One woman in the group, widowed by the war and made the sole provider for her family, as many Bosnian women have been, asks what to do when her child asks for a bicycle.  “We are barely surviving,” she whispers.  “How can he expect a new bike?”  The therapist explains what the child is really asking: Is our family going to be okay?  Are we going to make it without father?  Are you strong enough to take care of me?

What adds to these women’s burden is that they have experienced the same losses that haunt their children.  In a role-playing experiment a mother is asked to act out her seven-year-old daughter’s symptoms of post-traumatic stress.  Playing the “mother,” the therapist leads the “child” through a picture-drawing exercise in which she recreates her father’s death.  The woman begins to play her role, dutifully acting out her daughter’s familiar responses.  But suddenly we realize she has fallen, perhaps without knowing it, into her own experience, her own grief.  Unexpectedly we are given a breathtaking glimpse into the heart of a Bosnian woman whose husband was shot to death on the living room couch where they both sat.

As another woman said earlier, “We are not Americans.  We don’t go to therapy every week.  We don’t parade our life tragedies on Oprah.”  I realize that the young mother who went beyond role-playing has given us a priceless gift.  She has allowed us into the deepest and most painful reality of the Balkan war.  It is a holy moment. 

It is impossible to prioritize the many needs in Bosnia:  A stabilized government.  A revitalized economy.  The resettlement of displaced people.  The rebuilding of houses and hospitals and schools.  World Vision is active on all these fronts; in fact, the women of Maglaj are delighted to learn that World Vision has just raised funds to rebuild their primary school.  But these massive rebuilding efforts, crucial as they are, pale compared to the need to heal the wounded souls of Bosnia’s women and children. 

Guided by the therapist, a little girl draws a picture, cautiously acknowledging the sights, sounds and smells her senses have held locked in memory.  Since her father’s death, she has refused to talk about him, but finally she speaks, describing how her father used to hold her and take her outside and walk with her.  The therapist explains that in speaking she is doing what we all do at the funerals of our loved ones.  We remember, we cherish the memories, and in so doing we find a measure of comfort and healing.

The problem in Bosnia is that the children have suffered so many losses; there has been no time to speak and remember and heal.  “Perhaps,” says the therapist, “after this little girl finishes this picture—and maybe twenty others—perhaps then she will be free to live again.”

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