I returned to my grandparents home in the middle of the night and tiptoed into the empty side of the bed, next to my aunt. The floor complained squeaking with every careful step I made but nobody seemed to be disturbed by it. A tune from the radio in the car was still playing in my ears. Soft, mellow voices were singing about love, peace, faith and hope, appropriately soothing for the important religious holiday. Only the circumstances in the world outside the car weren’t exactly tuned in neither with the melody nor with the holiday.
After a week or so of staying with my friends for Christmas holidays, everything changed over night. Fear, panic and confusion took hold of everyone because the other side changed their mind about the peace treaty and struck with all the force. I was quite safe staying with the good old family friends but still inside I felt eaten up with worry and suspension. No news from my family. They were close to the line of defence. Only 30 miles away from it. Were they still there or evacuated? When would I see them again? What if all of us had to go? How was I going to find them?
Days and nights passed with gnawing fear and anxiety growing larger until one evening I saw Dad stepping into a room, wearing a uniform. A heavy stone fell from my heart upon seeing him and the air suddenly became more breathable. There was no time for warm greetings however, as the car was waiting for us outside. A quick goodbye with the friends and I was on my way to join the rest of the family, still at my grandparents place, thirty miles away from the guns and fire. The nearness of guns didn’t really matter. It was easier to bear anything as long as we were together.
The next morning I got up a little later than the others and slowly descended the stairs that were stuck on the outside wall of the house, leading to the bedrooms upstairs. As usual, half way down, I peeped through the steamy window curious to see what was going on in the kitchen. I was struck with the sight, almost rubbing my eyes to see if I was in the right house. An army of unfamiliar faces sitting by the long table was eating the familiar polenta with yoghurt. I sneaked in shyly and waited for an empty chair. The mystery was soon resolved. The unfamiliar faces were "never seen before" distant relatives and family friends who had to leave their homes and had nowhere else to go. The house and the yard soon turned into a refugee camp and so Christmas seemed more like a Refugeemas. It was the biggest family and friends reunion ever indeed.
Interestingly, at the time when people were supposed to bury their axes and remember of brotherhood and humanity the worst would come out of them. “Their” Christmas was the most hated days of all, because what is dearest to your enemy is of course the object of the greatest hatred to you. That reminds me of a kid breaking the dearest toy of another kid out of spite, in the middle of a quarrel. And if two Christan fractions are not able to show understanding and respect for each other, how can it be expected from others. Thus, an occasional bomb or the whole rain of them would follow as a very special Christmas treat. The whole scenario would repeat reciprocally 14 days later when the other side was celebrating the other but essentially the same Christmas.
The only person who openly ignored this battle cry was my Grandfather. Even though his birthday happened to be on, alas, “the most detested day of all days in the year” it gave me a lot of fun to watch him argue with the rest of the family about throwing his birthday party. While the others worried about what neighbours might say and in general ridiculed his idea to celebrate birthday at that age and in those depressing circumstances, he would remain as relentless and stubborn as a little kid. First he would raise his voice in an outburst of fury and then sulk for a while like an old Indian chief, lips tight together, arms folded, legs crossed and then again he would wave his big hands around until everybody else got tired and gave in.
As I think of it now, there was much satisfaction in seeing individual overpowering collective, in heart instead of rule following and in universal madness being defeated by a small, personal, childish whim.
Couple of years later: How to survive escaping a bullet?
A survivor
After a week or so of staying with my friends for Christmas holidays, everything changed over night. Fear, panic and confusion took hold of everyone because the other side changed their mind about the peace treaty and struck with all the force. I was quite safe staying with the good old family friends but still inside I felt eaten up with worry and suspension. No news from my family. They were close to the line of defence. Only 30 miles away from it. Were they still there or evacuated? When would I see them again? What if all of us had to go? How was I going to find them?
Days and nights passed with gnawing fear and anxiety growing larger until one evening I saw Dad stepping into a room, wearing a uniform. A heavy stone fell from my heart upon seeing him and the air suddenly became more breathable. There was no time for warm greetings however, as the car was waiting for us outside. A quick goodbye with the friends and I was on my way to join the rest of the family, still at my grandparents place, thirty miles away from the guns and fire. The nearness of guns didn’t really matter. It was easier to bear anything as long as we were together.
The next morning I got up a little later than the others and slowly descended the stairs that were stuck on the outside wall of the house, leading to the bedrooms upstairs. As usual, half way down, I peeped through the steamy window curious to see what was going on in the kitchen. I was struck with the sight, almost rubbing my eyes to see if I was in the right house. An army of unfamiliar faces sitting by the long table was eating the familiar polenta with yoghurt. I sneaked in shyly and waited for an empty chair. The mystery was soon resolved. The unfamiliar faces were "never seen before" distant relatives and family friends who had to leave their homes and had nowhere else to go. The house and the yard soon turned into a refugee camp and so Christmas seemed more like a Refugeemas. It was the biggest family and friends reunion ever indeed.
Interestingly, at the time when people were supposed to bury their axes and remember of brotherhood and humanity the worst would come out of them. “Their” Christmas was the most hated days of all, because what is dearest to your enemy is of course the object of the greatest hatred to you. That reminds me of a kid breaking the dearest toy of another kid out of spite, in the middle of a quarrel. And if two Christan fractions are not able to show understanding and respect for each other, how can it be expected from others. Thus, an occasional bomb or the whole rain of them would follow as a very special Christmas treat. The whole scenario would repeat reciprocally 14 days later when the other side was celebrating the other but essentially the same Christmas.
The only person who openly ignored this battle cry was my Grandfather. Even though his birthday happened to be on, alas, “the most detested day of all days in the year” it gave me a lot of fun to watch him argue with the rest of the family about throwing his birthday party. While the others worried about what neighbours might say and in general ridiculed his idea to celebrate birthday at that age and in those depressing circumstances, he would remain as relentless and stubborn as a little kid. First he would raise his voice in an outburst of fury and then sulk for a while like an old Indian chief, lips tight together, arms folded, legs crossed and then again he would wave his big hands around until everybody else got tired and gave in.
As I think of it now, there was much satisfaction in seeing individual overpowering collective, in heart instead of rule following and in universal madness being defeated by a small, personal, childish whim.
Couple of years later: How to survive escaping a bullet?
A survivor
