My Book is Making me Feel Badly...

I haven't really mentioned anything I've read for quite awhile for a whole bunch of reasons (parenting books are boring to a lot of people, I don't get to read as much as I used to, I'm embarassed to admit that I read the Twilight series...). This week, I discovered that reading on the bus only makes me sick on the way home. I don't know why but, after some experimenting, I discovered that it's pretty much a consistent rule.

I've been reading The Cellist of Sarajevo this past week. Technically, I should say I read (past tense, not present...silly English language) The Cellist of Sarajevo this week since I finished it this morning. I don't know whether to say that I liked this book or not. I read it very quickly. It was beautifully written. The story was gripping and I cared about the characters although they were developed more through their actions and their judgment of their own actions. It's very sad and reminds you of the horrors that are part of daily life for some people in the world.

It's making me feel badly because I really know very little about what happened in Bosnia. At the time, I was younger and far more self-involved (well, maybe that's debatable). It wasn't exactly in our faces. Yet the things they describe are the sort of things you think of as happening during WAR so it doesn't seem right to realize that it's so recent that these people would have had computers and worn jeans and been modern people. It doesn't fit with the dusty images of war with people dressed in outfits of the time.

The other reason that it's making me feel badly is because I knew a girl from Bosnia. In university, we had a few classes together. I remember the first time I met her and she told me where she was from. I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what exactly had happened there; I just knew it was bad. Over my 4 years, we spoke in class regularly. From what I remember (and I remember it fairly well), I was the only one she talked to socially in class. She had a certain sadness about her. The quietness that could have just been her personality but there was always a sadness. She was sweet and we sometimes talked about going out after class but it never happened. I don't know why I was the one she chose to talk to but I really liked her even though we only talked in class. I feel guilty. Not only did I not make an effort to learn about what she or (more likely) some of her family and friends went through. I always meant to but I think part of me was scared. What do you say to someone who has lived through that much at that age? How can things ever be normal again?