ANESA ARIFOVIC / Early Life & 1992

Early Life
What I remember is an event that took place when I was three years old, and because my family talks about it often I am sure it won't be forgotten... I remember a lock of my hair that was kept in a drawer that my parents often showed to their friends. That piece of hair I cut by myself when I was three years old, because I wanted to change my look. The thing that was funny and cute in this prank was that all the time that I was "fixing" my hair with scissors, my father was reading newspapers. After he gave me dinner he put me to sleep, without noticing that a big piece of my hair was missing. When my mother came home she asked, surprised and almost angry: "Where is Anesa's hair? What happened?" Only then did my father see the badly done, unprofessional haircut. He looked at me, surprised, and unexpectedly started to laugh. I did not understand anything that was happening.

1992
Why are these horrible memories still alive and so strong for such a long time?
I wish to disappear in a hopeless oblivion, but this is not happening, and I know why, because traces of pain will stay in us forever.

My life had existed for a six years when I felt a pain so strong and ugly that sometimes I wonder if that was a reality or just a bad dream. I only know that tears were there and an indescribable spasm from which everything stopped: blood in my veins and heart in my chest.

My eyes watched and picture after picture settled deeply in my soul and strongly in my memory. I still can hear my mother's scream and feel my brother's cold hand that squeezed my own. I still can see two strong monsters, Serbian Chetniks, who were pushing my father in front of them, to somewhere where hope does not exist, and then only cold solitude and indescribable feelings of helplessness and hopelessness stayed within us.

But this nightmare was short lived; we took from the despair only one wish and that was to find salvation and peace for my father's eyes, which on his departure gave us the glance of hope. The bad passed, and the sun of love with my father was shining again from the dark. It came from the "Sonje", where others were lost with all footprints of life and love. Many never greeted their fathers and brothers and that is why, as hard as I tried, I cannot forget 1992 and the strong Chetnik hands that wished to take and erase my father from me.

I am tired from that pain that eats up Bosnia, my soul, and that is why I wish to suppress it somewhere very deep. Today, when I look back, I remember that face and those eyes. I am trying to forget because: we need to cross that river.