by Carrie Arcos
I think of my mom, how much strength and courage she’s had to carry within her every day just to face life head-on like she did after what she went through. And I’m part of this story now too. One of resilience and survival, but also one of . . .
“Love,” I say. “It’s a story of love.”
Mr. Singh nods. “Love is the greatest story we can tell.”
Late August
TODAY I GO to Baker’s with Audrey. Our last day before school begins. We lay our towels down on the sand. She takes off her shorts and shirt. Her body golden brown from all the lazy days in the Arizona sun. I have on board shorts with a bikini top underneath a yellow T-shirt. As I remove my T-shirt, the cool air hits my back, making my scars tingle.
I look around, wondering if people are staring. But no one is. I reach into my bag for the sunscreen. Dad told me to make sure to cover myself in it, especially my face and back, and reapply more often than I usually would. I start to spray it on the places I can reach.
“Here, let me get your back,” Audrey says.
I hand her the sunscreen, and she sprays a steady stream all up and down. It burns a little, but nothing I can’t handle.
“Thanks,” I say. “Does it look that bad?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“It looks like it’s healing,” she says. “Which isn’t bad.”
We sit down, and she asks me which magazine I want to start with. I pick Vogue. She starts with People. Her mom subscribes to all the best magazines.
For lunch, we eat two quahogs and drink Cherry Coke. We talk about our schedules. So far we have three classes together. We plan to make that four by switching to a baking class. Our justification is that we need a no worry or drama class. And since both of us have no idea how to cook, it seems like a good idea. My dad will be thrilled.
We hang out all day, up to the start of the magic hour. The one where the sun is just going down and there’s the in-between sky. I take a couple of pictures of the horizon. The light is bluish white against the ocean. I breathe in deep through my nose and let the air out slowly through my mouth.
I touch the new set of prayer beads around my neck, the ones I bought a few days ago.
“Thank you,” I whisper to God, who always finds me in the sunsets.
* * *
∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙
After Audrey drops me off, I hang out with Benny and Mom outside on the porch. Benny plays with a huge pile of Legos strewn on a white bedsheet. Dad is working late, so I order us a pizza. Mom is writing in our journal. We decided to try something that our therapist recommended. We are both seeing the colleague Dad recommended, Dr. Rivera, who specializes in family and trauma counseling. Because some of what we’ve experienced is too hard for face-to-face communication, she suggested we write each other. In the journal, we can ask questions and answer whichever ones we want to. Mom and I are the only ones allowed to read what’s inside. It’s our safe space. Our chance to share and understand our story.
I carry the scars of my story like Mom carries hers. But because we are mother and daughter, we also carry them for each other. Dr. Rivera told us that some studies now show that trauma can actually change your DNA. You aren’t just altered on the outside or emotionally, but you’re forever changed on the inside as well.
What’s even crazier is that parents can pass that DNA on to their children. Those children carry inside of them the scarred DNA. I’m not sure what that means exactly, except to say that it doesn’t just affect the victim; trauma can affect a lineage.
I think about my lineage. I don’t know much about my great-grandparents on either side. Vovo’s parents are from Fall River, Massachusetts, his grandparents from Portugal. My gramma’s family came from England, Canada and maybe France? My mom’s parents and grandparents came from eastern Bosnia. Before that? I’m not sure. But I’ve absorbed all of them. For better or for worse.
At the table with Mom, I read and reread the postcard Joseph sent me. The picture on the front is a map of Haiti. He has circled the spot where he’s living. On the back he’s written, Zara, I am truly home here. I’m even learning Creole. Here’s something for you—mwen sonje ou. Yesterday I looked up the Creole words. I miss you.
Mom asks about the postcard, and instead of hiding it from her, I pass it her way. She reads it and pushes it back across the table to me.
“You’re his draga. This is what we call it.”
I roll the word over in my head.
“What does draga mean?”
“Sweetheart.”
I blush, remembering Joseph’s lips on mine. The way he held me at his good-bye. The way he smiled before he left.
I show Mom the photos of Joseph and Flora, but not my favorite one—the one at the beach when he didn’t think I was looking. I stare at his profile, remember the texture of his shirt as our arms brushed up against each other when we walked, feel the wet sand between my toes. I smell the salty air. Hear the sound of the waves hitting the shore. But mostly I remember how I feel when I’m next to him, like I am safe and warm and loved.
That memory I keep to myself.
* * *
∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙
Dad comes home and joins us on the porch a little while later.
“Look! They’re back!” Benny yells, and points into the yard. He runs inside the house, darting out after a few moments, a clear glass jar in his hands.
“Fireflies!”
We haven’t seen a lot of them this summer. For some reason, fireflies are disappearing, kind of like the bees. I’ve heard it has something to do with light pollution or pesticides. But I think it’s more mysterious than that. I think it’s because they’re hiding, waiting for just the right moments. We only have to be watching.
It takes a few moments for me to see the tiny bobbing light in the dark. Once my eyes focus, I see another and another.
“There are so many,” I say.
“I know. Help me catch them!” he says.
“As long as we release them when we’re done.”
“Yes! Yes!”
I run into the house and find another jar in the cupboard. In seconds, I join him back outside.
“Quick! There’s one behind you!” Benny yells and chases after the light.
I watch him jumping around like a crazy person and laugh. Mom and Dad laugh, too, from their spot on the porch.
And then everything goes dark.
“Where’d they go?” Benny asks, turning this way and that. The jar hangs limp in his hands.
“Benny, shhh,” I tell him. “If you just stand still and wait, you’ll see them all. They will come to you. Here, watch.”
He walks over and stands by my side.
We scan the dark.
“Where are they?” Benny asks.
“Give it a couple more seconds,” I say.
“But—”
Then the lights blink all around us like we are inside a large constellation, our own private universe.
“Wow,” he whispers.
I glance back at Mom. She’s smiling. And I know if someone took a picture of us, they would feel how beautiful this moment is.
“Yeah. Wow,” I say.
And I let the light in.
Author’s Note
The first time I met a Bosnian refugee was the fall of 1995. I had joined a domestic peace corps (AmeriCorps) and was stationed at Catholic Charities Immigration and Refugee Services in Boston, Massachusetts. I had heard sound bites over the years in college about the war in Bosnia, but I was so insulated. I remember on the news they called it a conflict, not a war. During my time at Catholic Charities, I met survivors and heard the horrors of what they had experienced—from brothers and fathers taken in the night never to be seen again, to being forced at gunpoint from their homes, living years under siege, dodging bullets, facing
freezing temperatures and starvation. I felt anger and shame. While I’d been having an idyllic New England college experience, others were dying and suffering.
As I helped to resettle Bosnian refugees, I got to know many of them. We became friends. I hung out at cafés and listened to their stories, watched how steadily their hands rose as they smoked. (And, boy, could they smoke!) They were beautiful. They were kind, laughed easily, even though they had experienced great pain. I spent Easter in the home of a family and ate amazing food and painted beautiful eggs. I had never been to Bosnia, but I felt connected to the Bosnian people in a deep way. They made me feel like family.
In the spring of 2015, almost twenty years since, I traveled to Sarajevo and Višegrad, the cities mentioned in this book, looking for the story. I arrived with an open heart, a little fearful, not even sure of what I was doing. Again, I encountered such hospitality. I thought I might have to look far for signs of the past, but the bullet holes on the buildings as we rode in the taxi from the airport looked surprisingly fresh, almost preserved, as if time had stopped. And as I spoke with people, I realized the memories and wounds of the war were scabbed over, but it didn’t take much of a prick to get the blood flowing again.
Besides traveling to Bosnia and Herzegovina, I also did an extensive amount of research for the chapters set in BiH. In addition, I am indebted to The Body Keeps the Score, a work about the effects of trauma on the psyche and the body. Any mistakes or inaccuracies are entirely my own.
This story is my attempt to pay tribute to all the Bosnian refugees I met. The experience changed my life. They challenged my worldview, my faith, and helped me grow in empathy toward others. Writing this story is also my act of coming alongside and bearing witness. This, I feel, we all must do.
Thank you,
Carrie Arcos
References
Books
Logavina Street: Life and Death in a Sarajevo Neighborhood by Barbara Demick, Kansas City, MO: Andrews and McMeel, 1996.
The River Runs Salt, Runs Sweet by Jasmina Dervisevic-Cesic, Eugene, OR: Panisphere, 1994.
Sarajevo Marlboro by Miljenko Jergović, translated by Stela Tomasević, NY: Penguin, 1997.
My War Gone By, I Miss It So by Anthony Loyd, NY: Grove Press, 1999.
Love Thy Neighbor: A Story of War by Peter Maass, NY: Vintage, 1997.
The Suitcase: Refugee Voices from Bosnia and Croatia edited by Julie Mertus, Jasmina Tesanovic, Habiba Metikos and Rada Boric, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1997.
Goodbye Sarajevo by Atka Reid and Hana Schofield, London: Bloomsbury, 2011.
Safe Area Goražde: The War in Eastern Bosnia 1992–1995 by Joe Sacco, Seattle, WA: Fantagraphics Books, 2000.
The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma by Bessel van der Kolk, MD. NY: Viking, 2014.
Films
For Those Who Can Tell No Tales
No Man’s Land
Warriors
Welcome to Sarajevo
Glossary
Alejkumu selam—And upon you, peace.
Allah razi olsun—May Allah (God) bless you.
Bajram šerif mubarek olsun—Blessed celebration of Bajram (the end of Ramadan).
balaclava—Cloth headgear that only exposes part of the face, typically the eyes.
balije—A pejorative term used for Bosnian Muslims.
Baščaršija—Sarajevo’s old bazaar and main tourist attraction, and the historical and cultural center of the city.
Bio je to dobar dan—It was a good day.
bokeh—A Japanese word used in photography for elements in the picture that are purposely blurred, or out of focus.
bolnica—Hospital.
Bondye—God (Haitian Creole).
bonjou—Hello (Haitian Creole).
Bosnia and Herzegovina—Commonly referred to as Bosnia or BiH, a country in southeastern Europe located on the Balkan Peninsula.
Bosniak—Another word for Bosnian Muslim.
burek—A meat-stuffed phyllo-dough pastry.
Četnik—A Serbian nationalist guerrilla force that formed during World War II. The term was revived during the early 1990s and used to describe various paramilitary groups that fought for the Bosnian Serb cause.
ćevapi—A grilled dish of five to ten small sausages, usually served with flatbread and chopped onions, sour cream, cheese and salt and pepper.
draga—Sweetheart or dear.
Drina—A 346-kilometer-long international river, which forms a large portion of the border between Bosnia and Herzegovina and Serbia. It is known for its beautiful emerald green color because of the limestone that it runs through.
džezva—Also called a cezve, a pot used to make Turkish coffee.
Eid (Eid-ul-Fitr)—The “Festival of the Breaking of the Fast”—Bosnian and Herzegovinian Muslims celebrate with a three-day holiday that marks the end of Ramadan. It involves celebrating with family, exchanging gifts, eating (especially baklava), visiting graves of loved ones and giving to charity. It is a holiday of forgiveness, fellowship, peace and gratitude toward Allah (God). Also referred to as Bajram.
Esselamu alejkum—Peace be upon you. A traditional expression of goodwill among Muslims.
heklanje—A crocheted doily.
imam—The person who leads prayers in a mosque.
Imovina Benjamin—Ne dirajte!—Property of Benjamin—Do not touch!
JNA—The Jugoslovenska Narodna Armija, or Yugoslav People’s Army, which was the military of the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia.
Karadžić, Radovan—A Bosnian Serb politician who served as the President of Republika Srpska during the Bosnian War. He was found guilty of genocide, war crimes and crimes against humanity.
kiflice—A type of biscuit.
kljukuša—A traditional Bosnian dish made of grated potatoes mixed with flour and water or milk, yogurt and cream, then baked.
kon si, kon sa—So-so (Haitian Creole).
kriminalci—Criminals.
lokumi—Sweet fried pastry.
orevwa—Good-bye (Haitian Creole).
Oslobođenje—Sarajevo’s daily newspaper.
papci—Literally, “pig feet,” a negative term used to describe people from the country or mountains who are uneducated, equivalent to hillbillies in English.
Pazi Snajper—Danger Sniper.
potkošulja—An undershirt.
rahat lokum—A sweet or dessert, also called Turkish Delight.
Ramadan—A holy month of fasting, the ninth month of the Islamic calendar, observed by Muslims all over the world.
Ramadan Bajram—See Eid.
silla—Seat or sofa.
tespih—Muslim prayer beads.
Tito—Josip Broz Tito (1892–1980), a statesman, communist leader, premier and president of Yugoslavia.
tulumba—A dessert; fried batter similar to churros, soaked in sugar syrup.
Užice Corps—A unit of the JNA that was active in eastern Bosnia.
Vidiš? Moje lice izgleda kao da sam pojela limun—See? My face looks like I’ve eaten a lemon.
Zao mi je—I’m sorry.
Zar je proslo toliko godina?—Has it been so many years?
Acknowledgments
I began writing this book during my residency at Hedgebrook, so I will start there. Thank you to the women I met and shared my life with during those weeks—the meals, the conversations, the walks. Thank you to Laurel Fantauzzo, who just happened to have a graphic novel about the Bosnian War and set in the same location of my story. I do not believe in coincidences. Thanks for the sign.
Thank you to Emily Morgan, who helped me see the world as a photographer.
Thank you to Kerry Sparks, my agent and friend. One of these days there will be time travel. Thank you for your support and commitment.
Thank you to Liza Kaplan. Your comments to me after reading the first draft still burn bright. I am so proud of this work we accomplished together. Thank you to Talia Benamy and Ana Deboo for your insight. To Kristie Radwilowicz for my amazing cover and to the whole team at Philomel.
Thank you to Mirela and Nuaim Hendricks for showing us Bosnian hospitality and your beautiful Sarajevo. I am so glad we met. Mirela, thank you for reading and giving me the courage to publish this novel. I admire you and know our paths were meant to cross.
Thank you to David and my kids, who continue to support me on this writing journey. I love you guys.
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