The Killer of Sheep, Charles Burnett's firstfeaturefilm, was made in 1973 as his thesis project at UCLA and shot in its entirety on location in South Central Los Angeles. Beautifully filmed by Burnett himself, the film tenderly recounts afew days in the life of a slaughterhouse worker, Stan, whose existence is as bounded by invisible threads of hopelessness as that of the sheep that he is forced to kill each day. At the time of the film's original, sporadic theatrical release in 1977, the New York Times critic Janet Maslin dismissed The Killer of Sheep as amateurish and boring. Since then, the film has won awards at festivals in Houston and Berlin, acquired honorary protection by the National Registry of Films accorded to a selectfew masterpieces such as Citizen Kane, and aided its author in winning a prestigious John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Fellowship, popularly known as the genius award. Even in this world where justice-if, indeed, there is any-lives elsewhere, things occasionally, as Charles Burnett would say, balance out with time. Ifirst saw The Killer of Sheep just recently, on video, with a group of my high school friends from Sarajevo currently seeking refuge in Los Angeles from the war in Bosnia. We expected to see an award winningfilm, possibly a cinematographic masterpiece-but most especially a film about a world that we were neither the part of nor could ever join. In spite of all the intellectual comparisons which are currently being made between the war in Sarajevo and the sealed-off war zones in Los Angeles, South Central Los Angeles seemed to us as distant as China's Forbidden City and as irrelevant as the war in Somalia. We had our own tragedy selfishly to worry about. And then, just fifteen minutes into the movie, we were all crying. The were playing on the minuscule TVscreen, throwing rocks onto passing trains, fighting with each other, wrestling in the dust, and doing the bump. Our entire childhood on the dirty streets of Sarajevo came back in a flash-we too used to throw rocks at busses and climb onto streetcars instead of trains. Also, there was a song in the background that we paid little attention to, although we knew the words by heart and continued to sing it long after it had ended in the film 's sequence: What is America to me? ... ./The grocer and the butcher/The faces that I see.. ./The in the playground.. ./That is America to me.' A few weeks later, thanks to my friend Orson Watson, who had learned the song in a Russian Pioneer Camp, I learned that its title was The House I Live In and that it was sung by Paul Robeson. I realized that it was truly unusual that we Bosnians knew by heart the words of a song that most Americans have never heard, and, in retrospect, that we were crying not only because of the images of the children in the playground, but also because of this music locked somewhere in the back of our minds: how strange that the memory of one of the greatest