I was in the trench all the time during the war, but I hated it. On the first day of peace, as a zombie, I headed towards the trench of the Army of the RS (VRS), and threw my rifle. Chaos in both trenches. From the other side, one guy, Pedja from Pale, did the same.
Somewhere in the middle of the field we hugged and kissed three times. I gave him my jacket and cap, and he gave me his. Pedja and I will never, for anyone, go to the trench again. He thought my child to ski, and his son is at our place every Friday because he has training in the academy of FC Sarajevo on Saturday morning. Our wives are hanging out together. Here in the meadow, I gained a friend for life. And just 24 hours earlier, there was a possibility that one of us would never become a father.
Adnan wrote me this, to me here, who according to the stupidity of the local crags, geographically, belong to Pedja’s world. Pedja and I are Serbs, who according to Bosnian logic, should have Adnan at gunpoint. Except when you three times, and one would be enough as well, kiss on the meadow, which until yesterday divided the paradise from hell.
Amira is my story. She is from some under Kozara parallel world with around Sarajevo stupidity. The one about the buses full of memories, which we sent off on a sunny day. The story of child’s soul, the most honest, when they take away a part of you that was yet to bloom. In her last year in the city, to which she never returned, the birthdays that she was invited were fewer. I remember that my mother told me that mountains do not split up, but the people, and that she tucked her package in the kitchen that was supposed to remind her of us there because she knew they will separate us.
She brought me all of her napkins, something that she was collecting during her younger years that she lived in our common, and now so distant city. It was the greatest treasure that she had to give me. For nearly three decades, they are still there, because they are bringing me back to her and her to me.
Almost twenty years later, we found ourselves on the Internet. Two adult women, who have had so much to say, knowing that they are unfairly torn from each other. We are healing, we assured that it could have been different if someone asked us. We know what would happen tomorrow if someone would ask us.
“Emotions take over me sometimes as well. I figured it out. I know how you feel…”
As long as one Adnan can write something like this, and I start crying. And as long as I know that I would hug him somewhere on the meadow, as the man who laid down his arms so I can become a parent tomorrow.
I do not want some new buses with which I am sending off a part of my life, the paper memories that remain only from friends, I do not want anyone else to gather souvenirs from the war trench and collects remains of his life in the cold meadow or the Internet.