In 1997 I went to visit my family living in the Lasva Valley, outside of Sarajevo. It had always been a prized area of Bosnia, known for it’s bucolic rolling hills, lovely little river, a tributary of the larger Bosna the only black mark, if it had one, the big factory outside of  and through out history as predominantly prosperous and Catholic. The first time I came to Yugoslavia, it was here, with my my grandparents. They had grown up here and ‘chose to leave of free will’ in 1943. None the less, my grandfathers memories and stories of the pretty little valley his great-grandfathers settled in the mid 1800’s were engraved in my mind. A year and a half after Dayton it had lost most of it’s happy memories and mostly noted in infamy only for ethnic cleansing pogroms led mostly, by the Catholics against the Muslim populations. Suddenly the Lasva Valley were words spit out of the mouth not sung in praise of beauty.