Once, in Zepa

                                  "...when Srebrenica fell, that automatically meant that Zepa would fall,” Palic said.
                                                                      Death of a community, the fall of Zepa

 The Serb army had just finished up their most recent killing spree in Srebrenica, as thousands - men, women, children, families and elders were fleeing for their lives from one village to another hoping to spare themselves the same fate. In a small village outside of the UN protected 'safe haven' of Srebrenica, some villagers took the road that led into  the town of Žepa.  There they were quickly repelled by the oncoming column of Serb soldiers entering the village from the other side. At the entrance to Žepa, in obvious danger the refugees fled to the hills,  into the forest,  to save themselves. 

Caught a short time after, the women and children were  put on buses and dropped off at the front lines. The survivors found their way to refugee camps in Bosnian held territory at Zenica. 

The men and older boys were taken prisoner and brought to concentration camps in Serbia. July 25th, 1995.

Some survived and were liberated from those camps by the Red Cross, who then gave them safe passage as refugees to host countries around the world. In Denver, eight months after Dayton was signed, I was visiting one of the refugee ghetto's on Beeler Street and bore witness to stories of horror and pain. The stories, whispered in long sentences between terse puffs of cigarettes in broken English and halting Bosnian affected me deeply and I would never forget them. 

In remembrance of friends and family now gone, and with respect to the Ramic family along with thousands of other people, like my parents and also my dearest grandparents who repatriated to countries, not their own and lived to bear witness. Lived to eventually reemerge victorious, if broken-hearted and create a new life for themselves and their families.  
Conquerors over death and destruction. Refugees. Survivors. 

Never Forget. 

Peace. 


"As in Srebrenica, Serb nationalist leaders offered to expel Muslim women and children from Zepa, but detain the men as "prisoners."Serb forces have blocked all attempts for aid workers to visit the Srebrenica men supposedly taken prisoner. 
  Serbs overran Zepa a few days after an emergency international conference called after Srebrenica was seized. The conference issued a warning to Serb nationalists that they faced serious consequences if they attacked the third "protected zone" of Gorazde. However, no mention was made of Zepa; the international community decided to write off the town -- and its 16,000 inhabitants -- as lost,despite a UN Security Council vote pledging to protect it. Gorazde is the sole remaining Bosnian enclave between the Serbian border and Sarajevo."

originally posted on SilvanaMondo 7/26/12

On Bajram & Kismet

Summer 

I have a friend. She is like my sister. Our grandfather's were very good friends too. They were born in the beginning of the 1900's in wild Bosnia, under Austro-Hungarian rulers and both their fathers owned large tracts of land. They were in business with the mills. Often, they worked together in the wild forests. They had different backgrounds but respected each other and by extension, each other's culture. Their friendship endured the two Great Wars and more. Hadji made his pilgrimage to Mecca, hence his name, and my grandfather, who was forced to leave Bosnia during the big war, ended up with his family, in Germany.

The summer of 1990 I went on my first visit to Bosnia with my grandparents. They came down every two years to take the baths, at the hot springs somewhere in Croatia and then went to their ancestral home in Central Bosnia. On this trip, I met Hadji, my grandfather's childhood friend, about whom I had often heard stories throughout the years.  I also met his granddaughter, Suada and as it was, we got on right away. She was the youngest of five sisters and had a fashionable 90's hairstyle though like her older sisters, wore the traditional dimije of the countryside.

She and her sisters were shy with the exception of  the oldest one, who had the most experience.  Smoking cigarettes like they were going out of style, she laughed and told jokes and pressed me on every subject; married or not, kids, school - the whole litany.  The sisters had clear, happy eyes the color of sky light.  I could see they treated my grandparents like royalty throughout our visit.  Given the history the two old men shared and the sacredness of Bosnian hospitality this was natural. Everything became even more special because it was also the first day of Bajram.

My grandparents and I left for Germany the next day and Suada and I promised to keep up our friendship. Unfortunately, not soon after that summer, in the spring of '92,  the dark period came to Bosnia and we lost all communication. There was terrible fighting, all around my family's town too. We had no news for almost a year.

The rest are stories everyone knows.  Soon it will be the anniversary of the concentrated horror that happened all over Bosnia; Omarska, Srebrenica, too many others.

No one knew anything about the old man or the grand daughters. Relatives living in Bosnia said things were different 'than before'. It was fierce for those who lived through the war. Regardless of which 'side', the lines were drawn. I lived in America, it seemed far away.

After Dayton, I asked about visiting our friends.

 I went on a trip to see my grandparents in Munich and slipped into Bosnia via Zagreb.  It was the longest and saddest bus ride of my life. I was going to Sarajevo, hoping to film and get some documentation for my book.  I would visit the family in Central Bosnia on the way there.  It was  also important to me, to find out what happened to my friend Suada, Hadji's granddaughter.  When I asked about her, everyone had tense, worried faces, their heads shaking.

Don't look for her. We haven't seen them in years. No one knows if they are alive. You don't know if there are mines on the road.  You won't be welcomed. We had a war. It's too early. You don't understand.

I understood. The fighting and upheaval that had just ended a short two years before was still a terrifying ball of pain in everyone's stomach.

When I arrived at the bus station in Vitez, my gentle cousin told me to ask the unprofor soldiers or the police for information if I wanted to know. I naturally shrugged this suggestion off.

Arriving at the front gate of my grandmother's old house, from the road that leads into Sarajevo, I was greeted by my Bosnian family. The neighbors were hanging out of their windows, peering from behind doors.  Off to the side by the shed there were three people delivering wood ordered for the coming winter.

After a decent time interval I began asking about Suada, trying to find someone who would give me information.

To no avail.  I realized I was being annoying. And rude. We sat drinking coffee and rakija, exchanging pleasantries. I asked again.

Imperceptibly, a space opened and though nothing out of the ordinary happened to indicate a change, suddenly, she was right there.

  My friend who I had been looking for all those years, was part of the crew delivering wood to my Auntie's house.

Quiet, as always, going about her business with the wood, Suada spoke up only after she heard me asking about her over and over again. As we hugged and laughed, time was suspended. It was magical and surreal, not to be questioned.

We had called each other through the unseen and been brought together again.

It could not have been any other moment but that one.

Sudbina, as my grandfather would say. Kismet.

August, 1997. Central Bosnia Hercegovina
originally posted 1/16/13

Reunion

Summer 1997

I have a friend. She is like my sister. Our grandfather's were very good friends too. They were born in the beginning of the 1900's and both their fathers owned large tracts of land and were in business with the sawmills. They often worked together in the forests and had respect for each other. Even after the two Great Wars, their friendship endured. Hadji made his pilgrimage to Mecca and my Dedo, who was forced to leave Bosnia in 1943 with his family, repatriated in Germany.

The summer of 1991 I went for a month long trip to Bosnia with my grandparents who took to the hot springs there every two years. That is when I met my grandfather's childhood friend and that is also when I met his granddaughters.

 We loved each other immediately. She and her sisters were shy but straightforward. They wore dimije and fancy blouses. They smoked cigarettes like they were going out of style. They laughed and told jokes and had clear, happy eyes the color of sky light.  They treated my grandparents like royalty on our short visit.  Given the history the two old men shared and the sacredness of Bosnian hospitality this was natural but even more highlighted because on the day we visited it was the first day of Bajram.

We left for home the next day and Suada and I wrote a few letters, and promised to keep our friendship. Not soon after, the war of aggression, the dark period, came to Bosnia and we lost all communication. There was horrible fighting, in and around my family town. My own family was lost to us for a year. No word.

On a rare occasion, already a year after the Dayton, I asked about 'our friends'. There was no mention of the old man or the grand daughters. The lines were drawn. It was fierce for those that lived there. I understood the emotions but I insisted. I got the big eye roll - what does an Amerikanka understand about our lives...

The next year on a trip to see my ageing grandparents in Munich, I slipped into Bosnia via Zagreb and went on the longest, weirdest and saddest bus ride of my life. I planned to go to Sarajevo to film and photograph the aftermath of the war for a story I had been researching but also to visit my family in Central Bosnia. At the same time I wanted to find out about the whereabouts of my dear friend Suada.  When I asked around everyone said 'I don't know' and had tense, worried faces, their heads shaking no, no, no and the eye roll thing again.

Don't look for her. We haven't seen them in years. No one knows if they are alive. You don't know if there are mines on the road going up there or if you will be welcomed. You won't be welcomed. We had a war. It's too early.

The fighting that Dayton had just ended a short two years before was a balled up terrifying pain in everyone's stomach.

My very gentle and kind cousin told me to ask the unprofor soldiers or the police for information.  Seemed absurd but I agreed. Why couldn't they just let me go to find her?

And as we drove into the front gate of my grandmother's old house, up on the hill from the road that leads into Sarajevo, three people were delivering the wood my auntie had ordered for the coming winter.  Just like that, within fifteen minutes of being on our property,  the answer I was looking for was in front of me.  We had called each other through the unseen and been pulled together again, in that moment of all moments. My friend, Hadji's granddaughter was part of the crew delivering wood. Quiet, as she always was and shy, going about her business with the wood, she spoke up after she heard me asking about her in my perfunctory Bosnian.

It could not have been any other moment in time but that one.

Kismet

August, 1997. Busovaca/Rovna, Bosnia Hercegovina

Red Line

Fehim Demir/European Pressphoto Agency

IHT