91×ÔÅÄÂÛ̳

By Merima Trbojevich This story is dedicated to all the women who have lived an experience like mine or at least share my feelings. Dedicated to the women who have been pushed by war into a struggle just to survive. There are too many stories like mine. They happened in a land where prosperity and peace reigned until recently: Yugoslavia. My mother country doesn't exist any more. Now Bosnia and Hercegovina is my country, and it will always be so. It doesn't matter if the world powers decide to divide it or destroy it. At this point I do not want to retell how horrible it was to flee from Sarajevo while around us hand grenades were exploding and my son's eyes reflected fear, or how frightening it was to go towards the unknown, where no-one seems to wait for you and you feel hopeless, your heart is thumping. Now I want to talk about something else: the solidarity amongst women in the war. In Belgrade where I stayed in the beginning, I got help only from the group Women in Black, from the volunteers of S.O.S. telephone for children and women victims of domestic violence and from women's political groups almost the only ones to raise their voices against the government's politics. In Belgrade I was a journalist for Oslobodjenje, a daily that in spite of the disaster in Sarajevo was a champion of the unity and survival of Sarajevo. In Belgrade I was uneasy about saying my name, because they immediately retorted: she is Muslim, she doesn't belong here. I always thought of myself as a daughter of flowers, of the whole universe, a creature of this earth and nothing else. Luckily, for my women friends the tag of Muslim didn't count. The opportunity to participate in a conference held by Centro donne in Trieste (Italy) and dedicated to ex-Yugoslavia women, gave me the chance to remain in Trieste when the conference finished. There I waited for my husband (as a journalist he was two years in Sarajevo) to start a new life. In Trieste I happened to know Carmen, very knowledgeable, very strong a woman who inspired new strength in me and brought me back to life. Carmen doesn't know defeat. She never surrenders; she only knows the obstinate struggle to improve. She simply doesn't allow a woman's surrender. I listened to her while she related how she made her own choices and built her own life. She taught me that's how it is. We were unable to discuss much because we didn't know each other's language well enough in the beginning. However, I grasped her messages. These gave me strength and understanding that responsibility for my son and myself was my priority. I must keep fighting, not feel sorry for myself. It doesn't matter if the plight I find myself in is inhuman. I lived in her house, I observed and learned. Many times during the day I repeat to myself a law learned from Carmen. If you think you are a victim of the war, a loser, you will always be one. I know that one must not think so. It is true. I tried it. I have felt like a loser, unhappy, worn out. I've had many surprises. I have convinced myself that all that happened is not my fault but a consequence of a collective madness. I often wonder how I could help other women who face even worse situations. I refer to the women violated in war and when I meet them, I insist that their life is not over and that they did nothing to bring shame to their families. Of the shame, only husbands or fathers have spoken, not the women. It's the man who has lost his honour, not the woman, who doesn't benefit from the order established by men, their scale of values. To all the women who crossed my life and helped me find again my identity, I sincerely offer part of my soul.