“We don’t receive wisdom; we must discover it for ourselves after a journey that no one can take for us or spare us.” ~Marcel Proust
As my birthday approaches, so does my anxiety. Not for the reasons one might think. I’m not afraid of getting old or dying. I’ve faced death more times than I can count and it no longer scares me. It taunts me at times though. When I wish for it and beg for it to come and end the misery, it laughs in my face. It squeezes so hard sometimes, it feels like my soul is about to leave my body. Then it eases its grip on me as it grins and whispers: no, not just yet, you haven’t suffered enough yet. There are more lessons to be learned, still.
No, death does not cause my anxiety any more. Death feels like a sweet release. Freedom. My anxiety is caused by life and the evil that exists in it. In my experience, birthdays are reminders of the evil that plagues the human nature.
Someone once said to me that birthdays are a celebration of sheer privilege of being alive and, although, I truly am grateful for all the years of life I’ve lived after my sixteenth birthday, I still can’t escape this immense ache in my heart that seems to be getting stronger with each passing year; every single year my birthday rolls around.
My sixteenth Birthday — Bosnia 1992
The day I left my home country forever was August 26, 1992. It was my sixteenth birthday.
As I stood on the street, waiting for a bus to take me away to an unknown hell, I was feeling ashamed of my own thoughts. I was brooding over my birthday. I was being a typical sixteen-year-old; a teenager. I wanted a birthday party. I wanted my friends and family to fuss over me. I wanted the sweet in the “sweet-sixteenth.” Why could’t I have all that?! Why was I being robbed of that?! For whom?! Instead of getting a birthday party, I was being forced out of my home. Being forced to watch as evil men killed my family, friends, neighbors. Being forced out of my freedom! Had to stay quiet as they called me names and tried to touch me inappropriately — had to let them do it! Had to keep quiet as they stole every single possession my parents and I owned. Why?! For whom?! For what?!
Five days before … August 21, 1992, I was in a convoy that was transporting me from my home-town, Prijedor to Travnik. It was supposed to be a safe passage, but half way to our destination, the Serb army stopped the convoy, forcing over 250 men and boys out of it and killing them in a place called Koričanske Stijene on Mount Vlašić. The rest of us were taken to the other side of the mountain and thrown onto the field of mines. (Read Remember Me).
The walk down the mountain was very long and tiring. My mom tripped and fell so many times … I had to pee so badly, I could barely walk. When it got dark out, we weren’t allowed to turn on any flashlights because if we did, the Serb army could see us. They were already throwing grenades over our heads, trying to guess where exactly we were. I remember some guy lighting a cigarette and three other men jumping up and tackling him to the ground. The cigarette was going to give our whereabouts away.
When we left home, we took nothing with us. We had no money and no belongings. All was taken away. (Read Remember Me).
And so I just stood there — at the bus-stop — hopelessly. Feeling as if someone had dumped a bucket of manure on my head. Feeling guilty for wanting something better for myself on my birthday as if I hadn’t just witnessed a mass murder take place only five days before.
My mom, noticing the look on my face, leaned closer and whispered: “Sanela, you’re alive. We’re alive. Isn’t that something to celebrate? We’re leaving hell on your birthday. That’s something, isn’t it?”
I stood quiet as her words made me feel worse, not better as she intended.
I felt hatred, but not toward the men who forced us out of our home, but toward myself. I wasn’t good enough to have a party. To celebrate my sweet sixteenth like all the other kids my age did and at the same time, I felt guilty for even wanting it now while all this misery was going on around me.
“It could be worse,” she continued. “We must hope for the best, but prepare for the worst.”
“What do you mean it could be worse?!” I snapped, “why do you always have to say that?! How about this, from now on you say, it could be better! Huh?! Maybe then it’ll start getting better, not worse!”
I turned my back to her, not wanting to talk any more. I felt even worse than before. I realized I had hurt her. She was only trying to make me feel better. She didn’t know anything either. She didn’t want this for me, I knew, but she was an easy target for me to take some frustration out on. She forgave me, I’m sure. She probably doesn’t even remember those words spoken in so much pain, but I do and I still feel guilty for dragging her down to that hell with me as if she didn’t have enough to deal with herself.
A few minutes later, I heard someone calling my name. Turning around I noticed a boy a couple of years older than I, whom I’d just met a day before, running to catch up as the bus we were waiting on slowly approached.
He was out of breath when he finally reached me. Almir was his name. I only remembered him because when he had introduced himself the day before, I’d noticed a hole in his forehead. It looked as if someone had scooped up half of his forehead and covered the hole with skin. After he had introduced himself, we had talked for a little bit. He had explained to me that the hole in his head was created by a shrapnel from a grenade that fell on his house killing his mother and two sisters.
It could be worse. My mom’s words rang in my head as I watched him approach.
“I have something for you,” he said earnestly, “Happy Birthday.”
He handed me something wrapped up in newspaper. “Don’t open it just yet. Wait until I’m gone.”
My voice was filled with emotion as I asked how he knew it was my birthday.
“Your cousin told me last night,” he smiled, “although it’s not much, it’s something to remind you you’re not alone. Be happy on your day Sanela,” he smiled sadly adding, “birthdays are a celebration of privilege of being alive and that’s what we are. Alive. We get to live another day. To meet some new people. To love. If nothing else, then to see what happens next.”
I’ve lived by those words every day of my life since, always wanting to see what happens next.
And so, as my 46th birthday approaches, I am thrilled to report that I am better than ever. It took me a while to get here, but here I am, basking in awesomeness. Despite everything, I came out beautiful and strong.
Cheers to the next 46!
Sanela
“I truly believe that I survived for one reason and one reason only: to tell our story, to give a voice to those who don’t have it anymore. I was there as a witness. As a survivor, I have an obligation. I have to talk about what had happened in Prijedor, Bosnia back in 1992, no matter the cost!” ~Sanela Ramic Jurich
