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 first part of my short story. Would you please take a look it and correct my mistakes.
I was nineteen years old when I got my call-up papers. The messenger rang our doorbell before eight in the morning, and my father opened the door telling him I was not at home. The man told him that someone had to sign the papers anyway, so my father had no choice but to sign for it. I listened in on their conversation and my heart pounded with anxiety. I had been waiting for this moment for months, but I could not have foreseen that it would cause me so much worry. I had already made my mind. I had promised myself I would not do military service. I would rather run away abroad and never come back than spend one year of my life in the army, which only helped the communists to stay in power.
Months before, I sat together with my father and told him about my plan. His forehead creased, his bags under his eyes grew heavier, and his grey eyes looked wearily at me. “You are a grownup man. You have to think for yourself. But I have to warn you of consequences. Even if you manage to leave the country, you’ll never be able to come back. And if they catch you on the border they’ll break every bone in your body. They’ll give you a long prison sentence, after which you’ll never be healthy again. Can you imagine how I am going to feel when people start pointing their fingers at me on the street and calling me the father of the traitor?”
I knew that some of our neighbours and other people would ostracize my father, but that could not change my mind. In our country, conscientious objectors were treated like political prisoners who opposed the Party and were not ready to sacrifice themselves for the great communist ideals. They were looked on as enemies of the state, unlike the members of Jehovah Witnesses, who were also conscientious objectors but were seen as a sect of harmless madmen.
I had nothing against communism as a political system, but I hated its representatives. As a child, I could not stand our great leader Tito. He stared at me in every classroom, from every schoolbook, from parks, buildings, bridges and train stations. I opened my reading book and, lo and behold, a well-dressed and well-groomed Tito smiled at me. I opened my history book, and again, he frowned at me, this time sternly, clothed in his brown, simple partisan uniform and wearing his famous partisan cap with a red star badge. I opened my geography book, and here was he again, a man in a dazzling white suit and dark sunglasses. I opened my physics book, and to my relief, there was no picture of him, only a few of his quotations about the importance of science and knowledge for the defence of our beautiful country. When I became tired of him on the book pages and glanced to the right or left, I would be attacked again by his wise words and messages printed in large, red letters on the white posters. I came home and turned on TV, and there he was again driving his large Mercedes cabriolet around his private island in the Adriatic Sea. He was wearing a white summer hat and smoking his ubiquitous cigar. Beside him, on a passenger seat sat Sofia Loren, Elizabeth Tailor, Richard Burton, or some other Hollywood stars having a great fun with the Marshal, who was ready to pay them millions of dollars for their participations in numerous partisan films. A former locksmith who promised to fight bourgeoisie had become rich and powerful himself, and he killed, tortured and imprisoned anyone who did not agree with him. He died in1980, but years after his death millions behaved as if he had been still alive, and they promised loudly on every concert, football match or a conference to follow his path, although nobody knew where that path led. To spend one year together eating, sleeping and marching with such people filled me with dread.
TO BE CONTINUED
I was nineteen years old when I got my call-up papers. The messenger rang our doorbell before eight in the morning, and my father opened the door telling him I was not at home. The man told him that someone had to sign the papers anyway, so my father had no choice but to sign for it. I listened in on their conversation and my heart pounded with anxiety. I had been waiting for this moment for months, but I could not have foreseen that it would cause me so much worry. I had already made my mind. I had promised myself I would not do military service. I would rather run away abroad and never come back than spend one year of my life in the army, which only helped the communists to stay in power.
Months before, I sat together with my father and told him about my plan. His forehead creased, his bags under his eyes grew heavier, and his grey eyes looked wearily at me. “You are a grownup man. You have to think for yourself. But I have to warn you of consequences. Even if you manage to leave the country, you’ll never be able to come back. And if they catch you on the border they’ll break every bone in your body. They’ll give you a long prison sentence, after which you’ll never be healthy again. Can you imagine how I am going to feel when people start pointing their fingers at me on the street and calling me the father of the traitor?”
I knew that some of our neighbours and other people would ostracize my father, but that could not change my mind. In our country, conscientious objectors were treated like political prisoners who opposed the Party and were not ready to sacrifice themselves for the great communist ideals. They were looked on as enemies of the state, unlike the members of Jehovah Witnesses, who were also conscientious objectors but were seen as a sect of harmless madmen.
I had nothing against communism as a political system, but I hated its representatives. As a child, I could not stand our great leader Tito. He stared at me in every classroom, from every schoolbook, from parks, buildings, bridges and train stations. I opened my reading book and, lo and behold, a well-dressed and well-groomed Tito smiled at me. I opened my history book, and again, he frowned at me, this time sternly, clothed in his brown, simple partisan uniform and wearing his famous partisan cap with a red star badge. I opened my geography book, and here was he again, a man in a dazzling white suit and dark sunglasses. I opened my physics book, and to my relief, there was no picture of him, only a few of his quotations about the importance of science and knowledge for the defence of our beautiful country. When I became tired of him on the book pages and glanced to the right or left, I would be attacked again by his wise words and messages printed in large, red letters on the white posters. I came home and turned on TV, and there he was again driving his large Mercedes cabriolet around his private island in the Adriatic Sea. He was wearing a white summer hat and smoking his ubiquitous cigar. Beside him, on a passenger seat sat Sofia Loren, Elizabeth Tailor, Richard Burton, or some other Hollywood stars having a great fun with the Marshal, who was ready to pay them millions of dollars for their participations in numerous partisan films. A former locksmith who promised to fight bourgeoisie had become rich and powerful himself, and he killed, tortured and imprisoned anyone who did not agree with him. He died in1980, but years after his death millions behaved as if he had been still alive, and they promised loudly on every concert, football match or a conference to follow his path, although nobody knew where that path led. To spend one year together eating, sleeping and marching with such people filled me with dread.
TO BE CONTINUED
