Sketches

The Watch

My brother Amel bought this for 10 euros. I think it was late 1994. Now it’s so cheap and irrelevant, but during the war, it was a fortune. He bought it from a friend whose father was away. I don’t think he expected his father to return. War kills hope. You prioritize the present. Maybe it did not suit a sixteen-year-old to wear this, but hey, it’s Seiko 5. A classic. Our father had the same and it was cool to copy your dad, your role model. You feel all grown up.

When my brother was killed, 3 May 1995, this watch was the first thing I inherited from him. Forcibly inherited. I don’t know why and when but I took it from him, it was on my wrist before we even reached the hospital. There was this fear that someone will take it away from him, that I will be deprived of it. All stained in blood. His watch, my watch. It was my time to copy my role model and I proudly did. I was twelve and had this big watch on my wrist. The strap was loose but I wore it. I didn’t take it off my wrist for quite some time. Suddenly I was grown up but not because of the watch, it was because a Serbian sniper had killed him in front of me and I no longer had a childhood. I simply didn’t have the luxury to be a child.

Today I wear a different Seiko watch. That tells of the memories, recollections, trauma and how we want to remember our loved ones. He is there with me, every pulse, every tick of a second.

As for our watch, nobody is wearing it.

Not anymore.

Now it’s only a souvenir.

A memory.

Hidden.

Timeless.

• this watch is part of the virtual exhibition ‘Remnants of Genocide‘: www.srebrenicaexhibition.com

Topa

Sa svakim ramazanom dođu i uspomene. Draga sjećanja. Isplivaju na površinu. Momenti dragi, momenti zadnji, paradoksalno se pretapaju između košmara i lijepog sna. Na trenutak se zamislim, proživim to opet, ratni doručak tog kobnog trećeg maja ‘95. Sjećam se i stare zagorene tave, teška, ogromna. Moglo bi u nju stati bar desetero jaja, a opet

Father.

My father used to instruct us to walk behind him when facing sniper side of the street.

On the way back home, it was the other way around.

We would then walk in front of him.

I will never forget his words, “I am the one who should get killed first.”

Let it be in order he would say.

Normal human instinct, wishing offspring could outlive you.

Basic survival thinking.

When his son, my brother, was killed,

he was the one who laid his body to the eternal resting place.

It still echoes, “I pray that you bury me when the day comes.

No father, no parent, should bury its own child.

I did it once and I wouldn’t last for the second time.”

My late father passed away on the 23rd of November 2016.

On this day, three years ago, I laid him down to his grave.

It was in order, as he wished.

His legacy lives on.

I am.

Father.

Bro.

You know that term ‘bro’. People use it when calling their brothers, cousins, close friends,sometimes even random strangers in the street, coffee shops, airports. Hey bro. Brother. I get to be called ‘bro’ a lot. It doesn’t mater when or who does itI automatically have a slight discomfort in my stomach. A pinch in the

beauty

morgue coldness chilling air with dimmed lights silence, random distant whispers sharp smell of steel sound of steps over aged white floor tiles screaming heavy old metal doors frosted hair, like a morning icy grass colorless, lifeless skin lips were grey, semi-open I think I kissed him last time somehow that piece of my memory

Memories.

We don’t need much to start dreaming. One small detail is enough, a word, a blink of an eye. A tiny spark igniting series of novels written in the past. I imagine things we never had time to fulfill. As if somebody is looking, who knows I’m lying to myself. I fantasize whatever I wish.

’79.

My brother was born in 1979. I can’t help but take notice of that year whenever I see it, wherever I see it But especially when I hear it. Every time I meet people and we get into a conversation about age, I tell them mine and they mention theirs, I quickly do the math