan Karadzic's arrest after living openly for 13 years in Belgrade, disguised as Dr. David, a new age healer. I contacted Enisa for her reactions. She said, in her beautiful Bosnian accent, that the arrest was good news but that it stirred up a thousand bad memories.

While researching music for Enisa's piece, my friend Lucija Hadziselimovic gave me beaucoup leads, she being a veritable idea faucet. Through the winding path of discovery and grief, I found this tonic for my sorrow.

Enisa and Her Mother

Yesterday, I completed shooting a year-long project documenting the work of the Walter and Elise Haas Fund. It's been amazing to bear witness to the love that drives so many nonprofits to do their deep and lasting community work day in and day out. Here's a shot of Enisa, a social worker, and her mother, refugees from Srebrenica, Bosnia. The audio capture was intense. Tears flowed from all of us. Husband gone. Brother gone. Dearest cousin gone. House in flames. Concentration camp escape. Lived as refugees in Montenegro, Macedonia, Austria, Berlin, and finally California. Rebuilding their lives as Americans. Helping countless other Bosnian refugees. Heros living among us, in spite of their ghosts. Or perhaps because of them.