Ghosts are everywhere in Sarajevo. Some of them still live.

Bosnia and Herzegovina are the last stops on our journey through the Balkans. When we reach Sarajevo, we are prepared for a joyless, damaged city, still reeling from the daily deluge of sniper and mortar fire that reigned down for four years in the early 1990s during the Siege of Sarajevo.

Instead, we are instantly entranced. Reminders of that brutal war are indeed still visible. We come across buildings riddled with bullet holes and piles of rubble. There is no forgetting such a tragic and horrific chapter in the city’s history. But what impresses us is the warmth of the people, and the seemingly harmonious mosaic of culture and traditions.

Mosques, Christian churches and synagogues stand side by side here. After 400 years of conflict and invasion, Sarajevo is like the proverbial phoenix that rises from the ashes.

We are drawn to  Stari Grad (Old Town) and the Ottoman quarter, lined with pastry shops, copper and brass workshops and cafés serving up mud-thick coffee and lively discussions in an ancient language we cannot understand.

We cut through the bustling Ferhadija Street pedestrian market and Coppersmith Alley. Tucked away up a non-descript cobblestone street, we come across a small shop displaying beautiful copper and brass handiwork.

Coffee and a history lesson

We step inside and are greeted by Dino, the owner. He’s etching a small tray. An old woman sits behind the counter, working on some fabric. Our conversation starts haltingly, but we find common ground – his copper and brass coffee sets. The old woman is Dino’s mother. She works quietly and although I can’t tell if she understands the conversation, she seems to enjoy having us there.

We move on from talk of his trade to our impressions of the city. He beams when he hears we have fallen in love with Sarajevo. In the tradition of the region, as we continue with our chat and purchases, Dino asks his mother to fetch coffee for us.

And this is how we come to spend our afternoon – sipping coffee and sharing stories. It feels like we are sitting in their home, not a shop. Dino brings the Siege to life for us. He was in the army – as most men his age were. I express sympathy at the hardships he must have endured.

“Actually,” he says, “it wasn’t as hard for me as it was for my family – for the people who lived here. I was fed three meals a day, and had warm socks and a coat to wear. Down here, they had nothing.”

He describes how they survived for weeks at a time without water, food or electricity. Snipers positioned on the mountain waited for anyone to cross the road to the bridges over the Miljacka River, where the water supplies were stored. Everyone lost someone they loved. And when the siege was over, the survivors went to work to pick up the pieces of their city, their lives and their families. As Dino tells his story, there is no bitterness, just the hope such a tragedy never happens again.

Sarajevo time

We hear the haunting mizzen call and realize how late it is. As we finish our coffee and make our way out of the shop, Dino stuffs a copper and brass clock into my bag of purchases. I’d admired it earlier and he explains that he makes the clocks as a hobby, and gives them to anyone who expresses their appreciation. The clock sits on my mantle today, and it reminds me of how time can heal.