Letter to the editor, San Francisco Chronicle, June 1, 1993:

On a false spring day months ago, I bought a pair of sandals. They were made of richly polished, smooth leather and reasonably priced. Best of all, they were comfortable and an ideal accessory for the months ahead.

But the weather turned cold again and the sandals languished in their box until I, the ultimate shopper, contemplated returning them. Summer seemed so far away.

But by late April, winter had passed, and it was definitely time to take the sandals out and wear them. As I unwrapped the tissue paper, I suddenly noticed the stamp on the soles: "Made in Bosnia."

I stared in disbelief. Could there really be factories in that distant land where shoes were being made while anarchy reigned? And could I, in good faith, wear them?

Which side of the conflict would I be supporting by my action? What had happened to the factory and the people who worked there?

I didn't wear the shoes. I can't. They're back in their box, in my closet, waiting. For what? I don't know.

†