Maja Knezović, Cim, Bosnia & Herzegovina
No Place Like Cim
Author: Maja Knezović
Cim is a place unlike any other. Since I relocated to Germany, I’ve come to truly appreciate the words of my neighbor, Lana, who always insisted that Cim was an incredibly special place. As a child, Lana used to visit our street frequently, spending summers here before returning to her apartment in Mostar for her daily routines. However, ever since her grandfather passed away, her visits to our street have become less frequent. Instead, I often see her in various places, particularly cafes in Mostar, where she would reminisce about Cim. She would always say, “I recently walked down that street after a couple of years, and everyone still remembers me. They ask how I’m doing, approach me, and it feels like time has stood still, with everyone’s footsteps being closely observed.” Even the shopkeeper at the top of the street shared a childhood anecdote with me. She recalled how my brother, after she gave him a piece of chocolate, exclaimed, “I already have some at home, so I’ll cut it in half,” which led her to buy another chocolate. Simply put, I don’t experience the same sense of attachment to time and space anywhere else in Mostar.
My life in Germany primarily revolves around going to work and enjoying occasional social gatherings on weekends. I cordially greet the neighbors in my area, and they reciprocate the gesture. Our communication is limited to matters concerning all the residents and the building we collectively inhabit. In essence, it is starkly different from the community in Cim, where neighbors often have a deeper understanding of each other’s lives than what transpires within their own homes. In Cim, much of life unfolds beyond the confines of one’s house. When I meet new acquaintances in Germany, it is not long before my renowned place of birth becomes a topic of conversation, along with the countless anecdotes I have experienced or heard there. However, there is one particular story that I approach with caution before sharing, as it tends to be slightly inappropriate.
My mother’s cousin, Željko, held a position at Zrinjski football club nearly 20 years ago. It was around that time a player from Senegal was transferred to the club. Željko, who often took charge of foreign players, assumed the role of a local guide, showing them around. What puzzled everyone was how they managed to communicate, as Željko didn’t speak English and Lamine, the Sengalese footballer, didn’t speak our language. Nevertheless, they were frequently spotted together at various locations in Mostar, including the renowned Kubat restaurant in Cim, famous for its lamb specialties. Even today, when the locals gather at the tavern, they share stories about how Lamine always enjoyed his lamb with mayonnaise, which some consider a sacrilege. I vividly recall the first time we laid eyes on Lamine.
It was carnival time, and we were all gathered at my grandfather’s house, dressed in disguises, eagerly waiting to go on our neighborhood tour to collect sweets and, if we were lucky, some coins. Suddenly, two grown men walked in, wearing peculiar, inexpensive masks on their faces. They stood there for a moment while we tried to figure out their identities. Željko was the first to remove his mask, followed by Lamine. I can vividly recall the bewildered expression on my three-year-old cousin’s face when she saw Lamine unmasked, encountering someone whose skin color differed from what she was accustomed to seeing every day. She burst into tears, and Grandpa Andrija exclaimed, “Put the mask back on!” Seeing Lamine taken aback by her reaction, we tried to explain that it was because he wasn’t from Cim, which made her find it strange. You see, in Cim, everyone knows everyone.
When I was a child, I frequently visited the homes of neighbors, even those who didn’t have children of their own. Diana and Ante, in particular, had a special fondness for me, and whenever we crossed paths on the street, we would chat, and they would insist that I come over to their place anytime I wished. I often took them up on their offer. I would venture to their house, spending time together watching TV (Diana and I were devoted followers of a Mexican telenovela back then) and exploring the assortment of books I could find. If I happened to be there during lunchtime, I would gladly join them for a meal.
One day, I decided to bring my younger brother along with me to Diana and Ante’s house, where he seemed more at ease than ever before. That particular day, Diana prepared sandwiches for us, and when Darko asked for mayonnaise, we discovered there was none left. A few days later, I returned to Diana’s house to watch an episode of our beloved telenovela together. This time, Darko casually walked in without an invitation and made his way to the kitchen. Opening the fridge, he intended to make a sandwich but soon realized there was no mayonnaise. In frustration, he exclaimed, “Diana! You forgot to buy mayonnaise again!” The sight of my mother’s face turning various shades of red as Diana later saw us off and gleefully recounted the incident is difficult to put into words.
One of the stories I frequently share with new friends is a cherished yet somewhat traumatic episode from my childhood. It stands out as a powerful testament to the solidarity within our community. On a hot summer day, we spent our time playing cards and snacking on peanuts we had purchased from the renowned store owned by Beki. Later, in the adjacent street, we fashioned a makeshift goal using a broken section of our neighbor’s fence and attached a net to it. In a fervent attempt to defend that goal, I managed to get myself hopelessly entangled in the net, left hanging upside down. Without hesitation, the “Cim Rescue Squad” sprang into action. In an instant, the entire street, approximately ten neighbors, mobilized to devise the safest means of freeing me without causing any harm. After twenty long minutes, they succeeded, and each one offered to accompany me home to my parents, as they were well aware of my identity and where I belonged.
It is these cherished Cim anecdotes that I often yearn for and evoke in my stories. Although I have since grown apart from the intensity of those neighborly bonds, it is particularly heartwarming when I encounter someone from our community in the diaspora, where I can proudly proclaim our famous saying, “Nema Cima do Rima” (literally, There is no Cim all the way to Rome). Unfortunately, it doesn’t quite translate when interacting with individuals from different backgrounds.