The big move. 3#

Our school commutes were always so much fun. I lived at the top of the hill and as I made my way down to school every morning, I would knock on a few doors and eventually a little crowd of school children would be formed.

We would chat on the way and share the bread that we had been given for our mid morning snack. We would hop and skip and quite often try and outrun each other. I was still the only girl amongst them.

Mum continued dressing me in pretty dresses. She insisted on buying me these pretty white crochet leggings, but by the time I would get to school, my leggings would have a few twigs attached to them or some thistle balls. My mum would also, every morning, put my curly locks into pretty little pigtails, tied up with red ribbons. These always came off by the time I got to school. I was a nightmare! She eventually gave up when I was about ten.

This was all wonderful, unless we had to walk to school and back in winter. To me, our winters were magical. The snow would usually start falling in November, sometimes earlier, and it would snow for days on end! Then it would freeze over and the sun would show its face through the clouds. It would be sunny for days, but cold enough for the snow to stay intact. We would come home, have lunch, do our homework and then we would grab our sanke, our sled, and we would only come back into the house when it was too dark to keep going or when our fingers and toes became numb.

But when the weather was bad, that’s when our school commutes were really tough. By the time we would come back home from school, we would be absolutely soaked through by the snow and we would feel terribly frozen. We had no choice but walk up the hill, to go home from school. Sometimes our feet and hands would get so cold that we would cry. This was so painful. This was especially tough for us once my brother started school. He was the kindest and the most gentle child, ever. I used to get so upset if he was hurt, or when he was cold.

Sometimes our winters would last until early March.

I think this, seeing how hard it was for us to go to school in winter, more than anything else, prompted my mum and dad to move.

They decided to buy a house five minutes walk from our school. Apparently they had agreed years before they bought the house that when ever they got paid for anything, they would put half of the earnings into a savings account. They bought their house in cash, at the age of 28 and 30. How times have changed!

This home was their first home that belonged just to them. It didn’t belong to the rest of my father’s family; it was just theirs.

At first, we were all so excited. Our life seemed so much easier. Our walk to school and back was a doddle! But then we started missing our granny and the farm. We were no longer surrounded by animals. We no longer had so much space around us. I suppose, it was as though we had moved to the suburbia of our village.

Eventually, most of our animals from the farm, the sheep, the cows and most of our horses, were sold off and there were only a handful of animals left for our granny to look after. She simply had to keep some or she would have felt completely lost without them.

I remember, my brother and I were so upset, our best memories came from that farm, but there was nothing we could do. Johnny had to stay behind too. He didn’t like being in our new surroundings, he didn’t like being on a lead. This was heartbreaking.

We missed our old friends. I missed my “wild friends” & my wild ways.

Our parents gradually ventured into all sorts of businesses. They invested almost everything they had into machinery and building materials.

Within a few years, our one house turned into three terassed houses, with the original one in the middle. Each one had three levels, with solid concrete floors. My parents’ view was that one house was for me, one for my brother and one for them. Just in case things didn’t work out for us in life, we would always have a home of our own.

They opened a mini supermarket and a pool club on the ground floor. My uncle opened a cafe in our house too.  Dad also had a sawmill, which gradually grew into a small factory. They employed a lot of people from the village, all nationalities. We all had to work. Even my brother and I had our delegated jobs. These were very busy times!

Sometimes, unfortunately, because they became so busy, I resented my parents, my dad, so much. From our early teens, my brother and I started working too. When all of my new friends were going swimming in the river, I had to work in our shop, or clean the lorries etc. When I worked in the shop, my dad used to make me weigh all different types of foods, different sizes and textures, in various sizes of paper bags, until I got it right. He used to make me wrap things over and over again until they were wrapped to perfection. I swear I hated him sometimes. “Customer is always right! Even if your worse enemy walks into this shop, they are your customer first of all. Always greet them with a smile.” These words will forever stay with me.

They became very successful and my father’s transport company grew to a sizeable fleet of lorries. The success was great, but however, we got to spend less time together, we had fewer meals together.

I can’t say that I enjoyed these times. We had to grow up quite quickly.

But make no mistake, I was always, always immensely proud of my parents. They worked incredibly hard. They did it all on their own. From scratch. They did it for us, so that one day we could have comfortable lives. Don’t be fooled, however; as I mentioned, we had to work bloody hard for it all. They never allowed us to be lavish or to show off. We never had expensive clothes, we never went on expensive holidays. We would go Croatia once a year. Which was amazing!

They didn’t want us to stand out visually from other children around us. They wanted us to learn what hard work was like. They would say to us:
“This is for your own good; if we dropped dead now, you’d be capable of looking after yourselves. You could work anywhere. You wouldn’t starve.”

These seemingly harsh words would dig deep into us; we couldn’t protest or argue against these. I don’t think we understood fully what this meant, until we got older and until we learnt how important good, honest working ethic is.

Unfortunately , very quickly we got to see who our real friends were, as my parents success wasn’t always met with support by everyone around us.

This was painful. I genuinely believed that everyone was good and that they meant what they said to me, so I was always honest with everyone. I got hurt so many times, without seemingly ever learning my lessons. I trusted everyone. You see, this is where my undying hopeaholism comes from. But our parents kept saying to me to be kind and that my time will come. I kept waiting for my time to come and I often had these imaginary arguments and come-backs in my head, but never really had the courage to say them.

I was no longer surrounded by just boys; I found myself to be part of a group of six girls, who lived in our emediate neighbourhood, in the “suburbia”. I had no idea what to do with some of them! I was so ill equipped. They played games that I wasn’t familiar with, that I didn’t understand. Those were real and mind games. I eventually learnt all the real, popular games that girls played, but I don’t think that I will ever understand some girls’ or some women’s mind games they play with one another. What’s the point. Say it, express yourself & move on!

My brother and I didn’t have any concept of “socially acceptable” friendships, when it came to race or different religions, background or wealth. We became very good friends with some children who lived a little further away from our house. We simply had many things in common with them. We loved playing and exploring together. And that was that. We didn’t care who they were. They were Muslim children, Serbian children, Croat children, Muslim-Croat children or Serbian-Croat children. We used to eat at their homes, they used to eat at ours, everything was shared. We would spend time together at school, come home, have lunch, do our homework and then we would stay out all day, until dinner time.

When we, the Serbs, celebrated Easter, our Muslim neighbours would cook and colour some eggs for their children too. My friends’ parents didn’t want their children to miss out on all the fun that we were having by colouring and decorating the eggs.

We, too, used to sometimes go to their houses for the evening feasts after their fasts during Ramadan. We all absolutely loved it. It was such a special occasion for us. We loved “practicing” these new traditions; they were a wonderful novelty for us. We had these opportunities because our and their parents let us.

During the summer, I would, yet again, “borrow” a truck inner tube from my dad’s garage, blow it up and we would use it to float down the river on it. This was sooooo much fun! Unless we fell through the middle and scraped our backs on the valve. Ouch!

We used to walk for hours on end too, venturing into our local forest, sometimes even into our hidden away local cave system. Our parents never knew about this! Thinking about it now, this was crazy, because there were poisonous snakes everywhere, but we didn’t care. We had fun!

In the late summer, we would go into corn fields in the evenings, steal loads of corn, and then BBQ it on a fire, in the middle of a field. If it was a clear night, one of our friends would bring binoculars out and we would watch the moon through them. We would also sing rock songs in English, pretending that we knew all the words, all evening. It was hilarious! Those truly were the times. Oh, we used to also make cigarettes out of cut up grape vine and smoke them. Ha!

After the corn harvests, we would play in the corn sheaves for hours on end. We would make tipis out of them & play cowboys and Indians or we would pretend that we owned a whole Western-type town, with all of us having different roles to fulfill. I frequently “worked” in a Can Can bar; naughty minx!

During the winter we would mostly be sledding or building “igloos”. When the weather was bad, we would stay indoors and play card games, dominos or Ludo type games. We were never bored.

Our parents generally separated people into these groups:

Dobri ljudi – Good people, good hearted people.

Pošteni ljudi – Honest people.

Skromni ljudi – Modest People.

Dobri radnici – Hardworking people.

“Lopovi” – Deceitful people.

Neradnici – People who didn’t like to work, lazy people. My parents didn’t trust them. They said that some of them would cheat, do anything, to gain assets dishonestly without much effort. “Nothing is for free.”

This is how we lived. This is what they still live by. This is how I try to live, even now when I am thousands of miles away, my husband and I teach our sons the same ethics and values.

You see, when the general world talks about how the conflict in Bosnia started, they would generally say that the people of Bosnia hated each other all the time and that’s why they went to war. That’s absolute bollocks! We didn’t hate our friends, our neighbours. Yes, there were bad eggs here and there, but generally good people stayed clear of them, and that was that.

There was so much more to it. The trauma trail was too long. There was the centuries long influence of the Ottoman Empire, the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the WW1, the WW2; The traumas that came with these were immeasurable. The whole history of the Balkans is so intricate and complex. It simply cannot be simplified into a worldwide acceptable short explanation; simplification.

The six countries should never have been put together to form Yugoslavia in the first place. There was too much oppression, suppression of people’s customs, religions, freedom and  choices. Things would have exploded eventually anyway. We were six different “tribes” who were made to live together and who were made to accept and to conform to the same rules and customs. It was never going to work in the long term. If everyone was allowed to practice what they believed in, in freedom, then perhaps yes. Oppression always creates explosions.

Humans are roaming, adapting, expressive, migrating, questioning species. Realistically, we can’t be constrained to conform to extreme unrealistic rules that do not move with the times or match our aspirations or moral values. There will be leaders and there will be followers, but people need to be able to be these, who they want to be, without having to fit a general mould. General moulds always burst.

The big move was when I started growing up too; when I learnt about the meaning of the word cautious.

The big move was when I started being bullied, but even then my mum would say to me: “Do you think that there might be something that you could change, in your behaviour? That you could be doing or saying wrong? They simply can’t all be wrong and the one, you, right! Be careful, be cautious, but be open to compromise and acceptance.” Even when people hurt me, she would try to be fair, to everyone.

She is still the same. I love her so much.

“Live and let live. Love and let love.”

This is the view from my parents’ “new” home.

2 thoughts on “The big move. 3#

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