RoundBlog Take 3 -- Melville on The Cellist of Sarajevo

The Cellist of Sarajevo was a deeply affecting novel for me.  It was not a book I wanted to read quickly -- and, as you can tell, my schedule certainly ensured that I would follow through on that wish.  It was also not a book I could reflect on immediately as I wanted to see what ideas or images would stay with me even now, almost two weeks after I finished it.  As someone with Yugoslavian relatives, I picked this novel since it was a rare opportunity to learn something beyond the minor details my grandparents mentioned or the dry facts that I've read in history books.

I think what struck me most about the plot was the focus on seeing things through a new or a different perspective.  Each of the characters, by the end of the novel, changes something in their view -- whether about themselves or Sarajevo or both.  There are also constant references to observing others as they go about their daily business of survival while being watched by the eyes of the snipers in the hills, ready to change their fates forever with a twitch of their trigger finger or the tossing of a bomb.

While these instances of "seeing" may seem small at first, they begin to hint at what I believe is the overall question and purpose of this novel:  How often do we observers "see" what happens in a war-torn nation?  How often do we pause to consider the human toll?  Have we become immune to others' suffering?

Of course, if we do learn to empathize with those who are suffering, the next question would be: How would we see or understand ourselves in this situation?  Would we lose our own humanity?

With that idea in mind, I started to realize that it is on these two levels that this novel operates -- with the characters constantly considering the outside world and the luxuries others enjoy while they remain oblivious to Sarajevo's plight.  It is made even more poignant that as these characters ponder the uncaring nature of others,  they too become almost indifferent to their "daily war routines" which involve creating elaborate routes around the blasted-out city to procure water for their family that may end up costing them their lives. 

I also found it particularly poignant that besides the Cellist's playing to memorialize the fallen he saw from his window, many of the characters are also moved by the plight of the dogs struggling to survive.  When the characters are particularly raw, Galloway brings in an animal who also seems to mimic their pain, but in an even more pitiful way.  Do they see their own crawl or ragged jogs between protective buildings similar to animals trapped in a cage?  While it is unclear how deeply this siege will ultimately affect all the characters in the long run, it is certainly clear that they have more and more trouble remembering the Sarajavo they once knew and loved.   

I was struck most by the following passage towards the end of Cellist.  (It's a bit long so bear with me...Here, Dragan, an older man who has witnessed several people wounded/killed by snipers notices one of the dead bodies is still in the street.)

[....] A dead body won't bother anyone.  It will be a curiosity, but unless some viewer knew the  hatless man it will mean nothing.  There's nothing in a dead body that suggests what it was like to be alive.  No one will know if the man had unusually large feet, which his friends used to tease him about when he was a child.  No will know about [all these things that make us ourselves ...]

[...] But these are the things that make a death something to be mourned.  It's not just a disappearance of flesh.  This, in and of itself, is easily shrugged off.  When the body of the hatless man is shown on the evening news to people all over the world, they will do exactly that.  They may remark on the horror, but they will, most likely, think nothing of it at all, like a dog with somewhere else to be. [...]

He won't allow this man's body to be filmed.  He remembers what he told [another character who was wounded earlier] about the cellist, why he thinks he plays.  To stop something from happening.  To prevent a worsening.  To do what he can.

As he looks at the cameraman, however, Dragan realizes that he's missed the point.  It doesn't matter what the world thinks of his city.  All that matters is what he thinks.  In the Sarajevo of his memory, it was completely unacceptable to have a dead man lying in the street.  In the Sarajevo of today it's normal.  He has been living in neither, has tried to live in a city that no longer exists, refusing to participate in the one that does . (208-9)

It is in these moments of clarity and new vision that Galloway sweeps me away.  When the character risks his own life in the line of sniper fire to move the body away from the newsjournalist watching across the street, he is doing it not just for himself and his re-awakening sense of humanity, but also for the Sarajevo of before, a place so beautiful in their memories that even I can see it for what it once was.

If nothing else, for me, this book was an invitation to rethink our reactions to others' suffering and to imagine our world as a better, more amiable place where these realities do not have to exist.  In the midst of this bleak novel, I also recognize a sense that if we can actually SEE and not just glaze over atrocity, we would find a way to peace, just as the Cellist sees a way to offer comfort and dignity in the hearts of great darkness. 

"You don't choose what to believe. Belief chooses you"

Wollstonecraft's take on The Cellist of Sarajevo:

I want to pick up with Shelley’s questions about how the characters maintain their sanity and how they prevent themselves from breaking down. It was this theme that intrigued me those most: the idea that almost anything can become “normal.” I do think that these characters are strong and brave, but I wonder if we think that because the world of war-torn Sarajevo is so unbelievable and removed from our own. It is important to note that these characters do not feel strong. They constantly question their own resolve, and a few do not remain in Sarajevo out of choice. Many remain in the city because they have no where to go. Others realized the reality of the war too late, and by that time, the gates to the city had been closed.

I am not by any means dismissing their strength to survive; in fact, I think that this book is about how people survive: not out of bravery or any heroic impulse other than the basic need to survive and to survive with their humanity intact. What I found fascinating was the idea that humans can survive so much pain, and we can convince ourselves of normalcy no matter how awful the reality. The ability to adapt and to change one’s perception in order to keep living is at the heart of the characters’ struggles.

This is represented by the Cellist and his desire to play despite the obvious dangers he faces by being out in the open. He wanted to create hope by convincing himself that there is humanity in his art and music that can still be touched.

I think this story is more about trying to remain “human” while at the same time deeply concerned with what that even means. Life is made up of thousands of tiny moments that don’t seem to represent anything important other than the importance we want to give it.

In Arrow, the young girl soldier, we see this the most: “This is how she now believes life happens. One small thing at a time. A series of inconsequential junctions, any or none of which can lead to salvation or disaster. There are no grand moments where a person does or does not perform the act that defines their humanity. There are only moments that appear, briefly, to be this way.”

I don’t think these characters want to be examples or heroes. They second guess their accepting attitudes. While I do think they have hope that there is a future for their city, and they are attached to the lives they used to live, they wonder why they can’t do more, or even if there is something they should be doing besides trying to survive.  And, they wonder what it means to be right or wrong, good or evil. What is happening to them seems so evil, but the people fighting in Sarajevo are just as corrupt as those attacking the city. These questions about survival and humanity transcend war because they are questions that we all struggle with, yet only become truly obvious in the worst moments. And, we are then left asking ourselves what we believe in.

Galloway's The Cellist of Sarajevo: War in Your Home and in Your Identity

The following is the first post of our latest roundblog; more intriguing thoughts from Wollstonecraft and Melville are coming soon! For now, here's Shelley's impression:

In Steven Galloway’s The Cellist of Sarajevo, all three main characters in war-torn Sarajevo maintain a deep connection with and pride for their city—for their home and identity. Despite the fear, anger, and doubt that constantly pervade their internal thoughts and actions—feelings understandably arising from trying to survive in a violent and uncertain setting—Kenan, Arrow, and Dragan act with much resolve and conviction (however subtle such behavior is displayed) because of the love and honor they have for Sarajevo. Whether they are nostalgically contemplating the pre-war Sarajevo of old, or reflecting upon the decisive meaning of remaining in or fleeing the city, it’s clear the characters have much difficulty witnessing and experiencing their beloved home and all that it represents being destroyed and brutally altered. At the same time, an undying hope of a beautiful Sarajevo rising from the ashes still persists.


Kenan: “How do you build it all up again? Do the people who destroyed the city also rebuild it…if a city is made anew by men of questionable character, what will it be?” (48-9)

Arrow: “Is there a difference between disappearing and going into a grave…There is, of course, the question of survival. She doesn’t want to die…But the young girl who was overcome by what it means to be alive…doesn’t want to die either. That girl may be gone for now, may have no place in the city of today, but Arrow believes it’s possible that someday she might return. And if Arrow disappears, she knows she’s killing that girl” (173).

Dragan: “Dragan is terrified, has never been so afraid. But he can’t force himself to move any faster. After a while he stops trying. He keeps his eyes on the safe area he’s heading toward, and he tries not to think about anything other than putting one foot in front of the other. He begins to understand why he isn’t running. If he doesn’t run, then he’s alive again. The Sarajevo he wants to live in is alive again” (224).

Even though the characters worry about the future of their city, and essentially, the life of their personal and cultural identity, they all act as Dragan does as he attempts to cross the road amidst targeted gunfire: with a calm, brave determination, echoed in the tone of the language throughout the novel. Subsequently, not only does the old Sarajevo become “alive again,” but the individuals themselves actively live in a city ravaged by violence and death. By vigorously living in such a hostile environment, even if much of this “living” exists within the characters’ mindset, or appears to be understated, Kenan, Arrow, and Dragan illustrate their intense pride as natives of Sarajevo.

Understanding this makes me wonder, how culturally connected am I to my hometown, where I have long-since moved from? If my hometown was being destroyed in war, with defenseless citizens being killed in the streets, would I stay or would I go, if I had the choice? To be honest, for better or worse, I think my desire for survival outweighs any cultural connection or identity to a specific place, however meaningful that place might be, and has been in my life. So why is it different for me than it is for these inhabitants of Sarajevo? Perhaps their relationship with their city is stronger because their families have lived there for much longer, for generations. Consequently, they are more attached to Sarajevo—to a physical place—than I, an American descendant of pioneers, could ever be. But maybe I would be if it came down to it, if my “home” was ever confronted with war, though there’s no way to ever be sure until it happens. In the same vein, it’s extremely difficult (perhaps even futile) to compare the Bosnian Sarajevo to the American California; they are so different, it’s tough to completely understand or identify with the nature of the characters, especially in terms of their relationship with their culture and city.

This text also makes me wonder, how would I behave in such conflictive times? I kept waiting for one of the characters to start sobbing, to scream in fear or anger, or to completely break down and panic, but none of them do. At his worst, Kenan is immobilized by his fear, but even this depiction emphasizes a certain level of composure—a composure highlighted by the courage of the cellist and his beautiful music. From the point of view of the novel, it’s obvious that the characters experience mental and emotional anguish, but none of this angst clearly reveals itself in their actions. Why might this be? How and why do they maintain such a level of control? Is it the means of survival, or are they showing that they will not be overtly intimidated in their beloved city and home? Regardless, Galloway’s account of civilians living in war makes readers consider their own cultural identity, specifically in reference to place. The novel also works to provoke readers’ thoughts concerning their own supposed behavior in times of strife and battle: would you “live” through acts of courage and conviction, or would you act otherwise?