Bassim
VIP Member
- Joined
- Mar 1, 2008
- Member Type
- Student or Learner
- Native Language
- Bosnian
- Home Country
- Bosnia Herzegovina
- Current Location
- Sweden
This is the second part of my short story, "The Nineties." Please would you take a look at it and correct my mistakes.
I heard children’s cheerful voices down the road. A four-year old Adnan and his older brother Anis, were kicking a ball and scampering around. Their mother Aziza sat at the table in their garden shelling peas. Two hens stuttered and scratched the ground around her feet, hoping that something edible was going to drop down. Her husband Omer was on the roof, replacing a broken tile. Omer loved slivovitz more than anything else. On many occasions, I had witnessed the similar scene. My father went into the orchard to potter around the trees, and immediately, Omer appeared from nowhere, leaned on the metal fence and started chatting, pretending to be interested in my father’s work when in reality he hankered after a glass or two of slivovitz. My father knew what Omer actually wanted, and he went into the house and came up with a bottle and two glasses. Omer and he then sat at a table, toasted to each other’s health, and emptied their glasses in one gulp. His wife told my father not to treat her husband with alcohol, but my father could not resist Omer’s sad eyes, Sometimes my father wrestled with his conscience because giving him alcohol, he was indirectly participating in destroying his health, but on the other hand, Omer got it for free. He could spend his money on more important things his family needed.
I closed my eyes, and despite the constant thud to my left, to my right I could still hear the chirping of the birds in my orchard. I wondered if some of them had fled from the war and found refuge in our trees, and now were telling their comrades what they had seen and how people could be cruel to each other. As long as I could hear them singing I was safe. Birds usually do not sing on the sites of mass executions. I wished to preserve this oasis of peace, to be able to say good morning to my neighbours, to invite them to a cup of coffee, to taste their cakes and pastries and to sit in my room and breathe in the scent of jasmine under my window.
I dressed and went to the centre. I wanted to see how my fellow humans behave in this period of turmoil. Restaurants, street cafes and pubs were filled to the brim, and loud music was blaring out of the open doors and windows. At the tables sat mostly young people who laughed, cracked jokes and treated each other with drinks in large numbers. I made my way through the throngs of shoppers, who judging by their bulging bags, did not lack the means. Where all this money did come from, I asked myself. The government was telling us all the time that the country was in crises, but judging by the crowded cafes and shops, money was not an issue for the majority of the citizens.
I strolled to the market, which was always one of my favourite places. From the distance, I heard a Gypsy woman shouting, “Knickers! Knickers! Cheap knickers, women!” She was squat, wore a wide multicoloured skirt, and stood beside a white hill of thousands of knickers. A queue of women formed in front of her, all eager to snap up a bargain. All stalls were occupied, the pavements of the streets leading to the market lined with hawkers selling everything from cheap sunglasses, fake and original designer clothes, electronics to spare care parts. I walked around, watching people buying eggs, cheese, vegetables and fruits, listening in on their talk, and expecting to hear about their fears and worries about the war. But their conversations were mostly about mundane subjects – inflation, petrol prices, crops, children, grandchildren, weddings, divorces, home renovations, car reparations, and dozens of other problems that occupied their minds most of the time. For many of them, war was an abstract noun, which they had shoved in the deepest recesses of their minds. The house of their neighbour was burning, but as long as the fire did not spread, they ignore it.
I went to the park, sat on the bench, and watched pensioners playing bocce. They were in an upbeat mood and commented loudly the game. The metal balls they were throwing reminded me of artillery shells, and I could not imagine playing the game without thinking of war. But the old men had already experienced one war in which the Serbs and Croats killed each other and massacred thousands of innocent people, and now when 45 years later the same people were at each other’s throats again, they did not seem to bother or had more important things on their minds.
A toddler was making his first step on the grass. His mother squatted a few meters away from him, egging him on. The child made two steps and fell down. He looked up at the mother, and she said, stretching out her arms, “Come Milos, come to me.” The child rose, made a few more steps, and fell again. But he did not want to give up and walked on until he reached his mother’s hands, and was smothered with kisses.
A few couples walked around holding hands or were locked in an embrace. I wondered if some of them were mixed, a Croat and a Serb, who fell in love and never asked themselves what another person believed in or which was his or her roots. Did they lately start doubting their decisions? Was there any future for them?
To be continued
I heard children’s cheerful voices down the road. A four-year old Adnan and his older brother Anis, were kicking a ball and scampering around. Their mother Aziza sat at the table in their garden shelling peas. Two hens stuttered and scratched the ground around her feet, hoping that something edible was going to drop down. Her husband Omer was on the roof, replacing a broken tile. Omer loved slivovitz more than anything else. On many occasions, I had witnessed the similar scene. My father went into the orchard to potter around the trees, and immediately, Omer appeared from nowhere, leaned on the metal fence and started chatting, pretending to be interested in my father’s work when in reality he hankered after a glass or two of slivovitz. My father knew what Omer actually wanted, and he went into the house and came up with a bottle and two glasses. Omer and he then sat at a table, toasted to each other’s health, and emptied their glasses in one gulp. His wife told my father not to treat her husband with alcohol, but my father could not resist Omer’s sad eyes, Sometimes my father wrestled with his conscience because giving him alcohol, he was indirectly participating in destroying his health, but on the other hand, Omer got it for free. He could spend his money on more important things his family needed.
I closed my eyes, and despite the constant thud to my left, to my right I could still hear the chirping of the birds in my orchard. I wondered if some of them had fled from the war and found refuge in our trees, and now were telling their comrades what they had seen and how people could be cruel to each other. As long as I could hear them singing I was safe. Birds usually do not sing on the sites of mass executions. I wished to preserve this oasis of peace, to be able to say good morning to my neighbours, to invite them to a cup of coffee, to taste their cakes and pastries and to sit in my room and breathe in the scent of jasmine under my window.
I dressed and went to the centre. I wanted to see how my fellow humans behave in this period of turmoil. Restaurants, street cafes and pubs were filled to the brim, and loud music was blaring out of the open doors and windows. At the tables sat mostly young people who laughed, cracked jokes and treated each other with drinks in large numbers. I made my way through the throngs of shoppers, who judging by their bulging bags, did not lack the means. Where all this money did come from, I asked myself. The government was telling us all the time that the country was in crises, but judging by the crowded cafes and shops, money was not an issue for the majority of the citizens.
I strolled to the market, which was always one of my favourite places. From the distance, I heard a Gypsy woman shouting, “Knickers! Knickers! Cheap knickers, women!” She was squat, wore a wide multicoloured skirt, and stood beside a white hill of thousands of knickers. A queue of women formed in front of her, all eager to snap up a bargain. All stalls were occupied, the pavements of the streets leading to the market lined with hawkers selling everything from cheap sunglasses, fake and original designer clothes, electronics to spare care parts. I walked around, watching people buying eggs, cheese, vegetables and fruits, listening in on their talk, and expecting to hear about their fears and worries about the war. But their conversations were mostly about mundane subjects – inflation, petrol prices, crops, children, grandchildren, weddings, divorces, home renovations, car reparations, and dozens of other problems that occupied their minds most of the time. For many of them, war was an abstract noun, which they had shoved in the deepest recesses of their minds. The house of their neighbour was burning, but as long as the fire did not spread, they ignore it.
I went to the park, sat on the bench, and watched pensioners playing bocce. They were in an upbeat mood and commented loudly the game. The metal balls they were throwing reminded me of artillery shells, and I could not imagine playing the game without thinking of war. But the old men had already experienced one war in which the Serbs and Croats killed each other and massacred thousands of innocent people, and now when 45 years later the same people were at each other’s throats again, they did not seem to bother or had more important things on their minds.
A toddler was making his first step on the grass. His mother squatted a few meters away from him, egging him on. The child made two steps and fell down. He looked up at the mother, and she said, stretching out her arms, “Come Milos, come to me.” The child rose, made a few more steps, and fell again. But he did not want to give up and walked on until he reached his mother’s hands, and was smothered with kisses.
A few couples walked around holding hands or were locked in an embrace. I wondered if some of them were mixed, a Croat and a Serb, who fell in love and never asked themselves what another person believed in or which was his or her roots. Did they lately start doubting their decisions? Was there any future for them?
To be continued
