Profile: Bosnia native, Grand Rapids go-to guy Haris Alibasic
 |
| Haris Alibasic with uncle Dzelal in 1977 |
Haris Alibasic, impeccably dressed in a suit, holds his 9-month-old daughter, Lamija, on his lap as she howls.
He jiggles her. Coos at her. Gives her dry cereal to munch and water to sip.
“Yaaaaaaaaaaa!” Lamija shrieks.
Alibasic, who has seemingly at least nine different jobs with the City of Grand Rapids, is good at fixing things, from neighbor disputes to City Hall windows that leak energy to tricky legislative affairs.
“Yaaaaaaaaaa!” Lamija shrieks again.
But dad knows when he’s beat, and hands his yowling baby off to his wife.
“She’s a fighter,” he says proudly of his daughter.
You’ll see where she gets that.
Alibasic, 39, has an office on the sixth floor of Grand Rapids City Hall, right next to the mayor’s.
He’s Mayor George Heartwell’s go-to guy on all sorts of stuff — some things you may not even realize anybody’s doing.
His main job is as director of energy and sustainability for the city, which means he has his hands in everything from the use of solar panels in city buildings to planning installation of charging stations around town for electric cars to a proposal to use wind turbines to create energy at the city’s water filtration plant.
But, as City Manager Greg Sundstrom says, “Few of us here have the luxury of doing one thing,” so Alibasic also solves the stickiest neighborhood problems nobody else could fix. He also was in charge of the city’s 2010 census count. He was instrumental in getting the Kroc Center off the ground, after controversy erupted when Garfield Park neighbors didn’t want it built there, as originally planned.
He wrote the rules that allow city business owners, such as all of those Uptown restaurant and shop owners, to join together and use property taxes the city collects from them to pay for neighborhood improvements, such as turning an old vacant lot into paved parking for customers.
What can’t Alibasic do?
“Haris has an enormous capacity for work,” Heartwell says. “He’s a bit of a magnet for projects and initiatives that I dream up or the city manager dreams up. We’ll say, ‘Who’s there to do the work?’
Haris. He can always take on one more job.”
If it’s volatile, give it to Haris.
“He’s calm and patient,” Heartwell says.
That’s in large part because Alibasic has endured a lot worse than the most ornery city resident can dish up.
 |
| Haris Alibasic in 1982 standing outside with his family. |
A war torn homeland
He grew up in Bosnia and survived the three-year war there in the 1990s, watching his home and village burn to the ground, tanks rumble through every night, neighbors shot dead by Serbian soldiers in huge swaths of ethnic cleansing.
“When you think about his background, coming from a war-torn nation and the stresses and pressures he’s had,” Heartwell says, “solving some of the city’s most intractable neighborhood problems is a walk in the park.”
When 200 angry Grand Haven residents gathered at a public hearing, riled up about Grand Rapids’ plan to install two wind turbines in Grand Haven Township to power its lakeshore water filtration plant, Heartwell sent Alibasic.
You can tell he feels sort of bad about it.
“The people were angry; they were very disrespectful,” Heartwell says. “Haris said afterward, ‘There was never a time I thought I wouldn’t get out of Bosnia alive. But I thought I’d never get out of Grand Haven Township alive.’”
People call Haris quiet and serious, but he can be pretty funny.
They didn’t get the permits needed for the wind turbines.
“But Haris was able to handle it all,” Heartwell says, “with his usual calm demeanor.
“The courage and endurance one develops coming out of a war setting is useful in peace time,” Heartwell says.
“Haris is unflappable,” Heartwell says. “There’s a quiet demeanor about him that I suspect comes out of his experience.”
Many here have just a fuzzy understanding of the war. Alibasic can explain it — then share poems he wrote during the worst of it, turning horror into a kind of sad beauty.
Before the war, there were six republics in former Yugoslavia. Four republics decided to separate from Yugoslavia in the early 1990s in an attempt to break away from the oppressive Serbian nationalists led by Slobodan Milosevic, he explains.
Slovenia was the first, then Croatia, then Bosnia and, finally, Macedonia. After the referendum on independence passed, the four republics became independent and were internationally recognized. But Milosevic had a plan for a “Greater Serbia,” Alibasic explains, and Serbian nationalists attacked Slovenia, then Croatia, then they turned the entire war effort to Bosnia.
The Serbian army killed more than 100,000 Bosnian civilians, Alibasic says, systematically ridding much of Bosnia and Croatia of all non-Serbs. The war ended in late 1995 with the signing of a peace agreement.
Those are the bare facts, Alibasic says.
Five things to know about Haris Alibasic
• He watches “Bob the Builder” and “Dora the Explorer” cartoons in Bosnian with his son, Jakub, on YouTube.
• He’s president of the Congress of North American Bosnians, representing at least 350,000 Americans and Canadians of Bosnian descent.
• When he eats chicken, he has to follow it with chocolate. Ask for an explanation and he shrugs. “Something about the taste together,” he says.
• He was on a nationally televised quiz show at age 17 in Bosnia.
• “He made recordings for nobody,” his wife, Katie, says. He was the king of mash-ups, experimenting with meshing two different recordings into one new one. He’d mix spiritual and electronic. He fused the “Lord of the Rings” soundtrack with music by the ethereal, neoclassical Australian world music duo Dead Can Dance. He sold his recording equipment when they had their first child, Jakub. “We needed the bedroom for the baby,” he says.
A poet
Now, he shares a poem he wrote in 1994 about the fires of war that claimed his home in June 1992, when he was 20.
Flame
Tongues overpower the sky
Touching the horizon high
I hardly breathe
Face into two pieces
Falls apart
First part salvation seeks
The second part
Stands still
Watching around
Looking outside and inside
Flames getting higher
Insane flaming beasts
Abandoned horses
Rearing up
I stand, no armor
Engulfed by the flame
That burned the house down
Burned the past
Memories erased
“I witnessed my home burning,” he says, sitting at the dining room table in his home on the city’s Northeast Side. “My whole village was burned. Five hundred homes, all burning at once.
“The infrastructure in Bosnia was completely obliterated,” he says. “Everything was destroyed. Roads. Schools. Everything.
“Every night, the tanks could shoot right at you,” he says. “I witnessed people shot by mortars. I saw dead bodies covered up.
“They would just shoot you ... 100,000 civilians were killed. Our home and village were burned for no other reason than the fact that we were not Serbs.”
He slides a photo across the table of 50 simple wood coffins lined up at a funeral for 50 civilians killed in his village.
“They just burned them alive,” he says. “I can’t even tell you about the horrors.”
His dad spent 18 months in a concentration camp, where he was threatened and beaten.
“We didn’t know if he was alive for six months,” he says.
“One day, you can have your home, your life. Then ...”
His voice trails off.
After the horror, Alibasic knew without a doubt what truth would guide him.
“What really matters is not your house or your car,” he says quietly. “It’s the people. Your family, your closest friends. I was blessed my immediate family wasn’t killed or captured.
“It’s a great testament to human survival,” he says. “There was a great sense of unity. We used car batteries to run the radio. You learn to live with less. As long as there was flour and oil and salt to make bread ...”
Learning to survive
There was no normalcy, but he did the best he could.
He hosted a radio show three times a week. He took college classes. He passed time translating Pink Floyd songs into Bosnian. (A music lover, he now loves the Vertigo Music store downtown and collects vinyl records.)
“It was a challenge that tested human spirit,” he says of the war. “People learn how to survive. It made me stronger.”
After the war, Alibasic got a government job as a business specialist. He worked as a translator for the United Nations for a while. He worked for the North Atlantic Treaty Organization and other international organizations as a business and economic development specialist.
He came to Grand Rapids in 2000 with his family — mom Emira, dad Dzevad, brothers Venso, 38, and Emir, 29 — after his dad was granted immigration status through refugee resettlement.
 |
Haris Alibasic meets with the president of Bosnia and
Herzegovina, Zeljko Komsic, last month. |
But he didn’t leave Bosnia behind. Alibasic is president of the Congress of North American Bosnians, representing at least 350,000 Americans and Canadians of Bosnian descent.
He meets with the president of Bosnia and Herzegovina, Zeljko Komsic. He writes for Bosnian magazines and newspapers, tracks legislative issues and works to strengthen the relationship between Bosnia and the United States.
He’s been elected to the position three years in a row. Everybody likes Alibasic.
His friend and colleague William Crawley at Grand Valley State University, where Alibasic teaches, has seen his intense commitment in action.
The two traveled with a local group to Turkey last month, an interfaith trip sponsored by the Niagara Foundation, a Chicago-based organization that promotes peace and understanding.
“People in Turkey asked me about the Grand Rapids lip dub,” Alibasic says with a grin. “They said that was so cool.”
There’s a significant population of Bosnians in Turkey, Crawley says, and Alibasic connected with them wherever they went, asking about their lives, getting political updates.
When Crawley boarded his plane for home, Alibasic got on a different plane to Sarajevo, to meet with the Bosnian president.
‘Both worlds’
Back home at GVSU, where Alibasic teaches graduate-level classes in city politics and policy, Crawley says Alibasic is great at taking the textbook theory his students study and relating it to the real world of government, where he works every day.
“He has a foot in both worlds,” Crawley says. “He shares the realities that aren’t always captured in their textbooks. It makes for a really strong voice in the classroom.”
Plus, his students can sometimes read about his City Hall exploits in the newspaper, Crawley says, which they think is pretty cool.
Alibasic’s experiences in war-torn Bosnia bring another layer of depth to his teaching, Crawley says.
“He teaches citizenship as a serious obligation,” Crawley says. “And beyond local or state government. He talks to his students as global citizens.”
 |
Haris Alibasic, left, with his family: his wife, Katie;
2-year-old son, Jakub, named after Alibasic's grandfather;
and 9-month-old daughter, Lamija. |
A sentimental husband
Alibasic’s wife, Katie, says living through war has made her husband careful and sentimental.
“He’s very cautious about security,” she says. “He’s always checking all the doors and windows.
“He wants to save everything,” Katie says. “Pictures are so important to him.”
“There are hardly any pictures from my childhood,” he points out. “They burned in the fire.”
As baby Lamija — her name means “brilliant” in Bosnian — naps and 2-year-old Jakub — named for Haris’ grandfather — happily munches cinnamon coffee cake between his parents, Katie looks tenderly at her husband.
“I think you’re indestructible,” she says. “Nobody can put you down.”
 |
Haris Alibasic of the Office of Energy and Sustainability
addresses the concerns about the Wind Turbines project
as the audience at Grand Haven Township Hall listens.
(T.J. Hamilton | The Grand Rapids Press) |
He smiles.
“My wife says I’m a survivor,” he says.
The two met at GVSU, both studying public administration. Katie, who grew up all over the world as an Army kid, learned to speak Bosnian from Alibasic and from children’s books. They speak to their kids in English and Bosnian so they’ll grow up knowing both.
She learned how to cook Bosnian food, such as burek, a meat or cheese pie made with flaky phyllo dough.
“You roll it up like a snake,” she explains, “coil it up in a round pan and bake it.”
Alibasic smiles at her.
“I have the best wife in the world,” he says. “She puts up with me staying up until 1 a.m.”
He stays busy
Among all of his other activities, he’s working on his doctorate in public policy.
His work, he says, “is never done. I have my iPhone on all the time.”
Heartwell calls him “my personal Bloomberg News,” always forwarding articles about the latest in sustainability issues. He has all kinds of followers on Twitter, and he has no idea who most of them are.
“I’m never bored,” Alibasic says. “Really. Never bored. I’m always meeting new people, implementing new ideas.”
And Lamija eventually will wake up from her nap.
Tripp and Bo sit down for an hour-long chat about the term ‘Liberal’. Tripp interacts with Friedrich Schleiermacher and Albert Ritschl for a historical perspective and then connects with Douglas Ottati and Peter Hodgson for a contemporary engagement.
Tripp and Bo sit down for an hour-long chat about the term ‘Liberal’. Tripp interacts with Friedrich Schleiermacher and Albert Ritschl for a historical perspective and then connects with Douglas Ottati and Peter Hodgson for a contemporary engagement.
Brandon Morgan says:
1. I’m not too savy about putting together the blog thing, but maybe i’ll figure it out soon enough so I can post stuff. This would be despite my joy of creeping around in the comments like a blog stalker.2. The question about content rests exactly on the pervasive use of Kant that perhaps has a tendency to reconfigure the exact divine content of transcendence in Christianity. Schlieremacher has a tendency to paint divine transcendence like an “omnipresent-pneumatic-pressure” that bears upon the consciousness of human subjects in their passivity. Post-Kantian views of transcendence seem to have this tendency to construe God according to the recognition of divine sublimity evacuated of the content of trinitarian relations, the transcendentals of beauty, truth, goodness and being in order to “make room” for greater variation in views about the Christian God. Such establishes the ever-controversial practices of “symbolism” used in liberal theology to account for the language us Christianity without succumbing to its ontology. It is only from this it seems that Schleiemacher can put the trinity in the appendix. Kantian views of transcendence as the noumenal reflexivity to the subject of the infinity of reason and freedom confines the immanence to an openness to –well–itself and its own capacity for reason. Such transcendence can perhaps be construed as keeping the form of Christian openness to transcendence without also supplying the content; namely, the uniquely Trinitarian extasis into and out of the divine persons, which is extended via analogy within Jesus’ condescension to creation via incarnation etc. This content, I suppose, is too much for the boundaries of liberal theology (existing as its seems to within at least some of the guardrails set up by Kant) to account for. Of course, I’m not saying it wants to account for that kind of specific content. That is, predictably, one of my critiques of the methodology of theological liberalism in general. But I think some would say that the “broadening” of the capacity for transcendence (thus establishing it as rather indeterminate) is, from the liberal perspective, a good thing. I suppose I disagree with that.
I’m glad you mentioned the liberal schematic term “antimodern” “counter-modern” etc., which is perhaps an overdetermined way of saying that resourcement theologies are critical of Kant on the material level and see him as a hindrance. Barthians, of course, sustain the German Idealist scaffolding to enhance the non-Kantian articulation of revelation while RO would simply love to eradicate neo-kantian thought from the Christian map. I am sympathetic to this since I fail to see the allure of sustaining something like “things in themselves” in order to relativize social, political and linquistic reality. Such reality is already relativized, which then forces the appeal to noumenality to figure as a covert and pre-discursive residue of foundationalism. The same is true, I take it, of the noumenality of indeterminate interior experience found in Schleiemacher. So, it would seem that terms like “countermodern” is modern theology’s own way of sustaining the status quo of reducing theology to the demarcation of the social and hard sciences, granting those methods the platitude of “theological neutrality” that they definitely do not deserve.