Anamarija Knezević, Podhum, Bosnia & Herzegovina
Safety and Tolerance
Author: Anamarija Knezević
Right from the beginning, I want to make it clear that I don’t even contemplate such matters as attacking or being attacked in Mostar. I didn’t feel fear during the war, and that sentiment hasn’t changed even after so much time has passed.
When the war began, I was just 14 years old, a somewhat neutral age. I have a vivid recollection of the day when the “reservists” arrived in Mostar. It was as if a signal had been given, prompting everyone to lock themselves inside their homes. Those of us attending the afternoon shift were fortunate enough to be released from school. The absence of classes brought us happiness, and in that moment, we didn’t concern ourselves with what might happen in the future. As it turned out, nothing significant occurred. Parents went to work, and I resumed my regular school routine. The only noticeable change in my life was the implementation of “restricted movement.” Whenever my mother called out from the balcony, it was a signal for me to head home without any negotiation or playtime until I exhausted myself. I had to remain constantly under her watchful eye.
As time passed, divisions began to emerge within the school, with Croatians and Muslims on one side and Serbs on the other. The ongoing war in Croatia served as a backdrop to these developments, and the daily news broadcasts became an integral part of every household’s routine. However, even at that young age, I struggled to grasp the full significance of the situation. Growing up in a “mixed” family, with a Croatian father and a Muslim mother, I found myself caught in a unique position. I didn’t easily fit into either group, and it was challenging to determine where I belonged. Then, a pivotal moment occurred. A devastating explosion rocked Mostar when a tanker near the Yugoslav National Army barracks in the Northern Camp detonated. Coincidentally, my mother and I were visiting someone in nearby Zalik when the explosion happened. Despite the intensity of the blast and the shattered glass that surrounded us, I managed to remain calm, devoid of fear. After approximately thirty minutes, my mother made the decision to return home. We hurried back, with me struggling to keep up with her brisk pace. When we finally arrived, it felt as though only a minute had passed, although in reality, it had been at least half an hour. My father was working the second shift, leaving only my mother and me at home. With the telephone lines disrupted, we were cut off from the outside world, unable to reach anyone for support or information. However, when my father appeared at the door, his presence brought a renewed sense of hope and security. It was at that moment that I realized the war had indeed reached Mostar, and I experienced its initial phase alongside the Serbs. Reflecting on this story now, from my current perspective, it feels almost surreal. We would diligently listen to radio announcements, which served as forewarnings of imminent attacks, and quickly seek refuge away from our yard, hoping to find some semblance of safety amidst the turmoil.
After the shelling quieted down, I cautiously returned to the yard, devoid of fear. It’s remarkable that without the sight of casualties and the devastated buildings, one could almost forget that a war was raging. My childhood was slightly disrupted, to say the least. There was no need for anyone to call us inside from the yard; the sound of a grenade being fired would send us sprinting into the safety of the building. We even turned it into a competition, seeing who could reach shelter first. Then came the long-awaited liberation of the city. Although distant echoes of shelling still lingered, a sense of normalcy gradually returned. Shops began reopening, and humanitarian aid started to arrive, as if we were starring in a movie. It was the innocent wisdom of a child, trying to make sense of the chaos surrounding us.
Regrettably, less than a year later, a conflict erupted between the Croats and Muslims, abruptly ending our “movie-like” childhood and replacing it with fear. At the onset of the war, my grandparents sought refuge in Baško Polje, but my mother and I chose to remain in Mostar, unwilling to be separated from my father. But as time passed, the situation deteriorated, and staying in Mostar became increasingly perilous.
My father was called to the frontlines, leaving my mother and me alone at home. Every knock on the door would send my mother into a panic, fearing the worst and hoping for a positive outcome for my father. And then, the day arrived when our building was “sorted.” Croats on one side, Serbs on the other, and Muslims on a third side. My mother stood among the Muslims, and I stood proudly in front of everyone. A man, dressed in a uniform resembling my father’s, approached me and asked, “Whose little boy are you? Where’s your dad?” I replied, “He’s in the field.” “And your mom?” Pointing to my mother, I said, “She’s over there, that’s my mom.” The soldier gazed at me and then at my mother. Curiously, he asked, “Why didn’t you stand with your mom?” With great pride, I declared, “Because I’m not a Muslim. I’m Yugoslav.” Suddenly, laughter erupted from everyone around us. The soldiers and we, the civilians, were all classified and separated. The soldier then proclaimed, “Everyone, go back to your homes, and the Yugoslav gets a chocolate bar.” I cannot express the sheer joy I felt in that moment. A genuine chocolate bar, a symbol of happiness amidst the turmoil.
After that incident, my father made the decision to relocate us to Baško Polje. We remained there until the end of the war. As soon as it was feasible to return home, my mother and I eagerly went back to Mostar and resumed our lives. I shared this story because, truthfully, I never felt afraid. Perhaps it was because my parents never displayed fear in front of me, nor allowed me to witness their anxieties. They shielded me from the harsh realities of the adult world.
The time eventually arrived for me to enter high school, where I chose to study electrical engineering. I was fortunate to have a wonderful group of friends, and in our circle, politics and divisions held no place.
My mother and I registered to visit the “other” side, where we could reunite with my aunt and friends. Ever since then, I have traversed the entire city without fear, day or night, confident that no harm or negativity would befall me.
Now, I find myself at the age my father was when the war first erupted. I am married and a proud father of two children. When I am in Mostar, my work takes me around the city, engaging with its people and relishing the beauty of the Old Bridge and the majestic Neretva River. I frequent the charming cafes and restaurants, immerse myself in the rich culture by visiting museums and galleries, and eagerly partake in the vibrant music concerts and festivals. I enjoy meeting new people, exchanging stories, and embracing diverse perspectives, both in my professional and personal life. Mostar, the city of bridges, stands as a testament to resilience, uniting the East and West. It has emerged from the shadows of division and conflict, rebuilding its spirit and reclaiming its identity. Living in Mostar, I am devoid of fear. I hold a deep affection for this city—it is my home, my sanctuary. Here, I feel safe and free, knowing that I am where I belong.