Peace indicator | Bijeli Brijeg

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A Refined Locale

_{Author: Klaudija Mikulić}

During my early childhood, I inadvertently developed a negative perception of a specific section of the M-17 highway that connects Mostar to Sarajevo. I can still vividly recall the unsettling stories of dreadful traffic accidents, but one particular incident had a profound impact on me—the tragic fate of the JP Parkovi workers. These hardworking individuals, filled with hope and excitement to reunite with their loved ones and collect their well-deserved wages, met a devastating end. Just a short distance before reaching Mostar, their journey was abruptly halted by a truck, leading to a catastrophic collision that sent their bus hurtling down a ravine and ultimately submerging in the swift currents of the Neretva River. Out of the entire group, only eight workers managed to survive, while 36 lost their lives, including a neighbor of mine. The aftermath of this tragedy left over 80 children without fathers. As a young child, I unknowingly developed a negative perception of everything situated north of Mostar. I felt a sense of relief that my family had no reason to travel that route, as we had no friends or relatives in that area.

However, when we embarked on our visits to my grandmother in Croatia, we would traverse the same route, albeit by train. Interestingly, this mode of transportation didn’t elicit the same sense of danger within me. I can still vividly remember the excitement that filled my heart as we made our way to the train station, eagerly anticipating the journey ahead. With carefree spirits, my sisters and I would engage in games and count the tunnels while comfortably nestled in our sleeping compartment. It wasn’t until many years later that I truly began to appreciate the awe-inspiring beauty of the Neretva canyon, a sight that had gone unnoticed during my childhood.

When I met my future husband, he was living in Mostar. We started a family and bought an apartment. During the war, my spouse was forced to leave his original residence. His family’s house was situated north of the city. One day, we made the decision to visit his childhood home and property. Despite the passing years since the war’s end, the security situation in Mostar remained unfavorable. The atrocities that unfolded in that area during the war only served to amplify the fears deeply ingrained in me since childhood. I understood the immense emotional burden my spouse carried, returning to the place where he had grown up and lived prior to the conflict. We didn’t exchange many words as we embarked on a journey towards the northern outskirts of the city, venturing into “the unknown”, with my own fears and his suppressed whirlwind of emotions.

We veered off the main road, and the path grew narrower and more impassable. The orchard and meadows, once vibrant and full of life, had succumbed to neglect and were now covered in thick shrubbery and overgrowth. We persevered until we arrived at a small house at the end of the road. A woman holding a baby greeted us at the entrance. My spouse introduced himself, hiding the overwhelming emotions that undoubtedly surged within him. That day remained unspoken of thereafter. The woman kindly invited us inside. The walls bore the marks of time, stained black, while a distinct damp odor filled the air. Concerned for the well-being of my unborn child and mindful of the presence of another newborn in the house, I quickly stepped outside.

Despite its neglected and inhospitable condition, that house was the refuge of a family that had to leave their home, just like the family whose house they now occupied. It was a paradoxical situation, highlighting the stark realities of war and displacement.

I was certain we would never return there. My aversion and fear towards that part of the municipality intensified. More years passed, and by then, we had three young children. We heard news of house renovations and the return of displaced people to my husband’s area. The occupants of my husband’s former house purchased a small plot of land and relocated. I observed my husband’s strong desire to restore his childhood home, but I remained convinced that we would never visit, let alone reside there. Eventually, the original house was demolished due to unfeasible restoration. In 2008, thanks to donations and our own investments, a smaller house was constructed on the same site. Even when they were little girls, my daughters instantly developed an affection for that home. Remarkably, my eldest, at just six years old, described it as a “refined locale.” We all shared a laugh at her comment, and to this day, it brings a smile to my face—where did she pick up that phrase? Gradually, I too began to embrace that humble abode as my own. It was a transformation I hadn’t consciously realized as my fears slowly dissipated.

We experienced the most beautiful part of the year there – late spring, summer, and early autumn were filled with joy. Occasionally, we would be tempted to visit during winter for sledding when there was a rare snowfall. As time passed, our stays became more and more pleasant. We took great pleasure in sitting under the cool shade of the kiwi vine we had planted in the early years. My husband cultivated an orchard, grew vegetables, and the rich fruits of his labor were a delightful reward. We had an abundance of fruits and vegetables to enjoy. We cherished the company of our family and friends there, gathering for coffee, drinks, and barbecues. The children had a blast all summer long, with the pool being set up on the last day of school and remaining a source of joy until they returned to their school desks. Every year, a neighborhood cat produces new litter, so we always have some kittens for pets. I would often think back to the time when I raised my children on the fifth floor of an apartment building. If only I had experienced all of this back then – even though it was modest, it felt like a small piece of paradise to us.

Four years ago, we discovered that our neighboring families had sold their land, including a run-down house, to some Roma. I felt a deep sense of despair and allowed myself to be influenced by prejudice. I worried that the peace and tranquility we had cherished would fade away. Unfortunately, my fears turned out to be true. The area suddenly became bustling with the arrival of many people, completely transforming our once calm street. The new residents renovated the house, leading to a constant flow of families moving in and out. Some of them were noisy and displayed an arrogant attitude, disrupting the harmony of the neighborhood. Disturbingly, some would even steal cables and burn them to get to the valuable copper, resulting in an unbearable stench. The meadow, once a picturesque spot, quickly turned into an unsightly dumping ground for waste. It was a challenging period for me to navigate and emotionally process.

The children noticed my sadness and concern regarding the situation, and they made sincere efforts to help ease my burden. In their eyes, our small village remained a ‘refined locale.’ I was filled with joy by their attitude – this land and house belonged to us, while over there was someone else’s. They didn’t let themselves be overly troubled by all the changes that were happening. Once again, they taught me a valuable lesson.

After a year, the owner himself moved into the house with his wife and children. They cleaned up the litter, stopped burning plastic after receiving an official warning, and neatly organized the recyclable materials. From time to time, they would bring us delight with an ‘artistic installation’ made from the collected pieces of waste. We lived side by side, exchanging greetings, each person going about their own business. I even began to admire their incredible ease of living – a philosophy of ‘taking each day as it comes.’

This year, this neighbor is building an additional floor on the house next door, and a friend of theirs plans to purchase a nearby abandoned house. They, too, appreciate the lifestyle in our ‘refined locale.’ There is a belief that when difficult times are on the horizon, the Roma community seeks refuge in other areas. This was the case during the war, as they were among the first to leave Mostar. With their current arrival, even purchasing property, it is a sure sign that there will be no war.