Born in Sarajevo

BORN IN SARAJEVO

By Snjezana Marinkovic

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2013 Snjezana Marinkovic

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Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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©2013 All Rights Reserved

Foreword

Chapter I Beginning of War

Chapter II Life as a Refugee

Chapter III Death, Survival, and End of War

Chapter IV Back home: Is this Sarajevo?

Chapter V New life, Old memories

Chapter VI Immigration to the United States

Chapter VII First Dreams in a Dream Country

Conclusion

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

This is a story of Yugoslavia, a fairy tale without a happy ending, and Yugoslavians, simple people who lived in a difficult time of upheaval and war. Many of the names have been changed to protect the privacy of those who survived.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my grandmother, to the victims of war, and to all people desiring peace for the world.

The gunpowder flows through the air

There are friends sitting on a tank

And there are too few moments to realize

They are targeting someone they know,

Someone who will this last time

Try to wave, try to smile

I run, but in my heart I want to stay

Because this is still Home

The blood covers our street and I am afraid

To look around, I am ashamed to hope that

A bird was hit while she flew

Toward her nest to feed her young ones,

But all I can see is Sarajevo helpless, alone,

No matter how far I would go

I’ll remember this is my home

Sarajevo, March 1992

Foreword

Sarajevo came into existence in the Balkans during the year 1450; it resembled a magnificent pearl that awaited discovery of its timeless resilience, inner calmness, and opulent beauty. More than five centuries later, the city known as the castle field emerged mature and perfectly off-balance, but steadfast through many tumultuous attacks. Despite everything, Sarajevo is and will continue to thrive.

Built in a blended delight of Serbian-Byzantine, Islamic, Medieval, Baroque, Gothic and Renaissance styles, Sarajevo was often depicted as a brilliant snowflake caressing the sky during wintertime.

The Illyrians were the first inhabitants of this area followed by four cultures from the east: Hellenism in the prehistoric period, Mithraism in the late Classical age, the Byzantine culture in the fourth century, and the Turkish Islamic culture in the fifteen century.

At the beginning of the Middle Ages in the seventh century the Slavic people arrived. In 1991, the Slavic people would become traitors to their homeland and to each other. They began to rage simultaneously, to conquer systematically, and to clean their country ethnically. The land, peace, and unity were in their hands, but they threw all of it away, abolished fairness and logic, and embraced war and suffering. Even if suffering usually brings people together and coaxes the humanity out of them, in Yugoslavia, it did the opposite. In 1994, Mozart’s Requiem was performed in Sarajevo to honor those Slavs who lost their lives in the Bloody Crush. Now, in the twenty-first century, Slavs still have many damaged buildings and towers as a memorial to their civil war. Many of them will remember the tragedies and will grieve during the worst and the best moments of their lives.

Sarajevo is situated in the valley of the Miljacka River and surrounded by the following mountains: Jahorina, Trebevic, Treskavica, Igman, and Bjelasnica. Through the crossroads that run along the valleys of Bosnia and Neretva rivers, Sarajevo connects northern Europe with the Mediterranean Sea and the customs of the Mediterranean people. The city is located at a cultural intersection between Eastern and Western Europe and has always been a geographic, political, and ethnic focal point. Sarajevo was the center of the beginning of World War I, the XIV Winter Olympic Games, and the center of Ethnic Cleansing after the fall of Yugoslavia.

The city also heralds the rituals of many different religions. Every day at 2:00 A.M., the clock strikes on the Catholic Cathedral in Sarajevo. Approximately two minutes later, the Serbian Eastern Orthodox Church announces itself. The Muezzin from Sahat Tower of Beg’s Mosque follows with his call of the Allahu Akbar. Amidst all of this, the Jewish Synagogue stands unmoved, facing east toward Jerusalem. Yugoslavia left Sarajevo behind to prove that ethnic differences can and will keep people together, and Sarajevo has succeeded by integrating all religions into its culture. Sarajevo is a city where wars may begin, but love always triumphs as the victor.

There are twenty-four cities from different countries around the world that share a brotherhood with Sarajevo including Coventry, Great Britain from 1957; Magdeburg, Germany from 1972; Napoli, Italy from 1994; Ankara, Turkey from 1994; Budapest, Hungary from 1995; Serre-Chevalier, France from 1995; Barcelona, Spain from 1996; Stockholm, Sweden from 1997; Kuwait, Kuwait from 1998; and Dayton, Ohio from 1999. As for the other parts of the world, they will always be, as during the 1984 Olympic Games, welcome in Sarajevo.

Let’s stop all wars, was the first idea that came to my mind when I started writing this book. But when I lifted my head from my writing and looked around at our society (where the balance between emotionalism and indifferentism is often lost), I realized that in the beginning it is sometimes better to take baby steps instead of starting off galloping. So I started imagining a multitude of people holding hands, walking down a long road, each person having a belief that one day the world will be a better place, a place where all people can feel at home.

Can you imagine if all six billion people of this world would all think about peace together for just one moment? I can. And I can smile with all my heart while picturing the world taking a break from war. I can be happy even for a moment when in the spotlight will be a beautiful princess named Peace, even though I know that somewhere in the back wings will be a battalion named War, impatiently waiting to take her innocence away.

In the beginning of his book Despite All Crappers, Jan Urban wrote: I don’t know why you want to read this, I know but I’m worried how you’re going to read it. And I am not sure how you are going to interpret this reaction to war. I don’t know the filters through which you are watching people like me. I don’t know how many more living beings I will encounter and hear saying, War is now in the past for your country. It is no longer covered by headline news. I don’t know how many more people will not consider a war as being a war unless it is a fight for oil. Who among them will be interested in what someone born in Sarajevo has to say; probably very few, if any at all. But how many of these people know that there are thousands of landmines in Sarajevo that are still taking lives and it won’t stop for many generations? How many know there are numerous post-war radiation-related diseases that will keep destroying people’s lives?

Today, in Sarajevo many people are living and dying in poverty and many war orphans have eyes filled with tears and hearts filled with memories of the families that are gone. How many know that to understand Sarajevo as a city and Sarajevans as people, one should just look around and listen? We are not just history; we are not invisible, unmoving, or silent; we still exist, and we still struggle to reconstruct our lives.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen . . . Getting tired of counting? Imagine, if you can, counting all the way to 1,620 and seeing dead children’s faces in place of these numbers. These children could have been the next Nikola Tesla, Ivo Andric, Ivan Mestrovic or Agnes Gonxha Bojaxhiu (Mother Teresa). They could have been the future of Sarajevo, the future of Yugoslavia; but instead, they are just names on tombstones, statistics of wars that never should have existed. Today, war is still the most common response to many conflicts; but war is not the answer to the world’s problems, and it never will be.

Chapter I

Beginning of War

You have your songs and I sing them

I want to tell you what I am dreaming about

Your happiness is my pleasure

Sarajevo love of mine, Sarajevo love of mine

Kemal Monteno

Once upon a time, in the city of Sarajevo a girl was born named Snjezana, which translates to Snow White in English. She didn’t have dwarfs to protect her from the wild, wild world, or a prince to rescue her from evil. She had to rely on herself to survive. This is my story.

I was born in the Koshevo Maternity Clinic in Sarajevo. When I was growing up I watched soccer games at the Koshevo Stadium. I could never have imagined that in 1992, in this same clinic, many newborn babies would become the victims of a massacre. I could never have imagined that this same stadium would become a place of mass graves. I never imagined that when I read The Diary of Anne Frank, that I would read a similar story called Zlata’s Diary, only two decades later. Only in this story, unlike Anne Frank’s, Zlata Petkovic, a child from Sarajevo, was given a chance to survive. I never thought that the residents of the nursing home in my neighborhood would become the targets of snipers, or would freeze to death in their beds. I never believed that one day someone would try to destroy Sarajevo’s pride of its colorful fabric of nationalities and religions and that war could happen in this city. I never would have imagined. But who can predict tomorrow? Our lives are surrounded by many doors. The only question is which door opens to the light for our future?

***

There is no greater pain than to recall a time of happiness in one of sorrow.

Dante Alighieri

Come on, catch me if you can, I teased Sasha, who stood only a couple of steps from me. Don’t try to race with me again. You know that running was always one of your weak points.

Snjezo, please stop, he begged.

Come on, don’t be such a coward.

He did not move or speak, but something told me that behind a mask of seriousness he hid his beautiful smile. One year into our relationship was enough for me to know him better than anyone else. I was sure we would marry one day and have a house full of kids. Like a bird followed by the wind, Sasha ran after me, and before I could make my escape, we both fell to the ground. I felt grass under my head and his kisses on my face.

Sasha smiled down at me. I told you, you little incorrigible child, you can’t go too far without me, because I will always find you. My love is your shadow now.

It took me only three months to escape from my beloved city and leave my Sasha behind forever.

Sasha and I were among kids who grew up in President Tito’s era. In that era, anyone who said anything against Tito in public was arrested. In schools, we had to remain silent and sit in class with hands behind our backs while our teachers spoke about Tito. In Tito’s era, on the front page of our Serbo-Croatian reading book there was always a picture of Tito. Every classroom and every home had a picture of Tito hanging on its wall. We swore on his name only when we were telling the truth. In Tito’s era, there were many songs that honored Tito’s name, and we were taught to sing them all. Our parents, our neighbors, and our friends dutifully honored Tito’s name and ideas.

In Tito’s era, every child wore a red kerchief around his neck and a blue cap with a five-pointed red star on it, becoming Tito’s pioneer when he or she gave a promise to love his or her country until death. Comrade Tito, we swear to you, we swear to you, that we will never turn from your ways, never turn from your ways. Every time a black limousine with Tito drove around our streets, we as children would run out of our homes, wearing our pioneer uniforms, waving our country’s flags and repeating: Marshal Tito! Marshal Tito! Marshal Tito! Live long, our Comrade Tito."

I remember how my grandmother, who was very religious and at the same time a very Tito-oriented woman, used to talk about our president. She often said that in Tito’s era, while most of Eastern Europe was under the control of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR), we were a country of our own. She wanted me to remember that Yugoslavians never lived under strict Communist rules, and thanks to the financial help Yugoslavia received from the United States and Western Europe, our economy grew rapidly. While Ceausescu, the president of Romania, maintained restrictions on the lives of his people, Yugoslavians had everything: a table full of food, many pairs of Levis jeans, and German marks in a bank and under the mattress. According to my grandmother, it was a tradition for children of Christian people to knock at the door of their Muslim neighbors to wish them Merry Christmas, and children of Muslim people sent their best wishes for Ramadan to their Christian neighbors. I also learned from her that my parents brought me into this world in the country where people from different religious backgrounds mixed often and freely.

Sasha and I were both taught at home, as well as in school, never to use the word hate except when associated with war. We knew that our country had a long history of bloody conflicts between those who wished to conquer it and those who struggled to defend it. Also, we knew that during that time many people were not just killed in a battle, but were simply murdered.

Bloody Fairy Tale is a well-known poem by Yugoslavian poet Desanka Maksimovic, which I read aloud in class when I was six years old. I still remember its beginning:

"It happened in a land of farmers

On hilly Balkan far, far away;

A troop of students died martyred

On one single day."

In October 1941, in the Yugoslavian city Kragujevac, hands in hands, as the poem later continues, students came together in death. Germans soldiers burned their school, along with their young dreams. That is part of the history of the country I was born in. Thirty-three years later and I cannot forget how my teacher quoted the philosopher George Santayana, Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. The meaning of those words greatly scared me. I have tried to remember the history of my country, as have my classmates. I thought that history couldn’t be changed, but war has its own rules about everything. In my country, war not only changed people, but also had a great impact on the facts. As a consequence, people accused history of producing everything that would come later. Almost overnight, Yugoslavia became the country where nobody was sure what happened in the past, or what the future would hold.

From my childhood, I vividly remember my grandmother telling me the Story of a Teacher. One of the teacher’s former pupils helped the Germans occupy the school on that bloody October day in 1941. When he recognized his favorite teacher he gave him an opportunity to leave.

I will save your life, he said.

The teacher refused to leave, choosing instead to stay with his pupils behind the locked school doors. My grandma’s voice was always full of emotion when she tried to remember this story, although she never witnessed the event and never told me where it came from. But I believed her words, because they seemed so real to me.

In my school days, I also learned that every child born into a mixed