Amara Stupac, Cernica, Bosnia & Herzegovina
Arrows of death
Author: Amara Stupac
In the winds of war, abandoned homes–walls blown up by grenades–were inhabited by addicts who chemically escape reality. In a race to expand made-up magic, they sought refuge far from passing eyes, but still in the heart of everyday life.
The craters in the floors, which have long served as a habitat for rodents, they covered with mattress pads and dilapidated furniture, discarded during the modernization of the surrounding households. Sharing their reality with these sewer dwellers, they breathed life into the marginal world of the twilight zone, which became the black oasis of the oldest mahala—quarter—Cernica, and the newly built high-rise complex, Bulevar.
Passers-by trace their steps with a quick and careful eye—fear of the arrows of death that sometimes lie visible on the ground and lurk for new victims, as well as fear of unidentified blood stains left on the asphalt as dark evidence or perhaps the aftermath of cats and rats.
This is a small town: “in our minds, everyone knows each-other.” And with that, the living horror that hides in the darkness of destroyed buildings, broken children’s dreams. Knowing that the black chronicle of the city hides inside the once warm homes, parents consciously squeeze their children’s hands and quicken their pace as they pass them by.
If we know, so do the authorities, and so do the neighbors who regularly renovate the arrangement of these ruins by filling them with various waste.
He was young, handsome, he had original Levi’s and neatly dirtied Converse sneakers. All the girls were crazy about him, sometimes purposely pretending not to follow in class, using the excuse to copy from him. He was strange for us, blonde but cool. We couldn’t wait to be hallway monitors, eyes twinkling when he makes his way up the school stairway. He was not a basketball type, actually now come to think of it, he was even short, the shortest of all the boys, but he had “that something” that never has an exact definition. However, HE WAS. I haven’t seen him for a long time; I heard various stories that I chose not to believe. Because how could one so beautiful, handsome, and smart move to the Twilight Zone?
It was Monday, and the end of the month was approaching, so of course the bills had to be paid – I was visibly shaken by the electricity bill: “Did we really spend this much?”– when I caught sight of him. He comes out of his hiding place: torn pants, two different shoes, and a jacket three sizes too large. The blonde hair has disappeared, the face is dilapidated, the pearly whites—they’re gone. I recognized his eyes, they were still blue, but tired. I have a feeling that not even he recognizes himself. Luckily, no one throws away mirrors, most likely because of seven years of unhappiness in love. I was ashamed to watch, ashamed that he would not be embarrassed: “he’s had enough of himself”. I proceeded to the shop to buy cabbage for lunch, but, since that day, I never saw him again—there isn’t even a hiding place, it was bought by a private person, demolished. The shovel from an excavator removed the black hole, and I am thankful for that.
Renovating, reconstructing, or even just demolishing buildings that for 27 years have been reminiscent of the horrors of war, contributes to the appearance and quality of the complete Mostar, the development of the city, and life within it.
Evil can happen to anyone, but how and why someone decides to throw away the rudder of life on the high seas becomes irrelevant when they sink.