Sadness and Sorrows of Banja Luka
Zarko G. Bilbija
Mourning for Fallen Soldiers of Republika Srpska
Banja Luka has always had the reputation of a pleasant and gay city, beautifully spread along Vrbas River, with neat houses, airy broad avenues, and a surfeit of happy young people. It still looks that way, surprisingly so for a place whose inhabitants are mostly (about one-half of population) fresh refuges. Of course, the city has escaped direct ravages of war which scar all approaches to it; its houses are intact and kept up, its streets and avenues without ugly potholes left by caterpillar treads of tanks and heavy guns. True, almost all its young males are dressed in military fatigues, but they look and behave as if their garb was a fashionable choice rather than wartime necessity; also, the young girls of Banja Luka look perky and saucy even in their obviously re-tailored dresses and hand-me-down shoes.
But these first impressions are soon overcome by a vague sense that a pall of sadness and sorrows hangs behind serene beauty of the city and the apparent gaiety of its young people. Many signs of it are in fact obvious even if overlooked at first.
For one, many women on the streets of Banja Luka wear mourning black, and as many men wear black armbands. Also, too much of the ordinary street talk evolves around the extraordinary questions of who was killed, where, and how. And then there are black-bordered notices on linden trees.
Sorrows on Linden Trees
The linden trees abound in the city, especially alongside the main avenue which now again bears its original name of King Peter I of Serbia. Before the Second World War its long rows of stately linden trees displayed amorous notes of high school kids for whom this was the favorite evening promenade called "avenue of sighs." Today they display death notices, the black-bordered obituaries.
These notices are brief and factual, monotonously identical in form and content: black-bordered leaflets, with cross, sometimes the picture of the deceased, as headings over the name and dates of birth and death. A short text follows, giving place and time of funeral service and burial, ending with the names of the aggrieved family, relatives, friends, and war comrades. After seeing so many of them, it occurred to me that the war has ended several months ago: Why the funerals and burials now?
A group of demobilized soldiers from Bosanska Krajina and North Dalmatia gave me the answer: these were the fighters killed in the withdrawal from Krajinas during the last few weeks of war, whose remains are now being clandestinely dug up and brought for burial on Serb-held territory. In fact these soldiers took down several of these notices, and asked me to show them to Vojvoda Djujic as proof that many grandchildren of his former Chetnik fighters died defending Krajinas from the same enemies he once fought. Here is the text typical for all of them (see picture #1):
All our relatives, friends, and neighbors, are informed of the sad news, that on 18 October 1995, while defending the borders of Republika Srpska as a soldier and policeman of Republika Srpska, lost his life in his 26th year
BORO (Nikola's) GALIC
(14 December 1969 - 18 October 1995)Burial will be on Saturday 6 April l 996 at 2 PM at the Orthodox cemetery "Borik" in Banja Luka.
Aggrieved: Father Nikola, mother Milena,brother Dalibor, wife Slavica, daughter Nikolina, and other countless relatives and friends.
When I commented on this incident to Jevto Jovanovic, a popular local judge, he offered to show me and my companion Dr. Mario Vuksanovic more of the same. "Let me take you to 'St. Pantelija' cemetery, real field of sadness and sorrow," he said. "But we must get there before it cools down and the crowds start coming in."
Sadness in the Cemetery
Actually when we arrived at the place it was already beginning to crowd in spite of the stifling heat and humidity. The funerary chapel at the entrance was full of people, mostly women, an even motley of matrons and teenage girls. They were holding lit candles and praying silently, some for fallen sons, others for brothers or fiances. There were also people outside, mostly in the area of the cemetery dedicated to fallen soldiers.
That part is clearly new, with roughly about a thousand graves, almost all bedecked with fresh flowers, sometimes piles stacked one upon another. The tomb-stones range from simple black marble army-regulation, bearing Orthodox crosses (about a dozen had Red Stars), with names and dates of birth and death; to more ornate monuments erected by families, most of them with pictures, some with poems or prayers chiseled underneath. Among those that show the units, Army soldiers (Vojska Republike Srpske) dominate, in many cases (usually young boys) with notation that the soldier was a volunteer (dobrovoljac). There are however many policemen (CJB, MUP, or Policija) and border guards (Granicar RS).
Now then there were these two middle aged women standing next to a grave, ungainly in city dresses, perhaps peasants from some neighboring village. One was praying loudly, the other arranging flowers over the grave. When they spot me with the cameras, one of them speaks up: "Mister," she says pleadingly, "would you please, for God's grace, take a picture of us." I try to explain that I have just started new roll of film, and will leave for USA before finishing it. "Dear Mister," says the other woman, "since you live in America you can do anything. Just send the picture to your friend Mister judge and he will bring it to us." She tells me she is the mother and the other woman the aunt of the young man buried in the grave. "My sweet hope and mother's joy," she went on, "he was wounded at Mrkonjic, left alone in the forest and took three full days and nights to die. Twice a week we bring fresh flowers to make him forget in heaven how he died. We want a picture of it to look at every day in our sad house." The aunt adds that the soldier was a volunteer: "I can still see him with two other boys from our village singing and marching off with the flowers the girls put on their rifles. They were too young, hardly knew how to handle the rifle." (I took their photo‹see picture #2‹and sent it to them.)
We move on and come upon the saddest and most impressive sight: a row of seven graves of seven young Serb border guards who died together as true martyrs. Wounded and captured after defending the border bunker to the last round, they were tied with wire to spits and roasted alive. Although they were not all Banja Luka natives, they were buried next to each other, and their graves have become a sort of common monument upon which most everybody deposits some flowers (see picture #3, unfortunately only four graves are seen). Equally touching are the graves of two brothers who served and died together in Police battle-units. They were in early twenties, both accomplished guitarists and members of a local jazz band, and in fact the tomb-stones show pictures of them playing guitars.
On the way back from cemetery I buy a stack of local newspapers and discover that they too are messengers of sadness and sorrows. Apparently though, their messages are specialized, announcing the anniversaries of the pains from long ago.
Anniversaries of Never-ending Pains
The truth is that these newspaper notices are odd obituaries, testifying to permanence of grief and anguish which time can never heal. They are also uniquely pathetic expressions of enduring pain that only poetry can render fittingly. In fact most of the notices are poems, clearly composed by the aggrieved relatives, with the rhyming whose simplicity is heart-rending. Here is a free textual translation of how a sister remembers the anniversary of the death of her soldier brother (see picture #5):
On the day 18 June 1996 there will be three years since we no longer have with us our dearest
GAVRILOVIC ZORAN
From Caklovici-Tuzla 1957-1993Sleep my little brother my joy, Your sister adores you.
I will come often to your grave, And return home in sadness,
I will plant flowers on you, my flower, And will always light you a candle.
Sister Dara, brother in law Zoran, nephew Mladen and niece Sara.
Here is a grieving mother whose longer somewhat more free-verse poem to her fallen son tells a similar story of enduring pain:
On the day 29 June 1992 we lost our most precious gold our only and noble son
OBRENOVIC (Jovan 's) PETAR PERO
Graduate Mechanical Engineer 1961-1992My sun was extinguished on the battle-ramparts of our country when I lost the light and the days. My dearest and only son, your smiling face disappeared in darkness and your parents were left alone. It is hard to live without you with the old age knocking at our doors. And more difficulf are our deep wounds which will not heal until we lie down beside you. All we have of you now are mere memories. Your voice is no more, nor your heart to warm us up. The accursed 1992 took away our dearest baby, leaving empty mother's embrace. We have no grandchildren to read us books, and your old father cannot find peace anywhere. You were cut down by wretched enemies, but they too will be cut down. Cry our beloved country for your fallen sons. May their children rejoice with the people of good will. Meanwhile, all around fresh graves, bereaved parents and lone mothers. Our eternal sadness, please end soon. Father Jovan and mother Borka.
Sometimes the poetry of these anniversary notices is not so much in rhyme as it is in poetically expressed sentiments. Here is such and example, unsigned but apparently (judging by the context) composed on behalf of the family by the grieving sister of the fallen soldier (see picture #7).
On the day 7May 1996 it will be four long sad years since the battle death of our son, father, husband, and brother
ILIC MILE
1961-1992Four years already, Mile, that we keep calling you through our tears butyou don't answer, leaving us to weep forever over out tragic loss. Dear and only brother, when the rain drops fall upon you, know that they are not rain drops but tears of your dearest. All that we have left of you is to say with pride that you have always been and will remain our Mile. for you will live forever in our hearts.
AFTERWORD
The truth is that the above scenes and stories are common fare throughout Republika Srpska. What is uncommon, in fact amazing, is that their comulative impact does not, as one would normally expect, affect the visible public life of people at large. One would think, for example, that amidst so much evidence of so many personal tragedies the people of Banja Luka must be living a life of oppressive aloom and forlorn hones.
But such is not the case, however, at least not to the eyes of an
outside observer. Rather, they seem to be at peace with their
harsh fate, accepting personal misfortunes as part of abstract
destiny but not as constraint or regulator of real life. They keep
their sadness and sorrows in the background, honoring their dead
quietly, while publicly cheering the living to struggle for a
better and happier future.