Prej 18 gushti gjer më 22 Gusht do të mbahet festa e birrës në Korçë.Organizatorët me veprimet e tyre bëjn që janë pa mend .Atyre i ka pëlqye idea me thir Goran Bregoviq-in i cili nuk ka renome të mirë si artist. Po kjo nuk është hera e par që në Shqipëri ndodhin këso gjërash. Me 2006 atëhere në rolin e Kryebashkiakut të Tiranës Edi Rama ia dhuroi Qelsin e Tiranës.Po nuk është vetëm kjo Pandi Leshko I Klanit e Pruni Zdravko Qoliqin .Krejt kjo tregon se në Shqipëri vetëm e dine që beogradi është Jugoslavi po nuk kan fare ide se ne at Shtet ka qen edhe Kroacia edhe Sllovenia.A thua a e dijn në Shqipëri ndonjë artist të Kroacis.Krejt kjo është arsyetue se ata e respektojn artin edhe me një nënçmim i kan këqyer koovarët.Në këto gjeste ka munguar gjesti minimal i sjellëjes se mirë.Kish me qen e rendit qysh me 2006 ta pyeste Ndonjë Kosovar a meriton ky njeri kaq respekt.
Kjo tregon se në Shqipëri jetojn me kujtimet e mira për Jugosllavine e lufta dhe shkatrimet e viteve 90-ta fare nuk egzistojn në memorien e Qytetrëve. Kjo ne anglisht çuhet “Living in the Past”. Për kët Shqipëria nuk hec përpara se e ka kokën ka Beogradi. Yjet
Shqiptare me fam Botërore si Dua Lipa,Rita Ora , Era Istrafi,Babe Rexha,Gashi kan kor sukse pse kur nuk e kan pas kokën ka Beogradi por ka Perndimi edhe kan zbatua
kriteret e Perendimit.
Tash të këthehem te Goran Bregoviqi.Ky ka lind në Sarajev Prej Babës kroat e nënës serbe.babën e ka pas epror ushtarak.Pas vitit 1986 ky e pat qëndrimin shum pro serb.Edhe dita ditës nuk është distancua prej krimeve të luftës.
Para se të fillonte lufto ai shkoi në Paris edhe kur nuk e gjykoi krimet sërbe .Nëqoftëse gjat rrethimit të Sarajevës shumë njerëz u solidarizuan me popullatën atje si p.sh një zjarëfiks nga Bostoni mblodhi donacione prej gjysëm miloni dollar me dërgua pajisje zjarfiksave të sarajevës.E nëse flasim për artist Këngtërja e famshme Amerikane Joan Baez shkoj në Sarajeve me mbajt një Koncert në shej të solidarizimit me popullatun e Sarajave. Ne fund e ngjes linkun ku mund të shihet video por edhe artikullin ne Washingtonpost me16 Maj 1993
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-nVU_Cy8KG4
Song of Sarajevo
For a Few Brief Moments, There Was No Balkan War
[FINAL Edition
HAUNTING IMAGES of the bloodied citizens of Bosnia, uprooted and defiled as they try to go about the desperate
business of their daily lives, have hung like a muttering shadow over my privileged and happy life. Like everyone else
who watches in horror as the slaughter proceeds, I have felt outraged and frustrated. But what could I do? What could
anyone do?
Then, on the eve of my recent concert tour, I was invited to Bosnia to sing. “When do we leave?” I replied. Postponing
three concerts in response to the urgency of my Bosnian hosts, I flew to Sarajevo with my guitarist Paul Pesco.
Perhaps, I thought, I could lift the spirits of a people who had been under siege for more than a year.
I had nothing to offer but an act of love, sharing, witness and music. I didn’t have an answer to the horror. There is as
yet no answer to this nightmare of mindless violence. But I could respond with an act of nonviolence. When a
newsman suggested I would be fiddling while Rome burns, I recalled a line from a millworker’s song: “Hearts starve as
well as bodies; give us bread but give us roses.” I would take my finest roses to Sarajevo.
The Sarajevo Holiday Inn is a notoriously dangerous place, the front entrance a favorite target for snipers. A man was
shot there during our stay. My skin crept beneath my bulletproof vest, and I was relieved to see the underground auto
entrance.
My room had running water and electricity, both rarities, and, more common, a huge plastic-covered hole where the
window had been. Every night reverberated with the sound of exploding artillery shells. And every morning the staff
swept up the broken glass and debris. A man came to fix a broken pipe in my bathroom and explained animatedly,
wrench in hand, what a magnificent hotel this had once been and how it would be again. I began to understand how
important was the pretense of normalcy in the midst of chaos.
My blown-out window, framed by shards of shattered glass, offered a view of bullet-riddled vehicles, burnt buildings,
potholed roads and beautiful green hills, deceptively peaceful and dangerously populated with snipers and heavy
artillery. The level of destruction is numbing, the persistence of hope unfathomable. Beneath my window was a row of
stumps. The trees had been chopped down for firewood during the past winter. Unwilling to abandon the hope of
spring, people collected the branches of the remaining trees and put them in water. In offices and homes everywhere
are the blossoming branches of what may be Sarajevo’s final spring.
We saw the famous local production of “Hair,” defiantly presented once a week despite the chaos of the siege. “It
keeps me from going completely crazy,” one actor told me. As the young cast began its soulfully energetic
performance, I realized the starving cast was performing on spirit alone. A week before, two of them had been taken to
the hospital for fatigue and malnutrition. But they were not a bit crazy. They were inventing a life.
Our aging armored car collapsed one day and we had to walk, the echo of artillery punctuating every step. Amid the
rubble of a bakery, I heard the strains of a cello and saw Vedran Smailovic, dressed in a tuxedo. He was playing the
adagio he had played there for 22 days in memory of the 22 people, including his brother, who were killed when a
shell hit the bakery. I knelt next to his chair, overcome with emotion. His face was drenched in tears. His playing
celebrated the marvel of survival and mourned the madness of death. We embraced, and I sang “Amazing Grace.” I
spent the rest of the day in the dazed calm of sorrow. That would not have been a bad day to die.
Song of Sarajevo – washingtonpost.com – search nation, world, technology and Washington area news archives. 4/7/06 5:05 PM
http://pqasb.pqarchiver.com/washingtonpost/access/72146944.html?dids=72146944:72146944&FMT=FT&FMTS=ABS:FT&fmac=&date=May+16%2C+ … Page 1 of 2
Another evening found us in a haze of smoke and booze, laughter and music. Paul played requests and local
musicians sang and drummed on the tables. A Serbian star of “Hair” sang a Macedonian Gypsy rumba, and suddenly
our host, a law professor who had watched over us with meticulous care, was on a table, dancing, and reaching for my
hand. I jumped up, and as we danced, the table collapsed. We fell in a hilarious heap of bread and wine and ashtrays.
Too happy to leave, I sang until my throat was raw. And, for a few hours, there was no war.
Our public concert was a major risk. It is dangerous to have many people in one place in Sarajevo, and the theater
held 300. Twice as many came and refused to leave. I looked out at the faces of Sarajevo, some of them exhausted,
others weeping softly. The shelling provided a staccato accompaniment to Paul’s superb guitar. But no one blinked. It
was as if we had conspired to pretend it didn’t exist, and there was only the music. We played familiar songs, and
people sang along. The kids, like kids anywhere, preferred the new songs from my latest album.
We ended the concert with our friends from “Hair” and a song they’d taught us in their language. The audience
erupted in excitement. As we finished, an old woman approached the stage beaming and gave us three big dolls and
a red heart she had made from scraps of material. She had walked seven miles to bring us these gifts.
For brief moments then, as now, I shared the righteous and understandable desire to bring in the big guns and blast
Sarajevo’s tormenters out of the hills. But history rises before me. That way lies more retaliation, more hatred, more
agony, more dead children. The real enemy, the enemy of us all, is nationalism gone mad. It is stalking the world. And
we are addicted to it as hopelessly as the Serbians and the Bosnians and the Croatians.
The day I left, a young girl said to me, “Thank you for coming to Sarajevo. You brought us life.” The people of Bosnia
are not afraid to die. They are only afraid they will be forgotten. To overcome that fear, we must rise above the horror
and bring other performers to Sarajevo. By treating Sarajevo as the cultural center it once was, actors, artists,
musicians and performers of all kinds could give its brave people a powerful weapon in their struggle against
extermination. The young people hope the next miracle will bring Magic Johnson to Sarajevo. Now, there would be
some mighty roses!
Joan Baez visited Sarajevo at the invitation of the Open Society Fund of Bosnia-Herzegovina and in association with
Refugees International.
