It all started sometime last summer with an idea fielded cautiously, just to see the reactions, feel the pulse.
How would it be if our former enemies were to come to our towns when we mark sacred days from the past war, when we remember the best among our sons, when we hoist up flags and talk of battles that won us our freedom and saved our people? Has the time come for us to invite our friends to attend such events? Do we have the strength to do this, could the hosts handle the possible opposition to such an idea within their communities, would they feel uncomfortable when during a speech the enemy is labelled as generally criminal, an aggressor, genocidal.
And the people are there, as guests, those that were prepared for the sake of peace to come and bow to the victims, whatever their side? How is a guest to handle this, how much would a guest have to swallow? Will the little worm eating away at his patriotism be emboldened, grow to gigantic proportions and swallow in one go all the invested efforts and enthusiasm from before? Perhaps I was being paranoid, I had to trust in the strength of these rock-solid men that had proven themselves time and again in their dedication to making sure the 1990s would never be repeated.
Up to now, we had visited as a group many places of suffering, memorial sites and rooms testifying to the blood that was spilled, and we had seen what it had taken to convince us that were different. And, of course, that we did not need each other, that we just happened to share a common space, but that we should try to push out the other. We had seen the price paid for this. The price – cruel and exacting, generations wiped out.
The result of visits such as these is that they bring out the best of human nature, the ability to empathise with and express respect towards others. These people, our veterans, will probably continue to have ideologically and politically diverse views, they will try to justify their roles and the interests of the side they fought for in the previous war, but they will also take into account the blood of others that flowed in streams, and in the depths of their souls, they will find room for others.
But how do we go on? How do we arrive at a commemoration of the others? How will we react to the militarism that goes hand in hand with such events? (1)
One of the proposed ideas was for the whole group to attend a commemoration being held to honour a fallen commander from a local war unit in Gornji Vakuf/Uskoplje. Our friend Pajo who had invited us, himself a participant in our veteran activities, said he wanted us to attend this event, so that we may see how they do thing “their way”.
I kept asking him whether he had received approval within his own association organising the event, but also from other war victims associations. He told me not to worry, later I will see there was indeed no need to worry.
The date of the commemoration was 22 December, and in that week, just two or three days before we were to set off, there was a great snowfall and everything was encrusted in ice. I started calling people, suggesting those who had further to travel should give this one a miss, no reason to risk it, but they wouldn’t hear of it. They kept saying, “See you there.” Fortunately on the day of our departure, the weather stabilised. I hoped it would not snow again, because some had to travel via Komar and Rostovo, and others via Ivan Sedlo. These mountain passes can accumulate up to a meter of snowfall within a few hours.
We travelled through the Neretva and Rama canyons. The surrounding hills and mountains looming over the road as if trying to prove just how dangerous they were. They seemed like sacrificial altars satisfied with human flesh, calm, peaceful, and defiant.
As we approach, I remembered the small town that they say was the most severely destroyed in the past war, next to Mostar and Bosanska Krupa. I had been there five or six years ago and had seen the town in which the demarcation line between Croats and Bosniaks was so palpable, you could draw it on the asphalt with chalk, precisely defining where one group ends and the other begins. The Federal project of “two schools under one roof” had taken root here. In it, they only common thread was the infrastructure – the school building itself.
I remember a weekend at Tihany, on the shores of Lake Balaton in Hungary, where I met Ms Vesna from Osijek. She asked me where I was from and I explained I came from a small town in Bosnia at which she whispered, “Oh, Bosnia, my sorrow.” I asked her why sorry, and she told me how her husband had been killed in Gornji Vakuf in ninety-three. Shocked, I just managed to say, “I’m sorry, the times were harsh, people got killed.”
Upon arrival, we looked for the meeting place of the group, a grandiosely named hotel “Vienna” with the confusing address of No. 1 Bus Station. When we got there, everything was crystal clear. I got the room key and TV remote from the ticket office that also served as the hotel reception. Buy a ticket, or stay the night – a one stop shop. Rooms above the platform overlooking the “MAN”, “SETRA”, “MERCEDES” or “DUBRAVA” motor pool.
The heating system at the hotel probably runs from about the middle of May to the second half of September. During those months, it’s probably quite pleasant, but in the meantime this building could serve as a futuristic mausoleum for the bodies of those who hope to be revived in the future when a cure for their malady is found.
The group had started gathering. I had the feeling that as they met and embraced, some of their energy was transferred to the ceiling lights that seemed to burn brighter with every warm encounter. An atmosphere similar to when old friends meet at their twentieth high school reunion, having come from all corners of the world. We mingled with the numerous chance travellers at this restaurant-slash-waiting-room. Everything is full, and everyone wants to eat and drink. The waitress is alone, running from the bar to the kitchen. And then I find myself having one of those fantastical experiences, I watch as she metamorphoses into a form of the goddess Kali – Mahakali. In this form, Kali has ten heads, twenty arms and ten legs. We all get our orders in time, and she, the proprietor’s daughter as it will turn out, never takes the smile off her face, she’s there every two minutes, picking up dishes, asking if we need anything else, toasting to our health.
Then, it’s time to go to the commemoration. We march down the frozen streets towards the Cultural Centre. A familiar robust architectural construction of socialist-realism looms before us, there was probably one just like it in every town in the former SFRY with a municipal budget where the power of self-contribution of the working class could be materialised. The atrium was practically blocked by people, but we managed to make our way into the hall where we were met by our hosts who helped us find seats in the unoccupied rows. Once again into echelons. I look around the crowded hall with more people arriving, crowding in. The hall was decorated by works of schoolchildren put up on canvases conveying wishes for peace and freedom. There was also the BiH flag and the flag of the GVU Municipality. Nothing nationalist, nothing militarist, with the exception of a portrait of Che Guevara. I had expected the standard iconography characteristic of such events, but…
It started with the introductory bars of a song about freedom that was familiar, but I forget the name of the author. A group of local musicians had prepared an acoustic performance that quietened the audience and focused us on the beginning of the commemoration.
Pajo appeared on stage, greeted all those present and read out a thank you letter to the people who had contributed to this year’s commemoration of the death of the commander. They he said,
“I would particularly like to welcome our friends from the Centre for Non-violent Action from Belgrade and Sarajevo that are with us this evening together with a group of veterans from the past wars currently working together to promote peace in the region.” The applause was explosive, I had goosebumps and shivers running down my spine. I looked over at our veterans, those I could see from my seat – they were all frozen. “I will now read the names of the fallen and dead fighters from our unit,” said Pajo and began to read. The names resound in the sinister silence, broken only by a sporadic sigh or stifled sob coming from one then another end of the hall.
“I would like to ask you all to stand for a moment of silence, or of the Fatiha, to honour, each in your own way, our fallen fighters,” Pajo said. “Glory to them,” and then he asked our Ado to address the audience. Our bearded tower of a man at a meter-ninety climbed up on stage, in a grey coat and with his ubiquitous belt bag, he stood slouched at the microphone and started talking about the idea of veterans visiting each other’s commemoration events. Listening to the mild voice emanating from this towering figure, and watching the audience take it in, I was struck by a vision of a mother applying cold compresses to the forehead of her child to draw the fever out. The feeling of a trance had taken over the audience. They say you should speak at public gatherings for as long as you can stand without feeling discomfort. I would put Ado in training so that he may last longer on his feet, because what he says is therapeutic.
The end of his speech was greeted by another thundering applause of support to our work. I look over at our veterans again – all proud smiles and glossy eyes.
The programme continued with a performance of the musical “Hair” with which the young people of this town sealed the event. Children wanting to grow up to be people in peace.
The programme had lasted for two hours. The lights in the hall came on and I was reminded of what my father had once told me when I was a child, when he tried to explain how things stood in life, why some people go to church, some to the mosque, and some to party meetings. My old man told me then, “The important thing with people is moderation in all things. You get that from both faith and the party.” And everything that I had experienced that evening brought back that feeling of moderation. Later, I will learn our veteran Đoko shared my opinion.
The group joined the veterans from the local veterans organisation in the next-door restaurant. The conversation went from topic to topic. From the review of disabilities pensions, conditions for retirement, politics, sports, all seasoned with the indispensable humour of our folk. Listening to them, one would think they have known each other all their lives, that they live in the same town. Returning to the hotel, they continued their conversations to the wee hours of the night.
In the morning, as they came down to the breakfast hall, swollen from beer and brandy, and from the freezing rooms, they reminded me of a time when people slept underground in bunkers and dugouts. Portraits of a kind Picasso would covet if he were alive.
We held a brief meeting, just to get everyone’s impressions. All were satisfied and happy to have met people with the strength and pride to withstand the suffering they had lived through and that had taken their loved ones without saying a single hateful word or gesture. There is still enthusiasm among them and the desire to share their lives with their neighbours. There was no scarcity of praise for Pajo, Čupo and their friends from the association that organised this event “in their own way”.
It was time to part. Embraces, goodbyes. See you – soon. We have plans to “push on” further.
A.D.
1. The Armed Forces of BiH are made up of three regiments/brigades from three national components, with professional status and a new role. These regiments foster the traditions of their ethnicities, they have maintained the anniversaries, symbols and ideological predispositions, we see them as the honour guards at anniversaries and commemorations, each at their own, firing salvoes, saluting politicians and their “numerous” guests, respected statesmen from the “wide” world, “proven” friends of this country. On the other side, their new role entails creating a new world order, this time together, relying on each other in new battles with new allies that, apart from NATO soldiers, consist also of mercenaries of multinational corporations such as KBR. Twenty years from now, perhaps we will be able to see how we handled this common traditions of serving imperialism. “They gave their lives for freedom and honour…” I shouldn’t think so.