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While I Wait: A Journey of Recovery

“Memories of Life in a Besieged City”

Tag Archives: Sarajevo

February 23, 2013 I Am Here: The Book Yet To Be Written

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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August 21, 2012 They Are Coming!-Part Two Continued…

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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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July 20, 2012 They Are Coming!-Part Two

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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August 30, 2011 Hungry In Sarajevo

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.

“Oooo..The sisters are here!” he said pointing to Olja and I, “And they are not fighting! Quickly, distribute this food to folks before an unforeseen storm comes upon us and blows us all away!”

“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!”

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August 23, 2011 AND THERE WAS LOVE

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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July 30, 2011 Rebirth Rendered in Thunder: PTSD and I

Copyright W.C.Turck 2008“Boom!” A crackling detonation followed by a rumbling sound in the distance jolts me from a deep sleep. Disoriented and ready to dive under my bed for shelter, I jump up, my head almost colliding with the wood floor. Trying to regain balance, I hold with one hand to the metal railing of the bed. Still dazed, I begin to survey the room, taking stock of objects barely visible in the dark , lit only by the diffused light from a lamp  outside. Where am I, the thought echoes through my brain, leaving me unsettled? I panic, lost briefly in the space where nothing makes sense and memories do not exist. It is just me and a vast prairie of emptiness.

“Boom!” Another loud sound, followed by a burst of light radiating through the semi-closed, white blinds propels me forward. I begin to run. I run away from the terror-laden sound, my feet heavy and filled with concrete allowing for infinitely small steps that seem to lead nowhere. I run, cold and shivering suspended in a vacuum where nothing but the confines of the body and physical reactions exist. “I” am not there. The smell of fire permeates the air, the sound of explosions mingles with the blinding light streaming intermitted amid the rhythm of blood rushing through arteries; clogging  my ears with a hissing sound. I run for hours, or so I think.

When it happens, I can’t be sure. Slowly, as if someone moves a dusty curtain, weighed down by a billion moments of amnesia, inch by inch the image of my soul is revealed. I stand  facing the window, my bare feet soothed by the coolness of the floor. I turn my head to the right, locking my gaze on the painting that hangs above the antique, wood dresser. Even though obscured by dark, I know its subject and the light brush strokes of the watercolor by heart. I know the story of my grandfather who purchased the painting of the villa on the coast of Adriatic, hoping to keep fond memories of his youth. I know the story of the dresser. I remember the day my husband dragged the heavy wooden piece home with the triumphal pride of a successful hunter etched on his face.I know that if I reach under one of its legs I am sure to find a rusty nail poking-out ever so slightly, catching the threads of the mop each time I clean.

Comforted by the familiar, memories and stories of the past safely tucked in the far recesses of my brain; I slowly walk back to bed and sit down. Propping my back with extra pillows I listen to the howling of the wind from a thunderstorm unleashed on Chicago. With each thunder-clap I flinch as the loud sounds resembles the sounds of detonations.

How is it that these same sounds offered a pocket of safety for us during the war? We slept through them, lulled by the knowledge that during bad storms snipers and heavy artillery were mostly silenced. Nature and its power offered us a reprieve from fight, allowing us to catch a breath and experience the sense of safety, even just briefly.

As I watch the last flickers of lightening diffuse through the blinds I feel my lips curl in a smile. Each time the flash-backs erase my memories, I cease to exit. And when they come back, even the bad ones I welcome them eagerly as they all make up my soul and that which connects me to life. Calmed by the storm, I slowly drift into sleep, hugging the pieces of my wounded self  as closely as I can.

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May 25, 2011 Sarajevo in War: Friendships Lost

Hana, I and our Highschool Friends Shortly Before the War

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.

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May 24, 2011 Checkpoints:Or How We Entered the War

 

Copyright W.C.Turck 2009

Our Balcony

Stunned by the events of the first few weeks of the war, disoriented and scared, the neighborhoods all across the city began to look inward for some guidance. Drawing on their rusty military skills, acquired during the old Yugoslav mandatory military service at the age of eighteen, neighbors began to set-up check points at intersections in residential areas. Relying on scarce information, collected from various formal and informal channels, they attempted to take some control over the situation that was rapidly turning into a complete chaos. Nonetheless, there they were, our middle-aged teachers, grocery store clerks, librarians, doctors, fathers of our friends, providing a tragic comic relief deep into the sleepless nights.

The city was on a mandatory blackout after 6pm, and this continued for a month or so until the Yugoslav Army cut off electricity, plunging the entire city into the darkness for the next three years. Many of us sat on the floors of our square balconies, listening for the gun fire and trying to collect information from anyone we could. Sarajevans have always loved their terraces, gardens and balconies. For us, they were not just a source of relaxation or a convenient way to stay in touch with the nature. No. Our gardens or avlijas, balconies for those of us who lived in Soviet-style apartment blocks, were places of social life and intrigue.

 Since the neighborhoods were small, private conversations were heard by many and they provided an abundant source of information. We observed and catalogued every happening, such as Keka kissing her boyfriend in the entrance of the building for quite a long time, just prior to them breaking up, or neighbor’s son being picked up by police for an interrogation. We saw comings and goings and wove stories around them. Meira, one of my favorite elderly neighbors whose wisdom I always marveled at, took it upon herself to teach me the “Mahala” ways by sharing her secret code of a proper neighborhood conduct.

 “You see dear, she began, “all of these women are watching what you are carrying in your hands when you are coming home from the market. The amount of bags you carry, in their mind, is equivalent to the amount of money you have. So I make a point to carry more bags, even if I have to fake the content. They will never know.”

Fast forward a few years and we were crouching on the icy cold floors of our balconies, listening at the fragments of conversations and carrying our own in hushed tones. Our apartment building was situated near a busy four-way intersection, with a grammar school to one side. Deep vegetation and plentiful trees that occupied our attention during school days, now offered a natural opportunity for an ambush. Since the entire city was plunged into a thorough darkness, it was nearly impossible to recognize anyone who happened to move on the street. Cleverly, or so it seemed at the time, the neighbors devised a system of passwords that would allow them to recognize the enemy.

One night we heard a commotion at the corner. Peering over the red, metal railings that framed our balcony we saw a quick, flickering flashlight in the bushes.

“Stop!” A deep voice commanded followed by the clicking sound of a cocking gun. “What’s the password?”

After a painfully long pause, a quivering male voice answered “Shit. I can’t remember the password. It’s me dammit, let me pass.”

“Who’s me?” the deep voice insisted.

“Fuck you, Mladen, it’s me, Emir. Will you let me pass or do I have to tell you about the day I slept with your sister?”

Chuckles and a few “whoop-whoops” sounded off through the buildings, as the neighbors followed this exchange with a feeling of relief. Olja and I looked at each other, still winded from an outburst of laughter and said to each other, almost simultaneously “May God help us. We are alone!” We all stumbled through the war and the pieces of us that understood what was happening coexisted with the reality of ignorance and almost childish helplessness. Unwillingly, we were all about to begin our journey on a long road of pain and fortitude.

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May 14, 2011 Sarajevo:A Tale of Civilian Resistance

    

Copyright W.C.Turck1993

Sarajevo sniper alley

   We wove our souls out of the constraining thread of war. Using its unrefined strands, we built our armors that suffocated and liberated at once. We began to understand life only within the context of war. Unannounced humanitarian aid shipments were a source of joy and happiness. Hearing about the deaths of those we knew coated our lives with a heavy and dull sheen of permanent sadness. Daily trips to fetch water under constant sniper and grenade fire made us afraid.  Days became all the same, a litany of chores and fears and worries interrupted seldom by moments of joy. And then, in the second year of war, a miraculous transformation happened to Olja and I. If only I could say that the change was a result of an awe inspiring moment, a moment of profound spiritual awakening that made the rest of the war years easier and less tragic. No, to say that would be a lie, as it took 16 years for me to see and understand that the transformation came gradually.

 Building on each moment of our agony, we drank from its murky well. Taking big, thirsty gulps, we saturated our bodies with sorrow and self pity. We thought of our youth and mourned its death, teetering on the edge of victimhood, ready to plunge in the protective harbor it offered. But the life carried on, and on the background of war we began to create our narrative of normalcy.

Schools began to work again, and our days began before dawn with a mad rush for water, running through sniper alleys and no-man’s land to stand for six or seven hours in long queues. Then, we were off to waiting at another line for bread. Sustained for one more day, we hastily changed our “work” clothes and dressed nicely for our daunting run to school.

 Navigating the city, careful to avoid sniper corners as much as possible, we ran often reciting the last pieces of information needed for the upcoming exams. Powered by a constant adrenaline rush, for scarcity of food could not sustain this pace, we ran the whole time.

In a rush to avoid death, we somehow accepted its certainty and with it we found clarity and stopped fearing. Instead, we became angry and rebellious. We began to fight for our dignity, refusing to be reduced to our animal denominator. We wanted more than just to survive. And we fought everywhere we could. We strengthened personal bonds and looked after the weakest and oldest in the neighborhood. We dressed up and accessorized each day and despite the scarcity of water we washed daily, albeit in the dark. We produced art, we wrote and we competed in ballroom dancing competitions.

Living was our rebellion and we fought by preserving our culture and our way of life as much as we could. We fought the war with the only weapon available to us, civilians. We refused to be silenced. And fifteen year-old Olja was the loudest, running across sniper alleys with both of her middle fingers high up in the air, yelling ”Fuck You!”

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April 20, 2011 Protests Turn Deadly

Copyright W.C.Turck 2009

Sarajevo Parliament

It is strange how some faces seem to become etched in our memories, serving as a reminder, a visual representation of the events that have passed. For me, the face of protests in Sarajevo  that ushered the war in 1992 belongs permanently to the man for whom the intensity of his emotions became more than he could bear. Being only sixteen years old I did not fully understand the nature of these emotions, but in his face I saw pain, sadness, anger and devastation. As we marched with our arms interlocked, a middle-aged man began to yell at the military barracks. “You will not shoot at us…You will not kill us like cowards…Get out so that we can see your faces,” he shouted. “Here, I am unarmed,” the man yelled as he tore off his shirt, ripping the sleeves and grabbing at the buttons. Purple faced with sweat pouring down his body, he fought the protestors who tried to calm him down. Agitated and scared by the strength of his raw feelings I edged closer to Mom. What could have caused such a pain that this kind of a public display seemed a natural progression, I wondered?

As we passed military barracks I saw soldiers of JNA (Yugoslavian Army) in windows and on the roof. Most of them were peaking from the corners of the windows and all that I could think was how magnificent this moment was and how great it would be if they joined us in solidarity with the anti-war protest. At that moment I still believed that the shootings of civilian protesters a few nights prior were just accidental, individual actions of the few, made in the overall confusion of the events. I was young and naïve enough to believe the official military statements to be true.

We walked towards the Parliament building where Sarajevans from other side of the city were to meet us and continue our demands for peace and governmental accountability. The events of the few weeks earlier have left Bosnia and Hercegovina in a state of complete anarchy since three major political parties that made the government broke apart in, what seemed to be a permanent state of animosity.

At the Parliament, the masses of people descended onto a small square in front of the long, Soviet-style building. Kids climbed trees surrounding the building to witness unfolding history. Protesters overtook walls and the windows of the nearby apartment complex. Sarajevans, tired of the government’s contempt for its people and eager to break down militia-run ad hoc barricades and restore their city, demanded accountability and subservience of public officials.“We want peace!” some chanted; “Down with the government!” others cried; “We want pot!” some youths chuckled.

Enveloped in excitement and singing, I felt a myriad of emotions with an intensity I never felt before. Pride, excitement, love and resistance filled me, bringing tears to my eyes. I could see that Mom, Olja and my friends whom we met there, were all unified in these feelings. Looking back, I realize that this was the exact moment of my liberation. Here, I became an integral part of something bigger than myself. I tapped into the power of humanity.

  There was a sudden surge of energy as everyone shouted in unison, “Here they come, here they come.” Several trucks arrived with men in blue uniforms, white helmets and blackened faces, carrying signs reading “Brotherhood and Unity.” Through tears Mom said that things would be okay now that the miners had arrived. She said “Miners don’t have anything to lose and when they join the fight it’s all or nothing.” I felt relief at their arrival. We were not alone now.

Most of us stood in front of the Parliament, chanting and singing, unsure of what supposed to happen next. Some people succeeded in entering the building, reclaiming it as their own. Suddenly, I heard an unfamiliar sound, gentle almost as the sound of a bee’s wing brushing against the hair…with heat! As soon as this thought entered my consciousness, I realized that it was the hissing of the bullets as they passed by my head.

Someone screamed “They are shooting from the Holiday Inn!”  There was panic everywhere. Mom screamed trying to keep us from being separated by stampede of frightened and confused people. People crouched behind a wall and we joined them there. Mom covered us with her body to shield us from bullets, waiting for a moment when we could escape. During a brief lull, gripping each other’s hands, we sprinted up the street pushing through people fleeing for cover. Later, we learned that right after we left the military opened fire from the barracks, killing among others, a fifteen year old. Further events of the day became a part of our family lore. We had to get to our car which was parked by the military barracks. Mom’s Peugot Diana, with its bad muffler, scared neighborhood militiamen. Thinking that a tank was approaching, they hid behind a wall of our neighborhood grocery store. Jets roared overhead, shattering windows and giving us a preview of what was yet to come.

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