Gastarbeider in Sarajevo

Na ruim twee jaar en veel verhalen in het Bosnisch uit Nederland, zoals beloofd op mijn afscheidsborrel, ook verhalen in het Nederlands uit Bosnië. Veel plezier. S.




That feeling when the ’92 hits you out of nowhere, quivering, jerking, flickering like a drop of water at the bottom of a pot on a stove, boiling within your breast, wants out up your nose, but cannot have its way during the day. You need to work, talk, smile, be with people...

That feeling when you realize that, at the same time while the grass lawn nearby the White House in Omarska was getting neatly filled with corpses, the blood in Keraterm still reddening on the asphalt, those day's ‘they’ were picking plums and corn, eating, drinking, singing, listening to Dragana, Ceca, sending kids to school, getting married... and for days they were digging, then stuffing down the pits, suffocating in the stench oh poor them, calling kids back into the house and closing up windows across Tomasica, and after dinner they were watching the RTRS daily newsreel and listening about yet another attack of the fundamentalists from Sarajevo on the 'defence positions' of the Serb Army up on Mount Igman. 11 September


I was sitting with Kacho, last day of Ramadan, as we waited on haircut at our barber’s in Kozarac, even though there is nothing to cut in the first place, but whatever.

And so, throwing across some words, I mentioned how I had been looking for grandma's bones and that I’d like to finally find her. It’s time to bury her, to let her rest in peace, that I wan't to pray fatiha for her, sob manly tears at the grave. He said, just as if we were discussing football, that they watched, he and his brothers, how after Kozarac fell, and so was being looted and torched for days, how Serbs at the end let the pigs downtown eat the remaining corpses.

For days I didn’t get proper sleep. That afternoon took the kids in front of the mosque, they rejoiced, got loads of candy to fill bags. But, the bags forgotten, Stelca went to the house to fetch them.

I read today at, in Tomasica possibly the remains of the 600 missing from Prijedor municipality as well. Drljaca knew well what he was talking about in 1993. And then I pondered today, while at the same time giving a lecture at a seminar in Bucharest, I still prefer Tomasica. I imagine myself caressing her skull at Sejkovaca just as Sedija would to her Idriz. Luckily, just as Marek, ... Slovak, took the floor, it got stuck in my throat and not a bit up or down. I’m projecting how many times did the trucks with corpses pass through there. How long were they digging? How badly did it stink? What were they talking about as they were throwing them in? Suppose they weren’t just keeping quiet... Sietske asked me what’s up, and I couldn’t remain quiet. Just told her. The girl blushed, staring at me with those large eyes, flashed and then said: “Go on get outside, what are you doing here?”

Nah I won’t, I said, let it... not kept my mouth shut.  

I was with Marek messing about who’s gonna win tonight. So I read this facebook status to him: Edin: “All set, if Slovaks spoil my evening I’ll use my connections to throw them out of eurozone” and my reaction: “I’ll burst into the Slovak’s room, tie him to the bed and play Kemal and Semsa to him all night long ;)”. The bloke went numb for a second

I’m off to watch the game, first the Romanians, and then Bosnia agains Slovakia.

I need some peace after the 'discussions' last night at Guardians of Omarska on Facebook.

And, I would love it if Bosnian team won, but...  

I keep thinking somehow, I’m still for Tomasica.

Bucharest, 10 September 2013

Gastarbeider in Sarajevo
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