This is a villainous story. Villainous, but on classic theme- for divided lovers and divided ideologies. But not as the story of Romeo and Juliet.
Every great and tragic love has been compared with the story of the two Veronians ever since. But no one not for a minute believes that it is true. Even when they’re showing us the balcony of Juliet. Nobody believes, that this really happened and that it can happen again. We think of it as one great beautiful fiction, a growing metaphor. Never a truth.
They say that the basis of a good story is the capability of the author to use metaphors, to decorate with great words and lovely comparisons and using just a little bit truth, almost invisible.
But sometimes life proves itself as the model of all great stories ...and of all great metaphors. Sometimes life brings us real hyperboles.
Sometimes the exaggeration is so obvious and extreme, that we just cannot take it. It is real, existing, can be touched and felt. The exaggeration is pushing us into our faces and screams that it is real, it is here and we must see it. Because this exaggeration is happening now, here, in front of our eyes. Yes, sometimes life is making such exaggerations.
The example is here – not 5 centuries ago, but just some 15 years. The example is real, documentary. And this is why I cannot narrate it sentimentally. And this is why I don’t like the fact that the destiny of the Bosnian girl Admira and the Serbian boy Boshko is popular as “The Sarajevo Romeo and Juliet”. Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet are a symbol. Boshko and Admira are just emanation of a great misery. Romeo and Juliet made their free choice. Admira and Boshko have never been free.
In the story of the Bosnian girl and the Serbian boy nothing is romantically tragic, or epically beautiful. In their story there is only truth- terrible, ugly, possessing… Tied to those who know it as an eternal chain of guilt and sin.
In the story of Admira and Boshko not only the happy end is missing. After the end nobody has not a droplet of optimism or hope for better days. Their story is not making anyone think that the great love finally wins even over life. Their story just proves that in the infernal time of war love is not an option. In such time love is a fiction, extravagancy, which more and more brings you to the end. In such time there is no choice.
Admira and Boshko didn’t have their choice on how and why to live their life. They just had their short moment of free will, born and implemented in them, refused by the time, the situation, the people. They are 25 years old back in 1993 and are living in the destroyed, dark, ugly as an open wound city of Sarajevo.
As an artery, filled with the blood of killed people, yesterday brothers, the city is crossed by the Miljecka river. And the river is crossed by countless ironical bridges – being symbols of brotherhood, now the place of main division.
The Vrbanja bridge is no different- symbol of unity back in the days, now it is just another demark line, over which there is only shoots and death. Line, over which the chance is refused to both Bosnians and Serbs, especially to a mixed couple like the Serbian boy Boshko and the Bosnian girl Admira.
The chance in those days is given only to those, in which is gathered the whole ideology of the war. Those, for which there is no right side, but only a profitable one. As Ismet Bajramovic- Kelo, the most popular criminal during the war in Sarajevo, one of the very few people to whom there were no divisions and combating sides, only money and profit - because of his endless jobberies, he is the only one able to organize departure from the city. Kelo’s chance was the money. Those 18 thousand DM he took from Admira and Boshko to help them escape through the Vrbanja bridge on his sign, allowing them to leave the dead city of Sarajevo and be together somewhere where there is no hate.
I don’t know what dark infernal power made them trust Kelo and stood in front the bridge late at night on May 18th 1993, waiting for him to bribe the soldiers, made them “close eyes” for a minute, while Admira and Boshko are running through the bridge.
Probably Admira and Boshko had no idea of Kelo. Kelo didn’t believe in love. Kelo didn’t believe in the mad impulse for freedom. Kelo didn’t bribe the soldiers – he took the money, crossed the bridge and left.
Kelo wasn’t interested and didn’t even look what is happening - he gave his sign that it is free for them to cross the bridge. And then he left. He didn’t heard Admira’s and Boshko’s fast steps on the bridge, nor the bullets, shot from the soldiers (who knows from which side!), nor the noise of the bodies falling on the ground, nor Admira’s deadly crawling to Boshko to hug him for last time and be together as a personification of the naïve faith and betrayal.
Kelo only believed in those 18 thousand DM in his pocket. He believed in the physical - what can be touched and used. He wasn’t interested in the ideals of two 25 years old lunatics. He kept the reservation as he understood it - gave sign with a hand … but lethargically, disinterested ... as an anathema over all free souls, who dare to think that they can be different. As an anathema and a last goodbye to all ideals and honor. Kelo was sure he was the winner with his 18 thousands in his pocket.
But in this cruel and cynical night on May 18th there were no winners. Nor Kelo with his money- he was crossed out by the history with a thick line, under which his name is still readable, but also pressed forever. Nor the soldiers who shot at Admira and Boshko- they will always wear the curse of the needless sin to kill a human being and will probably always know that those two lunatics running through the bridge are running for their dreams.
Nor Admira and Boshko. They didn’t reach their aim, they didn’t show their truth. They didn’t manage to prove to themselves and to the others that there was any sense in sacrificing lives in the name of one idea. They just became a monument of a hideous destiny.
Admira and Boshko became the Fact, the Exaggerations, the Symbol, the Real Life in the moment of their death … and for another six long days in which none of the combating sides is allowing to the other to collect and berry the bodies, left in the middle.
The two sides watched the bodies and no one admitted guilt. The foreign “peacemakers” were afraid that their tanks are way too vulnerable. Reporters from the whole world were broadcasting from a secure distance this story to make their reportages a bit more colorful for the housewives in the distant, peaceful “white” countries.
For six long days Admira and Boshko were lying in their last hug, thunderously quiet. Like that, not berried.
For six long days Admira and Boshko were one infernal and inextricable accuse, which screams in the faces of Serbs, Bosnians, Croats, soldiers, politicians, citizens, criminals, burglars, parents, children, local and foreign reporters from the whole world.
For six long days they were left to expiate their sin to hope and believe.
For six long days they were reprobation for all free spirited souls, emanation of the Cruel Fortuna.
The Cruel Fortuna that is not giving you the right to choose. Only leaves you to wait the moment when your full of naïve thoughts, hopes and love breasts will be on the bullet way. The Cruel Fortuna, which is laughing over the small human impulses. The Cruel Fortuna, which condemns in advance and gives empty hopes. And then is throwing you into the last, frozen, deadly hug of the misery, betrayal, division and fear in a merciless time.
Over there, on the Vrbanja bridge ...
Every great and tragic love has been compared with the story of the two Veronians ever since. But no one not for a minute believes that it is true. Even when they’re showing us the balcony of Juliet. Nobody believes, that this really happened and that it can happen again. We think of it as one great beautiful fiction, a growing metaphor. Never a truth.
They say that the basis of a good story is the capability of the author to use metaphors, to decorate with great words and lovely comparisons and using just a little bit truth, almost invisible.
But sometimes life proves itself as the model of all great stories ...and of all great metaphors. Sometimes life brings us real hyperboles.
Sometimes the exaggeration is so obvious and extreme, that we just cannot take it. It is real, existing, can be touched and felt. The exaggeration is pushing us into our faces and screams that it is real, it is here and we must see it. Because this exaggeration is happening now, here, in front of our eyes. Yes, sometimes life is making such exaggerations.
The example is here – not 5 centuries ago, but just some 15 years. The example is real, documentary. And this is why I cannot narrate it sentimentally. And this is why I don’t like the fact that the destiny of the Bosnian girl Admira and the Serbian boy Boshko is popular as “The Sarajevo Romeo and Juliet”. Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet are a symbol. Boshko and Admira are just emanation of a great misery. Romeo and Juliet made their free choice. Admira and Boshko have never been free.
In the story of the Bosnian girl and the Serbian boy nothing is romantically tragic, or epically beautiful. In their story there is only truth- terrible, ugly, possessing… Tied to those who know it as an eternal chain of guilt and sin.
In the story of Admira and Boshko not only the happy end is missing. After the end nobody has not a droplet of optimism or hope for better days. Their story is not making anyone think that the great love finally wins even over life. Their story just proves that in the infernal time of war love is not an option. In such time love is a fiction, extravagancy, which more and more brings you to the end. In such time there is no choice.
Admira and Boshko didn’t have their choice on how and why to live their life. They just had their short moment of free will, born and implemented in them, refused by the time, the situation, the people. They are 25 years old back in 1993 and are living in the destroyed, dark, ugly as an open wound city of Sarajevo.
As an artery, filled with the blood of killed people, yesterday brothers, the city is crossed by the Miljecka river. And the river is crossed by countless ironical bridges – being symbols of brotherhood, now the place of main division.
The Vrbanja bridge is no different- symbol of unity back in the days, now it is just another demark line, over which there is only shoots and death. Line, over which the chance is refused to both Bosnians and Serbs, especially to a mixed couple like the Serbian boy Boshko and the Bosnian girl Admira.
The chance in those days is given only to those, in which is gathered the whole ideology of the war. Those, for which there is no right side, but only a profitable one. As Ismet Bajramovic- Kelo, the most popular criminal during the war in Sarajevo, one of the very few people to whom there were no divisions and combating sides, only money and profit - because of his endless jobberies, he is the only one able to organize departure from the city. Kelo’s chance was the money. Those 18 thousand DM he took from Admira and Boshko to help them escape through the Vrbanja bridge on his sign, allowing them to leave the dead city of Sarajevo and be together somewhere where there is no hate.
I don’t know what dark infernal power made them trust Kelo and stood in front the bridge late at night on May 18th 1993, waiting for him to bribe the soldiers, made them “close eyes” for a minute, while Admira and Boshko are running through the bridge.
Probably Admira and Boshko had no idea of Kelo. Kelo didn’t believe in love. Kelo didn’t believe in the mad impulse for freedom. Kelo didn’t bribe the soldiers – he took the money, crossed the bridge and left.
Kelo wasn’t interested and didn’t even look what is happening - he gave his sign that it is free for them to cross the bridge. And then he left. He didn’t heard Admira’s and Boshko’s fast steps on the bridge, nor the bullets, shot from the soldiers (who knows from which side!), nor the noise of the bodies falling on the ground, nor Admira’s deadly crawling to Boshko to hug him for last time and be together as a personification of the naïve faith and betrayal.
Kelo only believed in those 18 thousand DM in his pocket. He believed in the physical - what can be touched and used. He wasn’t interested in the ideals of two 25 years old lunatics. He kept the reservation as he understood it - gave sign with a hand … but lethargically, disinterested ... as an anathema over all free souls, who dare to think that they can be different. As an anathema and a last goodbye to all ideals and honor. Kelo was sure he was the winner with his 18 thousands in his pocket.
But in this cruel and cynical night on May 18th there were no winners. Nor Kelo with his money- he was crossed out by the history with a thick line, under which his name is still readable, but also pressed forever. Nor the soldiers who shot at Admira and Boshko- they will always wear the curse of the needless sin to kill a human being and will probably always know that those two lunatics running through the bridge are running for their dreams.
Nor Admira and Boshko. They didn’t reach their aim, they didn’t show their truth. They didn’t manage to prove to themselves and to the others that there was any sense in sacrificing lives in the name of one idea. They just became a monument of a hideous destiny.
Admira and Boshko became the Fact, the Exaggerations, the Symbol, the Real Life in the moment of their death … and for another six long days in which none of the combating sides is allowing to the other to collect and berry the bodies, left in the middle.
The two sides watched the bodies and no one admitted guilt. The foreign “peacemakers” were afraid that their tanks are way too vulnerable. Reporters from the whole world were broadcasting from a secure distance this story to make their reportages a bit more colorful for the housewives in the distant, peaceful “white” countries.
For six long days Admira and Boshko were lying in their last hug, thunderously quiet. Like that, not berried.
For six long days Admira and Boshko were one infernal and inextricable accuse, which screams in the faces of Serbs, Bosnians, Croats, soldiers, politicians, citizens, criminals, burglars, parents, children, local and foreign reporters from the whole world.
For six long days they were left to expiate their sin to hope and believe.
For six long days they were reprobation for all free spirited souls, emanation of the Cruel Fortuna.
The Cruel Fortuna that is not giving you the right to choose. Only leaves you to wait the moment when your full of naïve thoughts, hopes and love breasts will be on the bullet way. The Cruel Fortuna, which is laughing over the small human impulses. The Cruel Fortuna, which condemns in advance and gives empty hopes. And then is throwing you into the last, frozen, deadly hug of the misery, betrayal, division and fear in a merciless time.
Over there, on the Vrbanja bridge ...
