Congratulations Ali!

Last night, in an apparent move to appease the protesters who have been gaining increasing attention in recent days, the King of Bahrain ordered the release of a number of the country's political protesters. Ali Abdulemam was released at about 2.00am. Apparently he had no idea of the ongoing protests and instability in Bahrain until after his release.

I've previously written about Ali here and here. The BBC spoke to Ali after his arrest today and report on it here. Front Line reported on his release this morning.

It's a bit unnecessary to say that this is great news. Often enough in Front Line we used to lament the lack of good news in our line of work; it comes few and far between the reports of atrocities and violations. So today I was happy just to have the opportunity to email my former colleagues and raise a coffee mug to Ali, his family and his fellow prisoners of conscience who have finally been released. And indeed to Bahrain, where protests in recent days have seen huge sections of the population peacefully taking part - up to 100,000 in a country of only about 600,000 people - and which so far has avoided the large scale violence of Libya.

I don't want to get too swept up in the euphoria or the "feel good" moment pictured in Manama last night. This does not solve Bahrain's problems and will not make the protests go away (nor do I want it to - and I'd be certain that Ali doesn't). And the release of these political prisoners today should not detract from the fact that many others - perhaps up to 300 - remain unjustly in detention. But in celebrating this small achievement of justice as part of the larger picture of ongoing human rights violations in the Middle East region, I feel that it is a moment worth acknowledging and enjoying for what it is.

I think this picture of Ali reuniting with his wife says it all. But perhaps even more so, maybe the meaning of this release is embodied best in this photo below, taken this afternoon of Ali walking to Pearl Square in Manama, the centre of protests and Bahrain's Tahrir Square. Probably unimaginable even days ago.

Photo courtesy of AP

Skijati, skijati

Spent last weekend away skiing. A group of friends (we were 17 people at one point on Saturday night) rented a cabin on Jahorina, a mountain near Sarajevo which was a competition venue when the city hosted the Winter Olympics in 1984, and which somehow managed to avoid being laid with landmines during the war.

It's an unseasonably mild winter this year and the snow was terrible - some of the main lifts are closed because the mountain is reverting to spring-time brown muck - but we skied regardless and although I'm by no means a good skier, I feel myself making a huge amount of progress since about a month ago when I skied for the first time in four years. And that's satisfying enough for me.

Bad snow is a disaster for beginners; terrible patches appear which are either smooth ice or else actually smooth rock. Imagine what happens on ice or rock: skis cant turn, can't grip, can't slow down. Normally you can dig the edge of your ski into the snow and/or turn them parallel to the slope to slow down or stop - but on ice or rock, the ski just falls out from underneath you. More or less the same rules apply as when driving a car on ice: no brakes, no gears, no steering allowed. Hold your breath and hope for the best.

So I fell. A lot. Not a nice soft thump into snowdrifts, which you normally don't even feel, but fell on ice and rock.

This weekend wasn't too bad: I had lots more adventures my last time up Jahorina two weeks' previously, when I more or less fell over the side of a little cliff. We were chugging along a track cut along the side of a hill, perfect for beginners as you can glide along and practice turns. Everything was going great, except suddenly I was going too fast and I couldn't stop, couldn't slow and couldn't turn. And instead of veering right (into the hill and snowbanks, thereby braking) I went left, where there was a perpendicular drop of maybe 10 feet - a mini cliff - at the bottom of which were big trees. Two people were standing at the side of the drop and I very nearly knocked them off before me in a good imitation of human bowling. Instead I found the ability to start screaming IZVINITE!!!!!!!!!! (pretty impressed with myself I managed to scream in panic in Bosnian, I must say), they moved aside, and I went clean over the side of the cliff in between the two of them.

I mean, I was fine. I hung on to the top, and I was cushioned by a cloud of powdery snow which clung to the side of the hill. I even managed not to drop my skis or poles into the abyss. But helpful bystanders had serious trouble digging me out, my leg and ski were twisted painfully underneath me, and when I tried to help them pull me up by kicking and stretching, I only managed to dig myself further into the powder - which couldn't support my weight - and slip further down the drop. Anyway, it was fine in the end. A nice random man eventually pulled me out, and really I could see the funny side to it - the indignity, the inelegance of the whole thing. But of course I had just thrown myself off the edge of a cliff, and that feeling of helplessness is terrifying. So by the time they got me back up I was laughing my head off and crying hysterically at the same time.

I got off the slopes after that; it was nearing the end of the afternoon and I figured I had pushed my luck enough for one day. Unfortunately, I was at a different part of the mountain from our starting point and it was too far for me to walk back (walking in ski boots is a slow form of torture). So, I let the others ski off to finish out the afternoon, and I went out to the road and simply started looking for someone with a car who would give me a lift.

After a few false starts, I ended up making friends with Dvor. When I say I made friends with him, of course I mean that I looked for an unaccompanied - and hence vulnerable - driver, walked over and started batting my poor, defrosted, worn-out eyelashes. Dvor was burly and possibly about 30, with the inconclusive hair colour shared by most Bosnian men and cheeks flushed by broken capillaries. He had very little English and I have very little Bosnian, but we muddled on with a conversation regardless. I guessed I had to make some kind of payment for my lift, after all.

Dvor was interested to hear I was from Ireland - he seemed to think it was a big country - but I put my foot in it by asking casually if he was Bosnian. The mood in the car suddenly changed dramatically. Ne, he replied. No, no, no. Ne Bosanski. Ne. Shaking his head and scowling. Republika Srpska. Meaning - he was Bosnian Serb. And very emphatically not Bosniak. Oh right then.

Regardless of this faux pas, not long after he had driven off and was picking up speed - in other words once it was too late for me to jump out - he started asking me whether I drank rakia (homemade brandy) and whether I had a boyfriend. I said why yes, of course (by helpful coincidence my friend Eoin had just called my mobile) and when Dvor didn't believe me, I did what any girl in my situation would do. I smiled my best imitation of coquetry, shrugged flirtatiously, and politely but firmly told him that in fact I had two boyfriends (there were indeed two guys in the group that day). Well, Dvor did what any wounded male ego can do in such a situation: he shrugged, laughed and said, hey - you need three boyfriends minimum!

I think he was disappointed I didn't want a lift all the way back to Sarajevo.

Time passes...

Time does indeed pass. Work is busy, social life is busier. People are leaving and going away parties are organised. A weekend away skiing. Papers to write. A conference in work. I've started monitoring a war crimes trial. My mother comes to visit this week. Trying to catch up with people via email but its proving difficult.

I spent a few days in London last week, more of a brief Special Guest Appearance rather than anything more substantial. When I've been away I forget how much I love that amazing city, so that when I get the chance to return I'm so devastated to realise as of new that I don't live there any more, that I never really fully enjoy the time I get to spend there. So it was this time; I had frequented some of my old haunts, caught up with friends and ate a hell of a lot of the kind of ethnic food that doesn't exist in Bosnia.

Going away from Sarajevo for a few days is a funny experience. After a few weeks here, you forget your first impressions. I spent my first month here tip-toeing around and thinking of all the terrible things that had happened here and the awful memories that everyone must carry around. But of course, we're all human and get on the course of things, and after a while that sensation of history just... wears off. You stop noticing the bullet marks on the concrete, stop carefully circling around the Sarajevo roses, and stop referring to the war in hushed whispers. You stop noticing the shabbiness - Bosnia actually differs little in this aspect from the other parts of Eastern Europe I've seen. The tower blocks here look identical to those which cover most of Poland, except that Poland doesn't have the excuse of a recent war or failed economy for its drab concrete. This is just what socialist housing looks like.

Not a socialist example, but a hauntingly ruined Austro-Hungarian Mansion

The brand new Parliament building - restored with international donor funding - seen through a nearby wasteland of concrete and weeds

Which is why seeing both London and Sarajevo in the course of one day was fairly depressing. It's difficult to fail to notice the patched-up walls and uneven pavements and ancient cars (the mid-80s VW Golfs are my favourite) which are so ubiquitous in Bosnia, when you've only just passed through Kensington a few hours before. In fairness, the sensation had worn off and was all forgotten by the time I woke up in Sarajevo the following morning, but it was interesting to see the city with new eyes again. Its funny what you also forget of the rest of the world when you've been here for a while - London stunned me because everyone on the street was so stylish; I had forgotten what it felt like to be surrounded by Hipsters. And how it felt not to be surrounded by people speaking a language you don't understand. And to be able to get any kind of food imaginable at a moment's notice. I think I had just forgotten sushi in general. Sigh.

The usual mix of beautifully landscaped street and war-scarred building