"Requiem" of resurrection amidst the war-torn city

It is Sunday, June 19, 1994. Despite warnings of “cancellation” from the commander of the UN Peacekeeping Force, despite hundreds of cannons pointed from the mountains around the city, that red tram lights up and sets off. And for the first time in many months, people emerge from the basements, from the ruins, from the shadows and head towards the Library. “Requiem,” the elegy for the dead, has in fact become a resurrection for Sarajevo. The battle for a concert within the war has ended in victory

Codename: “Squall”

Leningrad, August 9, 1942… Conductor Eliasberg, after two months of struggle amidst poverty and hunger, had finally managed to prepare the orchestra for the 7th Symphony. Meanwhile, in the field, the commander of the resistance troops, General Govorov, had planned a special operation for the day of the concert, codenamed “Squall”.

The concert, which was to be held on the Bolshoi Theater Stage, would be broadcast live on the radio. Giant loudspeakers were set up all over the city, but especially near the Nazi front lines. A few minutes before the concert began, with perfect coordination, General Govorov gave the order to launch Operation Squall.

Suddenly, three thousand high-caliber shells explode over the Nazi positions, like a furious rain of fire. In the chaos that follows this sudden attack, which the Nazis had not anticipated at all, the “Symphony of Resistance” begins to echo across all the enemy fronts of Leningrad. Yes, Shostakovich’s music is ringing in the ears of the occupiers.

The Leningrad concert takes its place in the most extraordinary pages of the history of music and war… At the end of the concert, General Govorov goes backstage and personally congratulates conductor Eliasberg. The word “propaganda”, with all its ugliness, was given a beautiful flavor, perhaps for the first time, on the day when art and resistance came together in Leningrad. 

“Sarajevo Roulette”

While our ears still ring with the endless rhythm of Dzaudhat Aydarov (the orchestra's drummer and Eliasberg's most critical man!) that began in the middle of the first half of the concert, like the heartbeat of a city that refuses to surrender, we move towards the grand finale in Sarajevo.

As I said earlier, Zubin Mehta is a perfectionist.

As mentioned before: Zubin Mehta is a rare perfectionist, for whom the conditions are simply a backdrop, not an obstacle. He even takes another action that in wartime conditions can be called “luxury”: to assess the condition of the Sarajevo Philharmonic Orchestra and to feel its pulse and detect any technical gaps, he sends his assistant, conductor Stefano Pellegrino, in advance.

40 days in besieged Sarajevo

Few people know that assistant conductor Pellegrino stayed in Sarajevo for more than 40 days. He shared the same fate as the musicians; he ate what they ate, slept where they slept. In other words, he lived like them and endured like them.

Together with Emir Nuhanović, they prepared the orchestra until the arrival of Zubin Mehta.

But what preparation!

Here's an example:

The number of trombones and horns they had at their disposal was insufficient. The only place where these instruments could be obtained was a music school, but it was under the control of Serbian forces.

The idea comes to Emir: "Find me two packs of cigarettes, definitely 'Marlboro'," he says.

At the time, this was almost like looking for two gold bars.

"What are you going to do with them, Emir?" they ask.

"I'll play 'Sarajevo Roulette'," he replies.

In fact, for Emir from beginning to end, the idea of ​​the concert was like playing roulette; a dangerous, but hopeful game.

Unarmed, he peacefully heads towards the school, which is occupied and controlled by Serbs. He goes inside and begins to negotiate with the soldiers there. First he shows them the first pack of cigarettes, then the second. After a tense bargain, he takes all the instruments he needs and leaves the school building unharmed.

Even at the last moment, he sees a white piano. He takes that too.

Alija and the red tram plan

One of the "nuclear-powered" details of this true story is precisely the story of the red tram that ran through the heart of Sarajevo, which was bombed by Serbian forces at the beginning of the war and remained "dead" like the city itself.

But it was precisely at that first secret meeting, where President Izetbegović, Ljubijankić and conductor Emir Nuhanović gathered, that the revival of the red tram was planned; which at first glance might sound like madness.

A special unit was created just for this concert.

Under a hail of bullets, on ruined roads, and in extreme shortage of almost everything, THEY worked for weeks to repair the damaged wagons. It was a silent operation, very similar to a war movie, but a real mission to the point of pain.

And they succeeded. The carriages were repaired, the parts were secured, and finally, the tram was operational again, fixed until the day of the concert. Not simply as a means of transportation, but as a beacon to keep the spirit alive. Because during the bleak days of the siege, the inhabitants of Sarajevo, without a sound or a fuss, believed that: “If the red tram starts moving, it means the war is over.”

And Alija, as we call him in the Balkans, with love and humility, wanted exactly this: to give his people signs that hope is still alive. As I told you: these are times when the mind wanders on the borders of madness and right there, between light and darkness, genius is born that can somehow save a city...

UNPROFOR Commander Doesn't Want Concert

Nearly four months had passed since the decision to organize the concert was made. The Italian producers, the Stochino brothers, Mario Dradi, the UN civil volunteers, the Italian television crew, Minister Ljubijankić and the conductor Emiri, have all collaborated closely and are close to realizing the dream.

But wait! There was another serious obstacle to overcome: the Commander of UNPROFOR, the UN peacekeeping force. As the day of the concert approached, the commander attacked Emir with criticism, even with open contempt, and began to demand that everything be canceled:

"You are irresponsible! These are crazy attempts! Cancel it immediately!"

(Ironically, when we talk about "responsibility", it is the right moment to remember a sad fact: the Dutch commander of UNPROFOR, who could not distinguish such a heroic act from a 'harmful attempt', was the very one who handed over the civilians to what they called the "safe area", i.e. into the hands of the infamous Serbian general Mladic, and so, thanks to them, what we know today as the Srebrenica genocide took place)

15 nights in a row they carried rubble

And here we come to that special request of President Izetbegović to the Emir. Yes, the very thing that had shaken him to the core. In fact, this was what worried the commander of the Peacekeeping Forces the most: the place where the president wanted the concert to be held, the National Library, Viječnica.

That library that, on August 25, 1992, was burned for three days in a row by Serbian artillery shelling, attacks that would burn and destroy everything that was inside. 

Over two million books and documents, an immense cultural treasure, were consumed in flames, reduced to ashes, while the historic building, a symbol of Sarajevo's culture and civilization, was reduced to a hopeless pile of rubble. Not only could a concert not be held, but there was no room to even take a step. Its glass dome had been shattered and the building was now stripped of all defenses, an open target for snipers.

But Ali, by choosing this particular place, had two clear goals: to tell his people "We are not afraid!" and at the same time, to show the West how a civilization burns and is destroyed and how it is resurrected again with art and dignity -  in response to destruction.

For 15 days, the Emir, along with musicians and volunteers gathered from the surrounding area, cleared the library of rubble with wheelbarrows. The hands that previously held the violin, the clarinet, the piano keys  now they were sweeping away burnt stones, fallen bricks, and broken pieces of a scorched civilization.

After two weeks of cleaning, they managed to build a wooden platform, right in the middle of the library, which would serve as a stage for the concert. Only all this work was done in the middle of the night, when the snipers were sleeping and the city was breathing a little. Because even to clean up the ruins, in besieged Sarajevo, you had to fight with fear and death.

Staring into the loaded barrel of a gun, wide-eyed!

Less than a week left until the concert. Zubin Mehta is heading to Sarajevo. And no, he's not alone,  but accompanied by an entire team, a magnificent ensemble.

With him arrive big names of the world stage: Soprano Cecilia Gazdia, alto Ildiko Komlosi, bass Ruggero Raimondi, and hold your breath… legendary tenor José Carreras. They land in Sarajevo on a military plane provided by the United Nations, with helmets on their heads and bulletproof vests on their shoulders.

It is Sunday, June 19, 1994. Despite warnings of “cancellation” from the commander of the UN Peacekeeping Force, despite hundreds of cannons aimed from the mountains around the city, that red tram lights up and moves off. And for the first time in many months, people emerge from the basements, from the ruins, from the shadows, and head towards the Library.

That day, during that slow but stubborn march towards the light, the state of the Sarajevans was like the song I used to often hear from the Beastie Boys: “Looking Down The Barrel Of A Gun!” (In his memoirs, Alija Izetbegović described this march like this: “Yes, I am afraid to walk the streets of Sarajevo, but I have strong reasons to walk!”)

An elegy rising above the Sarajevo sky

Outside the library building, just like in Leningrad in 1942, giant loudspeakers have been placed in Sarajevo. The aim is for the sounds of the concert to reverberate throughout the city, especially in the mountains, where the besiegers were stationed.

The orchestra has already taken its place. They are ready to bring to life the elegy that demands heart, courage and soul, a performance they will never forget, not even the way those costumes were ironed in the middle of a war-torn city.

Inside the Library, amidst the ruins, about 40-50 people, including the president, are attending the concert. Outside, hundreds of Sarajevans are holding their breath. And at that very moment, Zubin Mehta walks between the ruined walls, climbs onto the wooden platform, raises his baguette … and the Requiem begins to flow:

"Grant them eternal peace, O Lord, and let your perpetual light shine upon them..."

Clinton, as soon as he lands, asks for the orchestra

That concert, which even forced snipers to silence, occupies the pages of all the major Western media outlets, including the New York Times. During that day alone, CNN broadcasts the same story 32 times.

Sarajevo, long forgotten, is returning with dignity to the world's attention.

Although little known, this event has had greater symbolic power than many diplomatic initiatives. The impact of this civilizing effort was so great that immediately after the end of the war, when US President Bill Clinton landed at Sarajevo Airport, his first words were:

"I want that orchestra!" –   and that same orchestra will perform for him this time.

"Requiem," the elegy for the dead, actually became a resurrection for Sarajevo. The battle for a concert within the war ended in victory.

Requiem from Sarajevo (1994) - Part 1

Requiem from Sarajevo (1994) - Part 2