Anamarija Knezević, Podhum, Bosnia & Herzegovina
Love
Author: Anamarija Knezević
My story, like any tale of love, is both beautiful and filled with challenges in its own peculiar way.
It was the end of the summer in 1992, amidst the backdrop of war. As I made my way home from the frontline, I happened to pass through Podhum. By chance, I looked up and was captivated by the most mesmerizing eyes in the world. While many would say, “the rest is history,” for Amela and me, it was a fateful encounter we were determined not to let slip away. I waved at her, and she waved back. The next evening, I returned to the same spot, only to find her absent. The window was closed, and the curtains were drawn. Two gates stood before me, either of which could lead to her. Where should I knock? Standing there, feeling somewhat foolish, a young man emerged from one of the gates. I quickly regained my composure and asked, with a hint of self-assurance, “Does Dijana live here?” The young man corrected me, saying, “It’s not Dijana, it’s Amela.” The gate opened, and THERE she was. We introduced ourselves, exchanged a few words, and arranged to meet again the following afternoon at the same place. And so, I arrived, and even now, I can’t help but smile at the memory. Just as I had hoped, Amela showed up too, and it was in that very instant that we experienced the magical phenomenon of love at first sight.
And so, the year 1993 arrived, marking a significant turning point in our lives. After returning from the frontlines, our customary ritual was to visit a café before heading home. It was during one of these moments that a school friend approached me with a grave expression, leaning in to whisper a serious warning in my ear, “Tonight, they will target Muslims.” While I struggled to fully comprehend the magnitude of his words, the look on his face left no doubt about the urgency and truth behind them.
Filled with concern, I hastened home to share the distressing news with my mother. Sensing the impending danger, I suggested bringing Amela and her parents to our home for their safety. After a moment of silence, my mother’s voice broke the stillness with a calm yet resolute tone. “Do you love her?” she asked, her words carrying a weight of their own. Without hesitation, I affirmed, “I do.”
With determination, I followed my mother’s instructions and went to Amela’s home. There, I explained the impending danger that awaited us. Amela’s father, after a moment of deep contemplation, spoke with resolve and sacrifice. “Take Amela, my boy. Her mother and I will stay here.” Amela found herself in a heart-wrenching dilemma, torn between her love for me and her bond with her parents. Emotions ran high as we faced difficult choices in this profound moment of drama.
As we engaged in conversation, sipping on brandy, the women buzzed around the house. Suddenly, Amela’s mother calmly sat at the table and raised important questions. She asked how my mother would react and what problems we might face for sheltering Muslims. After three hours of convincing, they packed their things and locked up the house.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t just a story my friend told me about targeting Muslims; it happened on that early morning of May 9th. After 15 days, I arranged for Amela and her parents to be transferred to Split. Thankfully, my friends were able to provide them with a comfortable place to stay. The plan was for them to remain there temporarily and then return to Mostar. However, as I turned back and left Amela behind, I experienced an overwhelming sense of difficulty that I had never felt before in my life. We embraced on the street, and Amela’s mother handed me a small bag. Curiosity washed over me as I wondered what she had given me. When I opened it, I saw some gold, and it made me feel incredibly uneasy. It was as if I was about to crumble under the weight of the moment. Collecting myself, I handed the bag back to her. But she refused to accept it and simply said, “GO.” Trying to inject a bit of humor, I told her, “No, you should give this to Amela when she gets married… hopefully to me.” Reluctantly, she took the bag back from me.
With the help of my friends, Amela and her parents were able to register as refugees and secure some official status. Despite being physically separated, Amela and I maintained regular communication through a satellite phone, which provided some comfort during those trying times.
However, after just ten days, tragedy struck when a grenade landed in front of the car I was in. The situation in Mostar was dire, and they couldn’t provide adequate assistance, so I was sent to Split. Two of my colleagues succumbed to their injuries, one was in critical condition, and I was in a coma.
Meanwhile, Amela grew concerned about my sudden silence. She went to a gathering center in search of information and learned from a girl from Mostar that some injured individuals had been brought to Firule, a hospital in Split. Among them were two who had passed away, one fighting for his life, and one in a coma. Instead of returning “home,” Amela headed to Firule, where she discovered that I was “the one in a coma.”
After a few days, I regained consciousness. I underwent several challenging surgeries, and throughout my recovery, Amela and her parents stood by my side. When I was finally discharged from the hospital, I wasn’t quite ready to return to Mostar. My mother joined us in Split, providing additional love, care, and support to help me get back on my feet.
Amela and I decided to get married in Split. Given my condition, I was no longer fit for military service, and the situation in Mostar showed no signs of improvement. Consequently, we applied to go abroad and ended up in Germany. While Amela’s parents eagerly seized the opportunity to return to Mostar, the Germans eventually informed us that we had to either go back home or choose another country., We, now three, ventured to the United States. We became Hercegovci from Mostar in North Dakota, embracing the irony of our new surroundings.
If the circumstances weren’t so somber, our journey would seem comical. The perpetual cold of North Dakota became the backdrop for the birth of our second child. Building a life in a foreign land was undoubtedly challenging, but with each other’s unwavering support, we found strength and resilience.
As soon as our children completed their education, Amela and I made the decision to return to Mostar. We have now been living in Mostar for the past four years, embracing our roots and reconnecting with our hometown.
I find it difficult to comprehend the concept of “mixed” marriages. Do people in Mostar find happiness in such unions? I cannot speak for others, but I can share my own experience and reflect on my own marriage. Growing up, I was taught to value humanity, decency, and respect. Love is not in conflict with faith, and nationality does not impede love. We are all human beings made of flesh and blood, and that unites us. Love transcends religious, national, and ethnic boundaries. No amount of demagoguery can change that truth. The heart recognizes love or the absence of it, without consideration for religion, nationality, or skin color. Love is simply love.