by Ayşe Kulin
“It’s perfectly obvious,” Burhan said. “They’re changing the definition of the word ‘Bosniak’ slowly and stealthily. They want to eliminate our ethnic identity so that we’re left with only our religious identity. That way they can claim the homeland we’ve lived in for nine centuries. Once we’re branded ‘Muslims,’ it will be easier to kick us out of Europe.”
“But we are Muslims,” Fiko pointed out.
“Of course we’re Muslims,” Raif said, “and we’ll always be Muslims. But we’re also Bosniaks. We’re called Bosniaks, and Bosniaks are also Muslim. Bosniaks are Muslims who are tied to the land of Bosnia. Never forget that.”
“All right, Uncle. Go on.”
“So all these different groups were living together but preserved their own ethnic and religious distinctions under an ideal formula in which the chairman of the presidency was elected on a rotating basis. Then a madman named Milošević pops up in Serbia and decides that all the Serbs living across Yugoslavia have to be a part of Serbia. Why did fighting break out in Kosovo and Croatia? Because of what I just told you. And now he’s provoking the Serbs living in Bosnia to set up a Serbian state of their own.”
“But the Serbs are already a part of our republic, aren’t they?”
“They were, Son. A parliamentary election was held in Bosnia-Herzegovina. The Muslim party won eighty-seven seats, the Serbs seventy-one, and the Croats forty-one. But that coalition fell apart after only a year, and a new government was formed with the same parties. But this time the Serbs found they couldn’t stomach having Izetbegović as president.”
“Why not, Uncle?”
“Izetbegović was accused of siding with the Slovenians and the Croats in their bid for independence. But that was just an excuse for the Serbs to make trouble.”
“There’s another, little-known reason Serbs had a problem with Izetbegović,” Burhan added. “When Izetbegović attended the Organization of the Islamic Conference summit in Turkey in July of 1991, the Serbs’ blood ran cold. They’ve always been afraid he was planning to set up an Islamic state.”
“That’s utter nonsense!” Raziyanım exploded.
“Well, why do you think they made him rot in prison all those years?” Burhan asked.
“I don’t understand why he attended that conference at a time when tensions were running so high. He was kind of asking for it.”
“He attended the conference so that he could show those who were really ‘asking for it’ that the Bosniaks had friends backing them up,” Burhan said. “The ethnic Croats could depend on Croatia, the ethnic Serbs on Serbia. What was wrong with Izetbegović trying to drum up some support among Muslim countries?”
“You remember what that scoundrel Vojislav Šešelj said, don’t you?” Raif said.
“What’d he say, Uncle?”
“He said that unless the Bosniaks admitted that they were nothing more than Serbs forcibly converted to Islam, he’d kick their butts all the way to Anatolia.”
“Raif! Please! That’s enough! He’ll be sitting in class with his Serbian friends tomorrow.” Nimeta was looking increasingly upset, but Raif ignored his big sister.
“Look, Fiko, we’re having a man-to-man talk so you can learn the facts. In March of ’91, Milošević and Tudjman met in Tito’s old hunting lodge of all places and hashed out a plan to divide Bosnia up between them. As the two leaders sat there acting all brotherly, trying to figure out the best way to wipe out the Bosniaks, their own people were slaughtering each other. But that’s another story.”
“Raif, isn’t this a bit much for a boy his age? When he goes to school tomorrow—”
Raif cut Nimeta off. “When he goes to school, he’ll know who’s a friend and who’s an enemy!”
“Uncle, why do they keep plotting against us behind our backs?”
“Because they don’t believe there’s such a thing as Bosniaks. If you ask the Serbs, we’re fellow Serbs who converted to Islam under pressure from the Ottomans. If you ask the Croats, we’re Croats who turned our backs on the Catholic Church. They’ve repeated this lie so many times, they’ve started to believe it. And now they’ve got their eyes on our land.”
“Look, everyone’s at each other’s throats as it is. Don’t go filling the boy’s head with separatist ideas.”
“Nimeta, it’s too late,” Burhan said. “Darling, the Serbs announced they were setting up their own parliament way back on October 25. The boy, as you call him, is living in a divided country. It’s time he learned the truth.”
“Well, since April 6 we’ve also been living in a free country liberated from the repression of Milošević. It’s officially known as the autonomous Republic of Bosnia-Herzegovina.”
Raif tipped the bottle of plum brandy over his glass and waited for a moment. “We’ve run out of booze,” he said. “Haven’t you got any more?”
“I’ll go get it,” Fiko said, springing to his feet.
“You sit right back down,” Raziyanım said. “You’ve all had enough to drink.”
“But we’re celebrating, Mother,” Raif said.
“That’s all you ever do. I remember the last time you celebrated.”
“I need to say something while Fiko’s out of the room,” Nimeta said. “Let’s stop talking politics, Raif. We have to live with those damned Serbs whether we like it or not. I don’t want you encouraging Fiko to see every Serb as an enemy.”
“I need to say one more thing, and then I’ll shut my mouth,” Raif said.
“And what’s that?”
“Fiko needs to know this: under Milošević’s orders, all Bosnian-born soldiers in the Bosnian Army, regardless of rank, are being recalled to Belgrade. Meanwhile, all Bosnian-born soldiers of Serbian origin anywhere in Yugoslavia are being deployed to units in Bosnia. Do you know what that means?”
“Is that really true?” Burhan asked. “Nimeta, do you know anything about this?”
“Yes. We received that information some time ago,” Nimeta said.
Silence descended on the table.
“Does the president still believe that the Bosnian units would never fire on us?” Burhan asked wearily.
“Alija Izetbegović has always been an incurable optimist. Do you remember the speech he gave on TV in October of ’91?” Raif asked, standing up to do his best impersonation of the president’s speech that day: “The Yugoslavia envisioned by Karadžić is unacceptable to everyone but the Serbs. The Yugoslavia he seeks to create is abhorred by one and all! I wish to assure you, the people of Bosnia-Herzegovina, that there is nothing to fear, and there will not be a war! Fear not and sleep in peace!”
Raif sat back down and, lips twisted in a wry smile, began tapping his spoon on the table in time to a well-known Balkan folk song: “The end is nigh, Alija. The end is nigh, Alija.”
“Your humor’s a bit too dark for me,” Nimeta scowled.
“Don’t be mad at him,” Burhan said. “Milošević and Tudjman sang that song when they met in March of ’91 to plot the partition of Bosnia. Someone who was there leaked that little tidbit to the press. You told me all about it, remember?”
Raziyanım’s lips had begun to tremble. Nimeta was staring daggers at her husband and brother.
“Why are you looking at us like that? You mean you never heard about that song? What kind of journalist are you, my dear?”
“I’d suggest you stop making digs at me, put down your drink, and pack your bags,” Nimeta said. “Remember, you’ve got to leave first thing in the morning.”
Raziyanım broke in: “I’m a little worried. Who’s going to look after Hana while you’re at work? If only you were able to get along with housekeepers.”
“Mother, it’s not like there’s an abundance of housekeepers these days. And is it my fault if Milica left us just because she’s Serbian?”
“After all those years in this h
ouse, what an ingrate she turned out to be,” Raziyanım said.
“She’s a good person,” Nimeta said. “I never had any complaints. It was her brother who made her quit.”
“They think we’re just like them,” Raziyanım said. “What harm have we ever done anyone? I’m just sorry Hana will be coming home to an empty house.”
“Don’t worry, Mother. Hana won’t be alone. I plan to start working part-time as of this week. Ivan promised me ages ago, but something always came up. It’s time I insisted.”
“If I didn’t have any other grandchildren, I’d stay here but—”
“Mother, you act as if I haven’t managed on my own all these years. You act as though we’d all die of starvation and neglect without you.”
“I don’t know about the others, but now that I’m used to your cooking, I really might die of starvation once Nimeta’s back in the kitchen,” Burhan said.
Raziyanım’s eyes sparkled.
“Mom, I can go home alone if you like. You stay here,” Raif said.
“If it weren’t for Muho—”
“Muho needs his grandmother,” Nimeta said. “Don’t make such a big deal about being apart for a few months.”
Nimeta badly missed being the lady of the house. She was fed up with the disapproving glances every time she smoked a cigarette or sipped a drink, as well as with the disturbingly neat and tidy state of her home. Sometimes she felt like knocking the books—lined up biggest to smallest—off their dust-free shelves, flicking her cigarette ashes into every corner, and tossing the cushions stiffly arranged on the sofa onto the floor. She sometimes thought back to growing up like a soldier in her mother’s tightly run barracks, all the times she was ordered out of bed to screw the cap back onto the tube of toothpaste, or to pick her clothes up off the floor and hang them in the wardrobe. She could almost hear her father saying, “She’s still a little girl, Raziye. Leave the poor thing alone.”
“I made Hana a big jar of jam. Be sure she has some every morning at breakfast.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Nimeta gathered up the dishes and carted them off to the kitchen. A moment later Raif came in with another stack of dishes.
“Where’s the cognac?”
“You’re going to drink cognac after all that plum brandy?”
“With coffee. Just a finger.”
“Don’t, Raif. You’ve got to get up early tomorrow and drive all the way to Bijeljina.”
“If you don’t give me cognac, I won’t take Mother away tomorrow.”
Nimeta pulled a bottle of cognac out from the cupboard and said, “Okay then. Poison yourselves until you pop.”
“Has Mother been getting on your nerves?”
“I just want to be home on my own for a while, Raif. She’s been a great help. I don’t know what I’d have done without her. But when she’s around, I feel like I’m living in boarding school.”
“She does have something of the retired schoolmarm about her. A real disciplinarian.”
“Thank God she’s missing her other grandchild. I was at the end of my rope. I’m a little worried, though. Serbian commandos have begun patrolling Zvornik. I hope nothing happens while she’s there.”
“We can’t let the Serbs stop us from living our lives. We’ve got to get used to their threats even as we ignore them. Relax. I promise not to bring Mother back before autumn. She might even decide to stay in Zvornik for good.”
“I’m ashamed to say it, but I really do need some time on my own.”
“Are you two talking about me behind my back?” Raziyanım said from the door to the kitchen.
“Yeah, that’s our one and only pastime. You’re all we talk about when we see each other,” Raif said. “How could there possibly be anything more important in our lives than you?”
“Ingrates,” Raziyanım said. “But anytime you get yourselves into trouble, it’s me you come running to. Ah, is that a bottle of cognac in your hand? You’re getting up—”
“You’re getting up early tomorrow, and you’ll be driving,” Raif said, mimicking his mother’s voice. “Don’t drink, Son. Be a good Muslim, and perform your prayers five times a day.”
“Do what you like. I’m going to bed,” Raziyanım said.
“It’ll be a brand-new day for you tomorrow when we walk out the front door,” Raif said, winking at his sister.
“It’ll be a brand-new day for us all,” Nimeta said. “Let’s see what another dawn brings.”
APRIL 9, 1992
Raif whistled all during the trip, but he was feeling glum. His head was in a muddle, and he knew things would only get worse. Like all Bosniaks, he wanted to believe in his heart that war wouldn’t break out, but a nagging voice deep inside kept telling him otherwise. Still, he kept whistling.
“I expect you’ll give up whistling completely after today,” Raziyanım said. “You’ve been tooting every song you ever learned right in my ear ever since we got in the car.”
“Mother, you’re already against cigarettes, booze, and cursing. Are you telling me whistling is forbidden as well?”
“I’ve never been able to understand why our people are so fond of drink, tobacco, and swearing. Why are you unable to talk without resorting to profanity and expletives?”
“Don’t try to change the subject. I asked you if whistling was forbidden.”
“And I asked you why you all love cursing so much.”
“Who do you mean by ‘you all’?”
“You, the Bosniaks.”
“Well aren’t you a Bosniak too?”
“I can’t stand vulgarity.”
“So does that mean you’re not a Bosniak? Have you decided to become a Turk? Believe me, they’re even worse than we are when it comes to cursing.”
“How would you know?”
“Don’t you remember all our summer holidays in Istanbul? If Nimeta hadn’t fallen for that guy, we’d have gone to Istanbul even more than we did. But you didn’t want to give up your daughter.”
“Of course I didn’t. I was against her moving all the way to Istanbul.”
“You’re a selfish woman. You took her away from her first love, and she ended up marrying Burhan the following year.”
“At least she stayed where I could see her.”
“That’s right, you’ve got to keep your kids in your sight forever, so you can keep taking care of them.”
“When you’re a father, you’ll know how I feel.”
“Mother, just listen to yourself! I am a father.”
“You’ve only been one for three months. Your fatherly instincts haven’t kicked in yet. You’ll get more attached with each passing day. Do you think you’ll be able to leave Muho when he turns one?”
“I adore him already, but I’ll never smother him with attention.”
“Are you trying to say I smothered you? You’re impossible. There’s no point in trying to talk to an ingrate like you. You can go back to your whistling now.”
They drove through the green countryside in silence. As they were approaching Zvornik, Raif noticed a strange shimmer of color in the distance on the right-hand side of the road. He accelerated.
“Ah, look, Raif. There’s a big crowd over there,” Raziyanım said, forgetting for a moment that she and her son weren’t speaking.
As they got closer, they heard the buzz of voices.
Raif decided to park some distance away from the crowd and investigate on foot.
“Whatever you do, don’t get out of the car, Mother. Lock the door, roll up the windows, and wait here for me,” he said.
Ignoring his mother’s repeated calls, he broke into a run. Ahead of him were thousands of men, women, and children, all of whom were wounded and dying. Piles of corpses. People slowly bleeding to death from gunshots to the leg. Women whose flesh had been sliced t
o ribbons. Men disemboweled, their entrails trailing. Infants in shock. Young girls who’d been repeatedly raped and were now seeping blood. Elderly men who’d escaped the bullets only to die of heart attacks . . . dumb stricken . . . deranged.
About half of Zvornik’s inhabitants were there—the Muslim half. Raif ran through the crowd, trying to understand what they were saying, what had happened. Trying to find a familiar face. The overpowering stench of blood and feces stung his nostrils.
“Arkan’s Tigers! Arkan’s Tigers!” That was the only comprehensible thing he heard. Arkan, the fascist commander of the terrorist Serbs. Raif’s blood froze and he felt faint, but he struggled to pull himself together. He’d realized something else: there were no young or middle-aged men in the crowd. All of the wounded, mutilated men he saw were at least in their sixties. The ragged screams of the women made it nearly impossible for him to understand what anyone was saying, but as he adjusted to the horrible din, he found he was able to pick out the odd word.
They’d come at night, broken down doors, and forced people out into the street. Word was put out that everyone had an hour to leave their homes. Then they’d rounded up and killed all the young men. They’d raped women and girls. They’d skewered babies. They’d stamped on Korans and shredded family portraits. Nobody had been allowed to take anything from their homes.
Raif searched for his wife and son among the five thousand people, turning over women and babies lying facedown in the field, never giving up hope.
“Raif . . . Raif . . . It’s me, Mijda.”
Raif straightened up from the corpse he was bent over.
“Mijda, have you seen my wife? My son, my aunt?”
“I’m so sorry, Raif,” Mijda said, and started sobbing.
“Don’t cry. Talk to me.”
“Raif, they’re dead.”
“Dead? How? How did they die?”
“Bianka came to our flat when the looting started. She brought the baby with her. We locked the door and hid in the linen cupboard. They kicked the door down. They might not have found us, but the baby started crying. Bianka was nursing Muho the whole time so he wouldn’t cry. But it was so dark and stuffy that he started crying.” Mijda was wracked with sobs. Raif waited for her to calm down. “They dragged us out of the cupboard. They raped us both. On the table, the two of us facedown, from behind. They pinned down our arms and legs. And raped us, one after the other. The pain . . . Raif . . .”
