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This is what I will remember from Phoenix: sitting on the stage for the Babylon 5 panel, watching the screen with a seemingly endless list of names of our fallen comrades. Names and dates in brackets, coldly and impersonally indicating the year of birth and the year of death, framing finished lives within neat and indifferent parenthesis. It went on and on, mercilessly. When it finally ended, I felt as if a big train had run me over. The panel

I'm back home in Los Angeles, with Sarajevo on my mind. The images: an unspeakable number of hungry, abandoned dogs roaming the streetheaps of uncollected trash in front of the once elegant, now disheveled Austro-Hungarian buildingsclosed museums and galleries that nobody wants or needs to financecrowded graveyards where you see the same date of death again and again: 1994 and 1995, just as you do at the Jewish museum of Bosnia and Herzegovina where the year of death is always 1942 or

When I was a child, my grandmother, a former citizen of the country called The Austro-Hungarian Empire, was teaching me German, the official language of her (by then) non-existing country. One of the books she used for that purpose was a counting book with a mildly disturbing title "Zehn kleine Negerlein", a title that we will translate, benevolently and in the spirit of political correctness, as "Ten little black boys". At the beginning of the book there were ten little

The poster for the film "Cirkus Columbia" in which I play the lead opposite the actor Miki Manojlovic, features the two of us sitting on a merry -go-round. The image is from the last scene in the movie where the estranged couple finally reunites against the background of the approaching war. It's a moving, surprising end of this couple's turbulent and hostile relationship and, also, a sadly optimistic ending of the movie. Two middle aged people sitting on a merry-go-round,

Writing this blog seems to be impossible. That's why the only solution is writing about the impossibility of writing. How do you do that? You list the reasons that prevent you from writing. Here they are: I have no desire to do it.I don't know why I do it.I don't know who I'm addressing it to.I don't know if anybody ever reads it.I don't want to do it.I am unable to choose a theme from a billion threads in my head.I feel like I'm wasting

In today's papers I read that the charges were dropped against Marine Staff Sgt. Frank Wuterich in an incident thought to be one of the worst atrocities committed by the US Army in Iraq. He is facing no more than three months of prison for commanding his troops to "shoot first, ask questions later". This is, I read, the last of the 8 prosecutions for war crimes committed by the US Army that ended without a trial or conviction. (LA

Last September I shot a short movie there. The movie was a part of an omnibus film, "Don't Forget Me Istanbul". The city was magical, grand and impressive, but what was truly unforgettable was the group of people I met. I knew I would never forget them. What I didn't know was: would they forget me? In our world of short memories I got used to forgetting and being forgotten. What mattered yesterday doesn't matter today. Good deeds are forgotten as

She's back home. Or is it still her home? She remembers: home is where the books are. Home is where her boys are. Home is where her cats are. But then again, this place is home as well. With no books, no boys, no cats. Still home. Sort of. The idea of home had split apart a long time ago. Now "home" consists of bits and pieces, little shreds, vague memories that attack suddenly and without warning. "Home" is no

The other day I went down town to give my support to the protests known as "Occupy LA". The first thing that caught my eye from the distance was a huge banner with the words: "Emperor Has No Clothes". When I approached the colorful, lively tents that had bravely sprung between the huge, ominous, grey and deadly serious banks surrounding them, there were other words that spoke to me, including a quote by Mussolini: "Fascism should more appropriately be called

By an anonymous observerObservation #1 She spent the summer hibernating. Didn't write. Even opening the computer seemed like a huge and unnecessary effort. What is her problem? Why is communication with the world becoming such a thorny issue? While the whole world is madly communicating, making connections, networking and schmoozing, the only thing she wants to do is to be alone, sharing her world with only the chosen few. While everybody is frantically connecting, she is passionately disconnecting. But then, guess