Banja Luka, the beautiful city of my birth invokes pleasant emotions when reflected upon from a distant land. All the streets, familiar locations, monuments, the school of my childhood, our flat, the tree under our bedroom window, the bridges, the greenest river, known short cuts between the buildings, all of them trigger warm memories, glanced at them from a line of separation. Longing for home, once removed from it, produces the nostalgic sensation driven by happiness and tenderness.
Distance tends to erase darkness and somehow dissociates as if nothing disagreeable had happened within the imaginary walls of my home town. All that is necessary comes in a form of departure in order to revive the pleasantries left behind. Leaving aids in a partial forgetting of the past reality. The notion of home becomes glorified as an illusory tool to contrast anything foreign and incomprehensible.
Return is an ubiquitous, haunting thought that constantly lingers in the subconscious mind. At times, the return occurs and the realness of home brings about the truth and resurfaces the reasons for the abandonment.
My first trip to Banja Luka took place in 2004, nine years after living abroad. At twenty years of age, I built up a courage and returned to the Balkans. Naturally, my initial stop of a three month long vacation, started in my home town. I was afraid that I forgot everything but as soon as I approached my city, I managed to remember everything. All around me familiar streets and building spread as if nothing was altered by the years of absence. I found my way around without any difficulty. The only difference was that everything seemed much smaller, as if the skies came closer to the earth. The mosques were missing. Those empty spaces reminded me of loud explosions in my memory. I remember shrugging at the sights of nothingness. Every time the blasts echoed, we knew it was another mosque blown up to pieces.
One night, back in the 90s, I was spending the night with my grandma. As we were preparing to go to bed, we got startled by the shots from rifles accompanied by the cheers of the soldiers who lit the mosque on fire. We thought we were lucky since no explosions were used this time around. I remember feeling sad not for the mosque per say, I did not understand the symbolism, but for fear in my grandma's eyes. I never liked when adults worried because it made me uneasy and afraid. Those sentiments never left me. Only years later was I able to comprehend what I went through and again I can only thank the distance in time, distance in miles, distance in perception. Span of years allowed me to rationalize the trauma I experienced. Everything looks better in retrospect.
Occasionally, I feel as if I am that same little girl observing the unfolding events. Adults posses the ability to rationalize and sometimes still live in a denial. They hope for better days; they believe in future. A child is nothing but a direct spectator in the midst of unexplainable events. Childlike approach does not eliminate the reality, but on contrary, it reaffirms it without a potential alternative. Adults speculate about escapes, ending of violence, a brand new days; children momentously participate without the beginning or the end. They do not hope, they live through the lenses at their disposal.
After a few days of visiting my home town, (what a strange notion, not it seems), I felt as an outsider and everywhere I went I was seen as such.
Before we escaped Banja Luka in 95', my parents gave away our flat in hopes that it was a temporary gesture. My grandma did the same with her house through an exchange of property with her best friend but there are no guarantees in war. I will always fail to understand how can someone knowingly occupy someone else's home and build their lives based on persecution and cleansing of others without a remorse. Perhaps, I do not possess that "quality" to live on other people's misery. I guess I am lucky to have my parents as a guide, then and now, who knew what is what. Our city was expanded on my family's property which was given away during the collectivization after the World War II. Perhaps, we started the process of diminishing even then but times where different and everyone wanted to contribute as much as they could to better the society. My ancestors linger in the streets of Banja Luka, they haven't abandoned us. The laughs and fears resonate when the city falls asleep and Vrbas, the greenest river, hums in agreement. The graves lay all through out the city commemorating those that lived there. At least they didn't desecrated the graves; they are a proof of our existence there because not much has left that belongs to us.
On my first visit back, I was "allowed" to enter our flat. All I've heard are the words of welcome "into your apartment." Rage overwhelmed me, debilitated my ability to speak, scream, yell at this woman who represented what the atrocities of the war have left behind. She became the focus of hate as she was freely parading through our hallways, our rooms, our entrance 7c. Most of the streets and schools were renamed but as if that wasn't enough, they changed the numbers too in order to destroy any relevance to the past. They wanted to recreate it, wipe out all that has happened before.
Her son walked into the room, he must have been my age when I used to live here. He probably goes to the same school as I did, right there across the street behind a supermarket. Some other lady was sitting on a couch, as reenforcement in case I decide to lose it. Ten minutes passed like an eternity and luckily my grandma cordially said that we have to leave; I am sure she sensed my anger. At that moment, all I wanted was to run away as far as possible, run home abroad. Right there as I was hurriedly moving toward the exit, the realization and the acceptance of burried trauma leaked to the surface. Fuck, I survived a war, became a refugee, an immigrant. I came to a conclusion that my life can never follow a normal or typical trajectory because what is normalcy after surviving a war? How can one take anything at its value, how can one dream and drift away from reality when all that lays there is inescapable actuality!?
By running down the stairs I created a needed distance between myself and my home. The miles seemed to fix everything, or so I thought. I had to get out even if it is a different city in a proximity to my home town, I had to get out, I had to breathe without hate, without any resentment.
The accents of passer-by didn't resemble mine; the tones of voices and pronunciation of familiar words in my mother tongue seemed so foreign. Why did they steal my life from me?
The collective amnesia of the Balkans allows those inhabitants that participated in violent acts, live through the day. The nationalist and religious insignias stand as reminders to those who fought, given them indirect justification for their actions. And those who silently observed as their neighbors disappeared one by one and silently propagated nationalistic norm do not have clean hands. You made us look so small and insignificant. We were your brothers, sisters, friends, comrades. How could you do this to us? I blame you more than the newcomers because you celebrated our birthdays, spent time socializing, celebrating our anniversaries, how many new years have we waited on together? You sold us out in spite and out of spite.
I dislike going back to Banja Luka. I prefer it more from my leased apartment in Brooklyn. I feel closer to it, I belong there from distance. Span of years, gap in space brings consolation. Life may be fleeting but it is absolute after all or at least that is what I've learnt. I'll visit again, when I forget about all the hurt only to be reminded of it again when I pass through those streets. My home town suffocates me. It is too small to freely breathe in and too big to take it all in. Yeah, the distance is always a good idea!
Distance tends to erase darkness and somehow dissociates as if nothing disagreeable had happened within the imaginary walls of my home town. All that is necessary comes in a form of departure in order to revive the pleasantries left behind. Leaving aids in a partial forgetting of the past reality. The notion of home becomes glorified as an illusory tool to contrast anything foreign and incomprehensible.
Return is an ubiquitous, haunting thought that constantly lingers in the subconscious mind. At times, the return occurs and the realness of home brings about the truth and resurfaces the reasons for the abandonment.
My first trip to Banja Luka took place in 2004, nine years after living abroad. At twenty years of age, I built up a courage and returned to the Balkans. Naturally, my initial stop of a three month long vacation, started in my home town. I was afraid that I forgot everything but as soon as I approached my city, I managed to remember everything. All around me familiar streets and building spread as if nothing was altered by the years of absence. I found my way around without any difficulty. The only difference was that everything seemed much smaller, as if the skies came closer to the earth. The mosques were missing. Those empty spaces reminded me of loud explosions in my memory. I remember shrugging at the sights of nothingness. Every time the blasts echoed, we knew it was another mosque blown up to pieces.
One night, back in the 90s, I was spending the night with my grandma. As we were preparing to go to bed, we got startled by the shots from rifles accompanied by the cheers of the soldiers who lit the mosque on fire. We thought we were lucky since no explosions were used this time around. I remember feeling sad not for the mosque per say, I did not understand the symbolism, but for fear in my grandma's eyes. I never liked when adults worried because it made me uneasy and afraid. Those sentiments never left me. Only years later was I able to comprehend what I went through and again I can only thank the distance in time, distance in miles, distance in perception. Span of years allowed me to rationalize the trauma I experienced. Everything looks better in retrospect.
Occasionally, I feel as if I am that same little girl observing the unfolding events. Adults posses the ability to rationalize and sometimes still live in a denial. They hope for better days; they believe in future. A child is nothing but a direct spectator in the midst of unexplainable events. Childlike approach does not eliminate the reality, but on contrary, it reaffirms it without a potential alternative. Adults speculate about escapes, ending of violence, a brand new days; children momentously participate without the beginning or the end. They do not hope, they live through the lenses at their disposal.
After a few days of visiting my home town, (what a strange notion, not it seems), I felt as an outsider and everywhere I went I was seen as such.
On my first visit back, I was "allowed" to enter our flat. All I've heard are the words of welcome "into your apartment." Rage overwhelmed me, debilitated my ability to speak, scream, yell at this woman who represented what the atrocities of the war have left behind. She became the focus of hate as she was freely parading through our hallways, our rooms, our entrance 7c. Most of the streets and schools were renamed but as if that wasn't enough, they changed the numbers too in order to destroy any relevance to the past. They wanted to recreate it, wipe out all that has happened before.
Her son walked into the room, he must have been my age when I used to live here. He probably goes to the same school as I did, right there across the street behind a supermarket. Some other lady was sitting on a couch, as reenforcement in case I decide to lose it. Ten minutes passed like an eternity and luckily my grandma cordially said that we have to leave; I am sure she sensed my anger. At that moment, all I wanted was to run away as far as possible, run home abroad. Right there as I was hurriedly moving toward the exit, the realization and the acceptance of burried trauma leaked to the surface. Fuck, I survived a war, became a refugee, an immigrant. I came to a conclusion that my life can never follow a normal or typical trajectory because what is normalcy after surviving a war? How can one take anything at its value, how can one dream and drift away from reality when all that lays there is inescapable actuality!?
By running down the stairs I created a needed distance between myself and my home. The miles seemed to fix everything, or so I thought. I had to get out even if it is a different city in a proximity to my home town, I had to get out, I had to breathe without hate, without any resentment.
The accents of passer-by didn't resemble mine; the tones of voices and pronunciation of familiar words in my mother tongue seemed so foreign. Why did they steal my life from me?
The collective amnesia of the Balkans allows those inhabitants that participated in violent acts, live through the day. The nationalist and religious insignias stand as reminders to those who fought, given them indirect justification for their actions. And those who silently observed as their neighbors disappeared one by one and silently propagated nationalistic norm do not have clean hands. You made us look so small and insignificant. We were your brothers, sisters, friends, comrades. How could you do this to us? I blame you more than the newcomers because you celebrated our birthdays, spent time socializing, celebrating our anniversaries, how many new years have we waited on together? You sold us out in spite and out of spite.
I dislike going back to Banja Luka. I prefer it more from my leased apartment in Brooklyn. I feel closer to it, I belong there from distance. Span of years, gap in space brings consolation. Life may be fleeting but it is absolute after all or at least that is what I've learnt. I'll visit again, when I forget about all the hurt only to be reminded of it again when I pass through those streets. My home town suffocates me. It is too small to freely breathe in and too big to take it all in. Yeah, the distance is always a good idea!
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