Vollbild

Being in Vukovar for two weeks before November 18th, the day when Vukovar fell, was the closest I have ever felt to walking through a minefield. Occasionally, it seemed like stepping on landmine and hearing it click under your foot; like a moment of uncertainty stretched over a period of time, during which my colleague and I were trying to gently interact with the surroundings and not cause more disturbance than necessary.



I, of course, know nothing about how it feels to step on a landmine. However, it seems to me that I can now relate to the feeling that once you’ve stepped on it, you have the rest of your life to trying to figure out how to pull your leg out. Stating you were Serbian in that specific part of Croatia every now and then felt exactly like hearing the click, as the atmosphere would suddenly grow cold before going back to normal, without anything exploding.



There was the kind of moment in which you realize that something has happened that has predetermined your life, and there is nothing you can do about it. Suddenly, where you come from matters. I guess that is also one aspect of the war that touched all the people that found themselves caught up in it, regardless of their nationality.



I, of course, know nothing about how it felt to be caught up in the events of 1991. What I saw 26 years after the war was people starting to tackle the topic around the third sentence of the conversation, but without saying much beyond "it was unspeakable," "it was unimaginable," "it is difficult to understand."



I saw great need to talk and great reluctance to do so. I saw grown men trying not to continue the conversation they seemed to feel like having, because they thought they should not. I saw a hint of fear in the eyes of strong Balkan men that say they carried a shotgun as they mentioned weapons. I think I also saw a hint of sadness as they were talking about how they don’t visit some of the friends they used to be close to before the war. I saw an old woman struggle to convince herself 'I am alright to talk to even though I am Serbian.' I watched her thoroughly examine my face, to happily decide I had Asian cheekbones, which suddenly made me acceptable (along with a Macedonian last name.) I noticed a gentleman secretly observing how I would manage in a party I was invited to when other people were told I was Macedonian.



I saw people’s expressions shift between tension and calm, as they heard my accent 'clicking' between us, and then watched the tension fade completely when the words be exchanged made the conversation feel safe again.



I saw curiosity and the need for contact, with ambiguity creeping in every now and then. I saw trust in ruins and it made me realize how much work we have left.



Jovana Georgievski from Pirot, Serbia