Operation Storm; The great rescue. 9#

Operation Storm; The great rescue.

Please forgive me if this chapter doesn’t come across as clear or as emotionally expressive. I wasn’t there; I wasn’t with my family during the final exodus, during the toughest times of their lives.
The daughter in me, and the sister in me wishes that I was with my loved ones on this day of fears, cries & screams. But the mother in me understands why it was so invaluable for my parents to know that on the toughest day of their lives, at least one of their children was safe and away from the missiles, hand-grenades & gunfire.
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My mum’s journey back to Bosnia went as smoothly as it could have; it was a huge relief for my father when she arrived home safely. She was happy. They both felt a huge sense of accomplishment knowing that their teenage daughter was safe and well and away from danger.
Mum found our home warm and children as happy as they could have been. Dad had looked after them very well, but sadly he couldn’t stay, he quickly had to go. My mum waived him off and wearily carried on with her autumnal jobs and harvests.
When dad left Pljeva, he was very swiftly deployed to move the military equipment from the Petrovac frontline, as this area had fallen into the Forces’ arms. He drove as much kit as he could fit on his lorry from Petrovac to Jajce.
On the 8th of September 1995, four days after I left, my father had finished his driving task for the time being and he was already back on the frontline near Jajce.
On this fateful day, he and his fellow soldiers were informed that the operation Storm had intensified and that the Forces were nearing Sipovo.
He instantly knew what this meant; he knew that he had to go home as soon as possible. In our instance, the closest Forces frontline was near Glamoc.

Dad knew very well that to reach Sipovo on foot, the Forces would have to go through our village first. Our family was defenceless; he knew that there were many, many women, children and elderly people in our village who wouldn’t be able to escape or defend themselves.
Dad had this priceless tool that could help many, many people; his lorry.
His only option was to drive his lorry back to our village as soon as possible, knowing all the time that this was extremely dangerous. Nobody knew how quickly the Forces would reach our village. They could have been there already. But you see, as well as this terrible fear for their lives, there was always this hope amongst our people that this offensive would not reach us, that the Operation Storm would be stopped by NATO before it got too dangerous. Unfortunately, this wasn’t to happen.
You have to understand what a difficult journey this was. To get to our village, you have to follow a very bendy road for about seven kilometres. This road closely follows our beautiful river upstream. On one side of the road, you have the river followed by the soft rolling hills, on the other side of the road you have the steep cliffs, the steep hills and the forests all the way into our village.
My father’s main concern on the way to our village was the fact that his lorry had a white cabin and a bright yellow tarpaulin.
He could have been ambushed at any point and he would have been a very easy, very visible target for the Forces. This was a nerve wracking, terrifying journey. Luckily, he managed to drive safely back to our village, but he was very fearful and anticipated an ambush after every corner.
He says that deep down he knew that the end was imminent. As well as driving very cautiously, he also purposefully drove very slowly so that he could, for one last time, take in all the beautiful sights and views of our stunning countryside.
In the past, our village was always protected from the missiles by our high steep hills, but when dad arrived, the missiles had already started falling directly into some of the neighbouring villages near our Pljeva. This meant that the Forces were at the top of the hills, they were very close.
Dad found our family at home. Mum told him that they and many of our neighbours had already been hiding in our cellar. These were our Serbian and Muslim neighbours. Mum tells me that they were all very relieved to see our dad and once they found out that he had managed to bring his lorry safely home too, this gave them an enormous amount of hope. To make himself visible to the rest of the village on the east side, dad decided to park his lorry across the bridge, tucked away behind this old building. This was the only place in the village where dad could hide the lorry from the western side of our village, where the forces were firing from. It was a huge risk to drive across the bridge, but this was the best place for it.
As the evening drew closer, the shelling eased off a little bit. My family decided to spend the night in our house instead of in the cellar. They say that at this point they were still hoping that this offensive would end very soon. Perhaps they had hoped that the Forces were shelling our village just to frighten them, as part of their fearmongering tactics.
Hope, in the toughest times, is a very dangerous thing, it can make one become very complacent.
Never the less, my father asked my mum to phone everyone in the village to let them know that dad had brought his lorry in, just in case.

A little while back, our little sister was given her first, hand-me-down, bike. This was her “favourite green bike EVER!”. I remember this one day when she was riding her bike in our garden, when we all suddenly heard this blood curdling scream. We all rushed outside to find that there were these three young cockerels attacking our baby sister! Our brother rushed to her rescue; he picked her up in his arms and ran with her into our home. Once she had calmed down, he went back out. He was so frightened for her and angry at the cockerels! Needless to say, we all had a lovely, unusually, for the war, lavish feast that day! It always amazes me how we, humans, can make the best out of a bad situation. That day we celebrated that our sister was rescued from this vicious attack on time and only escaped with a couple of scratches.
On the day of our father’s arrival, my mum and dad agreed that they should all make these last few days at home as fun as possible for our sister. She and many other little children had been traumatised enough already.
My parents wanted to allow our sister to still be a three-year-old little girl.
On the evening of the 8th of September, not realising that this was their last evening at home, they brought her precious little green bike inside, so that she could ride it around the house to have a little fun, as it was not safe to do so outside anymore. My parents and my brother did their best to entertain her and they kept asking her to sing and dance for them that night, just so that they could distract her from the noise of the occasional gunfire. During the gunfire or during the sound of explosions, she used to just go quiet, she never cried. She used to love singing and dancing for us! She was our baby, she was our happiness, she was everyone’s entertainment. Our sister always genuinely made everyone feel happier, content and better.
Once everyone had fallen asleep, dad stayed up all night patrolling around the village and checking up on his lorry. He says that he had just a couple of power naps by our front door.
He still hoped that the Op Storm would be intercepted by NATO or stopped; he hoped that they would all be able to stay in our beautiful village.

On the 9th of September, at the first light of dawn, the shelling intensified. This is when everyone knew that they had to flee. They had to run to save their loves. The shells were no longer falling into the neighbouring villages; they were now falling directly into our village.
My parents, and all of the people there, found themselves in an unimaginable pain and disbelief. They had to save their children. They had to leave everything behind, everything that they had worked for, everything that they, themselves, had built from scratch. They had to leave their haven. There was no time to waste.
My father asked my mum to try and pack as much of food as she could, whilst he went to get our granny. He told her that he would be back very soon and that he will bring his truck back. He also asked my mum to spread the word to say that whoever didn’t have any transport that they should come to our house immediately so that they could get into our lorry trailer.
Meanwhile, the shelling was getting stronger and stronger.
Very quickly, our cellar filled up to the brim; full of women, the elderly, young children and babies.
My baby sister, who is now almost twenty-six years old, remembers my mum screaming and crying hysterically because she was so worried that our father would get killed crossing the bridge. She knew that the bridge would have been the Forces’ artillery’s prime target, she knew how dangerous this was.
After a little while, a big crowd started gathering outside of our house and miraculously our father managed to drive the lorry across the bridge safely and park it very closely to our house, so that the forces don’t see it. But mum noticed that he was visibly upset; he was crying and angry at the same time.
Our father went to get our granny and she refused to come with him. She told him that he must go and save his family and the rest of the village. She told him that the younger people and younger families should have the priority on his lorry, she would only slow him down. No matter how much our father pleaded, begged or argued with her, she refused to leave her home. She finally agreed that she will make her way down with the rest of the people coming down from the hills.
By the time our father arrived in front of our house, a crowd of one hundred and seventy terrified humans had already, desperately, been waiting for him. They all started frantically climbing into the lorry, carrying their most precious material positions and their most precious memories. The lorry was filled with cries and desperate screams.
By this point, the gun fire was getting closer and closer. The bullets started embedding themselves into the walls of our homes. Mortar shells were being directed at the houses, into the roofs. My father, who was at the bottom of our balcony shouted for my mother to come down from the house immediately! My brother picked my sister up and went to escape through the front door. My mum threw the bags of food off the balcony, into my father’s hands. As she ran through the house, she managed to grab this extremely expensive cutlery set that she had bought for me, this was to be my wedding gift one day. She also grabbed a couple of photo albums. These photos were our history, our ancestry and our heritage.
As my mum, my brother and our sister in his arms, went to escape through the front door, the shots were fired at them; they could see the forces running towards them across this small field at the back of our house. My mum just managed to grab my brother and pull him back. The only way back into the “safety” was to run back through the house and jump off the balcony.
Mum screamed for dad; he turned around to see her desperate face full of horror. She screamed: “Jovan, take our children! Take them!”.
Mum lowered our sister first, our father managed to catch her safely. Mum then helped my brother jump off the balcony, into my father’s arms. Our auntie Rada took hold of our sister, and took her into the lorry’s cabin. This breaks my heart, apparently our sister screamed:” Save my bike, save my green bike! Who is going to ride it now?!”
This was my auntie Rada’s second plight for safety. She had already escaped from Travnik once before. She was just so grateful that she was still alive.
Once my brother and sister were safely off the balcony, my mum threw the photo albums down onto the ground, and whilst holding the cutlery very tightly, she jumped off the balcony herself. My father helped her.
As soon as she was safely on the ground, mum grabbed the albums and climbed into the lorry’s trailer to try and help with calming the young children down. My brother was in charge of closing the trailer’s back door and of making sure that the tarpaulin was tightened to the maximum. When mum finally looked down her body, she noticed that her skirt was ripped, and her thighs were heavily bruised, from climbing down the balcony. Mum was shaking heavily; my brother was crying.
Dad says, just as he pulled away from our house, he saw this woman running towards the lorry, weighed down by the bags of her belongings that she had been carrying. Dad shouted for her to hurry up as he couldn’t afford to wait. Sadly, she had to throw her bags onto the ground in order to run faster. She very quickly caught up with them and ran into the cabin.
By this point, altogether, there were one hundred and sixty one person in the trailer of the lorry and thirteen people in the cabin; one hundred and seventy four human lives at stake.
As soon as the cabin door was shut for the final time, our father set off. He didn’t know if they would make it out alive. He didn’t know if the lorry would be shot at.
And sure enough, about a kilometre from our house, a missile fell right in front of the lorry! As dad slammed the brakes, everyone in the lorry went flying forward. Our little sister hit her head on the windscreen and cracked the windscreen!
From that moment on, dad hit the accelerator and asked auntie Rada to put some music on, to the maximum volume.
He wanted to do what he could to protect our sister from hearing all the whaling coming from the back of our lorry. Also, he wanted to protect her from hearing all the gunfire and explosions.
Apparently, being the happy little girl that she was, even in the scariest of circumstances, she started singing and wiggling her bum in the little space that she had. His plan had worked.
Dad started singing himself, whilst tears were running down his face, occasionally wiping his face on the sleeves of his shirt, with his hands firmly on the wheel. He couldn’t stop thinking of his mother. He couldn’t stop thinking of the most horrific things that could happen to her.
He couldn’t help but believe that he would be responsible for her death. He would carry this guilt for the rest of his life.
He blamed himself.
Even though he, potentially, saved one hundred and seventy four lives, he felt the full brunt of his guilt for a very long time.

Serbia. Becoming a refugee. 8#

Not long after my eighteenth birthday, my father came home for a little R&R. Oh my goodness, we were so happy; he was finally home and he was safe.

Dad hadn’t been home for two and a half months. We didn’t know where he was. All we knew was that he was somewhere in a trench. This was a very worrying time for all of us. Especially for my mum.

The day he came back, we all rushed down the steps to greet him, I carried our sister who was only three at the time. We couldn’t wait to see him, to hug him.

When we saw dad, he was standing at the bottom of the stairs; he looked tired. He had lost some weight, his hair was longer & unkempt. He had grown a beard.

Our sister clung on to me, like for dear life. She didn’t recognise him, she was scared. I think out all of us, dad was looking forward to seeing her the most. He was visibly upset that she didn’t recognise him. All he wanted was to pick her up and give her a hug.

We all welled up, we felt so sad for him.

He stood back and wiped his tears, he didn’t want to scare her any further. Dad asked me to take her back into our home. It was only after dad had a bath and after he shaved that she recognised him. She ran to him with her arms up and hugged him for ages. She didn’t leave his side for quite a while.

Unbeknown to me, my happiness was to be very short-lived.

The very next day, my parents sat me down to tell me that they had decided that I should move to Serbia, for the last year of my grammar school, so that I could, at least for one year, have regular classes and regular English lessons. My parents decided that my mum would accompany me to Serbia.

I didn’t understand the seriousness of their decision at the time. Years later, they told me that they were terribly worried about my safety. They both strongly believed that I was no longer safe at home. They wanted their teenage daughter away from this madness, from danger. Mum became tearful when she told me that their main worry was revenge rape.

Mum & dad wanted me to be somewhere where they knew that I’d be looked after very well and where I’d be safe. They were sending me to live with my mum’s brother and his family in Serbia, in Stopanja, near Kruševac.

I was so upset, I didn’t want to leave my family behind. I kept thinking that if I stayed, if anything bad happened, at least we would all be together. We’d help each other, we’d support each other.

But, no. Once my parents decided something, there was no going back.

We had to get a special permit to travel. Mum sorted this out.

My departure happened too quickly. I had to pack and leave within two days. It was agreed that as soon mum came back from taking me to Serbia, that my father would have to go back to war. Saying goodbye to him was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. I didn’t know when I’d see him again. I didn’t know if I’d be able to come back any time soon once I crossed the border. I felt like a traitor; I was leaving them all behind to, in a sense, to live in luxury.

The night before my trip was very stormy. I didn’t sleep much at all, but I do remember having this dream where I and my whole family stood in this field, when suddenly this crack appeared in the ground, separating me from everyone else. However much I tried, I couldn’t cross it, I couldn’t reach them. I was devastated. When I woke up, I got worried that my dream was going to be a bad omen.

The next morning, early morning, on the 4th of September 1995, my mum and I set off, leaving my father, brother and sister behind. My grandmother came down from her farm to say goodbye too. They all stood on our balcony, waving at us. I could see my grandmother wiping her eyes with her traditional Serbian headscarf. My brother and sister kept calling my name until I could no longer see them or hear them. I cried so much. I kept saying that I didn’t want to go. Mum kept saying that it was for the best.

I hardly got to say goodbye to anyone else.

We slowly made our way to Serbia. We first took a coach to Belgrade, then took another one from Belgrade to Kruševac. Our journey was seventeen hours long.

When I arrived, my uncle and aunt and my cousins greeted us with such warmth, they were just so loving. We relaxed for a little bit, talked late into the night; I never left my mum’s side. She had to go back the very next day. Dad had to go back to war.

So many things were going through my head. What if my father and my siblings got attacked? What if the border officers didn’t let my mum cross back into Republika Srpska, Bosnia? What would dad do then? So much was at risk. If anything happened to my mum, I would have felt responsible for the rest of my life.

I will never forget the moment she left, I held her for a long time, we both cried. She kept promising me that she’d keep everyone safe. She climbed onto the coach and left. I too, like my brother and sister did, stood there waving at the bus until I could no longer see it. I had this horrible, horrible fear in my stomach that I will never see my family again. I couldn’t even phone them any more; the phone lines with Bosnia were disconnected by this point.

The next few weeks were very busy for me. I had to get used to living in a new country, I started my new school. I tried so hard to concentrate, to learn, but all I could think about was my family. I missed them so much, it hurt.

My uncle and aunt lived in this big house, with a very popular restaurant on the ground floor. They owned it all and the two of them, together with my aunt’s mother, ran it all too. They were incredibly busy. They still live in this house and they still have their restaurant; it’s called Beograd (Belgrade). Sadly my aunt’s mother is no longer with them.

Prior to my arrival, my aunt had arranged for me to start my new grammar school. By the time I got there, everything I needed was waiting for me, it was all ready. My uncle and aunt did it all.

Despite being incredibly busy, my auntie Vera always made time for me and took me absolutely everywhere with her. She took me shopping; she bought me some new clothes, some new shoes and a fancy new school rucksack. She took me to a fancy salon to have a fancy haircut too. She wanted me to fit in and not stand out too much. I was so happy and grateful she did this, I didn’t have any trendy clothes then. When I lived at home, we recycled our clothes as long as we could. It was so nice to finally wear something that actually fitted me.

She also educated me. She was very aware that I came from a small village and that I had never really been exposed to what goes on in bigger cities. Drugs, especially drugs. My new school was a well known grammar school, but the town that my school was in was infamous for drug abuse.

I remember this so well. The day before I started my new school, my auntie spoke to me about the dangers of recreational drugs and what kind of effects they have on our bodies. I had never taken any drugs and I had no intention to, but she wanted to educate me, just in case someone disguised them in my drinks or food. She did all the research. She stood in front of me and demonstrated how different drugs affect us and how we would physically react to them. This was hilarious! She acted out every scenario, every situation, position and every convulsion. I found this really funny, but she was dead serious. She wanted me to know everything. She also told me never to accept a drink in a glass, always in an unopened bottle. She told me to always ask waiters and waitresses to open my drink in front of me. This was such an eye opener.

On my first day of school, I was filled with nervousness and excitement at the same time. Because I didn’t do very well in my previous school, I just wasn’t sure if I’d be able to match my family’s expectations in this new school, in this new environment. If I am honest, I was scared.

I shouldn’t have been. My new school was just wonderful! The teachers were friendly and welcoming. My new school friends were so warm and welcoming too.

The school was warm too. This was such a novelty for me, we hardly ever had any heating on in my old school; it was all so lovely. Eventually I was on a bit of a high. I wanted to learn, I wanted to do well, to make my mum and dad proud.

Soon enough, I had a lovely group of friends who truly looked after me. Especially this wonderful young lady called Zorica. She used to pick me up in her car and take me out to her favourite cafe; thanks to her I felt like I had always been there. She introduced me to so many new young people of our age, she truly took me under her wing.

When I was at my new home, with my wonderfully kind hosts, they made sure that I had absolutely everything that I needed. They treated me like their third child. My cousins were incredibly kind and generous. My cousin Marija (Maria) was closer to my age; she introduced me to all of her friends, we spent a lot of time together.

The only thing I found strange was that they hardly ever had their TVs on. Or it seemed that way; when ever I walked in they would turn them off. Also, when ever I walked into the restaurant, my uncle and aunt kept folding their newspapers away. I found this a bit strange. But I never asked, I wanted to show that I was grateful and I didn’t want to be rude.

I used to take this bus to get to school and back, this was always quite a lively journey as the bus was usually full of school children.

One evening when I was coming back from school, this lady was sitting in front of me, facing me. She looked very similar to my auntie Rada, she had the same big blue, often sad, eyes. Auntie Rada was a refugee in our village. She often sat by the window, looking away, as though she was always waiting for someone to arrive. This lady reminded me so much of her. I felt so nostalgic and homesick.

When I got back, I first went to the restaurant to greet everyone and have my dinner. As I walked in, my uncle Bogdan quickly folded the newspapers away and he turned the TV off. We chatted for a little while and I then went upstairs to do my homework.

As I was doing my homework, the phone rang. I picked up the phone and to my surprise, it was my friend Marina; I was ecstatic! I was so happy to hear her voice. We chatted for a while about school and how nice it was to live in Serbia. We mentioned how now we had basic things widely available and very easily accessible. Things like toothpaste; we couldn’t buy toothpaste in Bosnia anywhere, for quite a while then. We used salt or soda bicarbonate to brush our teeth with. We laughed about our people’s resourcefulness for a bit. It was so nice to hear from her.

Marina then asked me:

“How are your mum and dad, and your brother and sister? Where are they now? Are they with you? From what I hear, a lot of people from Šipovo have settled in Vojvodina.”

I was a bit confused by her question, I said:

“Erm, I think they are all ok. They are all back in Šipovo, but I’m not sure where dad is.”

Marina paused and then said:

“They are still in Šipovo? Oh no, they never left?!”

I started panicking:

“What do you mean they never left? Why would they leave? I don’t understand.”

Marina said:

“Don’t you know what happened? Šipovo was attacked and evacuated on the 9th of September. Everyone left, all the villages were evacuated too. Pljeva was one of the first villages to go.”

I remember this moment so well. My heart was racing, I felt dizzy. Marina carried on talking, but I couldn’t hear…

My Pljeva…my village. My family! My baby sister! My home!

On the 9th?! Five days after I left!

I fell down to the floor, still clutching the phone. My auntie Vera suddenly rushed through the front door, she had heard me talking to someone on the phone. She was worried. She could see that I was upset, she very quickly realised what must have happened. She became tearful too. She grabbed the phone off me and started telling Marina off, telling her that she shouldn’t have told me.

Auntie Vera very quickly put the phone down and sat with me on the floor. She held me as I sobbed.

I felt so bad, it wasn’t Marina’s fault. She didn’t know that I didn’t know what had happened.

The same evening, my auntie and I phoned Marina back. My auntie apologised and explained everything to Marina. My beautiful friend understood it all, she was fine.

I finally understood why everyone kept turning their TVs off, why they always folded all the newspapers away. They didn’t want me to see the news. They didn’t want to worry me. I was in a new environment, in a new school, in a new country. They wanted me to settle in well first, before they told me what had happened. They were protecting me.

I felt terribly sad for my uncle and aunt. My family was their family too. They must have been worried sick about everyone, yet they put a very brave front on for me.

To this day, I don’t know how they managed to pull it all off for so long, together with their children. My uncle Bogdan, my auntie Vera, their children Marija & Marko, are some of the kindest, the most loving & the most generous people I know. They showed me how even in some of the toughest times we can still be selfless, kind, loving & giving.

The Power Of Nobodies. 5#

Early Nineties. The toughest years. The numbing years.

To my young impressionable mind, what was happening during these years was too much to understand, too much to take in. Too much to fear.

By this point many of our neighbours had moved away from our village. Some of them simply moved abroad in search of a better life, or some had moved away to different parts of Bosnia, to live with their relatives where they were a majority. There were some rumours that some of the young men who had left, had joined a paramilitary group. I am afraid, I do not know any facts about this, so therefore I don’t feel comfortable writing about it.

In the early nineties, in July 1992 was when we, as a family, lost someone very dear to us for the first time; we lost him to war.
My father’s best friend Stevan, his oldest best friend, his best friend from childhood, was killed in…in the most horrific way. I can’t bring myself to tell you how he was killed.

Traditionally, Serbian funerals are quite big. If you go to someone’s funeral, you go to pay your respects to the deceased, to their family and to their ancestors. In rural areas, a Serbian priest would lead the procession from the deceased’s home to the family’s graveyard usually in a horse-drawn hearse. After the funeral, friends and family would come back home to a wake, where traditional meals are served.

I remember Stevan’s funeral like it was yesterday. It was a beautiful, sunny day.
We set off early, so that mum and dad could help out. Dad had already spent an entire day, the day before, helping with setting everything up.

There wasn’t a single white cloud in the sky.
Stevan’s family home was at the top of the hills, in a stunning location. From there you could see the whole valley in its full glory, with the river peacefully flowing away. I remember we walked up there and at one point we paused to take the view in. Our dad put me, then my brother, on his shoulders so that we could have a better view of our beautiful village. None of us said a word. We carried on walking in silence.

Stevan’s mother was an old lady, dressed in black from head to toe. I remember her so well; she looked so stoic. She was being held by her close relatives, but she stood tall by her door, greeting everyone. She was so visibly broken by her immeasurable loss, but yet she held herself with such pride. I will never forget her, she truly left a lasting impression on me.

She was a true example of a strong, proud woman. She showed me that even in the most unimaginable grief, we can still appear to be strong and show strength in front of others; even if inside, we are dying.
She seemed to have been comforting everyone else around her. Without a doubt, she would have dealt with her grief in silence, once she was on her own, or in the presence of her closest confidante, for the rest of her life.

When we got back home, we were all so happy to see our baby sister. It was so nice to have cuddles with her after such a hard, emotional day. Our lovely neighbour looked after her while we were at the funeral. Our father sat silently next to our mum whilst she breastfed the baby. When our sister fell asleep, he kissed her, and he walked out. He went away for a few days, to grieve.

I don’t think he’s ever been the same since. I noticed that he clenched his jaw a lot more from then on. He also used to have terrible nightmares. He still does. He never talked about it, we never asked.

Mum said that dad continued looking after Stevan’s mother whenever he could.
Unfortunately, Stevan was not to be the only friend or relative that my parents lost in this horrid war.
You never get used to it, you somehow get accustomed to it. You become numb.

Eventually, our father announced that he too will soon have to go to war. To this day, thinking about this still fills me with dread and it gives me shivers down my spine. We knew this was inevitable. He had to prepare us for the worst.

He said, to begin with, he would predominantly be deployed as a lorry driver, to deliver supplies. He knew all the main routes and the back routes as the back of his hand. He promised us that he would come to see us as often as he could and that he would try to help people whenever he could.

As a result of this, my father had to introduce us to weapons. At first, there was this nervous excitement in us. My brother, like most boys, thought they were cool. But very quickly our father told us that there was nothing cool about weapons. He was dead serious.
Our mother was absolutely terrified. She was worried sick about what would happen to our father. She knew she had to protect us, but she feared that she wouldn’t be able to handle any kind of weapons. She got terribly upset and told our father that she would never be able to use them. Dad was very cross about this, he just wanted us to be safe, but he also deep down understood and knew how sensitive and fearful of weapons our mother was.

As I was the eldest of the three, my father taught me how to handle and use the weapons. He taught me how to dismantle, clean & put back together a pistol and a rifle, in the light and in the dark. He took me to our forest for target practice. He told us that the weapons were only ever to be used if our family was attacked.

I absolutely hated it. I hated the fact that we had to have weapons in our home. We also had a handful of hand grenades, which were kept under my bed. Can you imagine this happening to a teenage girl in the UK, in this day and age?
The weapons, brought so much fear in me and a huge sense of responsibility. They brought this fear in me that I might one day have to use them. Luckily, I never had to.

But I have to tell you that my brother and I did do something very naughty. Well, by my brother and I, I mean me.

Sometimes at night, I used to take a pair of pliers and a handful of bullets. My brother and I would then go out onto our balcony. I would carefully separate bullets from their cases and empty all the gunpowder on to the balcony floor, creating intricate shapes on the floor. Then boom! I would light the gunpowder at one end of the balcony and then shriek with excitement, watching it burn bright red in the most wonderful shapes across the balcony. This was SO naughty and dangerous, but we had so much fun! Childish fun.

Very quickly we all saw what weapons could do, what damage they could do. By we, I mean all sides, all nationalities, in all parts of Bosnia.
The nobodies, the non-achievers, the village idiots that they once were, suddenly got hold of weapons and they did stupid things, they terrified women and children. They had never achieved anything in their lives before, but suddenly they had power, they had weapons.
The nobodies were the people who were not fit to go to war, they however somehow managed to get hold of weapons illegally. They spread fear amongst us. They used to set things alight at night and they started shooting at people’s houses at night. They would fuel their little night-time adventures with alcohol consumption.

You see, weapons desensitise people. Weapons are never necessary amongst civilians. Having lived through this, I just cannot understand how and why anyone would buy a weapon unregulated, illegally, anywhere. It saddens me so much and it terrifies me.

My parents got increasingly concerned about our neighbours’ children. One night an explosive device was thrown at one of the houses. At the time of the attack, this family had three young children in their house.

When mum and dad built our houses, they built them to sustain any form weather or attack. Perhaps my dad always suspected that this war would happen.

Our house was deemed the safest structurally, and because some of the nobodies feared my dad, we knew that we were as safe as we could be.
However, my father did something very risky indeed, to protect others. For the greater good.

For a while, he went out at night and brought some of our neighbours’ children to our house, to keep them safe. He would pick them up at night and drop them back off before dawn. My brother and I loved this! We had regular sleepovers with our friends; we did not for once think that our father was putting himself in danger by doing this. We were too young, we didn’t understand the enormity of it all.
I was, and still am, immensely proud of our parents. They wouldn’t have done it any other way. In their mind, there was no question about it. They had to protect these innocent children. If something had happened to these children, to our friends, my parents would never have forgiven themselves.

It must have taken so much bravery and strength to carry this out. Even after my father lost his dear friends, they were killed by the same nationalities that our neighbours were, he still had enough love left in his heart for these children. Imagine Northern Ireland at its worst, then imagine a Protestant man rescuing Catholic children in secret, to protect them, or a Catholic man rescuing Protestant children in secret, to protect them. That’s what our father did. He knew that it wasn’t the children’s fault. They were just innocent children.
This was for the greater good, our parents said. “Always think bigger picture. This will one day end.”

Soon, it was time for our father to go away. He got up early one morning; he did his usual morning fitness routine and spent some time in the bathroom making himself look pretty. 😉<<<<<<<<<
est smart-casuals on, plenty of aftershave on, combed his hair and kissed and hugged us goodbye. He didn’t say much, but we could see that he wiped his tears away as he climbed into his lorry. His lorry was white with a bright yellow cover on the trailer. I remember wishing that his lorry was a lot less visible. We didn’t see him for five weeks. These were very, very long weeks.

Mum ran a very tight ship at home, I think this was her way of coping. Most of the time we didn't have any electricity. It was so funny, we never knew when the power would come back on, but when it did, all we could hear in the neighbourhood was the sound of the vacuum cleaners!

When my brother and I weren’t at school, we had to help with the animals, the house upkeep and with our sister. She was so much fun! A bundle of cuteness with lots & lots of curly hair. She was our happiness and our endless source of entertainment. We were usually in charge of her afternoon naps. She was such a deep sleeper! Every now & then, once she was asleep, my brother and I would sneak into her room and we would prop her up into a seating position, while she was still asleep, and then watch her all jelly-like flop backwards onto her bed. I know, this was very naughty, but this made us laugh so much; unless we got caught, then we were in a lot of trouble.

Around this time was when our Serbian relatives started arriving from Sarajevo, Breza and Travnik. These were my eldest uncle and his family, and my two aunts and their families. They were no longer safe where they lived, so they moved back into our village. At first, our relatives stayed with us, in our house, until they found an alternative accommodation.

This was a complete madness! My mum suddenly had seven children to feed as well as run everything else. I remember this once she was very stressed. We now laugh about this one glitch of hers. It was so funny!<<<<<<<<<
vening after a bit too much of crazy & bickering amongst all the children in our house, she asked me this: “Vesna, can you go and put all of our chickens on a lead and then give some corn to our dog.” Dead serious!<<<<<<<<<
utely bent over with laughter! Mum just looked at me blankly, picked one of our young chicks up and walked into the house. Very quickly she came back out, put the chick back down onto the ground and walked back in again. This was so funny.<<<<<<<<<
, she had so much going on. I sometimes struggle now as a mother of two, living in the UK, with a very supportive husband, who is always home…ahem! 😉

I simply cannot imagine what it was like for parents living in any war, not knowing from day to day whether their children will be safe.

But we all carried on. We had to, we had no other choice. We were lucky, we had a roof over our heads. We were safe. Our mum made sure that we were always grateful for what we had.

We just couldn’t stop thinking about dad.

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.

Cathartic. Consequences of war & trauma.

Writing about Aleksandar’s death was very cathartic.

Twenty-four years have passed; discovering that it was all still so raw, was such a powerful and a sobering feeling. I felt very strongly that he was still very much part of me.

But I had to write about him. I had to finally tell my story. I had to tell the story of this beautiful human who was taken from us too soon, too young. I had to tell the story of hundreds of thousands of people from my home country, who have been through similar, and worse, far worse, and yet nobody hears about them.

It hurts me so much that nobody hears their voices. I have always wanted to write about my people, but I never had the courage to start. By my people, I mean the good, honest country people, not the country’s leaders or politicians.

My “awakening” came when I started studying to become a childminder in the UK. I had to study so much about trauma and how much childhood trauma affects our adult lives and how much infant and childhood trauma affects our brains. More often than not, trauma or abuse goes unreported.

I read so much about how much help there is available for our children in the UK and which agencies to contact if we suspect that a child is being abused or experiencing trauma. There are SO many amazing agencies in the UK, which is just wonderful, but there are hardly any in Bosnia.

My final push in my writing direction, came in September 2017; I received a call from my sister who was so distressed, she could barely speak. She is twenty five years old; she lives in Bosnia. She was our war baby. As a result of the times that she was born in, she too experienced a lot of trauma. After years of struggling, she had finally summoned the courage to seek counselling. She went to see a private counsellor and explained why she was there. This…man, then proceeded to ask her if she was a virgin. She was shocked and became very upset. He then lectured her on his religious basis; she ran out, crying.

I was furious and so upset for her. I felt so guilty that I didn’t have any means of helping her. I was angry.

I would love to set up a trust fund which would enable me to set up a counselling program for our veterans in Bosnia, their families and especially their children. I would be the happiest person alive if I succeeded in this.

I feel so strongly about counselling. Counselling has helped me immensely; I can’t advocate it enough. Trauma and bereavement counselling has been one of the hardest things I have ever had to do, and one of the best things in my life at the same time. My counselling has changed my life forever. It allowed me to heal, to properly say goodbye to my long lost loved ones, it allowed me to move on and have a proper closure. I am much nicer person now, thanks to my counselling.

If untreated, trauma leaves lifelong effects on a person and their loved ones around them.

Trauma ruined my paternal grandfather’s life, therefore subsequently affecting my father’s life, then mine.

My grandfather Stanko succumbed to his broken heart, years after he lost his first wife and a daughter during the WW2, and years after living through his war traumas. He never recovered. My father still doesn’t know what his father went through. I still don’t know what my father went through.
My grandfather died when he was only fifty-five, leaving seven children and a wife behind, my grandmother.

He was once a force to be reckoned with. He was a mayor, a politician, a land owner, a successful farmer…the list is big. He died just before my second birthday. Everyone tells me that he loved me so much and that he took me with him everywhere. I dream of him quite often. I dream of him sitting under our huge linden tree, on this bench that he made, I’m sitting on his lap. I dream that he’s telling me stories, but I never hear his voice. My father still has this bench. I sometimes dream of him calling my name from the top of this hill where our farm once was. I wish someone wrote his stories down.

This is my grandfather Stanko, in the middle.

In the absence of therapy or counselling, some men and women have resorted to alcohol. This is so common all over the world. Alcohol intoxication numbs their pain and the suffering temporarily. This eventually becomes an addiction. This absolutely breaks my heart.

These were once strong men and women. They had achieved so much. They managed to keep my parents’ generation fed and safe, as much as they could and whenever they could. They fought in WW2, they fought in the last civil war too. Yet, they are judged and ridiculed because they drink. They were seen as fools and ill-disciplined. They were seen as weak.

I worry that my father drinks too much too. I worry that he too will have a heart attack like his father did. My father was once a fit, strong man, who set up his own company against all the odds, he travelled the world. He was a game changer, ahead of his time. He was a successful businessman, a workaholic, a generous heart who employed people of all nationalities and backgrounds. He employed the misfits, the “fallen off the wagon” ones, he took a risk just give them a second chance. He let homeless young people sleep in our house or in his trucks. Don’t worry, he wasn’t stupid, he was very strict, they were all too scared of him to do anything stupid. He was the centre of my world.

He doesn’t travel any more. He retired early and handed everything over to my brother. He now breeds organic pigs, sheep and goats, on a much smaller scale than before. He helps my mum run their B&B and a small restaurant. He keeps himself busy, he’s always building something, extending buildings and outbuildings or making something out of wood. But he has regular nightmares and night sweats, he sometimes shakes violently in his sleep. He regularly shouts in his sleep too.

Our father has carried his traumas since he was a young boy; they just multiplied in the ‘90s.

When we were younger, I judged my father’s occasional angry outbursts. I judged him and at times I didn’t like him for this. I didn’t know.

Now that I am older, now that I have been through my own series of unfortunate events, I understand him so much more. He carried so much on his shoulders.

He is still this kindhearted, intelligent, full of knowledge and wisdom, selfless, charismatic, cheeky legend of a man, but I can tell you that he is a shadow of his formal self.

Because of the traumas that our grandparents experienced during the WW2, we have to understand that our parents could not have had balanced childhoods at all, which subsequently affected them as adults. Most likely they were frequently exposed to domestic violence as a result of this. Their parents were still suffering and in a sense, still broken. The two generations didn’t have time to heal; they first had to deal with the aftermath of the WW2 as well as having young families, and then boom! Another war happens.

A war doesn’t stop once the bullets stop falling. The war aftermath carries on for at least two generations. It destroys the economics and the infrastructure, which directly affects families, especially in the cities.

I remember, people went hungry, they took on any jobs, people got exploited, women got exploited, children got exploited. They lost their pride and their integrity just so that they could feed their families. They begged and pleaded.

These “exploiters” were the people that our father warned us about at the beginning of the war, they were the war profiteers. He made sure that we never had to go through this ourselves.

On top of all of this terrible hardship, there was this ever-present mental health stigma. If you sought medical help, you were seen as weak or crazy. When it comes to mental health, it was not and still is not acceptable to seek medical help, but it is acceptable however to suffer and make others around you suffer.

The other thing that seems to be socially acceptable in the Balkans, generally, is going to see a Serbian Orthodox priest, a Catholic priest or a Muslim imam for a confession. This confession is seen as a form of counselling. I understand this, this is how it’s always been done, this is what majority of people are comfortable with. I passionately support “It’s good to talk” campaigns, but these wonderful people also need expert help, they need medical help.

I am religious, but I see this as my personal choice and the way I view religion has nothing to do with anyone else. I personally believe that we are all equal and no priest or imam is a higher human being than us.

I do however believe that doctors, psychologists, psychiatrists have a lot more knowledge about mental health than we do. Who are we to question their many years of hard work, studying and dedication? Who are we, the ones who did not study human anatomy and human mind, to question their vast knowledge and expertise. I LOVE my country, but stigma has no place amongst modern humans.

I saw so much of this in Bosnia. I want to change it. I know, I understand the enormity of my dream, but I can start small. I can first start in my home town, and then expand my counselling mission further. I am terribly stubborn, and I can be pretty persuasive. I can do this!

It breaks my heart that our grandparents never healed. Our parents haven’t mentally healed either. Just as our parents were in their prime, on their way to recovery, this civil war happened. Another war in the Balkans. Again.

They didn’t stand a chance.

Yet, we judge them. We must not judge how they deal with their pain. It is their way of coping. If we can just get people to talk, to a mental health professional, I know this would help them move on and have closure.

They could then live much healthier lives. They would then have much more mental strength and resources to deal with their addictions. I want to help provide this support to my people.

I would do absolutely anything and I would speak to absolutely anyone, if this meant that we would be able to provide trauma, grief, bereavement & PTSD counselling.

These wonderful people have suffered too much for too long, they have carried this burden for too long. I would love to somehow help them release their lead balloons, help them have closure, help them put it all to rest and move on. They deserve a f***ing break!

There are many symptoms and effects of PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Please red these carefully:

“Symptoms of PTSD:

Persistent, Invasive, or Intrusive Symptoms – symptoms are connected to the precipitating trauma and begin after the event:
Intrusive, invasive, involuntary distressing memories of the events
Nightmares
Dissociative episodes (flashbacks) during which the individual feels they are re-experiencing the event
Prolonged emotional distress when faced with triggers of the trauma
Physiological reactions to triggers of the event
Avoidance Symptoms – these behaviours attempt to reduce the level of suffering of a person by avoiding triggers and memories of the event.
Avoidance (or attempts to avoid) people, places, activities, conversations, objections, and situations that may lead to disconcerting thoughts, feelings, or memories of the trauma
Efforts made to avoid anything that triggers distressing memories, feelings, or thoughts of the event
Negative Mood Symptoms – these symptoms begin with the event and worsen over time
Inability to remember parts of the traumatic event
Negative beliefs about oneself, others, or the world
Distorted thoughts about the trauma that lead to assigning blame for the event to themselves or another person
Constant negative mood state
Inability to feel pleasure
Feeling disconnected from others
Inability to feel positive emotions
Alterations in Arousal Symptoms:
Irritability
Angry outbursts without provocation
Recklessness
Self-destructive behaviour
Self-harm
Difficulty concentrating
Hyper-vigilance
Exaggerated startle response
Sleep problems
Other symptoms of PTSD may include:
Depersonalization: Feeling detached from your body, as though you’re looking down from above
De-realization: Feeling as if you’re walking on water, in a dream or alternate reality
Effects of PTSD
The effects of PTSD touch every area of an individual’s life leaving virtually nothing unscathed. The longer that PTSD exists without treatment, the greater the effects of PTSD on a person’s life. The most common effects of post-traumatic stress disorder may include:
Pseudo-hallucinations
Eating disorders
Paranoia
Difficulty regulating emotions
Inability to maintain stable relationships
Dissociative symptoms
Depression
Anger
Nightmares
Difficulty feeling emotions
Guilt
Sleep problems
Substance abuse
Social phobia
Difficulty maintaining job
Agoraphobia
Self-harm; self-mutilation
Suicidal thoughts, attempts or completed suicide.”

If you recognise some of these symptoms in yourself, or in someone you know, please seek medical advice. PTSD is fully treatable.

Broken People Heal. 6#

By this point, I was fifteen years old and full of life, hope, naivety & dreams. When ever I could, I would find a few moments to dream away, whether this was at home or in my natural habitat, the wilderness. I have always been a big romantic too. I often dreamed of having my own big family one day, at least four children and a sporty, businessman husband. I know, this all sounds silly and cliché, but when you are growing up in the middle of crazy and where nothing is cliché, you crave it. You dream of safety, nine to five life, love and comfort. This was nothing but a dream. We just had love.

When ever I ventured out into my wilderness, I knew my safe, physical, boundaries very well. As the time went by, and as the war got a lot more dangerous, I had to restrict my walks to just the edges of our forest. I missed my long thinking walks and the very familiar wild environment. I missed the smell & the shades of the deep forest and the soft, silky feel of the moss on the rocks that I used sit on. I missed the heights of “my” hills.

Our parents, mum, would speak to us very often and explain where strategically we were positioned and what the risks of us being attacked were. And if we got attacked, our parents had a plan. They always had a plan for everything and they would make it clear to us, what ever happened, they had a solution; we, the children, would be ok.

Indeed, every now and again, our valley was shelled. During these attacks, because of our three level, three concrete floors, house, our neighbours would come to us as soon as they would hear the explosions and we would all run and hide in our cellar.

At first, as soon as we were in the cellar, a sense of fear and adrenaline rushing through our bodies would overcome us, then deathly silence. We used to all sit on the floor and wait. Nobody ever spoke during these long attacks, as if we were afraid that they would hear us, they would know where we were hiding. Even the young ones, our babies and toddlers, kept quiet. There is something almost majestic about the sound of the shells falling in the distance. You go into some part of your subconsciousness that tricks you into thinking that this was not real. You start thinking: “This is not happening to us. This isn’t our reality.”

The sound of the shells falling and exploding, almost sounded like we were extras in a WW2 movie. But we weren’t, this was happening. To us.

I still find it fascinating that even in those moments we, the children, felt safe. Or we were just too young to understand the risks and the consequences of the attacks. But perhaps most of all, our parents made us feel safe & reassured.

Our dad, like so many fathers then, wasn’t with us. He had already gone to his new war equipment & aid transport job. This broke my mum, she missed him terribly. She is one very loving and funny lady, she absolutely loves to have a good laugh, especially at her own expense, but during those times she went very quiet. Her safe place was by the burning fire of our AGA, she spent many evenings sitting on her favourite handmade wooden stool, whilst watching the fire. She & the war mothers had to remain strong, she had three children to look after.

By this point there were many evening curfews in place, but we were still able to go out for a limited amount of time. This felt like being released from prison.

Every now and again, my mum would let me go out with my friends in the evening for a little while, into our tiny town that had just a handful of cafes which in the evenings turned into nightclubs. My friends and I used to get so excited about these little outings! Like all teenage girls, we used to spend hours getting ready and we used to giggle all the way into town with such excitement! We’d walk there and back.

This was the first time I truly fell in love. I remember the moment I saw him so well. He was tall, sporty looking, with short light brown hair; he had bright blue eyes. Gorgeous smile!

We were introduced by a mutual friend. I was the only one out of my friends who didn’t smoke at this time; this caught his attention. He said that he was a non-smoker too and that he was really impressed that I didn’t smoke. He said: “Did you know that Vesna was a goddess of spring?”. This made me so happy, not many people knew this about my name.

He joined us at the table and pulled a chair to sit next to me. My teenage heart was racing like crazy! I was trying so hard not to show my almost physical reaction to him. I was so nervous. But I truly shouldn’t have been, he was so nice and so friendly. That night we chatted about anything and everything; we got on so well, we laughed so much. He too had this desire to one day, when this war was over, travel and explore the world. We joked and agreed that one day we’d visit New Zealand together.

At this time of my life, talking to boys was not my best skill. I absolutely hated that awkward stage where you just don’t know what to say and you end up sounding like a complete plonker! But talking to him was so easy. He was an intelligent, open minded soul. I think, from that moment on, I dreamed of marrying him every single day.

When we parted that wonderful evening, I gave him our home phone number. He said that he’d call me the next day and he did. His phone calls were magical. I used to get butterflies in my tummy every time I knew he’d be calling me.

To keep our relationship a secret, if my mum answered the phone, he’d say that he was my school friend. At this particular time of my life, my mum didn’t want me to date anyone. These were dangerous times, my mum was always worried that I’d meet someone dishonest. She had enough worry as it was. But I knew I was safe. He was lovely.

I remember telling my best friends about him: how different he was from all the other boys I knew, how kind he was, how insightful and forward thinking he was. He was absolutely stunning too. I was so excited; I was utterly in love!

After many happy & meaningful phonecalls, we eventually started dating. It was amazing and I was constantly on cloud nine. He came from a different town, so unfortunately we didn’t get to see each other very often because petrol was very sparse then. But the very little time that we spent together was magical to me. We would talk for hours and we both loved walking too. We both loved our stunning natural surroundings. We hiked through the forests a lot; we used to sit high up on this rock that overlooked my beautiful river. We would close our eyes and imagine a world outside of our country’s borders.

We dated for a year in secret. My mum was still too shy to talk to me about boys. I desperately wanted to tell her how nice he was and how kind he was to me.

He was two years older than me. When his eighteenth birthday came, this was such a bittersweet occasion on so many levels. I couldn’t go to his family birthday party, it was too far away for me to go there and come back in time before the curfew. I remember I was so angry at the whole situation that we were in. I was so upset.

I was also absolutely terrified; I knew what was coming. He had to go to war too. I became fearful even more.

I always worried about our dad, but worrying about my love was different. I loved him deeply. I was going to have my four babies with him one day, after we’d traveled the world.

I got to see him a few days after his birthday. He came to say goodbye. He reassured me that everything would be ok and that we had our lives ahead of us, together. I held him so tightly when we said our goodbye. I wanted to remember the smell of his skin and the colour of his eyes. Bright blue. We made our undying promises. He left.

That day I skipped school. I went for a long walk, I sat on our rock above the river, making sure I made plenty of room for him. I closed my eyes, listened to the river & imagined him sitting next to me, holding my hand.

16th of February 1994.

It was my good friend’s sixteenth birthday party. I remember it so well, we had no electricity.

It was very rare that we had any electricity at this point, our evenings were spent indoors in candlelit rooms, listening to the radio powered by wires connected to a car battery. My friends and I would go to each other’s homes and we’d play drinking games and we sometimes played the Ouija type board game. This was hilarious because we had a thief amongst us, we all knew this person’s “secret” habits, and when ever we played this game, this person would always say that they suddenly had to go home and they’d absolutely leg it across the bridge. Crossing the bridge at night was extremely dangerous, but I suppose “a ghost telling all of us” about this person’s stealing habits was lethal! Ha!

This party was the same. One candle, homebrewed alcohol and some music on the radio. We sang and danced, like only teenagers can, completely oblivious to the outside world. We were so happy!

Suddenly someone knocked on my friend’s front door and to our delight, it was my friend’s brother who had somehow managed to come home from war to surprise his sister on her birthday.

We were all absolutely hysterical with happiness. He was home and he was alive and well. He hadn’t been home for three months. It was amazing. We all hugged him a lot.

Once things calmed down a bit, he said that he wanted to speak to me in private.

We sat down on the floor in the hallway and he told me:

“Aleksandar was shot by a sniper. He died two days ago. They tried everything, but they couldn’t save him. I am so sorry.”

He was already buried. My Aleksandar. My Aleksandar.

The whole room started spinning around me. I felt faint. The tears were absolutely streaming down my face, silently. It was my friend’s birthday. It was her night and her brother had just come home. I didn’t want to spoil it for her. I just took my coat, put my boots on and very quietly left. It was bitterly cold outside, the moonlight was so bright, I could see the steam coming off the river. It looked stunning.

I stopped by the river and I wept. Losing him hurt so much. My pain was almost physical, I was shaking whilst I cried silent tears. He was my dream, my dream man. I was going to have my four babies with him. I wanted to hug him so desperately. I wanted him to hold me tightly how he used to. I wanted to see his face and kiss it. I wanted to inhale the smell of his skin whilst he is holding me, hugging me. I wanted to talk to him. More than anything, I wanted to talk to him. I was in shock; my absolute darkest & worst fears became my reality.

I stayed by the river for a while, it was only when my feet & fingertips started getting really cold that I ran home. When I got home, before I went into the house, I quickly wiped my tears and walked in. Mum was sitting by the fire, no candlelight; she wanted to save the candle for the next day, she said. My brother and sister were already asleep. “Now that you are back, I will go to sleep too, I’m tired. Keep the fire going.”

This was my saviour. I sat in our living room, on my favourite armchair and wept, silently in the dark. I kept seeing images in my head of him hurt. He must have been so cold when fell into the snow. I felt his pain deep inside. I knew he was gone, that his spirit had left his body, but I kept thinking how cold he must be lying in the freezing ground. This upset me so much. I cried for his parents and his sister too. I desperately wanted to visit them, to tell them that I loved him too & how sorry I was, but I had no means of getting to them. There was no transport. All I could do was pray for them and for my Aleksandar.

For a long while, this was my life. My evenings were spent like this, crying on my own in the dark, going through my five stages of grief. I tried so hard to accept that a young life was lost, that my love was lost. I couldn’t help but feel this tremendous anger! Why me?! Why take him?!

To me, at that time, this was the end of my world.

I know, I was only sixteen, I was in my formative years.

What I didn’t understand was what a lasting effect his death would leave on me. Losing him, and friends after him, affects me to this day. It affects me as a wife and as a mother. I have to fight my fears for my precious, loved ones, daily.

I ever spoke to my mum about Aleksandar’s death. She knew, my friends’ parents told her.

My mum was already broken. Her husband, her younger brother, her husband’s two brothers and many, many of my parents’ friends were at war. She didn’t know where they were, there were no phone calls or emails to their frontlines then. She had three children to look after and somehow feed us and keep us safe. She had so much on her shoulders. I didn’t want to break her even more by telling her how hurt I was; that I was grieving. I grieved on my own. But in her own way, she helped me. She made sure that I had plenty of time on my own in the darkness of our evenings.

Death was something that we, teenagers, didn’t talk about. It was too hurtful to talk about it. There was too much of it around us.

My friends knew what had happened, but we never spoke about him.

I wrote him letters. So many. Writing these letters gave me peace and solace. I stored them in my room, tucked away in my bed. For nobody to ever see them or read them. They were just for him.

I never got to see his grave. But after twenty four years, he is still a massive part of me. He strengthened my belief in bigger and better world that was out there. Not just Bosnia and our horrid civil war.

He reinforced my desire to travel and he reinforced my thirst for learning. He helped me broaden my understanding of the world. With him, I was whole. Without him, I was broken for a long time.

I think I was broken until I met my husband. It took my husband a long time to build me back up. His love, determination and patience has helped me not to be broken any more. But I feared, I feared and I feared. I feared that whom ever I loved, that they would die too. I still fear.

Even after twenty four years, writing about Aleksandar was still so hard and raw.

But I can tell you that I am filled with love and nothing else.

The only way we can heal is by fully embracing the pain and the love that we felt for this person. Fully and truly and thoroughly. We have to let it hurt, we have to cry it out, write it out, run it out, walk it out…what ever works. Please, if you are grieving, just let it all out, do what ever works for you.

And only then we can celebrate this wonderful person we loved so deeply, and only then we can move on.

I feel incredibly lucky that I have all the resources that I need in the UK, which have helped me heal over the years. They have helped me immensely. I sometimes feel terribly guilty that my countrymen and women don’t have this. They don’t have the counselling resources that we do here.

There are so many broken people in my motherland. So many. I would love to help them and their children.

If you think that you might be able to help someone , please reach out. You, just you, might be their saving grace.