“How could they describe that swirling current among men which passed from dumb animal fear to suicidal enthusiasm, from the lowest impulses of bloodlust and pillage to the greatest and most noble of sacrifices? Never can that be told, for those who saw and lived through it have lost the gift of words and those who are dead can tell no tales. Those were things which are not told, but forgotten. For were they not forgotten, how could they ever be repeated?” Ivo Andric, Bridge on the Drina p. 265
The idea of place is a funny thing. How is it possible that I feel more comfortable, more ‘at home’ in a country 15,830 kilometres away from my backyard in Sydney? Tonight’s story comes from my love of travel, more particularly, my love of travelling in the Balkans, and more particularly still, in Bosnia. It always takes a few days to settle in over there, to slow down and get back into copious coffee drinking. I also have to get used to the directness and openness of people, which I love, even when they tell me they can’t stand my big black boots. And then later, it’s always so difficult to leave.
Sometimes we stumble across something haunting and we can’t let it go. seven kilometres north-east is about one of those moments. It’s a story about remembering. Thank you for joining me.
Kym Vercoe, version 1.0, September 2010
