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1. Wild child.

Around thirty years ago, one cosy autumnal evening, my brother and I were sitting on the wooden floor, with photo albums scattered around us. We were reminiscing about the good times that passed, whilst mum and dad chatted away, snuggled up on the sofa.
We hadn’t long lived in our new home; perhaps less than a year. Everything was still shiny, new and huge compared to our modest old cottage that we had happily lived in. I remember, I kept yearning for my favourite and my most comforting smells and sounds. My ten year old heart was aching. I wanted to be where we once lived; where I was the happiest.
I came across this particular page full of my parents’ wedding photos. I looked at these beautiful pictures for a while, caressing them with my little fingers. I admired the way my parents looked; they both looked so young and stunning. My dad was standing tall, beaming with happiness and pride in these black and white photos; my mum looked shy and so beautiful.
I looked at the dates written under the photos and I got intrigued. My parents got married in January and I was born in August, almost exactly eight months later.
I piped up: “Ah, you never told me that I was a premature baby!”
My mum went bright red in her face, she mumbled something and left the living room very quickly; she apparently suddenly had something to do. Dad found this whole situation very amusing. He chuckled and chuckled. He eventually said: “There was nothing premature about your birth. Everything was done and happened on time, and at the right time.” He winked & carried on giggling. Mum was nowhere to be seen.
My mum was only eighteen when she had me, and dad was only twenty-one. Two years later they had my brother.
When they met, they were these two beautiful young souls, who couldn’t have been any more different to each other; they still are.

He is the fire, she is the earth.

Mum was this gentle, beautiful, slender young woman who came from a very quiet, hardworking farming family, whose parents absolutely adored each other and their three children. She was their only daughter. She was adored, protected and doted on. Mum was quite quiet and shy; she still is, but now she is very funny. Her favourite source of entertainment is her hilarious, perfectly timed self-deprecating humour. She is the kindest soul you will ever meet. “There is a good side to everyone.”, she’d often say to us. She cares and worries about everyone. But she is strong and persistent; the binding force of our family. Unfortunately, because of her quiet nature, our mum’s knowledge and strength is often underestimated and undervalued. This has had a profound effect on my outspoken nature, strength and confidence as a woman.
My father…my father was this very handsome, fit, strong-willed, fiery, hardworking, untamed, stubborn force of nature. He came from a blended family, full of very loving, caring but strong characters.
My father is one of seven, he has two sisters, one brother, one half-brother and two half-sisters. His childhood was filled with love, bravery, incredibly hard work and mischief. He is built of the toughest matter; his life would have crumbled a weaker man. None of us would be here now if it wasn’t for him and his physical, but more importantly his quick thinking and his mental strength.
At the beginning of my parents’ marriage, many people doubted whether my parents would stay together; they appeared to be too different to one another. But underneath it all they had this undying love for each other that would ultimately pull them through some unthinkable times. They had the same moral values and they both had hearts of gold.
Last year they celebrated their fortieth wedding anniversary. Their love for one another has proved everyone wrong and overpowered everything that came their way.
Out of this young, passionate love, their first child was born; on time, I’d like to add. Me. Their wild child.
I, apparently, was nightmare baby who hardly ever slept, I was incredibly needy, and I cried a lot. As soon as I could move, I was off, I never sat still. I started walking at nine months. I was an early talker too, I talked to anyone and I had an opinion about anything and an answer for everything. I didn’t walk like other girls did, I skipped, kicked stones along the road or I danced. I loved dancing! Oh, I never stopped climbing trees either.
I quite like the idea of me like this, but I can see now that I have a wild child of my own, how challenging this must have been for my poor mum.
One of my aunties tells me this story every now and again of how when I was a toddler I had lots of curly hair, which was getting very badly knotted because of my wild ways. It desperately needed cutting.
However, the only way she could get me to keep still while she cut my hair, was to pin me down and keep my head in between her legs. So, she did. You get the picture! I must have been a nightmare child.
But I am told that I was very loving, lovable, bouncy and jolly. A happy child, with abundance of empathy, who always deeply felt people’s sadness. I hugged everyone a lot. I still do. My husband calls me his “hugtopus”.
For the first ten years of my life, my family lived on the family farm which was situated high up in the hills, on the edge of a small hamlet. Our farm was an organic dairy farm; hilly, vibrant and full of life. My family kept sheep, goats, cows, shire horses, pigs and poultry. We were completely self-sufficient, nothing was ever thrown away. We used, reused, wore, altered, fixed and recycled.
There were two cottages on the farm, right next to each other. In one, lived my grandmother and my youngest aunt, my dad’s sister. My parents and my brother and I lived in the second cottage. Ours was the prettiest out of the two. The cottages were very traditional, hand made out of wood. Their roofs were covered with traditional Mediterranean red roof tiles. The two houses truly stood out in the village, with their grand style and design.

They were hand built in 1930s by my great-grandfather Stevan, my paternal grandmother’s father. Stevan was a forward thinking, strong character. He was a local councillor in the early 1900s. A trailblazer. His daughters’ education mattered hugely to him. My grandmother was one of the very few women in the region with secondary and higher school education.
The two cottages were shaded by these huge, ancient linden trees. They were magical to me; we used to spend absolutely hours playing underneath them, making house shapes on the dry ground, out of twigs, sticks and stones. The linden flowers smelled so beautifully. It’s such a sweet, summery smell that I will never forget. Our granny used to make us this very aromatic and deliciously tasting tea out of them.
From our farm we could see our beautiful mountainous valley enveloping us. The valley had been carved by a crystal-clear mountain river, which gently flows through our village. The river is called Pliva, and our village is called Pljeva. Both are equally famous for their organic, unspoiled beauty.
The view from the farm is always majestic; It never disappoints. It is always there as a reminder of natural calm and continuity, but forever changing and breath-taking. During the spring and summer months, the rolling hills are deep green, with the shades of blue; full of life! In the autumn, the brightest and the deepest shades of fire caress the whole valley. And in winter…in winter the hills and the mountains are covered in this shimmery, unspoiled white snow which looks magical, inviting you to play in the winter’s sun. And, yet, the hills and the cliffs of the valley would intimidate you under the moonlight. At times, we’d hear wolves’ howls echoing throughout the valley; this used to scare the bejesus out of me! I miss those hills so much. I dream of them very often. They always make me feel safe and content in their arms.
When I think of the farm, this strong feeling of belonging floods my body. The farm and its habitat truly gave me my roots and my wings. My family; thanks to my loyal, loud, generous, loving, loud, forever giving family, where ever I am in the world, I know I belong.
My parents tell me that we were adored by our grandparents.
Unfortunately, I was very little when my paternal grandfather passed away. He was only fifty-five. I wish I remember him more clearly. I wish I was much older when he died.
He was our brave, strong-willed, WW2 warrior, called Stanko. A noble, generous and a strong man, who had overcome many personal tragedies and losses.
Grandad Stanko worked incredibly hard. He was a mayor after the WW2, a farmer and a land owner. He adored his children and grandchildren. I was his first grandchild who had lived on the farm. Even though men in those days didn’t traditionally help with looking after children, if I needed changing or bathing, he did it all for me. He took me for walks with him and he used to tell me stories.
I vaguely remember the day of his funeral. Grandad was lying in his coffin, in their bedroom. I remember the bedroom door so well. I kept standing by the door and trying to push it open. I knew he was in there. I wanted to tell him that I had an orange in my hand. He used to love oranges. All I wanted to do, was to share my orange with my grandad. I couldn’t understand why he wasn’t answering me. One of my aunties eventually took me in and lifted me up; I left the orange in the coffin, next to him. She told me that he’d have it later; he was sleeping. After he was buried, apparently I didn’t want to go home, I wanted to stay with him, and sit by his grave.
I dream of him quite often. I dream of him sitting on the bench he made. We are under my favourite linden tree. I’m little, sitting on his lap. He’s gently rocking me and telling me something. I can never hear his voice. It’s always the same dream. Every time I wake up, I am left with this yearning for his protection, wisdom and knowledge.
Grandad Stanko left seven children behind, and his second wife, my Baba. My dad still has the bench his father made.
After grandad’s very premature death, as dad was the only son to have lived at home, he helped Baba look after the farm. The rest of his siblings were either married and lived away, studying or already working away in towns and cities. Dad was only in his early twenties.
This must have been a lot to take on for a young family. Those were very challenging times for my parents.
But soon, a little blessing arrived. In the middle of a long, harsh winter, my brother was born. This was the first winter without grandad. This bundle of joy, was the peace and the calm my parents needed in their lives. He was a perfect baby who slept peacefully for hours on end and fed beautifully.
He slept so much, my mum had to gently pinch him to wake him up. My brother grew into a robust, but a very quiet little boy. He behaved really well, and he was always very calm and kind. He always did as he was told. Unlike his sister.
There was this beautiful, handmade wooden veranda attached to the front of our cottage. Occasionally, if our granny or our mum had chores to do, they’d leave my brother and I in the veranda to play, with the stable-style doors firmly locked. My brother would happily play on the veranda’s floor for ages, but I would always try to escape. I climbed over the side of it so many times, that I eventually broke my nose by falling onto the ground. I was incredibly mischievous.
During one of these times when we were left on our own, I went back into the cottage. I LOVED going through my mum’s make up bag. I remember this one day so clearly. I found my mum’s toothpaste and for some reason, only known to the mind of a young child, I decided to spread the toothpaste all over our handmade posh vitrine; my mum’s pride and joy. Oh, my goodness, I got into so much trouble! Then one day, after watching my aunt cut my uncle’s hair, I cut my eyebrows off with a pair of scissors; as you do! After realising what I had done, I hid under our rug, to hide my work of art. I was under the rug for so long, I eventually fell asleep. My mum found me and…let’s say that the scissors remained on the very top of our vitrine for a long time.
My brother never did anything silly like that. He’s always been quite measured and sensible.
When we were little, we absolutely adored each other. We spent most of our time playing together, but as we got older, we started to fight a lot.
By fighting, I mean proper physical fighting. This used to worry our poor mum sick. She was convinced that it was only her children that fought in the whole world. This “loving”, sibling rivalry carried on into our teens, until my brother got taller and stronger than me.
Jesus Christ, I was feisty; he knew perfectly how to push my buttons to get the desired reaction. And he did; every time! Even then, when he was already much taller than me, I would try and launch myself at him, but he would just calmly put his hand on my head firmly and keep me at arm’s length. Even then, I’d still try to reach him with my hand, fist, foot, from underneath, but I no longer succeeded.
It was time to let go. It infuriated me that he was stronger than me. I know, I was a girl, he was a boy, boys eventually grow up and get stronger, but none the less, it was a hard pill to swallow. I wanted us to be equal to him, even in strength.
My brother has grown into a wonderful, quiet, human. He is a great father and a husband. His quiet demeaner, however, should not be underestimated. My brother has many hidden depths and strengths. We named our first son after my brother; Dragan.

~Adventures on the farm~

As well as running the farm, our mum worked as a touch typist in town; our dad was very busy and away a lot. Mum’s working hours were from 7am to 3pm. Once she was home, mum would put away her glamorous clothes & start working on the farm.
Our granny looked after us when our parents worked. She looked after us with such love and dedication, but she let us roam freely too. My brother and I spent all our time playing and exploring.
Near our cottage, we had this outbuilding which was narrow and long, with vertical wooden slats for walls & a red-tiled roof on top. This is where we used to keep our corn, or firewood. This type of building is called a košana (koshanha).
During the summer our košana was empty. This was amazing to me; it was a blank canvas and the ultimate den! Our granny used to let me take her net curtains down and she used to give me her rugs and cushions too.
I would sweep the košana first, wipe the floors clean with an old towel and then I’d lay the rugs down, use cushions as our seats, and the net curtains to separate the košana into three different rooms. It was amazing! We spent so much time here, playing for hours. Baba used to make us some “white coffee”, which was made out of warm milk and half a teaspoon of freshly ground coffee in each cup; we used to drink our coffee in our makeshift house. Baba used to come in and sit with us on the floor too, sipping our coffee away.
Right opposite of our cottages lived this elderly couple. They lived on their own.
Most of their children lived nearby with their families, but one of their sons and his family lived in France. My parents were very close with the French family. They were so nice to all of us and always very kind and generous. However, the old lady and our Baba didn’t speak to each other. Apparently, they were sworn enemies. I never quite knew why they fell out in the first place. But even during this wordless world of theirs, Baba used to look out for them. My granny used to make the most amazing food, and she used to make enough of it to feed the whole hamlet. “You never know, someone might stop by for lunch. You must always be prepared for unexpected guests.”, she used to say. She was a tough, outspoken woman, but she cared deeply for everyone. Every now and again, she would ask my auntie to take some food across the road, to our neighbours. She would never admit it, but she felt a duty of care towards our elderly neighbours. She was stronger and fitter than them, she cared for them, therefore she felt that it was her duty to look after them. This sense of community is still a huge part of me. Your neighbours could truly be your lifeline.

I can’t tell you how much fun living on the farm was. There was an endless supply of food, drinks and mischief.
We grew all of our organic vegetables and we had a massive orchard very close to our cottages. The orchard was planted by our great-grandfather Stevan. We had many apple trees, pear trees, plum trees, cherry trees, mulberry trees and walnut trees. It was amazing! We climbed so many of them and fell off them so many times. I still don’t know how we never broke a single bone! Especially during the cherry season. Well! We used to dare each other to see who would climb to the highest branches and get the juiciest, the most sun kissed cherries down from the top. I am yet to find cherries as sweet as the ones from my farm. Oh, and, I was the village cherry thief!
I would say that we were true free-range children. We could go anywhere, and we absolutely went everywhere. Those times were wild, organic, muddy & pure.
As we got older, we were joined by a group of boys from the neighbouring farms. I was the only girl amongst them. There was only one other girl who also lived in our hamlet, but she was not wild like me. She was pretty much attached to her mother’s skirt.
To me, she was no fun. I’m sure she was lovely though, but I needed a brave, wild companion to plan battles against the boys with, and she needed a well-behaved girlie girl; therefore, we never became close friends. Also, her mother didn’t approve of my wild ways.
I was one of the boys. I could do anything that they could, and I made anything that they made. We were equal, in my eyes. We would make guns out of planks of wood, a couple of nails and a strip of rubber, cut out of my father’s truck’s inner tube, that I would steal from the garage. I know; I was very naughty. But these were blissful times. We would walk for hours, climb trees to look for birds’ nests and observe them and we would sometimes take some crumbs and leave them in the nests. We would sometimes look for the fox burrows too. We used to find quite a few burrows, but I am not quite sure which group of animals they belonged too. We had fun none the less.
Autumn on the farm was so beautiful. This was a busy time for our family. The fruits had to be stored safely away in our cellars and the evenings were spent standing by the cookers making jams & cordials. The fruit and nut trees had to be prepared for the winter and its harsh elements. The barns had to be prepared for the winter too; full of hay to the brim and very well insulated to keep all of our animals nice and warm.
The grownups used to collect all the leaves in the orchard into these huge piles and they used to let us run really fast and then jump into them. I still remember the feeling of falling into these massive, soft beds of leaves. I remember the smell so well too.
This was all usually done before the first frost. But the first frost, oh my goodness, it was magical. My brother and I used to imagine that the ground was covered with real silver and tiny diamonds. It shimmered beautifully in the morning sunshine.

Winters on the farm were so much fun. If we weren’t out skiing or tobogganing, we were inside sitting near our granny’s wood burner either listening to her stories or to her radio. Baba told the most magnificent stories, she used to get us to close our eyes and just listen to her magic.
She used to say to us: “Just close your eyes and imagine, see with your eyes shut.” This memory fills me with such content and warmth.
The quiet snowy days were my dressing up days. As well as for my košana, granny would get her net curtains down for my dressing up winter days. I would tip my head forward, wrap one curtain around my head, twist it and make a vale. I would then wrap another curtain around me and make a wedding dress. This was such fun for me!
I would often wait for my granny to fall asleep on her traditional, three-legged wooden chair, next to the fire and then I would sneak into my aunt’s bedroom. I would take my makeshift wedding dress off & I’d try on lots of her clothes. I would twist her dresses at the back, to make them tight and fitted around my small body, and I would also put her shoes or boots on and strut my stuff around the bedroom.
On one of my dressing up days, I got a bit carried away; I got into so much trouble.
Baba was asleep as usual, so I snuck into the bedroom & I quickly opened my aunt’s wardrobe, only to find the most amazing pair boots in it! They were brand new, Italian, brown suede, over the knee boots. High heels and all! I could not resist them!
I don’t know what possessed me, but I quickly put them on and I quietly tiptoed outside, into the snow in them! I walked in them to the barn to check on some newly born piglets. Well, needless to say, the boots were ruined.
To me, I was only taking a walk in London. Whenever I imagined my life somewhere else, it always had to be London. So, everything was perfect; I went back in & I just put the boots back into my aunt’s wardrobe, as though nothing had happened. Granny woke up and I just carried on playing.
Well, everything was fine until my aunt got back from work and saw them in the “shabby chic” state that they were in. She absolutely screamed murder and started chasing me around the cottage! My poor granny tried so hard to protect me and she absolutely insisted that she wore them to the barn herself! Looking back, this was all absolutely comical. I got a real big rollocking for my little outing.
Winters were also spent in our barns, helping out with the animals. This was so nice, and this was also one of the most calming places that I have ever been to. The barns were wooden, and everything was always so quiet. I loved it! We also used to go into the hay barn. My brother and I used to swing from a beam to a beam, from one end to the other, and then fall into the hay. This was endless fun!
I remember I always loved trees. One of my granny’s late friends used to love telling me this story of how one freezing winter’s day, when she came for a visit, she found me sitting on a branch of one of the apple trees near our cottages, decorating it with Christmas tinsel, wearing just my pyjamas, a woolly hat and a pair of wellies.
As we got older, our springs and summers were spent exploring further away from the farm. When the weather was warm, we’d play in mud a lot.
We’d play near our local streams and get absolutely covered in mud and before we had to go home, we’d walk into the stream and wash ourselves fully, wellies and all. I still remember the noise of the water squelching around in my wellies, all the way home.
Also, during the summer holidays was when almost all of our three million cousins would come to stay with us. This was AMAZING! It was an absolute chaos and I am sure this was a nightmare time for my parents and our granny, but we, the children, LOVED IT! Our days were spent exploring our beloved Pljeva. We felt stronger and braver together. Naughtier.
We loved swimming in our local streams. We would find a shade free, sunny patch of a nearby stream and we would use rocks and sticks to make a dam. Once the dam was full enough, we would then swim in it. This was our only swimming pool. In these streams or the small rivers near us, I used to catch lots of crayfish. I used to take them home in an old plastic bucket, for our granny to cook them for us in this beautiful sauce of garlic, parsley and cream. I also used to scare some of the school children by holding the crayfish up in my hands. I sometimes chased them too, whilst laughing so hard. I’m sure some psychologists would have had a field day exploring me as a child!

Actually, we were all a bit crazy and wild in our own little ways. I remember this one particularly warm summer afternoon. My brother, our hamlet friends and I were playing underneath our linden tree when we heard a car arrive. As we ran towards it, we squealed with joy! The French had arrived for their summer break. Their ever so beautiful daughter, who was just a bit older than me, very kindly brought us all a block of chocolate each. We excitedly sat down around their garden table to eat our chocolate. We all, but one, tried so hard to at least appear polite and eat our chocolate slowly.
But one of the boys just got too excited and too greedy; he put the whole block of chocolate in his mouth almost at once. As he tried to chew it, his teeth got stuck in this delicious French chocolate mass; his jaw locked! He started to cry. As mean as this sounds, this was one of the funniest moments of my childhood. We all laughed so hard, I fell down to the ground and carried on laughing. Oh, I wish this was caught on camera.
Eventually my mum ran to his rescue and I was swiftly sent home. My cackle, at the expense of this boy’s distress, got me into trouble yet again. It was so funny.

At night, we used chase fireflies, lie down in the grass near the cottages and watch the Milky Way, or if the weather was bad, we’d sit in the veranda and listen to the roars of thunder and watch the lightening light up everything around us.

At times, things were tough too. It wasn’t all fun and games. My parents had to work incredibly hard, and we had to work hard too. As we lived on the edge of a forest, there were times when the sheep were attacked and killed by bear. This was a bit scary to our young minds, but our family never sugar-coated nature to us. They did, however, try their best to protect us from the bad news, or from “bad”, negative people as much as they could.

This truly allowed me to wear my heart on my sleeve, be free spirited and wild.

I was strong. Most of the time I looked like a boy, fought like a boy and I climbed like a boy. I used to crawl through the grass, pretending that I was a soldier. I loved showing off my strength amongst the boys.
But more than anything, I loved spending time with our horses, cows and sheep. I also loved our woodland. It was enchanting, full of wild life & full of birds’ song. We spent hours on end exploring its natural dungeons and dens, occasionally smoking its vine. Sorry mum!
The most beautiful part of my early childhood was the fact that my parents let me be me; wild and free. They told me that I could do anything, be anything or anyone I wanted to be. They knew that one day I would grow out of my crazy, wild phase and morph into a different kind of creature.
I am in my forties now; my heart still aches for this carefree life. I loved every second of it. I sadly never fully appreciated the beauty of it all, until I became a parent myself.
Oh, how I would love my children to be wild and free of social constraints and experience this organic, muddy, free range life.
I still miss the most delicious smells of my grandmother’s cooking and I miss the smell of our beautifully handmade cottages; my most comforting touch-base.

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8. The first exodus.

Promises in hope.

In February 1993 was when some of my childhood friends had to leave; we had to make our promises in hope, that we will be able to keep them, that we will find each other again. In peace.

It’s funny, I have a very clear picture of our last evening and of our last morning together, but I don’t have a clear picture of the build up to it, at all. Perhaps this is truly what they call a subconscious selective memory. I suppose our bodies go into emergency mode and along the way we find the best coping mechanism. Mine was to block things out.

Our beautiful village was no longer safe for anyone. Every dark corner & every shadow were scary.

Our dad came home one late afternoon, we were so happy to see him! He had been away for a few weeks then, how he found out about this I didn’t know at the time, but I now know that our neighbours told him of the exodus date a while back. He asked me not to help mum that evening, he just said: “You go, say your goodbyes, make sure they all have a lovely time. Make memories.”

I walked up the hill, to our friends’ house where a group of us met. We had no power that evening, candles were lit, and the radio was blasting some good old Yugo-rock.

By the time I got there, they had made loads of food and drinks, probably using up their last supplies in this home. They were always so generous. Our friends’ father was Muslim and their mother Croat; their eldest sister is married to a Serb. They decided to make their way across Bosnia to Croatia where they had relatives. The rest of the village Muslims were leaving in the morning too. The ones who didn’t have anywhere to go, decided to stay in their homes, whatever happens. There weren’t many of them.

By this point, the “fighters” had all left long time ago. Everyone knew who they were and their families had left too. The people left behind were mere civilians, mostly elderly, women and children.

Eventually the rest of our friends arrived, and we sang and danced late into the evening. We reminisced over the good old times and how much fun we all had growing up together. I remember I cried a lot, they teased me that I was always the sensitive one. I was, I knew that our lives were never going to be the same again.

It was a beautiful moonlit, crisp winter’s night. Eventually we had to leave and go home. Our friends walked us all back down. We decided to visit our favourite spot by the river one last time. We hugged, laughed and rolled around in the snow. In all this sadness and fear of the inevitable, we somehow became almost euphoric, until we had to say goodbye that evening. Our last evening together, ever, the way we were. We hugged each other tightly and we said our goodbyes.

I went home to my family, hugged my mum and cried. We both felt fear. Will we be next?

Dad wasn’t at home, he and a few neighbours went to say goodbye to their friends too. They were all born in this village, they went to school together, they grew up together, yet then, our nations were fighting each other, separating us all geographically.
I was still only a child, and so angry at the whole country, at this horrid mess that we were all in. I wanted it to stop and I wanted out!

The morning of February the 27th came. We all woke up really early. When I walked into our kitchen, I found my mum making some fresh food to give to our friends, for the journey to the land of the unknown. Mum & dad also gave away some shoes & boots they had leftover in their shop.

Eventually we all made our way to the bridge; there were two large parking spaces on either side of it, where two coaches and a handful of small trucks stood. The morning was a freezing, misty one.

I remember I stood there in disbelief. I looked at our beautiful hills covered in snow, our river steaming away; I was in denial. It all looked so serene. “This can’t be happening!” But it was. Our valley stood still as the cries and sobs echoed through it. These people were leaving everything and everyone they knew, their homes and livestock, their history.

This, unfortunately, was not unique just to our village.

This kind of exodus was happening all over the previous Yugoslavia.

My Serbian uncles and aunts had to leave their homes when they lived in the Muslim and Croat parts of Bosnia. They too had to leave their homes, their friends and everything and everyone their children had ever known, to move back to our village, where they were deemed safe. They were scared and scarred, for life. They didn’t know what happened to their homes after they left. They assumed it was all lost or destroyed. Their journeys to safety were filled with some horrific events. My once full of fun & joy, uncles and aunts, were these somber people who continuously reminisced over their lost homes & over their lives they were never going live again. This kind of trauma alters you for the rest of your life.

The same was going through our friends’ minds; will their homes still be there when, and if, they come back? Will they get to their destination safely?

It was time.

My mum was holding my sister who was crying because she was too cold. Mum carried her home, with tears in her eyes too.

We made our promises that we will always be friends and that geographical borders will not break our friendships. We made our promises in hope that we will always be friends.

The bus coach doors closed, and they were gone. Forever. I stood there for ages, waving. The silence fell upon us.

Little did we know that we would follow them soon, in our plight to safety too.

We, and a few other Serbian families, kept some of our neighbours’ most valuable material possessions in our attics, we kept these things for them in hope that they’ll one day come back. Mum and dad carefully stored them and kept them locked at all times.

~The colour spectrum~

When I think of this time, different shades keep flooding in; the shades of our stunning nature around me. Many things were changing, rapidly, I had no power over them, but one thing that was constant, was this breath-taking beauty around me. Our stunning nature was my coping mechanism.

If only you could see my valley. There was this rock far up our hill, at the back of our house, that I used to sit on and fantasise about bigger things, about a different life. I never told my mother that I used to go to this rock because it was an extremely unsafe thing to do, but I had to. As well as my Milky Way, this rock gave me my day time escapism.

I wish you could see the view from this rock.

To my right, our valley folds away into a roaring corner, enveloped by pastures and a mixture of deciduous and evergreen trees. From this corner, our river ferociously starts its journey. Our river Pliva has three sources; they all meet together to form this stunning mountain river. It is truly a magical sight. On a quiet night, you can easily hear its roar.

Right in front one me was our village Pljeva. A stunning, green, quiet village, with some beautiful souls in it. There are many small hamlets scattered around, filled with white houses covered with red-tiled roofs; you can see smoke flowing out of the chimneys. There is a bridge right in the middle of Pljeva. This is the bridge that we used to hang around on and watch the fish in the river, or the world go by. Mum doesn’t know this, but I used to climb down to the base of the bridge, with a stick, to see how deep the river was & then I’d scare my friends from underneath it; devil child!

The view from the bridge is breath-taking.

At the top of the hills, in the direction in front of me, stood our Serbian Orthodox church. After the fall of communism, my brother and I were christened in this church. In order for us to be christened, our parents had to have been christened too. Our mother was, she had proof, our father was too, but he had no proof. But, you see, he didn’t have time for this bureaucracy, so he argued with the priest, in the church, that he was in fact christened in the wooden church that once stood on the grounds of the new one and that all records of it were burnt when the old church burned down. The priest couldn’t argue with that, so we just carried on with the ceremony. I remember this occasion so well, it was comical.

To the right of the bridge, you can see my old school, with a small football pitch at the back of it. During our long summer holidays, the football pitch was where we used to gather to play sports, or light a bonfire and sing whilst one of our friends played his guitar. We didn’t do this anymore, it wasn’t safe.

To my left, you can see the sloping hills, with higher mountains in the background. All of this was mostly caressed by this beautiful, deep blue sky. Most of our days were sunny, but when it rained it was very dramatic, with the most spectacular thunderstorms. I miss the thunderstorms so much.

From this rock I could see our old farm, where my grandmother still lived. I could just about see our barn and the orchard; the two cottages were hidden away by the linden trees surrounding them. I was so free and wild when we lived there. I would close my eyes under the warmth of the sun and imagine that I was still living there, running around and climbing trees, thinking that I was invisible to my granny’s watchful eye.

Our village was beautifully green during the spring and the summer. But the autumn was something else! From my rock, I could see all shades of fire all around me. The colour spectrum was just spectacular. All around me.

I never used to go to my rock in winter, as it was almost in the forest, I was scared that I might see a bear or a wolf, especially when the winters were very cold and long. Sometimes you could hear wolves howling. This didn’t stop us going to school on foot though.

I was in secondary school now, which was in our nearest town, called Šipovo. Šipovo is seven kilometres away from Pljeva. We had no public transport anymore, there was no petrol for it, so we walked every day. Seven kilometres there and back, in the daylight and in the dark. I loved the walks, but I didn’t love the school. I went to a grammar school to study languages, but we didn’t have foreign language teachers very often, they were deployed too, so to me this was all a waste of time. Of course, it wasn’t a waste of time, this was a good school. The teachers that they had left, did a magnificent job, but the classes were very few and far between.

As many teenage girls, when I hit my teens, I withdrew massively. I went from being this bubbly, crazy, happy wild child to a quiet, strange teenage girl who didn’t understand this new social structure. I was a bit like Don Quixote; I didn’t quite get it at all.

I was so worried about our dad. Our grammar school was at the top of this hill in town and from my classroom window you could see the main road going through Sipovo. I remember constantly looking to see if I would spot our dad’s lorry driving through, with its very distinct yellow tarpaulin. This happened only once; I will forever remember how happy I was. I just could not wait for my school to finish so that I could start walking home to my dad. I will never forget this feeling of running up our steps to hug him.

When I was at school, I used to worry about my mum a lot too. She was at home with our baby sister, she had so much on her plate and I no longer could help her all the time. I felt dreadful leaving her every morning.

I spent three years in this grammar school. I didn’t have a good time here, I didn’t make many new friends, but I did make two friends who are still my best friends from Bosnia. They are Maja and Marina. No matter where we are in the world, when we meet up, we always carry on from where we left off. They lived in town, not far from our school. Eventually both Marina and Maja left too. Their families sent them to Serbia, to Novi Sad, to school. They wanted them to have regular classes, therefore a better education.

I carried on walking to school and back. It’s funny, I never got scared of the possibility of coming across wild animals, I just enjoyed my walks. The river would follow me all the way into town and back, I would listen to its sounds and I’d be away with the fairies. It was so beautiful, so peaceful. There were no cars, no traffic, just nature and me.

After Aleksandar’s death, whenever I was on my own, or not, I used to imagine that he was still alive. I used to imagine that we were walking along the river together, holding hands, talking and laughing. I used to daydream about him a lot, for a long time. I so desperately wanted to be with him, to see him again. I refused to accept his death, for a long time.

I didn’t do very well at school, I went from being a straight A student in primary school, to barely scraping through in the secondary school. I know my parents wished I did better. I now know that I was grieving, I was very depressed. I don’t blame my parents for not knowing this, perhaps they did. But their lives were so extreme too, they had three children to think about, not just me. But at times, I was angry, I wanted to shout: “CAN’T YOU SEE THAT I AM HURTING?!” I never did.
They did what they could and when they could. They provided a safe haven for us, in the middle of what seemed like a ring of fire.

August 1995; It was my eighteenth birthday. I was putting some washing out onto a washing line on our balcony. An unknown, small group of soldiers walked up to our house. They said: “We are looking for Vesna Đukić, do you know where she lives?” I said: “I am Vesna Đukić.” I got a bit scared, why would they want to see me.
Then they said: “Ah, Happy Birthday Vesna! Your father sent us; he knew we were passing through your town and he asked us to stop by, to wish you a happy birthday.” My bottom lip wobbled, I cried tears of happiness. My dad apparently, somehow through his wheeling and dealing, managed to get a crate of beer for his friends in this trench, where he was at this point, in honour of my birthday. We didn’t even know that he was in a trench. We thought that he was still doing his driving. I asked them if they would like to stop by for some food or drinks, they said that they had to go. And just like that, they turned around and left.

The magnitude of love.

We, my brother, sister and I, owe so much to our parents. We, my generation, owe everything to our ‘50s babies. We are here because they kept us safe.