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While I Wait: A Journey of Recovery

Memories of Life in a Besieged City

Tag Archives: Love

Copyright W.C.Turck 1994I’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.Copyright W.C.Turck 1994

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Copyright W.C.Turck 1993

I sat on the cold floor of our hallway, my back against the wall, soaking up the amalgam of fear and love, feeling alive and not wanting to give up. Door opened with a thud, and Mama, winded from the sprint up the four flights of stairs, stood at the doorway.

“What the hell is going in in here?” she muttered still trying to catch her breath and make sense of the situation. “Olja and I are coming up with the most painless way of committing a suicide in case that we are imprisoned,” I informed her calmly. As I spoke, Mama’s gaze fell on top of Olja’s head and slowly drifted towards hands that feverishly pounded a plastic bag filled with pills. Her face, bathed in the slow glow of the candles, softened and she slowly folded herself towards the floor. Crouching in-front of Olja she stroked her hair with one hand as she stopped her hand from making another motion.

“There will not be need for that, I promise,” she began in a same soothing voice that comforted our panic and stopped our fears when we were younger. With hands entwined over a meat cleaver, still hovering in mid-air, Olja and Mama locked eyes. Wordlessly, Olja examined Mama’s face as if trying to confirm the certainty of her words and slowly lowered her arm, loosening the cleaver a bit, but not completely letting go.

“Can we stay here for the night?” I asked. “We really don’t want to go back to basement. We would rather stay here, just us, instead of being surrounded by fear of others.”Image

Not letting go of Olja, Mama shifted towards me. “It’s not safe, but I understand” she added, as she scooted against the wall, pulling Olja towards her side. Flanked by us, Mama pulled Olja and I deeper into a hug. We sat quietly for a while, listening to grenades whistling over the roof. Floor shook with each explosion and a rain of tiny shrapnel showered the buildings and houses around us every so often. We could hear individual gunfire, shuffling of running feet and yelling beneath our windows.  Outside, the world was in chaos. Our hallway,however, seemed to retain the peace and calmness of the days before the War. Three of us clung to each other drawing strength and comfort in silence. “

“I am still keeping this cleaver,” I heard Olja say as I drifted in and out of nap, “…And the knives too!”

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Olja and I, Sarajevo 1993

Sweaty and breathless, nineteen-year old Sanin, my teenage crush and my first neighbor, was speaking fast. He folded over his basketball player tall frame, and rested his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath and steady his thoughts.

“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.Image

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.

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Once upon a time there was a neighborhood in Sarajevo, the capitol of Bosnia, where most of its inhabitants lived in apartment buildings. While drab, soviet-style apartment blocks occupied a majority of the newer part of the city, this little enclave was a bit special (or so many thought.)  Nested on the slope of a hill, surrounded by lush vegetation and the abandoned gardens of long gone privately owned houses, this community cherished the outdoors. The children swarmed among overgrown patches of plum trees, climbed on apple trees and chanced on dares to jump from the highest branches. In summer, girls and boys raced their bikes, exploring the dark and mysterious woods on a neighboring hill. The girls had an especially dangerous game of dare, charging downhill on their beloved bikes, jumping high in the air over a deep ditch to land upon the narrow flat roof of an abandoned garage. In the winter, kids would race their sleds down a treacherously steep hill stopping short of an uncovered concrete hole that seemed as old as the surrounding mountains. Everything it seemed was done on a dare, like the “The Trail of Death” as they dubbed the toughest challenges, becoming regular afterschool rituals, each of children defending their records on daily basis, either physically or verbally.

“Haustorchad” or building dwellers is what the kids growing up in houses called them. And though the Haustorchad fought often, many formed bonds as deep as any blood relative. Their households became extended families and parents could rely that their children were safe no matter where they were.  During the school year, the best students tutored those who struggled in exchange for a yummy lunch or a piece of some delicious homemade cake. Winter and summer vacations were spent skiing in the mountains surrounding the city or traveling to the Adriatic coast to swim and lounge in sun upon some pebbled stretch of beach. Invariably they could hardly wait to come home and swap stories and show off well-earned sunburns. Life was great and carefree in this little area, or the kids thought.

And then suddenly, or so it seemed, war came to the neighborhood and the city. Many people from the neighborhood left. Others came from far away, chased out of their homes, running to save their lives. In the beginning the, “haustorchad” could not leave their buildings at all. Buildings often shared a single bomb shelter. Trapped by the fighting outside, the kids turned a small area into their play room. They painted murals on the uneven, concrete walls, and played music on a portable, battery-powered radio. They brought books and board games, but once the electricity was shut off they and everyone else were plunged into darkness.

In the darkness children reminisced of their past. They shared memories of food and events. They sang favorite songs together, teased each other and gossiped about kids in other buildings. Soon, they grew tired and stopped talking much. They sat together in the dark with the grown-ups, waiting for the war to stop.

But the War did not stop and starvation, thirst and defiance drew people out of the shelters. Kids began using their bikes and sleigh to lug water and scraps of wood for heat. As always, they foraged in groups. In winter they waited in long lines for water and bread, forcing each other to move and prevent serious frostbite. In summer, they collected rainwater, helping each other carry 50 gallon barrels up-stairs to their flats. They shared information and the last bits of food, looking out for each other while quarrelling all along. Some kids traded their bikes for guns, while others suffered the ultimate fate at the hands of snipers and guns surrounding the city.

Eventually, the War stopped. The kids grew up and many left the neighborhood, and the country altogether. And while many chose not to look back, some decided to reflect and understand just how much of the place where they grew up still remained in their heart. What they found was not just a memory of childhood bond, but a deep connection to the spirits of their culture and ancestry. They, at long last, found love.

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I am one of the lucky ones, the rare one whose soul was magically protected, nurtured and above all respected. Feeling loved and valuable, I never feared to jump ahead and explore my identities, for I knew that all the possible outcomes would find me with a safe home and an unconditional support, helping me to see clearly and continue to fight. Early in my life, I began to understand that there are unknown depths to myself and others around me, and I was encouraged to meet the complexities of life. Instead of shying away from that which might make one feel alive, I was urged to embrace every aspect of the journey that I might take. To think, question and imagine, all without a fear of ridicule or punishment, were treated as necessities, not unlike the air, water and food.
My soul was nourished, exposed to music, art, nature, genuine conversations about anything that might have an effect on my life, including sex. Yes I said that scary, so often ignored reality of any teenager’s life. Any questions I had were welcomed and no matter how insignificant they felt to an adult audience, the issues I had to confront were deemed important and worthy of taking time to discuss. This is not to say that we all (read I) were at our best behavior. Times when I tried to stretch boundaries and cover-up my misguided actions with lies were all met with serious but fair consequences, even though they might not have felt as such at the time. In those instances when the exercise of adult power became too seductive, its effects were diffused with a genuine apology and a conversation.
For all of this and much more I want to thank you, Mom. I thank you for respecting my individuality and encouraging my self- expression no matter how awkward it seemed at different points in our lives. I thank you for those moments when you took time to listen and show a true concern in matters that anguished my young soul. I thank you for seeing the good in me and urging me not to forget compassion and the responsibility that comes with knowledge. I thank you on insisting that I seek the wisdom and to question everything which those in power propagate. I thank you on finding new ways to make learning fun and worthy of my time. I thank you for giving me the tools with which I can bring my own towns, cities and worlds of imagination to life, believing that changing the world is not impossible. I thank you for teaching me that I am not insignificant and that all of us have qualities that are extraordinary. I thank you for showing me how mothering, when done genuinely, with wisdom and passion, can be a backbone of human freedom. I thank you for confirming that women can give birth to ideas just as they can give birth to children. I thank you for expanding the boundaries of womanhood, and reaffirming the strength, dedication and the intellect of my own self. I thank you for all that you have done for me that have not been done for you in the past. I thank you for breaking the cycle of victimhood and for being my true soul’s friend. I love you.

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