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While I Wait: A Journey of Recovery

Memories of Life in a Besieged City

 

Copyright W.C.Turck 2009

Sarajevo

The city rose up at once. Huge masses collected at both of its ends, the word going out from neighbor to neighbor. Progressive radio announcers gave regular updates to meeting places and the projected numbers of protestors. DJs on the “Omladinski Radio,” the youth radio station, played continuous music interrupted regularly to allow for eyewitnesses to call in their reports. Sounds of  the U2 and Nirvana mixed with the anti-fascist messages of the WWII Partisans’ songs.

All TV stations switched to news coverage. Excited and restless, with radio and TV running simultaneously, the three of us stood in the middle of our living room. ‘We should go,” Mama said. “Yes, let’s go,” Olja and I yelled out in unison, already imagining the heroic stories we would share with our friends in school next week. “I don’t know. It might be dangerous, “Mama replied under her breath, as if trying to discourage herself from the decision that she had already made. Taking the last drag from her cigarette, she turned her head away from the TV and locked her eyes with ours. “Get your shoes on and meet me by the car in five minutes,” she barked out moving towards the hallway. “YES!” Olja and I screamed ecstatically, racing towards the shoe closet, almost trampling each other in the process.

We ran downstairs, skipping four and five steps at the time, giggling and pushing each other. “We are going to protest,” we announced eagerly to our neighbor Brana, who terrified by our display of eagerness and determination hugged the wall of the staircase in hopes of keeping her balance. Outside, we already saw crowds of people going towards the presidential Palace. “We are going too,” Olja yelled out and met the approving cheers from the crowd.  Mama began the ritual of starting the engine of our old Citroen which we lovingly dubbed Dica, short of Diana. This was a daunting task, since the car was almost thirty years old, with a convertible roof that was not functional any longer and the engine that required a steady diet of magic, love and patience in order to show its glory. Sluggishly, Dica’s engine began to work, and Mama, lighting a cigarette, set the ground rules. “We stay together and you never leave my sight. Is that understood?”  Ready to go, Olja and I quickly nodded in agreement. “ Alright,” Mama muttered as she backed out on the street from the parking space. We were on our way to witness the amazing show of civic power and responsibility.

We arrived to one of the meeting spots within ten minutes. The air was brisk and invigorating as the early spring was almost there. Crowds, by some estimate more than a hundred thousand, nearly a third of the population, marched on the city-center determined to end the nationalist rabble once and for all. Swept into this awe-inspiring assertion of freedom and decency, Mama, Olja and I merged into the stream of people. I felt the prickling of the electrical charge on my skin as the raw emotions became exposed and shared by many. There was singing, women, children and elderly. Banners proclaimed unity against war and red, blue and white Yugoslav flags waved. This was my Sarajevo. We were marching toward the military barracks where someone had fired on a smaller group of protesters a few nights before. Looking around, comforted by our numbers and determination I joined in the song written by the composer and singer Kemal Monteno.  Each Sarajevan knew it by heart, and Olja and I would sing to our  city as we left and came back from vacations.“We grew together, my city you and I …the same blue sky gifted us with poetry…. Anywhere I go I dream about you, Sarajevo my love.”  We marched and sang and I believed that surely, no one would dare provoke us now.

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