Tag Archives: Bosnia
I’ve been silent for a while now, the fact not of my choosing but rather the one of a necessity. Writing about the War is a process rather than an event and as such the rhythm of the written word varies, stops and starts, gushes and restrains. And so my mind and my heart, overwhelmed and in a need of a reprieve, stopped for a while waiting for the healing process to begin.
I weighed the need to tell my story for a long time and I have finally decided to tell it in a form of a book. Not because I feel that it bares more importance and gives a solemn quality to my experience. Rather, I feel that the book is the most natural form to my writing voice and as such it will truly immerse me in the process of authentication.
Today, my introduction was finalized and I will share it with you, my readers, so that my connection with each one of you serves as a reminder of humanity that we all share. So here it is:
While I wait for the pain of lost time to subside, life is quietly slipping through my fingers, just like a handful of water on my palm disappears, first soaked up by the pores of my skin and then the earth itself. Each time I look over the landscape of my memories I become overwhelmed with the sheer size and depth of emotions they bring along, and unable to let myself feel and possibly drown, I retreat. I choose to run away and not look back, nor forward either. Somehow, I fashion myself in a world in which I exist suspended in between moments, not committing to any of them for the possibility of the pain they bring is too great of a burden for me to bear. Instead, I choose to wait until I cannot wait any longer; until the silence offering the seductive solace and protection begins to suffocate and slowly destroy any trace of my soul.
I feel myself a coward, unwilling to confront the war and fear in order to heal myself.
During the random attempts to capture the truths of my past, I begin to wonder if those of us, survivors of Wars, are forever connected with a strong and malleable thread woven out of avoidance of all that might define us as alive. Is it possible that while our stories differ, the complete loss of oneself in fear and pain is an outcome that we all share?
For almost a decade I believed myself to be one of those rare people for whom the war left no traces other than handful of survival stories chosen at random and recycled at family gatherings. I convinced myself that I moved beyond the status of “just functioning” to the one of “successfully healed” war survivor. I cloaked myself in detachment from all that surrounds me in hopes of creating an ideal hiding place, a new universe so deep and uncharted that not even I would dare to enter.
I hope that collecting the displaced pieces of my life into a narrative of war experiences will allow me to reconcile with the destruction of “Me” and begin anew, building on blocks of the past now revealed and demystified. Perhaps I am overreaching and this process of stripping myself pass the skin, muscles and bones all the way to the core of who I am, may leave me broken beyond the repair. No matter what comes out of this process, it is the path that I must take in order to prevent my certain death. This book is my journey towards the truth of my experience, one which I worked so hard on forgetting.
Tags: Ana Turck, Balkans, Bosnia, Bosnian War, culture, Fibromyalgia, history, Identity, international, Love, Posttraumatic stress disorder, Sarajevo, Sarajevo 1992, Siege of Sarajevo, war, While I Wait:A Journey of Recovery
I remember sitting on a log in front of one of the camp sites as a child, waiting to begin our climb to one of the magnificent peaks of Bjelasnica, one of the many beloved mountains overlooking Sarajevo. Stretching from Sarajevo to Konjic, this 43 km long mountain, is a part of Dinaric Alps, the fifth most rugged areas of Europe, stretching over 645km across central and Southern Europe. To many outsiders, this is an exotic and challenging Mountain, with its highest peak rising at 6781 ft. To me, this is a home.
I grew up in a family of avid hikers, and many of my weekends were occupied by hiking and skiing. It was during these trips that I learned to appreciate and respect nature and experience myself as a part of a larger energy with a purpose of my own. My parents and my grandfather taught me to view the trees as a part of my heart and the peaks and valleys of the Mountains as a landscape of my soul. In the folds of the forests I learned the lessons of endurance, strength and, above all else, humility.
My love affair with nature began early and slowly,and as years passed the affair turned into a long-term committed relationship; a kind locked in a bond of need and spiritual awakening that nourishes and heals.
Slowly bringing myself around to the present, descending from the Mountain peaks of beautiful Bjelasnica, in a country so far away, I opened my eyes centering my anchor to the vast expanse of Lake Superior and the heavy Sun that rose slightly above the branches of elderly pine trees.
“May the energy of this moment expand and protect you,” I whispered to Mountains of Bosnia who are at this exact moment engulfed in an uncontrollable fire. Brought on by the unprecedented heat wave that has engulfed the Balkans for months, small forest fires have ignited and activated many of the millions of land mines laid out during the Bosnian War. In turn, the explosions help fuel the fire.This small country with an economy and infrastructure in shambles is unable to fight this annihilation alone,and the help is slow in coming. While the world is not watching, Bosnia’s pristine nature is disappearing in a whirlwind of fire and neglect. For those of us who possess a deep understanding of the intimate and life affirming relationship between humans and Nature, this is a tragedy and a loss of one’s soul.
“We saw them, they passed the Zetra and the Stadium and they are coming this way,” he informed us, “The Sarajevo police joined by the few local gangs and volunteers are trying to push them back, but they are outnumbered.”
Olja and I looked at each other, knowing the streets leading to the Stadium all too well. We made that same trip on a weekly basis, many times in a group with our friends. In the summer we would play on the running tracks and the soccer fields behind the Stadium and in the winter we ice-skated each weekend- night at the Zetra, the indoor and outdoor skating ring built for the 1984 Olympic games.
“Fifteen minutes tops,” Olja and I said in unison, expertly estimating the time it would take for someone to make the trip at a leisurely pace. Already hearing reports and first- hand accounts of atrocities that included rape and murder in the fallen territories, the new information created a chaos and overall panic within the building. Fear became visceral, a physical manifestation of desperation and hoplesness that could be touched, smelled and tasted.
For some, screaming and crying came naturally, others stood silently, their faces pale and sweaty under the flickering of the candlelight. I stood by the doorway looking at Mama and Olja. The air became thick, almost solid and pressure rose making breathing difficult. My head felt heavy and I began to swim inside my body. I tugged at my arms and legs from the inside, trying to get them to move, to do something. The noise stopped, replaced by the humming sound of blood pumping in my ears and in my forehead. I stood motionless for a moment, my gaze locking in on my sister. I watched but I saw nothing. I disappeared.
Suddenly, I was jolted from this state of silent panic by Olja who grabbed my hand and was pulling me towards the stairway.
“Fuck this shit,” she yelled dragging me behind her as she began to climb towards our apartment .Following her lead I began to run up-stairs. We ran together, skipping three stairs at the time, a ritual we never gave up on since we were little girls.
“Let go of me, I can run by myself” I said, finally escaping my temporary paralysis. ”Where are we going? We shouldn’t be here! Don’t you hear the grenades?” I frantically yelled after Olja, who waived me off as she stormed in the house.
“I am not going to sit in the basement like a fucking lamb right before a slaughter. Fuck the war and fuck them. I’lll not let them decide how to kill me. I will do that myself before they can get to me.”
She was screaming now. Red faced and hurried she violently opened the medicine cabinet in the kitchen, shaking out each bottle of pills that she found in a large plastic bag. Her actions spoke of her plan wordlessly. My fourteen year old, tough-as-nails sister was planning for us to kill ourselves.
She pilfered through drawers collecting all of the steak knives, a meat cleaver and a meat tenderizer. “Here, hold this,” she showed the pill bag in my hands, ”collect what you can find. I think that there is some stuff in the bathroom too.”
Slowly, I took the bag and turned towards the cabinet. I looked at the bottles that she already emptied. There was a bottle of aspirin, some antibiotics, few small bottles of homeopathic calming medicine and a vial of ear-drops. “There is no way this will kills us,” I yelled as I turned around, only to find that she was gone.
I followed the sound of banging and crashing into the bathroom, where Olja stood on the toilet trying to reach for nail-polish remover and a bottle of swabbing alcohol.
“Where is Dad when we need him,” I said, thinking wistfully of his medicine chest that would ensure our quick death.
“Yeah, no shit,” Olja responded. “His blood pressure medicine, the immune-suppressants and god knows what other kidney disease crap he has in there would be so good right now,” she said.
“Alright, let’s see what we can do,” Olja mumbled as she ran towards the hallway with armful of “weapons.” We sat on the cold tiled floor lighted by the flashlight and began to sort through our bounty. We collected all the pills in one bag and began to crush them with the meat tenderizer.
“These pills will just make us ill, but they won’t kill us,” I repeated to Olja as I watched her crush the pills with short and stubborn jerks of her hand. “That’s fine, we’ll mix the nail-polish remover and alcohol and drink them with that,” she responded.
I began to laugh in panic, realizing that everything was out of our control, even the ability to control our own death. As I laughed and cried, she still spoke of her plan to defend us with knives if dying was a bit slower than anticipated. I watched her, this bony, small framed girl, whose feistiness was legendary in the neighborhood. She was so focused on the task in front of her that she failed to understand the futility and comedy of her endeavor. I loved her so much in that moment that even the possibility of a gruesome torture and death could not spoil the pristine honesty of love and devotion, illuminated by her protectiveness.
Hungry! That’s what we were. Three years of starvation etched a deep scar in my soul, one that still hurts and burns occasionally. I try not to think of those days often, for the sake of my sanity. Those memories of hopelessness make me shudder with pain. As the assault on the city intensified, so the siege began to deliver on its promise. The city was cut off completely, surrounded by powerful artillery, snipers and land mines on the surrounding hills and mountains. The Yugoslav Army cut off all electricity which was not to be turned on for years to come. The Sarajevo valley,known for its rich supplies of fresh mountain water, was now dry. Lacking electricity, the pumping stations could not deliver water into homes, and we were left to scramble however we could to find daily sources of this life-sustaining liquid.
Within the few months the city ran out of food. Grocery stores were robbed of the last supplies of goods, and people’s personal supplies were not enough to sustain regular meal patterns. People began to empty out their fridges and freezers because all the food began to rot. The smell of roasted meat briefly permeated the air as Sarajevan’s were forced to use up all of the previously stored food. Neighbors shared copious amounts of meat, milk and eggs so that they would not be wasted. Olja,Adisa, Vedran and I , friends from kindergarten, sat and shared our knowledge of starvation picked up in numerous WWII movies.
“Well, we have two bottles of oil,” Olja said, “that should be enough to keep us for a while.”
“You know there will be potatoes, Vedran said. Somehow in all the Partizan movies, people ate potatoes during the war.”
Relieved, I proclaimed victory as potatoes were my favorite food, and laughed, “In fact, I could eat potatoes for breakfast, lunch, dinner and a dessert. I am all set, guys.”
One word was avoided in all households, a word that made almost everyone uneasy with fear and concern. Winter. Long, brutally cold and generous in snow and ice, as only winters in the mountains can be, the first winter of war was fast approaching. Anxious and fearful, we seemed to run frantically around the city, appearing to be in control of the chaos. However, deep inside us, in that secret place hidden from all including ourselves, the place that we seldom acknowledge for we know that the truth is spoken there, we knew that our situation was hopeless. Trapped in a box without holes poked for air or dishes left out with food and water, we were expected to die.
But we did not! The city provided each household with a specific ration of bread made from small amounts of flour and large proportion of chaff. Each member of the household was allowed to buy a one-third of the loaf. For the three of us at home that worked out to less than a very small loaf per day, or roughly three small slices per person. As the war dragged on this would seem like a feast.
People pressed into long lines often stretching for blocks to receive this ration, hugging the walls of the buildings nervously hoping that snipers wouldn’t detect the activity. If detected we knew to expect sniper fire quickly followed by artillery rounds.
In the late fall we began to receive humanitarian aid shipped into the city via UN convoys. At first excited that we might eat a potato or a piece of fruit, we soon realized that this aid was not enough to ward off hunger pains and certainly was not nutritional by any means. The first distribution of humanitarian aid ranks as one of the most exciting and disappointing events of my life. Eagerly standing in line we waited for the basement door of the building next to ours to open, signaling the begining of the food distribution.
The line was moving slowly so neighbors began to speculate what kind of food we were going to receive. Every once in a while Olja and I would chime in with our hopes of receiving potatoes or sugar. Older women shared recipes and memories of traditional Bosnian food, heavy on stews ,vegetables and meat. As the first recipients passed with small bags we all enquired about the rations.
“Are they generous? Do they include eggs and milk? Are there any cigarettes?” we would ask.
As the line reduced, we entered the musty, concrete basement. Among bicycles, tools and old furniture there was a long table and a couple of crates with seating pillows. An old Fifties metal scale graced the table, while sacks of flour and beans rested gently against its legs.
The presidents of the two building’s board as well as a local official were in charge of distribution. Ismet, our family friend and neighbor, was one of the men in charge. Tall and gregarious, always ready with a witty remark or a hilarious joke, he filled our childhood memories with great fun.
“With all respect Ismet, shut up and distribute the food,” Olja stood her ground, keeping in their tradition of teasing with each other.
Grinning widely, Ismet proceeded to call out the types of food and the amounts that each household was to receive. We learned that each block had earlier received a list of households and the appropriated rations of several food categories. We were to receive following, which was to last the three of us a month:
1/2 a liter of oil
½ kg of rice or macaroni pasta
½ kg of lentil or beans
1/3 kg of flour (if there was any)
1kg of chaff
1 can of Mackerel
1 can of unidentified, ground meat-like substance
1 package of Feta cheese
1 bar of smelly brown soap for laundry
1 American military Lunch packet (every once in a while)
“Bon Appetite,” said Ismet, “and see you in 30-some days!”
The exact order of the events that followed my sister’s frantic attempts to reach Mama is obscured by the intensity of my emotion. As I approached the door to our apartment I briefly stopped, holding onto the memory of the night prior as if it were a life preserver. “This is just like last night when Mama was roughed up a bit by explosion. She‘ll be fine,” I kept repeating to myself as I timidly entered the living room. Olja was already there, standing by the dining table, her screams piercing my brain and my soul. I felt my gut drop and bile rise in my stomach as I watched her pacing back and forth; disoriented and yelling “She’s dead! She’s dead!”
Quickly, one of the neighbors brought a chair and we sat Olja down, unsuccessful in our attempts to quell her screams. Somehow, the only thing replaying in my mind was the thought of those ubiquitous scenes from many war movies where a hysterical person is brought back to calmness with a good slap on the face. So I did it! I slapped her once, twice, perhaps even few times more. She stopped for a moment and then continued where she had left of, only until someone else followed my example. Over the years, this story would morph into a neighborhood legend, where Olja, always tough and ready for a fist-fight, was on a receiving edge of a revengeful slapping by a mob of children whom she terrified with her dangerous presence. However, the truth was that in the overall chaos we needed to calm her quickly so that we could attend to Mama without panic, and this seemed to work.
I left Olja to the comforting hands of my friends and, taking a deep breath, I entered the room filled with dust. The walls were scarred by shrapnel holes, all varied in size from deeply grooved, dinner- plate sized holes, to tiny nicks sprayed almost in a liquid fashion. The glass from the windows mixed with Mamas fine porcelain covered the floor and the furniture. As I looked around, each movement became excruciatingly slow, and sounds seemed to diffuse through the room, as if I were under the water, hearing but not understanding. It seemed as if my eyes and my brain absorbed an extraordinary amount of visual and very specific information. I looked at the shapes of shrapnel holes and thought of objects they resembled; a one looked like a fat man, whose belly protruded over his pants while another resembled an apple tree with a really wide trunk.
Absorbing all of this within a few seconds, I looked down to the floor by the dining table and there was Mama, laying on her stomach, her legs folded at a weird angle as if she were a marionette doll, waiting for her puppeteer to pull the strings and bring her back to life. The wood floor was soaked in a large pool of blood that seemed to increase in size as the time passed. “Mama!” I cried soundless, my dry lips becoming sealed. I knelt in the puddle next to her, gingerly touching her head not knowing if I should try to move her. At first there was no movement and then, after what seemed to be an eternity, she moved her head to me and said, “Tell them to get a fucking car so I can go to the Hospital.”
Being a true Sarajevan, whose pragmatism took precedence over all other guiding forces, Mama directed what needed to be done; all the while squeezing my knee assuring me that everything was going to be just fine. Later on, we would all fondly remember my friend Tarik and his insistence on tying Mama’s leg to “stop the bleeding,” not knowing that she was wounded in the back; Olja and her hysteria; the masses of neighbors that kept coming in and out of our home, clueless as to what needed to be done, and the bumpy ride to the hospital where Mama stated that “if grenade did not kill her, this car ride would definitely finish the job!”
To be continued…
Copyright Ana Turck
For Hana and Friends Lost
There is not a soul that is ever ready for war. Sure, living in a city under siege, we quickly learned the mechanics of survival, and the constant military assault gave us the insight into civil defense. We grew accustomed to the deafening sounds of heavy artillery. Informed by experience, our ability to discern the orientation of attacks became ingrained. Instinctually, we knew when to take cover and when to ignore the whistling sounds of grenades as they crossed the airspace over our rooftops. And, on those days when our attention began to falter, fueled by deprivation of sleep and food, snipers offered a lasting reminder that our lives were at peril.
However, physical destruction is not the only truth about wars. Indeed, the logistics of a military assault is a miniscule part of the organism that is birthed by war. What stays etched forever in survivors are the deaths, either physical or metaphorical. These are the wounds that never heal, and they alter our realities forever. The pain of losing those dearest to us, of our ways of life, begins to unravel our center. Everything that we use to orientate ourselves and to identify with for the sake of clarity and stability disappears within few weeks, and we are left with the fragments of ourselves, alone and destitute.
The day after the protests, my best friend called from the airport. She was in tears, explaining that her mother just announced that she was leaving Sarajevo, packed bags laying already at her feet. “I don’t want to leave my friends, my city, “Hana argued pointlessly. Angry and hurt, she was explaining the situation, assuring both of us that she will return within a few weeks, “once everything settles down.”
This feeling of improbability of war ever coming to fruition was shared by most Sarajevans. We lived in a cosmopolitan city, city of art, culture, computers, and microwaves. Surely, wars only happen to those who are not in control of their national destiny. Wars happened to OTHERS! Furthermore, just a weekend before all the happenings, we were talking about changing the place we usually went out. We were planning to try out a place behind the Art Academy since the art crowd was familiar to us, the art high school students.
These stories of heartbreak repeated all over the city. Those of us who stayed went through a myriad of emotions. At first we felt deserted and hurt by many departures of our friends and families. They just left, as if nothing mattered to them, or so we thought. Then, after the first year or so, we became resentful. We imagined our departed friends in fancy schools, partying and living the teenage life to its fullest, while we sat in basements, struggling to find food and water and chancing death every minute.
Many of our friends who stayed were killed. One by one they disappeared in tragic deaths, either blown apart or slowly dying as a result of being wounded by weapons usually reserved for the destruction of physical structures and military vehicles. Snipers fired anti-aircraft bullets that ripped bodies into shreds and detached limbs and heads within a fraction of a second. Some of us witnessed these happenings and some of us heard about them from others. No matter how it was delivered, the information about our friends’ deaths echoed painfully through our hearts.
Grieving for those who had died and those who had left, we fought against the seductive power of loathing and hatred. We still wanted to keep in touch with those on the outside, trying unsuccessfully to explain the anguish and darkness we felt. We asked for the acknowledgement of our struggle and validation of our pain. All that we received in return were justifications of the decisions made and explanations of emotional distress they felt for not being able to reach loved ones and learn of their fate. We were not hearing each other.
Hana and I met after the war, embracing each other in a long hug at the Frankfurt airport, sobbing uncontrollably. Awkwardly we tried to connect as old friends, but the wounds were fresh. Molded by different circumstances we grew apart. Unfortunately, neither of us realized that the war gave us the tools with which we built our own trenches, unable to extract ourselves from perspectives of our own making.
That is the tragedy of war. It never leaves one’s soul and it becomes a main orientating point around which our lives begin to mold. It becomes an organism with demands of its own. And since the pain is so great, silence offers a refuge. Quiet and alone, we hope that the past will become something benign and almost forgotten. This way, our pain becomes our truth and we choose to distance ourselves from those who are a reminder of who we were before.