13. I cherish hope, deeply.

“I have always believed that hope is that stubborn thing inside us that insists, despite all the evidence to the contrary, that something better awaits us so long as we have the courage to keep reaching, to keep working, to keep fighting.” B.O.

Stopanja, Serbia, September 1995.

The night I accidentally found out the fate of my family, I spent sleepless. My auntie Vera stayed with me most of the night. She comforted me and tried her best to help me see that what had happened so far was the best possible scenario, in a terrible nightmare.

“Don’t worry about your grandmother. She’s a strong, strong woman. She’s been through worse in the WW2. She will pull through this and one day you’ll tell her story.” I will never forget her words. Never.

I knew that Baba was strong, resourceful and resilient, but I didn’t have the courage to think that I’d see her again. I was too afraid to trust that the Forces would keep her alive. But this wonderfully strong woman, my auntie Vera, stopped me in my tracks. Ever since I remember, she would always tell us off if she thought that we, the children, were unfair or unkind to one another, or if she thought that we were being too negative.

She told me to believe, fully believe, in good people of this world. I tried to believe, I really tried.

I cried that night a lot. I tried to be brave in front of my auntie, but once I was on my own, in my bedroom, I wept silently in the dark. I felt utterly powerless, there was nothing I could do to help anyone. I wished that I was with my family, I wished that I too shared their fears and their plight for safety as refugees. We were now ALL refugees and that realisation really upset me. I can’t tell you how guilty I felt; there was me in this new world of mine, peacefully sleeping, blissfully unaware of what was happening to my loved ones. I understand, I know; for my parents, I was one less child to worry about. But I just wished to be with them, throughout it all.

All I wanted was to be in one safe place with my whole family. And I prayed and prayed to God asking him to keep my granny and my daddy safe. I also missed my home; our house that mum and dad worked so hard for. Our home truly was our castle, our fort; it kept us and our neighbours safe for so long.

I eventually fell asleep, exhausted.

But it’s strange, after the initial pain, fear & tears, I developed some kind of numbness to it all. As young as I was, I remember this feeling all too well.

I felt as though I was floating through this safe & normal life that I was suddenly living in. I had all I needed, in material sense. What ever my two cousins had, I had too; my uncle and aunt made sure that I always had everything that I could possibly need.

For the next few days, when I was not at school, my uncle and aunt took me to see all the beautiful places in and near Kruševac, to help me take my mind off things. This part of Serbia is incredibly rich culturally & is a huge part of Serbian heritage. I was in awe of it all. One of my favourite films from my childhood is a film called Battle of Kosovo & the church from this movie was actually built in Kruševac between 1375-1378. The church is called Lazarica Church. When I found out what happened to my family, I asked my aunt to take me to this church.

During all of the crazy, when we lived in Bosnia after the fall of communism, going to my local church and being silent for a few hours whilst listening to our priest sing in the Old Church Slavic language, was my saviour in some of the toughest of times. Different people had different ways of coping, and this was mine. These few hours of, meditation I suppose, used to recharge my batteries and give me peace and solace. I wasn’t overly religious and I am still not, but I do like the idea of these places of worship where, the way I explain it to my sons, people go and think nice things about their loved ones and where people can hope freely. I cherish hope, deeply.

Walking into the Lazarica Church gave me my peace & more. I remember I walked in and I froze. I felt that all my suppressed emotions came to surface, but without fear or tears. I felt content and I felt safe. There was something so majestic about being in this ancient church, surrounded by these centuries old icons and frescoes. They were beautiful and reassuring to my young mind, who just needed to see these wonderful pieces of art which have over the centuries seen weddings and funerals, countless blessings and prayers, but most of all they told me that nothing lasts forever.

And that is when I made a decision to start believing that this horrid civil war would not last forever and that I would be with my family again very soon.

Statistically, I thought, not everyone is bad; I kept telling myself that there are more good people, in this world of ours, than bad. My old, naïve, almost childish sense of hope started appearing again, which was so uplifting.

My days carried on as normal; my ever so selfless relatives, my new school friends & my teachers made sure that I was very well looked after and they kept me preoccupied with normal teenage activities and shenanigans. At that point, I was the only “fresh” refugee in my new school.

My faithful friend Zorica kept picking me up in her car and taking me to meet our school friends and she regularly took me to the most popular student digs. This is when I started smoking. I had always been, very passionately, against smoking, but I suppose I so desperately wanted to fit in in my new environment. Smoking didn’t suit me, or I was so bad at it; I coughed quite a lot! My mum would later tell me that when I smoked, I looked like a “chicken with tits” (ha!), ie. I was always so fit & healthy, and the cigarettes did not suit me or my image at all!

Zorica was a gentle soul who was so generous and kind to me. She truly took me under her wing. She made sure that I went to every party she went to and she introduced me to her family and friends too. I had such trust in her; we came from two different worlds, but we had very similar moral values and we were both incredibly close to our families. My uncle and aunt valued her sincerely. I will never forget her generosity and kindness.

On the 16th or the 17th September 1995, I am not entirely sure which date unfortunately, after having a particularly fun day at school, I was on my way back home on the vibrant school bus. We used to have so much fun on this bus. My new friends found my Bosnian Serbian accent amusing and at times funny, so quite often they would tease me and teach me how to speak in the Southern Serbian accent and I would teach them to speak in my native accent, which was hilarious when they did it. We laughed a lot that evening.

When I got off the bus, I felt happy and elated. I had had a very good day. But as I crossed the road, this curly headed little angel ran towards me! I remember, I was in such disbelief. It was my baby sister! It was my beautiful baby sister running towards me and shouting my name through happy tears on her face. I picked her up and swung her around me and then hugged her so tightly that she almost breathlessly said: “You are squashing meeeeee.”

I just couldn’t stop looking at her and checking to see, to convince myself that she was well and in one piece. She was happy and smiling at me through tears. She was almost four; so cute, with big, big black eyes!

I looked up and I saw my wonderful, brave mama and my brother, standing near by and quietly observing our sweet reunion. I ran towards them and hugged them so tightly too! They were here, with me. They were safe! They were alive and safe!

My uncle and aunt tearfully ushered us in, into the warmth of their restaurant, then upstairs into their home. We had so much to talk about. My mum was very chatty, it was her way of coping with it all, to talk it through, to get it all off her scared heart. But my brother was so quiet; painfully quiet. He didn’t want to talk about their exodus as a final act, he’d quietly say that we’d go back very soon and that this was all temporary. He said that dad would come & take us home. His words were met with concerned silent smiles.

My mum, uncle Bogdan, aunt Vera and I stayed up most of the night. I sat on my mum’s lap for a while. I know, I was eighteen, this might seem strange to you, but I often used to sit on her lap and cuddle her. Even now, when I see her after a few months, I still sit on her lap and we laugh how I no longer have a bony bum like I used to, instead, I now have plenty of padding! My mum gives the best cuddles.

That evening I didn’t want to leave her side. Eventually, I snuggled up with my baby sister, right next to our mum. My sister fell asleep in my arms and stayed there. When I later lowered her down into her new bed, she instantly woke up and pulled me closer; she asked me to stay. I stayed with her until she was firmly asleep.

I remember holding her very tightly next to me and smelling her hair. Her hair smelt of Becutan, this baby shampoo that was widely available all over old Yugoslavia. It is such a distinct, beautiful smell; fresh and aromatic, I could smell it now. Once I was confident that she wouldn’t wake up, I slowly pulled my arms from underneath her. She slept so peacefully, without moving or making much noise. To this day, twenty four years later, she still sleeps so quietly.

Mum later told me that as soon as they arrived, auntie Vera prepared the bathrooms for them and gave them fresh clothes to wear. My family had been wearing the same clothes for days, they had nothing else left.

As we were chatting away, my brother slowly withdrew as he just wanted to be on his own. He’s always been our strong one, our hard working, kind stoic young man of the house, but this type of trauma is too much even for the strongest of us. Our little village, our home and his friends were everything to him. He very quickly retreated and fell asleep. He was exhausted.

I didn’t go to school the next day as I just wanted to hold them all, close to me. We went for walks and this is when mum told me more about their harrowing ordeal. She was worried about dad so much and we all hoped and prayed that he and Baba would be safe and alive.

What I found very strange and I remember feeling very guilty about this; I could no longer cry. I was worried that my family might think that I was cold or that I didn’t care, but I just simply could not bring it all up to surface any more. There was too much there, for such a young mind. My brother didn’t cry either. He didn’t say much for the first few weeks. But I shouldn’t have been worried, our family didn’t judge us or question our lack of tears, they understood and they supported us. But I know our mum was worried, especially about him. It is incredibly important to talk trauma out; loving, family talking therapy is so important. A loving family is a place of trust, help and unconditional love and support. A loving family gives you a wonderfully strong foundation in life and should be our first port of call, when we need solace and support the most.

As I am venturing into my fifth decade, knowing that I have my loving, crazy, loud family behind me, even though they are over a thousand miles away, gives me an enormous amount of strength and confidence. They gave me a base, a strong base, and wings.

I strongly believe that the reason we suffer from so many mental health illnesses nowadays is because we live such busy and insular lives and we simply don’t have this strong family or community support network that we used to have. Women in our village used to get together once a week to roast coffee, or make quilts every autumn, or they would help each other weed their crops; they used to spend time together and talk their worries away. Men used to go hunting together, farm together or they would help each other build their houses. They too would talk amongst themselves, with the help of a few beers. These were our regular counselling sessions.

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A few weeks went by, and we organically just carried on. A few of our friends from our home village started contacting us, which was so lovely. Most of our old neighbours and friends had moved to Vojvodina, the northern part of Serbia. Where we were, there were no other recent refugees.

Hearing our friends was wonderful, but there was this one family, old neighbours of ours, that kept bloody phoning my mum; they thrived on bad news. They told us that there were rumours going around that some people had seen our dad; that he had gone grey and had lost a lot of weight. This was so hurtful. I couldn’t understand why they’d tell us this. Surely they knew that this would upset us. Argh! This used to make me so cross!

By the time I had heard my father’s voice, two months had passed. Two whole months without speaking to him and without seeing him. I worried so much, but I always felt such pride when I thought of him. He was our strong, flawed, cheeky super hero.

I remember coming back from the local park one sunny afternoon when I saw my mum waving at me frantically and telling me to hurry up and run across the road. She said that dad was on the phone. I absolutely raced up the steps to speak to him, I was breathless. This was the first time that I had spoken to him, since I had left our village. I broke down, I couldn’t speak. I wanted to ask him so many things, but I remember just managing to say that we missed him and that I was well. He promised me that he’d find a way of finding Baba. I told him that I loved him and then our sister took the phone from me because she wanted to tell him so many exciting things that she got up to. I wished I had told my dad so much more, but I choked up.

Apart from this phone call from our dad, there was one more call we received, which was completely unexpected and one of the most memorable ones! It came from Croatia. Our wonderful friends from Pljeva, who emigrated to Croatia during the first exodus, somehow found our number in Serbia, from our mutual friends who lived in Austria! They phoned us one evening to see if were well and to offer us their help. They just wanted to let us know that they would do their absolute best to help us if we needed any help. This phone call left us all feeling so happy and content; our faith in good people was yet again reinforced. This was a true, pure proof of the fact that friendships & love do not recognise borders or wars. This was a wonderful example of how good people are good everywhere, in every country. This also reinforced my undying hope. In 1993, when they left their homes, we made our promises that we’d stay friends forever. We never broke our promises.

A couple of weeks after my loved ones arrived, the rest of my mother’s family joined us. Our maternal grandparents had to flee for safety in the end too, together with our uncle Stevo’s family; our aunt Nada and her three young children. I was so happy to see them, I had missed them all so much. But my very expressive excitement was ill timed. They didn’t want to be there, they wanted to be back in their homes. I can’t tell you how hard it was for us to accept that might never go home again. My grandparents felt the brunt of this the most. My beautiful grandmother kept saying that she’d give anything for her and granddad to “stand on their own piece of Earth again”, to sleep in their own home again.

So there we were, fifteen of us living in one house, seven adults and eight children and our uncle Bogdan and auntie Vera fed us & clothed us all, on their own. They gave us everything they possibly could materially, but most of all they gave us comfort and safety. But this was one crazy, buzzing house!

We loved having our grandparents with us. They were loving and warm and funny, but I remember how hard they tried to hide from us how homesick they were and how worried they were about their son, uncle Stevo, who was still in the war. But children are these amazing little creatures. They created magic wherever they were. They felt safe and secure in their new home, so they made the most of it, therefore creating fun and mischief around us. We celebrated our sister’s birthday party in our new home; auntie Vera made sure that she had presents to open and a big birthday cake with pink candles on it. Our sister turned four. Our granny knitted her two new cardigans and our granddad made her a little wooden stool of her own, they had nothing else to give, but they made sure they gifted her something. I loved them so much! They usually spent their days either helping out in the restaurant or playing with their grandchildren. But once the children were in bed, granny and granddad spent their every evening watching the news. As much as they loved spending their time with us, they just wanted to go home.

In the third week of November, 1995, dad phoned again. He phoned and his voice was emotional and breaking up.

“I have found your Baba. She’s alive. She’s alive and well and still has a cow and a few chickens left. She has food! But…”, there was a lengthy pause, “…our home is gone. It’s been destroyed. We no longer have a home.”

Dad explained that he had been trying to find ways of getting through to the “the other side” to find out what happened to Baba. His only hope was his best friend from Croatia, S. Dad had been looking for him for a couple of months and when he finally tracked him down, S. and his family were living in Germany. When dad phoned him, S. told our dad that he couldn’t go and look for Baba himself, as he no longer lived in Bosnia, but that he might know someone who could. A relative of his.

This wonderful person that S. got in touch with, risked his life and went to look for this old Serbian woman, who was essentially the enemy’s mother, just so that my family could have some closure. He didn’t know whether he’d find her alive or dead. I can’t emphasise enough how much risk this man put himself through, just to help us. When he found her, he didn’t speak to her, to protect himself, but he observed her from a distance. He had found out that there was one more lady who was found in the village, but sadly she was later found killed. But Baba was alive and she appeared well and working hard. He saw her gathering and carrying some firewood.

I am so sad that I will never be able to tell this man personally how much his effort and bravery meant to our family, to me.

Thanks to him, we found out that our wonder woman was alive and well.

Our Baba, who was seventy four at this point, was still alive!

What a force!

12. Vrbas Canyon.

The Pliva Lakes glistened to my father’s right, surrounded by forests and fields full of autumnal flowers. As my father was approaching Jajce, driving as fast as he safely could, the noise of the artillery firing was getting louder and louder. His aching heart knew that this meant that the reason Šipovo & Pljeva were so quiet, was because the Forces took over the area, established a guard system and then moved on East, to conquer Jajce. Dad knew that they had very little time to move.

By the time he got back to our family, everyone was already waiting for him by the lorry. These were crying children & frightened women, including his own family. They could all see that he was on his own, but nobody asked any questions.

He knew that he had to explain to my mum what happened and the reasons why Baba wasn’t with him, but he first had to get everybody safely onto the lorry and get going.

His biggest concern was the fact that they had to cross many bridges, before they got to safety. He still had his bright yellow tarpaulin on the lorry. During any offensive, bridges are always one of the first things to go.

This time he kept his dearest close to him; my mum, my brother and my sister were in the cabin with him, as well as some other people. The only way out was North, to Banja Luka, along this dangerous road which followed the river Vrbas very closely.

The immediate exit out of Jajce had already seen a lot of action and shelling, so much that some parts of the main road had already started crumbling away towards the river. The risks were huge. Also, by this point, dad was getting very tired.

They had to pass through the Vrbas Canyon.

I remember this road very well. It’s so beautiful and scary at the same time. High, dramatic limestone cliffs, cut deep down by the water of the mighty Vrbas, which is fast flowing, deep and dangerous. But stunning, absolutely stunning!

But the road itself is not stunning. In some places, the road is quite close to the river, but in others the road is very high up, winding around the high cliffs with the river far below it, looking dark and ominous. This road was not built for young boy drivers, to take their families to safety.

This journey was to be their longest and most dangerous.

They just never knew what was coming next and if they would even be safe in Banja Luka once they got there.

Dad knew that in that case, he would have to send his family further away from Bosnia, to Serbia, to the safest place at that point. But he also knew that he wouldn’t be able to go with them. He had to return back to his unit.

All along this journey, they made sure that they talked to my brother a lot and reassure him, that he and they will be ok. They also kept playing the music for my sister, hoping that she would sing and dance for them. They really tried, but she was getting quieter and quieter as the time went on; she probably knew that they were no longer going on a holiday. There were too many people crying around them and people don’t cry when they are exited and happy about going on their holiday. She might have only been three years old, but she knew.

She is twenty seven now. She says that she remembers the final exodus very well, especially the latter part, but she doesn’t remember much before arriving to Jajce. Perhaps those fearful events were just too much for a young child’s mind; she successfully blocked them out of her memory.

But mum & dad say, amongst the crazy, amongst the fear, amongst the terrifying unknown, they sat there in the lorry, in this huge convoy of vehicles all-sorts, they say that they still managed to see the beauty of our country around them. The centuries old cliffs and the majestic Vrbas river to their right; they felt a strange sense of content. At least for a while, as they edged further away from Jajce, in this very slow moving convoy, they felt safe. If was as though the nature was protecting them and shielding them from the Forces’ artillery.

My parents say that there were two women on their minds, all the time. The two women filled them with completely different emotions. One was our granny; they felt despair, grief & worry. The other one was me; they felt a sense of relief that they did the right thing by sending me to Serbia on time.

Dad…he couldn’t talk about Baba. He had to tell our family exactly what had happened, but he couldn’t. He would clench his jaw, look away and say that he didn’t find her. It was only afterwards that he told them the full story.

The further they traveled, the more withdrawn my brother became. He’s told me many times that he was so desperate to go back home, so much that he was prepared to start walking back all by himself. He wanted to go back and look for Baba. He wanted to be with her and keep her safe, if she was still alive.

Luckily he never did anything silly like that. My family stayed together, at least until they got to safety, to Banja Luka.

It took them almost a whole day to get to Banja Luka, a whole day to cover around seventy kilometres! But they did, they arrived safely, albeit emotionally and physically exhausted and hungry. They were all very hungry.

Dad drove his lorry to a central location, close to the centre of the city, where everyone managed to get off safely and join their relatives & friends in Banja Luka, or go to a designated refugee help centre.

My family was very lucky. My mum’s younger brother & his family lived on the outskirts of the city. Once everyone was taken care of, my father drove my immediate family to our uncle’s house.

When they safely arrived, my mum was overjoyed to see two friendly faces smiling at her lovingly; her parents. They had been brought to safety too. They had lived in a remote mountainous village, but luckily my uncle went to get them just in time, before the offensive went through their village too. It’s not worth thinking what if he hadn’t, but sometimes you can’t but think that. But they were alive, well and incredibly lucky. Mum was so happy to see them!

Her parents were always the most loving towards us, including my dad. They were kind and incredibly generous. They owned a lot of land, but they always presented themselves as humble farmers who lived in this idyllic mountain village called Medna, surrounded by pastures and forests. Apart from electricity, they were completely self-sufficient. They grew all of their organic food and they owned horses, cows, sheep, goats, pigs and chickens. My maternal grandparents were called Dragan and Rajna (Rainha), but everyone called my grandmother Raja (Rhaia). They lived in this traditional cottage, entirely constructed by this local stone, with light blue windows and doors, and lime-washed indoor walls.

The cottage had three levels. They had a cellar where they kept all of their carefully organically preserved food and drinks. They, too, made their own Rakija, they kept their copper still in the cellar, alongside two massive barrels for the plums. I have very fond memories of the plum collecting seasons. We used to help pick the plums off the ground and separate them either for Rakija or for jam. Once the plums were in the barrels, we, the children, used to climb up a ladder and get into the barrels and press the plums with our bare feet. This was amazing and so much fun!

The ground floor was where they lived. In front of the house was a veranda with benches & a table, and an old wood burning cooker, to cook on during the hot summer days.

The top floor was just an attic floor, with three extra beds & baba Raja kept her wool up there & her homemade soaps. I used to love spending my time up in the attic, lying on one of beds and reading my books.

Their house was always absolutely immaculate! Considering that they were hard working farmers, my grandmother kept their cottage incredibly clean. Every time we visited, I used to LOVE looking through all of their cupboards & wardrobes, and my granny just let me. I think I was in awe of her and her tidy house. Our home was always so busy and chaotic, theirs was always so peaceful and serene. My brother and I don’t have a single bad memory of our grandparents’ farm. They were incredibly loving. We used to spend a couple of weeks with them every school holiday. Thinking about it fills me with warmth and such incredible longing for them, for their hugs and stories. I miss them terribly.

But back to Banja Luka for now.

Once my mum got off the lorry, she ran towards her parents and hugged them tightly for a while. It was only once she was together with the rest of her family that she managed to let go of this crippling fear that she was holding inside her and cry.

She cried because she had to jump off the balcony to the safety, with her most precious ones; with her children.

She cried with relief that the ricocheting bullets didn’t connect with their soft bodies. She could not help but get scared over again by just thinking about it.

She cried because for those very long few hours, she didn’t know if she’d ever see her husband again, when he went on his own to try and rescue his mother; he crossed the enemy line to try one last time.

She cried because of his broken heart, she felt his pain fully.

She cried because they left everything they owned, apart from a handful of things she managed to carry out. She and dad worked incredibly hard to build their little empire, all by themselves. She cried because now, it was all for nothing. All their effort, sweat, blood and tears was for nothing.

She cried with relief because they were all alive. They were all in one piece. But it was not over, she had to keep going.

Mum says that once everyone was bathed and fed, dad announced that he had to go. He had to go back to his unit and carry on, without them.

As they were all chatting quietly, the distant noise of the Forces’ artillery reminded them that they were not even safe in Banja Luka. That day, the decision was made that the elderly, the women and the children would travel further, to join me in Serbia, but mum, my brother and our sister would leave first.

Once the decision was made, my father stood up and stoically said his goodbyes. When it came to goodbyes, this was his way.

The rest of my immediate and extended family stood outside of my uncle’s house and watched my dad climb nimbly into the lorry cabin. They quietly waved him off.

Two days later, everyone from immediate family, apart from dad, set off for Serbia. This was an almost twenty four hour journey, in a cramped coach, full of women, elderly people and children. Mum says that at one of the check points, the police nearly took my brother off the coach, as he was quite tall for his age, they didn’t believe my mum that he was still only fifteen. As far as the police were concerned, he was a fit young male who could have been very useful in the war. Now, you have to understand, my mother is a very easy going, agreeable and gentle woman, but when the police tried to take my brother off the coach, she stood taller and picked up one of the policemen by his clothes and pinned him against the coach door and reminded him very firmly what they had all been through and what they had escaped, and if he thought that she’d let him take her fifteen year old son off the coach and send him to war, he’s got to deal with her first and the last thing she said to him was: “Over my dead body!”

Once she let go of him, she was shaking. This policeman apparently just straightened his clothes and signalled the coach driver to carry on. Mum says that it was only after they got going again that she broke down. She would never have forgiven herself if anything had happened to my brother.

On this long journey, they had very little food on them, but they made it last for a long time. They all shared the food amongst them and nobody mentioned, even once, that they were hungry, not even my sister. I still feel guilty that I didn’t share this journey with them. It’s a strange feeling; there I was, living in luxury compared to them, eating restaurant food every day, and my family was hungry. It’s a horrible feeling.

The road to Serbia was bumpy and scary. This was not the usual road to Serbia, this was a road that took them the long way around, through the slightly safer zones. It took them through burned down villages, but also through some most stunning places. Mum says that if the babies didn’t cry occasionally, the coach would have been completely silent. Everyone was lost in their own thoughts, thinking of their homes & loved ones. Like she was too.

She couldn’t stop thinking about dad. She had absolutely no idea where he was.

Little did she know!

On his way back to his unit, dad got arrested. Yes, he got arrested. He was arrested at one of the checkpoints. He was arrested because he “abandoned” his unit that fateful day when he drove to Pljeva, after hearing that the Op Storm was nearing Šipovo, to rescue his family and most of the village.

Our dad tried to explain to the police why he left his post, but they simply wouldn’t listen to his reasons, because he didn’t have a permit to travel on that day. When he realised what was coming, he told them that they can lock him up for as long as they want because he’d do it all over again if he had to.

Dad doesn’t talk about his prisoner of war times. Ever. We don’t even know how long he was in for or what happened while he was in.

When I sat down with him, a few weeks back, when it got to this part of the story, he choked up, looked away, paused & asked me not to ask him any more questions for a while. Very quickly he got up and got busy.

I choked up too, but with pride. Immense pride.

11. Broken line.

It took me more than twenty years to sit down with my father to talk about the Great Rescue. For a long time, he kept saying, either that he couldn’t remember, or that he didn’t want to talk about it. But a few weeks ago, we finally sat down and slowly recounted the events that made some of the biggest impact on him and our family.

The journey to freedom was a long and slow one. Everyone was trying to escape. Dad told me that there was an eight-year-old boy who drove a tractor with a trailer, full of people, rescuing his family. He said that there were small cars on the road with eight or nine people crammed into them; these too were mostly driven by young boys or women. There was only one way out. Everyone was heading in the same direction, a massive convoy was formed by the rivers of people, like tributaries joining the main stem; the road to Jajce. There are approximately twenty-eight kilometres between Pljeva and Jajce, but it took my family ten hours to cover this short distance. All along, all they could hear were distant shots being fired and explosions getting louder and louder, as the shells were falling closer and closer. There truly was no time to lose.

My father was very conscious of the fact that he had his hungry, tiny daughter in the cabin, his wife and his son cramped at the back of the lorry, a cracked windscreen and artillery shrapnel imbedded in the lorry and the tires; he was worried whether the tires would carry him for long enough to get them to safety. He had no time to stop and check it all. He had to keep going. His mother was always on his mind. He could not stop thinking about her; whether she was still alive or not.

Somewhere along the way, they came across a family in distress on the side of the road; their car had broken down. They were a husband and wife and two young children. My father had to stop, he had to help them out. He, as quickly as he could, got the winch out and attached their car to the lorry; they then very swiftly moved on. They had to, however, stop and start so many times. The road to Jajce was quite windy and narrow at times; to their right was a large, deep lake, so they didn’t have much space for error. Dad was under enormous pressure to keep all these people alive. Adding this new family, he was now taking one hundred and seventy-eight people to safety. He said he had to act, react and think very fast.

Finally, after hours of moving very slowly, he came across a clearing on the road, so as soon as he could, he accelerated as fast as he safely could. He was desperate to get further away from the artillery shells falling. As he sped away and as he came around a bend, in his rear-view mirror he saw the car that was attached to his lorry swing around his lorry. He says he felt sick with guilt and worry. In the moments of fear and crazy, when he sped away, he completely forgot that they were attached to him; he completely forgot that they were there! Luckily, they were all in one piece and safe. Albeit, a little shaken.

As dad was telling me this, he got a bit choked up. “It was tough…it was tough seeing that. The image of the car swinging behind me…still haunts me.”

My sister was just waking up from her nap when they finally arrived in Jajce. Dad put the music back on for her and told her that they were all going for a mini holiday. She believed him and squealed with excitement; she loved the family times together, especially if dad was with them too.

Once dad knew they were safe to stop, he jumped out of his cabin and made sure that everyone was well first. He reunited my sister with our mum and our brother first, before he would then go off to find out where they would all be staying. I was told that our sister clung onto our mum like for dear life!

They all waited anxiously for our dad to come back.

When dad came back, he informed them all that they will all be staying in an emergency accommodation for the night. The word going around was that they would be safe there for the time being. Mum now says that they were all still full of hope that they’d be able to go back to their homes very soon. That this was all just temporary.

My heart breaks for my brother. He was always our home boy. He never liked going away from our beautiful village, his friends and family. Also, out of all of us, he was the most attached to our grandmother. He could not bear the thought of anything bad happening to her. Mum says that he felt very anxious and worried about his friends who were at the back of the lorry with him, so he decided to go outside to see if he could find them, to make sure they were ok. The area of Jajce, where they were all staying was quite hilly. As he walked around, an artillery shell fell near him, slightly higher up from where he was standing and threw him down on the ground, covering him with gravel and earth, but thank God he was not hurt. He was only fifteen at the time. My mum and dad were worried sick, but he quickly managed to get up and go back to where they were. He hugged our sister tightly and sat down in silence. He’s always been incredibly tough, even as a little boy. Quiet, but tough.

That evening, they all slept on some sponge mats, nestled next to each other like sardines. Once everyone was taken care of and safely tucked away, my dad had some time to reflect on everything. He was so glad that he risked everything to go back to our village. It wasn’t worth thinking about what if he hadn’t. But, will they ever go back? Will they still have a home, even if they go back? Will his mother live? She had suffered from heart disease all her life; will she have enough medication and food? After a lot of thinking, he knew that there was only one thing that he had to do; he had to go back to get his mother. But how? He decided to allow himself some time to rest and sleep first. He will come up with a solution in the morning.

The next morning, when they woke up, everything was so quiet. The explosions had stopped, and the shells had stopped falling. There was confusion amongst our people. Is it safe to go back? Should they go back?

After some careful negotiating, dad managed to borrow a car from our aunt; I remember this car so well. It was a brown metallic Opel Ascona. Dad had a plan.

Through his wheeling and dealing, he managed to get a camouflage jacket that belonged to the Forces, he put it on and set off for Pljeva.

During his solo journey, he had to go through various checkpoints, but luckily for him, he was a well-known figure; once he explained to them why he had to go back, they let him through every time. The soldiers and the police at these checkpoints did however warn him that it wasn’t safe to go back, but there was no telling him; once he decided something, there WAS no going back.

All this time though, he was torn, because he left his family behind to get his mother back to safety. One thing that gave him hope for the safety of his family, still with fear mind, was that my brother could drive the lorry. Dad had taught him to drive a while back, as if he knew that my brother might have to one day.

Before my father carried on telling me what happened next, he had to stop. He had to compose himself. He said that he just didn’t know what was waiting for him in our village. Will he find his mother alive? Will he go back alive? So much was at risk, it was incredible.

As he was driving along the road, awaiting an ambush at every corner or a bush, he couldn’t help but notice how quiet it was. There was no gun fire, there were no explosions to be heard, there was no smoke to be seen. This gave my father a false sense of security. He was very confused. Does this mean that they could all go back home?

Luckily for him, he came across a very welcome distraction. On the windy road to Pljeva, he came across a lone pedestrian. One of his old friends was coming back from the war, hoping to find his family alive. Luckily our dad was able to tell him that his family is safe and alive; this man’s teenage son managed to take his family to safety in their tractor.

They decided to carry on anyway. Dad was worried about all the livestock that was left in the stables and barns. All the cows and horses would have been in their pens without food and water. Dad and his friend stopped when ever they could to release the animals. Once the animals were free, they could then freely graze and drink water from the streams and the river. But once they did what they could, dad had to make his was to baba Ljuba’s house, his mother’s house. He and his friend parted ways. His friend went off to his little hamlet to try and help the animals there too.

Once dad was on his own, he put his foot down. As he drove very fast through the village, at one junction he nearly crashed into the Force’s car! There were four soldiers inside it. He said that his heart was absolutely pounding, and he swears he held his breath until they drove off in the opposite direction. He casually greeted them by raising his hand up and carried on driving as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened! He says that the fact he was wearing the Forces jacket, with their distinct camouflage pattern on, saved him. He was counting on the fact that they couldn’t possibly have known every single one of their soldiers. It worked! This time.

He finally arrived at baba Ljuba’s house! He ran towards her front door and quietly and cautiously called her name. She answered; she was in. She was alive!

He embraced her and held her gently with such a relief that she was well and alive. She was a frail, petite woman. He told her that the rest of the family was safe and that he came to rescue her, to take her to safety too. But to his horror, she straight away refused to leave, she still insisted that she wanted to stay where she was. She kept saying to him that he must go and be with his family and that she was safe where she was, she didn’t want to leave. But, she too was confused by the silence in the village and the surrounding area. Because of her heart disease, all her life she avoided any unnecessary travelling, she found any form of transport rather distressing and always felt ill after it. So, you can imagine, she was adamant that she was staying put unless she absolutely had to leave. She asked my father to call the RS military headquarters to find out exactly what was happening and if it was safe for her to stay, therefore safe for all of them to come back to our village. Dad told her that he just saw the Forces’ soldiers drive through the village, telling her that she would not be safe to stay in her home on her own, but she still insisted on him phoning to find out first, before they made any further decisions.

After “exchanging words” with his ever so strong-willed mother, trust me, she was the strongest woman I have ever known and the most stubborn too, he agreed to phone them and find out whether she could stay, even though he knew that there was NO way he would leave her behind again!

As my grandmother went to pass the phone to him, she tripped and ripped the phone wire out of the socket! Her phone was this old fashioned, beige, rotary dial phone.
Dad could not believe it. He just could not believe it!

He had to think fast. After some expletive words, he begged his mother to come into the car with him so that they could go to our house and phone the headquarters from there. To his horror and dismay, she still refused. She asked him to go and speak to the headquarters and come back for her, she would in the mean time get a few of her belongings together and wait for him. He begged her again and pleaded, but sadly she refused to get into the car. Dad had no other option than to leave. His time was running out too. By this point, he should have been on his way back to Jajce already. He quickly got into the car and drove back down the village, to our house.

As he parked outside of our house, he quickly popped into our cellar; he grabbed a hessian bag and opened our big chest freezer, he put as much frozen meat as he possibly could into the bag, thinking of all the hungry mouths waiting for him in Jajce. Once he finished, he gently put the bag of meat in the car, conscious of the fact that he must not make much noise. He then cautiously made his way up the steps. As he reached the top of the stairs, he took a good look of the beautiful hills in the background. Only the day before they were all running for their lives, and there he was back there again, hoping to hear the best news from the headquarters. In front of him was a wide field, full of autumnal corn, ready to be harvested.

Just as he was making his way into our house, he heard a commotion behind him and the next thing he knew, he was being shot at. As my father feared, he was finally being ambushed. He was so angry, the Forces camouflage jacket didn’t work after all. Someone was hiding in the cornfield and started rapidly shooting at him. As he tried to lay down, he could see the commotion getting closer to our house. He quickly got in, ran through the house and then he too had to jump off the balcony. That was his only way out. He was frightened and distraught. He could not go back to get his mother. As he was getting into the car, the shots were being directly fired at him. He started the engine and very quickly drove off feeling completely overwhelmed by emotions of rage, sadness, failure and loss. He was completely bereft.

He drove so fast back to Jajce, he says that he doesn’t remember much of the journey at all. All he could think about was his mother.

Unfortunately, on the way back, at one of the checkpoints, there was a changeover of the soldiers, they did not know him. As they searched him and his car, they discovered that he had a bag of meat in the car. As they thought that he had been looting, they took it off him.

He carried on his journey, not only without his mother, but now without the food for his family too.

As a parent myself, I cannot imagine not being able to feed my children. It is one of my biggest fears that my children will be malnourished as a result of a poor diet, but he had no choice. He no longer had anything to offer them.

Also, the pressure on him was immense! Out of all of his siblings, at that point, he was the only one who could have brought their mother to safety, yet for the second time he couldn’t. How he must have felt, I can’t even imagine.

10. Operation Storm; The great rescue.

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.

9. Serbia. Becoming a refugee.

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.

3. The big move. 

Our school commutes were always so much fun. As I lived at the top of the hill, I would make my way down to school every morning, knocking on a few doors and eventually a little crowd of school children would form.
We would chat on the way and share the bread that our grandmothers made for us to have 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 stuck to them or some thistle balls too. 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; from then on, I was mostly dressed in boyish shorts and polo shirts.
Our school commutes were such fun and 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 and shimmery. We would come home, have lunch, do our homework and then we would grab our sanke, our wooden sledge, and we would spend most of our afternoons sledging down this steep hill near our house, only coming back into the house when it was getting too dark to keep going or when our fingers and toes became numb. Once we were inside, we used to sit next to our wood burning range and our granny would rub our little freezing hands and feet with her woolly gloves, to get our “circulation going”, she would say. She always used to make us some aromatic herbals tea too. Baba used to pick her own herbs for tea, on the hills nearby.
But when the weather was really bad, that’s when our school commutes were quite tough. Dad always used to go out first, on foot, to make a path for us to follow to the main road; only then we were allowed to go to school. I have never known our school to close, even in some of the worst winters. No matter how deep the snow was, our school was open.
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 to walk up the hill, to go home from school. Sometimes our feet and hands would get so cold that we would cry.
This was especially tough for our family once my brother started school. He was the kindest and the gentlest child, ever. But he was very physically tough, he never moaned. I used to get so upset if he was hurt, or when he was cold. We were very protective of one another.
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. When my parents got married, they had agreed that whenever they got paid for anything, they would put half of their 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. We moved into this brand-new home which seemed luxury to us, compared to our cosy wooden cottage that we had lived in. But our lovely Baba took our move quite badly. She had looked after us from the day we were born, and suddenly she could no longer care for us, feed us and tuck us in when we had our naps; we were no longer living right next to her. She was sadly, but understandably, quite upset when we moved. I think she was actually quite angry with my mum and dad.
Once we were in our new home, at first, 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 missed our animals so much. We no longer had this vast 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 her beloved livestock.
I remember, my brother and I were so upset, our best memories came from that farm, but there was nothing we could do to stop it.

At first, we brought our loyal German Sheppard Johnny with us, but he got so sad that he refused to eat. He didn’t like being in our new surroundings, he didn’t like being on a lead. This was heartbreaking for my brother and I, but we knew that we had to take him back. We both walked him back up the hills and the closer we got to our farm, the bouncier he became. Once he was back with Baba, he was so much happier, and he started to eat well again. He was our wonderful, loyal old friend.
We missed our old friends too. I missed my “wild friends” & my wild ways.
Soon enough, our parents ventured into all sorts of businesses. They invested almost everything they had into wood processing machinery and building materials.
Within a few years, our one house turned into three terraced houses, with the original one in the middle. Each one had three levels, with solid concrete floors and breeze block walls. 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 café 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; their workers were all nationalities. We all had to work; even my brother and I had our delegated jobs, every day. These were very busy times!
Sometimes, unfortunately, I resented my parents, my dad especially. From our early teens, my brother and I started actively working for mum and dad. 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 and goods, 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 your brightest 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 as a family, 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 and we never went on expensive holidays. They didn’t want us to stand out visually from other children around us, but we always had good quality shoes and good protective, practical clothing, to protect us from the sometimes very harsh elements. Also, we always had good, healthy organic food. My mum’s cooking was delicious!
Our parents wanted us to learn what hard work was truly 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 in the world and you wouldn’t starve.”
These seemingly harsh words would dig deep into us; we couldn’t protest or argue against this. I don’t think we understood fully what this meant, until we got older and until we learnt how important good & honest working ethics are.
One luxury we did have however, was our annual holiday to Croatia. Which was amazing! We would always stay with a local family, which always felt so homely and right for us. Mum, my brother and I would usually go on our own first and dad would stay behind to work, but he would sometimes stop by and spend a couple of days with us. We loved getting up early and going to the beach before everyone else. We also loved fresh figs. When dad was with us, he used to take us on a fig hunt. This was such fun! He would usually do a recce the night before, around the area where we were staying, to find out who had the best fig trees in their gardens and then he’d take us there the next morning to steal the figs! On one of these adventures we got caught. We walked to this house and dad picked my brother and I and lowered us over the fence. We quickly climbed onto the nearest fig tree, we turned our tee-shirts up and started picking the figs and putting them into our tee-shirts. When suddenly we heard this almighty bang and a dog barking. This old lady came running out of her house, shouting at us in a typical Dalmatian accent. She was little and dressed in black, but she had a big boxer-type dog on a chain, right next to her which was barking louder and louder. My brother and I froze! Our dad quickly jumped over the fence, grabbed both of us, practically threw us over the fence, and jumped back over it himself.
The figs that we had picked, were everywhere! We quickly ran away, laughing hysterically. I know it’s naughty, but we loved it! My Croatia memories are some of my favourite.

Unfortunately, when we moved to our new home, 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, as I was always naively honest with everyone. I believed that everyone was my friend. 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 back 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 immediate neighbourhood, in the “suburbia” of our village. I had no idea what to do with 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. I still don’t see the point of them, and frankly, I see them as waste of time. Why be ingenuine and have ingenuine friendships? I just simply cannot stand the meaningless statements like: “Oh, darling, it’s been ages! We must do lunch!”, and then never actually get together to have this lunch! You get the picture.

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 from our village 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.
After the fall of the communism, we used to celebrate all our religious festivals together. Easter festivities were particularly fun. The celebrations would last for three days and I remember our Easters always being very joyful and colourful. Traditionally, we, the Serbs, would cook and colour and decorate hundreds of eggs in various colours, but predominately in red. On the first day of Easter, our mum would give us ten eggs at a time to go out and crack them with our friends. The tradition is that you hold and egg upright and then a friend of yours cracks it from the top with their egg. Whose ever egg remains intact, they then win the other person’s eggs. This was tremendous fun! This was understandably only a Christian tradition. But our lovely Muslim neighbours would cook and colour some eggs for their children too. My friends’ caring 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 ours and their parents let us, they encouraged us to learn and explore different cultures and customs. Mum and dad always used to tell us to be respectful of other cultures and customs.
During the summer holidays, I would, yet again, “borrow” a truck inner tube from my dad’s garage, blow it up with a foot pump and then race down to the river with the inner tube held above my head! My friends and I would all use it between us to float down the river on it. This was endless fun, unless we fell through the middle into the freezing water and scraped our backs on the valve. Ouch! We used to stay in the river until our lips were blue and our teeth chattering.
We used to walk for hours on end too, venturing into our local forest, sometimes even into our hidden away local cave system. We used to link our arms together and lower ourselves into one of the caves. I get scared just thinking about it now. Our parents never knew about this! Thinking about it now, this was crazy! Also, there were poisonous snakes everywhere, but we didn’t care. We had fun!
In the late summer, we would go into our neighbours’ 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, late into the 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 fulfil. I frequently “worked” in a Can-Can bar; naughty minx!
During the winter we would mostly be sledging 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.
When we were growing up, 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, profiteers. My parents didn’t trust them. Mum and dad said that these types of people would cheat, do anything, to gain assets dishonestly without much effort. “Nothing is for free.”
You see, our parents never said to us: “You shouldn’t be friends with them because they are Muslim.”, or anything like that. They didn’t teach us to hate one another. This is how we lived. This is what my parents 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.
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 or 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 is very long. There was the centuries long influence of the Ottoman Empire, the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the WW1, the WW2 & the breakup of the communism; 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 or a media simplification to appease the general public.
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. But 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 free to be who they want to be, without having to fit a general mould.
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 because of my family’s wealth, 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 only 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. She still tries to be fair to everyone. I love her so much.
“Live and let live. Love and let love.”

1. Wild child.

Around thirty years ago, one cosy autumnal evening, my brother and I were sitting on the wooden floor, with photo albums spread around us, 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. Everything was still shiny and new. I remember I kept yearning for my favourite and my most comforting smells, but they were missing in this new home. My heart was aching. I wanted to be where we once lived, where we were 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. 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.
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 laughed and laughed. 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, and 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 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 shy and still is, but now she is very funny. Her favourite source of entertainment is her hilarious, perfectly timed self-deprecating humour.
My father…my father was this very handsome, strong-willed, fiery, hardworking, untamed, stubborn force of nature. He came from a blended family, full of very strong characters.
My father is one of seven, he has two sisters, one brother, one half brother and two half sisters. They all shared the same father. To begin with, they all lived on the family farm which was situated high up in the hills, on the edge of a small hamlet. From our farm we could see our beautiful mountainous valley enveloping us, steep hills in the distance and a mountain river slowly flowing through our village called Pljeva. I miss those hills so much; I always felt so save in their arms.
When my mother was pregnant with my brother, my paternal grandfather passed away. Dad was only in his early twenties, he was then appointed to run the farm and look after everyone else. This was a lot to take on for a young family. Those were very challenging times.
To everyone around them, my parents appeared to be too different to stay together, but underneath it all they had this undying love for one another that would ultimately pull them through some unthinkable times. They had the same moral values and they both had massive hearts.

 

This year they celebrated their fortieth wedding anniversary. I am pretty sure that there were many people who doubted that their marriage would last this long. But It has. Their love for each other has proved everyone wrong and overpowered everything that came their way.

Out of this young passionate love, their first child was born, on time; Me. Their wild child.
I apparently hardly ever slept as a baby. As soon as I could move, I never sat still; I started walking at nine months and I never stopped talking. Oh, I never stopped climbing trees or dancing either. Apparently, I didn’t walk like other girls did, I skipped, kicked stones along the road or I danced. I quite like the idea of me like this, but I can see now that I have a wild child of my own how “refreshing” this must have been at times.

One of my aunties tells me this story every now and again of how when I was a toddler I had tones of curly hair, and at one point it desperately needed cutting; she was and still is a great hairdresser. 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!
Luckily for my parents, when my brother was born, he was this perfect child who slept really well, behaved really well and he was always very calm. He is still the same, but now he is 6’4” tall, a true gentle giant.
When we were little, we absolutely adored each other, but as we got older, we started to fight a lot. By fighting, I mean proper physical fighting. This used to worry our mum sick. When we were in our early teens we fought so much, until my brother got taller than me. Even then, I would try and launch myself at him, but he would calmly put his hand on my head firmly and keep me at arm’s length. I still tried 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, even in strength.
My brother has grown into a wonderful human being and is a great father and husband. We named our first son after my brother; Dragan.
Until I was ten, we lived on this big, family dairy farm. 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, and my parents and my brother and I lived in the second cottage. Our granny looked after us when mummy & daddy worked.
The two cottages were shaded by these huge, ancient linden trees. We used to spend absolutely hours playing underneath them, making houses out of twigs, sticks and stones. We also 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 and firewood. This type of building is called a košana (koshanha). During the summer our košana was empty. I used to make it into our house, for my brother and I. Our granny used to let me take her net curtains down and she used to give me her rugs and cushions too. I used to sweep the košana first, mop it and then lay the rugs down, use cushions as our seats and I used the net curtains to separate the košana into three different rooms. It was amazing! We spent so much time here, playing for hours. Baba, our granny, used to make us some “coffee”, which was made out of milk and cacao, and we used to drink this in our house. She 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 were called Dusan and Jela. They and our granny didn’t speak to each other; apparently, they were sworn enemies. Nobody remembers why they fell out in the first place, but, they were always lovely to me and my brother and always so kind and generous.
They used to like their long walks; depending on the season, every time one of them ventured out, they would bring us either some wild strawberries, some cobnuts, some wild mushrooms or some wild berries. After their walks, they used to come close to our picket fence and call us to come out. They never came back empty handed. I always thought that it was so lovely that even though they didn’t speak to our granny, they were always very kind & generous to us, and to our parents. I will never forget their kindness.
I can’t tell you how much fun living on the farm was. There was an endless supply of food, drinks and stories. My grandmother told us some wonderful stories.
Our farm was an organic farm. We grew all of our organic vegetables and we had a massive orchard very close to our cottages. We had 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!
Mum and dad were always so busy. We were mostly left with our grandmother. 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.
I spent most of my time with my brother, but 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 and she needed a well behaved girlie girl, therefore we never became friends.
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 rubber strip, cut out of my father’s truck’s inner tube, that I would steal from the garage. I know; I was 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 fruit and nut trees had to be prepared for the winter. 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 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 it was made out of real silver and 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 days too. 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! Also, I would often wait for my granny to fall asleep next to the fire and then I would sneak into my aunt’s bedroom and I would 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 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 of high heel boots in it! They were brand new, Italian brown suede boots. I could not resist them! I quickly put them on and I quietly tiptoed outside, into the snow in them! Ha! I walked in them to the barn to check on some newly born piglets. Well, needless to say, the boots were ruined.
To me, in my head, 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. She absolutely screamed murder! But my poor granny tried so hard to protect me and she absolutely insisted that she wore them herself to the barn! 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, which was full almost to the beams. 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 climbing 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. 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! We explored the local woodlands; fields and we would explore this marshland that we were told not to go anywhere near it!
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. In these streams or the small rivers near us, we used to catch lots and lots of crayfish. We used take them home in our plastic buckets, 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 and 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 🙂

At times, things were tough. My parents had to work really hard and we had to work hard too, but they protected 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. They also allowed me to 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 loved spending time with our horses, cows and sheep. I loved our woodland. It was enchanting, full of wild life & full of birds’ song. We spent hours on end exploring.
The most beautiful part of my early childhood was the fact that my parents let me be me. They let me be 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. They just let me be.
I am forty now; my heart still aches for this carefree life. I loved every second of it. I sadly never fully appreciate it 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.