THE JOURNEY NEVER ENDS, PART II
From time to time I get asked what I knew about Denmark before coming here. Since I was always very interested in geography I knew that Copenhagen was the nation’s capital and I knew that the peninsula of Jutland links Denmark to the rest of Europe. I knew that the country produced and exported a lot of meat and dairy products and that it did not have many natural resources.

So, what is my story in Denmark? In 1994 I started at Skive Gymnasium. I think it was here I first began to learn about the Danish language, society and culture. Later I started working and I learned even more about Danish values and society. In 2003 I graduated from Nordic Multimedia Academy as a multimedia designer, and since then I have worked as a graphic designer in various companies.

Unlike the natives I do not have a particularly good relationship with Danish food. I think it was in 1998 I got acquainted with Danish roasted potatoes. I was at the company’s Christmas party and I saw these delicious brown potatoes. I ignored almost all the other food and filled my plate with the potatoes. When I tasted it all my senses got a shock and I almost literally ended up on the floor, and it was not because of the beer or the schnapps! It was because I just could not dream potatoes could (or should) be sugary, sweet!

Another Danish food I could not eat for a really long time is rye bread. It was hard, dry and did not taste very good. It may well be that the bread is healthier than ciabatta style bread, but I always felt it tasted like wood. However, one thing I think Danes excel at is pastry, fruit tarts, and marzipan: Othello cake, apple cake (everything with apples) and berry tarts.

Although I now have lived in Denmark for 18 years I have still not got used to the Danish weather. We Danish Bosnians say that “even dogs do not bark in Denmark”, but if something is untamed in this country then it must be the weather. I still have a hard time getting used to rain, wind and sunshine all on the same day. The first two I could easily do without but in a way there is a certain charm (do I really mean this?) about the changing and unpredictable weather.

In Denmark I have lived in refugee centres, in a so-called satellite (a house attached to an asylum centre), a townhouse, a house and a number of flats. I think the process of establishing myself in a new country went rather well. It was not easy, I was a stranger and unfamiliar with the surroundings, but quietly my family and I found our place. It was not always easy to get in contact with the natives. This is especially true in the western Jutland where locals are often very reserved towards people they do not know. My experience is that they open up after they have known you some time. In the beginning I had a hard time understanding their reservation towards foreigners, but I got used to it and eventually I realized that’s a part of their way of life.

Today I have my own family; a wife and two beautiful daughters. I tell them stories about my home country and teach them about Bosnian cultural values, but I also raise them so that they tomorrow can be good and valuable members of the Danish society. I am very proud of my family and I know as long I have them with me everything is going to be fine – that is why I will always fight for democracy and individual freedom in Denmark so that my daughters do not experience what I was forced to in those dark, final years of the twentieth century.

THE JOURNEY NEVER ENDS, PART 1.

I was a refugee once. From today’s perspective, as the father of two daughters, I am grateful that I was only a seventeen-year-old boy in that time of turmoil, uncertainty and doubts. What I learned back then was that nobody understands a refugee and his situation unless they, too, are one. You can have a deep sympathy and compassion for a person who had to leave his country, but if you have not experienced what it is like to leave your home, your family and dear friends, you can never truly understand what it means to be a refugee, homeless in a foreign land, completely cut off from the rest of the society, at least in those first months of living in exile. And if that person also has children and a wife by their side, you can only imagine but never completely understand what is going on in that person’s mind, what fears for his children’s future a parent is carrying.

When I was asked to write this column and tell my refugee story I was filled with mixed emotions. On the one hand, I was mildly reluctant to the idea of writing about my past experience because I knew I had to dig deep into my memory and consciousness. I believe that is a normal human reaction – usually we tend to ignore and avoid remembering unpleasant events from the past. On the other hand, I wanted to give my refugee story as a tonic to all current refugees who might find in it a crumb of peace of mind, or even be inspired to look more positively upon their situation.

So let us start from the beginning.

I was born into a turbulent world, politically destructive between East and West, the sympathetic freedom-loving psychedelia was on its last legs. The Vietnam War had just entered the dark annals of the twentieth century, American spacecraft Viking 1 landed on Mars, and Czechoslovakia won 5-3 against West Germany in the finals of EURO ‘76. I was born in the small town of Bosanski Šamac in northern Bosnia, which was then part of Yugoslavia. I had a happy childhood, went to kindergarten and primary school, and I had a lot of friends I played with around the apartment complex. The town lies at the point where two great rivers, the Sava and the Bosna (which gave the country its name) meet. In the summer I used to spend a lot of time there with my family and friends. Once a year my parents would take my brother and I to the Adriatic Sea, and we would stay in some of the picturesque small towns of the Makarska Riviera. Yes, life was beautiful.

I almost finished first year of high school when the war scene moved from Croatia and entered my country and hometown in April 1992. One night Serbian forces swiftly occupied Bosanski Šamac and soon I had to flee the town with my parents and brother because the new authorities began imprisoning and mistreating the town’s Croats and Muslims (Bosniaks). Non-Serbs became second class citizens, many of whom were either sent to a nearby labor camp in Zasavica or sent to dig trenches. The only thing missing was a yellow band around their arms; just like the one Jews had to wear in Nazi Germany. And so we fled to the neighboring free town of Gradačac, where we had some relatives who gave us shelter.

Although my hometown was occupied by Serbian forces it was possible to enter and leave the town for a few days at the beginning of the occupation. Since my mother was a store manager she believed naively that she should hand over the keys of the store. The same day that she went to our hometown the new authorities closed down all the roads to and from the town. Therefore my mother could not get out and return to us: her husband and two children – and we were not going to see her or know anything about her situation for the next 7 months.

A few weeks later, Serbian forces began attacking and shelling Gradačac. Those days were probably some of the worst of my life. The small town was bombed to pieces from all possible directions, from earth and air. It was the middle of September when my father was fed up worrying about the lack of security for his boys, that he decided we should try to leave Bosnia. We had to travel south down the entire Bosnia-Herzegovina on an improvised route to Dalmatia and then to Zagreb, Croatia’s capital, where my father’s aunt lived. We traveled through war-torn cities and towns, through forests and mountains and improvised roads and even places where it seemed the war had taken place just minutes ago. I remember at one point driving through a small town where there were many houses on fire, a few crying people in the streets. It felt as if there had been a fight only a few hours before we arrived. We traveled some 1,400 km through the whole country of Bosnia and a large part of Croatia. To illustrate how difficult and dangerous the trip was it usually takes only 230 kilometers to go from Bosanski Šamac to Zagreb!

In December 1992 my father, brother and I were finally reunited with my mother – at the Prague train station. Her journey from our war-stricken hometown to Serbia and on to the Czech Republic deserves a book of its own. A friendly Serb working at the hospital engineered her exit. She had to pretend to be a Serb nurse in her passage from Bosnia and, as she waited for clearance to cross the Drina river, she was given board for a couple of days at the house of an elderly nationalist Serbian woman who was led to believe my mother was a Serb. I can only imagine how it was for my mom to be there during those days listening to hateful speeches from her host, unconscious of the real identity of her guest.

We left the Czech Republic and arrived in Denmark in late April 1993. The first three days we were stationed in the Gentofte asylum center. We then spent one month on the southern island of Langeland. Our language quickly gained a new word, “muving” (eng. moving). People were constantly being relocated to other centers. Where the Danish Red Cross would send you was a big deal. In late May my family got a “muving” to Hagebro in the middle of the Jutland peninsula. It was a former hotel and its long, yellow-brick structure now accommodated around 110 Bosnian refugees. We called our new home Opticon, after the former hotel’s name. The little Bosnian colony had good times together and with the Danish staff from the Red Cross. There were a number of activities for children and adolescents, perhaps to keep our minds from wandering home. I know that many fellow refugee residents look back at those days with a certain nostalgia, because, despite living in small rooms and the adults being tormented of their war-torn home country, there were good things to look back on; people were kind to each other and children played together. One recalls a sense of solidarity: we were all in the same boat. I cannot forget the tremendous efforts of the staff to offer us various activities, taking us on all sorts of trips. I know now that all they wanted was to give us a little break from worrying about families and friends who still were in Bosnia.

To be continued…

Follow Fahrudin Dino Avdibegović and his journey to Denmark in part II, which will be published 17.2.2012.

Here a SimpleViewer Flash gallery should be displayed. Click here to open the post in your browser to see the gallery.

800 ml tečnog jogurta
800 g brašna
malo soli
malo sode (natron)
3 čaj. kašikice sirćeta

Sve sastojke pomiješati i mješati par minuta. Tepsiju premažemo uljem, a onda istresemo tijesto u nju. Pečemo 30 minuta u pećnici na 200 C.

• Vejle, Denmark
• Holstebro, Denmark
• Weissenhäuser Strand, Germany
• Copenhagen, Denmark
• Viborg, Denmark
• Bosanski Šamac, Bosnia
• Sarajevo, Bosnia
• Brela, Croatia
• Prague, Czech Republic
• Rome, Italy

My 2005, 2006, 2007 and 2008 lists.

Hvala vam na učinjenom, hvala vam na svim onim trenucima kada je bilo posebno lijepo osjećati se ponosnim Bosancem.

Roman započinje ovim rečenicama:

Na jesenjem turniru, 1332. godne, moje strijele bile su najpreciznije. Imao sam devetnaest godina i već bio poznat po vičnosti oružju i peru. U zimu 1333. godine pozvaše me da služim banu Stjepanu II. Kotromaniću. A bio sam se tek zagledao u lijepu Kaliju.

Jasmin Imamović gotovo poetičnim jezikom dočara život u srednjovjekovnim bosanskim zemljama. On opisuje njive, polja i šume, ali i jela, odnose među ljudima, muškarca i žene, o vjeri… Iako su glavni akteri romana fiktivni, većina dešavanje se događa oko istinitih, historijskih ličnosti kao što su ban Stjepan, njegov brat Vladislav, princeza Elizabeta, nećak Tvrtko itd. Osim toga, na vrlo vjerodostojan način on uključuje historijske događaje kao što su bitka za Bobovac između bana Stjepana i cara Dušana, odnosi Bosne i Dubrovnika, Bosne i Ugara, bosanskog bana i bizantijskog dvora, kao i Stanak (sabor) sve zemlje Bosne.

Toplo preporučujem ovaj odličan historijski roman o negdašnjoj Bosni, njenim ljudima, običajima, prijateljima i neprijateljima.

I, eto, vratila se moja mala porodica sa godišnjeg odmora koji nas je ovog ljeta odveo do Bosne, ali i Hrvatske. Put od Danske do Balkana smo prešli u Fabiji Comfort, a kao “slijepog putnika” imali smo moga brata koji nam se pridružio iz Kopenhagena.

Krenuli smo u petak 10. jula u 19 sati, nakon što smo došli s posla i nakon što sam odspavao jedno sat vremena. Većina puta  je odlično prošlo, osim što smo imali ustaljenu gužvu kroz Hamburg i prokletu (da ne kažem jebenu) Sloveniju kroz koju smo puzali čitavih šest sati. Na granični prijelaz Šentilj smo stigli oko 10 sati ujutro i odmah su nas dočekale nepregledne kolone auta kroz cijeli Maribor i ostatak zemlje sve do Mecelja, tj. hrvatske granice. Išli smo tako sporo da smo, Tita mi, mogli ići pješke. Ponekad bi zastoji trajali po 15-20 minuta, a da se nismo pomakli s mjesta. Najviše me je iznervirala indiferentnost i debilnost slovenačkih vlasti i policiji, tj. nespremnosti da se išta učini kako bi se gužva koja je nastala od Maribora pa sve do hrvatske granice barem ublažila. Tek nakon četiri-pet sati migoljenja slovenačkim krkanskim putem primjetili smo policajca na motoru. Neizbježan je dojam da Slovenci svima onima koji idu prema Hrvatskoj ne žele pomoći i kao da kažu “Jeb’te se kad želite u Hrvatsku, a ne mislite ljetovati i ostaviti pare u našoj deželi!”. Naveliko prave autoputeve (koji su u velikoj mjeri finansirani od strane Evropske Unije), a ne žele ni da pomisle na prioritet izgradnje autoputa od Maribora do Mecelja, iako je ta dionica vjerovatno najprometnija u cijeloj zemlji. A da ne pričam o cijeni vinjeta koja košta ni manje ni više nego 30 eura! Za taj iznos sam dobio šest sati puženja kroz 60-ak kilometara Slovenije  i takve gužve da se čovjek prosto osjeća poput najvećeg idiota. Uz to nisam vidio ni 100 metara vožnje po autoputu. Tako sam ogorčen na tu prokletu državu da sam odlučio bojkotovati svaki put kad me đavo pošalje u pravcu Balkana. Umjesto nekih 20 sati, putovanje od Danske do Bosanskog Šamca je, zahvaljujući slovenačkom putnom paklu, trajalo 24 sata.

II.

U Bosanski Šamac smo stigli u 19 sati, tačno 24 sata nakon polaska iz Vejlea. Kod dajdže dočekali su nas njegova porodica, ali i moji roditelji koji su u Bosni bili već gotovo mjesec dana.
U mome rodnom gradu smo se zadržali svega tri dana. Obilazili smo familiju, sreo sam se sa drugovima Bojanom i Oljom, šetali smo gradom, par puta izlazili u restorane. Htjeli smo se okupati na Savi i Bosni, ali su obje rijeke bile nadošle, tako da se nismo uspjeli osvježiti tokom vrućina u Šamcu. Mama je htjela da proslavimo moj rođendan jer oni nisu bili u Danskoj kada sam ga imao, pa je naručila janje u Gradačcu koje smo okrenuli u dajdžinoj avliji. Bilo je interesantno vidjeti dajdžinu spravu koja je sama, pomoću motora, okretala janje na metalnom ražnju. Kada se samo sjetim kako sam, kada sam bio dječak, okretao ručno drveni ražanj… Također moram da spomenem kulturni šok koji je moja kćerkica doživjela s obzirom da nikada prije nije vidjela zaklano janje, pa je nekoliko puta pitala “je li mrtvo janje” i “hoće li hodati?”.

Negdje u centru grada sam na jednom štandu knjiga kupio roman Dvori od oraha Miljenka Jergovića, koji je, samo da usput kažem, zasad više nego odličan.

U Sarajevo smo stigli 15. jula nakon nešto duže vožnje od planiranog, najviše zahvaljujući gužvama u Rajlovcu. Odmah smo otišli u Hrasnicu gdje živi Amrin brat i njegova porodica. Tu su nas dočekali i njeni roditelji koji su bili u Bosni već skoro dva mjeseca. Sljedeći dan Amrini roditelji su nas sve odveli u restoran na vrelu Bosne jer su htjeli da proslave svoju 40. godišnjicu braka. Mi smo prošetali Ilidžom (bili smo smješteni u naselju Pejton u stanu Amrinih roditelja), prošli kroz predivni ilidžanski park sa svojih četiri restaurirana hotela i provozali se konjskim kočijama do vrela Bosne. Nakon večere, Amrin brat Hamo i moj šurjak Feko otišli smo na Koševo da gledamo utakmicu Evropske Lige između Sarajeva i Spartaka iz Trnave. Sarajevo je slavilo sa 1:0.

Sljedeći dan smo posjetili Amrinu sestru i šurjaka Feku u njihovom stanu na Ilidži. Poslijepodne Amra i ja smo otišli autom do grada. U tek renoviranoj knjižari Svjetlost kupio sam nekoliko knjiga: Molim te zapiši od Jasmina Imamovića, Ugursuz od Nedžada Ibrišimovića, Chicago Alla al-Aswanija, Glad od Knuta Hamsuna, Katarza od Zlatka Lukića i Lutka na koncu od Darija Džamonje. Kada smo krenuli kući, dojmio me prizor u ulici Ferhadija gdje smo ugledali jednu staricu kako sjedi pokraj izloga. U ruci je držala nekoliko malih buketa cvijeća ukusno aranžiranih. Amra me pogledala, a ja sam prišao starici i upitao da li prodaje bukete. Potvrdila je, a ja sam joj u ruku stavio triput više nego što je tražila, a  ona je skoro zaplakala od iznenađenja. Bilo mi je pravo žao. Vjerujem da je tu sjedila dosta vremena u nadi da će prodati nekoliko buketića cvijeća, a ona je samo nenametljivo, gotovo neprimjetno, sjedila u uglu ulice i gledala prolaznike. Kasnije nam je Hamo rekao da ima vrlo puno ljudi koji dolaze iz drugih mjesta kako bi zaradili koju marku.

III.

Sljedeći dan smo Amra, Hamo i njegova supruga i ja otišli do Travnika gdje smo prošetali zidinama Starog grada, posjetili Zavičajni muzej, pojeli vjerovatno najbolje ćevape u životu u poznatoj ćevabdžinici Hari. Ja sam pojeo sudžukice i ćevape u lepini. Onda smo prošetali glavnom ulicom grada i vidjeli Šarenu džamiju. Nismo se htjeli zamarati bespotrebno, a bila je nekakva i omorina, pa smo odlučili krenuti nazad u Sarajevo. Bio je to odličan dan u vrlo zanimljivom vezirskom gradu Travniku.

Dan poslije su nam došli moji roditelji i Elvis iz Šamca. Plan je bio da prespavaju kod nas na Ilidži, pa da sutradan svi zajedno krenemo na more. Nakon kraćeg boravka kod Hame u Hrasnici, tramvajem smo se provozali od Ilidže do centra grada. Obišli smo područje oko Ferhadije, Sabornu crkvu, Baščaršiju i Begovu džamiju, pojeli vrlo dobre ćevape u Hasetovoj Petici,  posjetili novi BBI Centar i zgradu Predsjedništva i vratili se nazad na Ilidžu.

Sljedeće jutro krenuli smo autima prema Jadranskom moru.  Nakon nekoliko sati vožnje i velike gužve kod Mostara zaustavili smo se u prekrasnom Počitelju koji se poput dragulja isticao na hercegovačkom kamenu. U jednom restoranu ručali smo, obišli Počitelj, fotografisali njegove ljepote, posebno kulu Gavran-kapetanovića, džamiju i uske sokake, i krenuli dalje prema jugu.

Stigli smo u Zaostrog, ali nismo uspjeli pronaći smještaj. Zaustavili smo se u Drveniku, pa u Živogošću, Tučepima, Promajni i Baškoj Vodi, ali smještaja nije bilo ni za lijeka! Nakon 10 sati vožnje, konačno smo pronašli smještaj u hotelu Marina u Breli. Bili smo izmoreni, pa smo svi odahnuli kada smo se konačno mogli smjestiti. Hotel je bio udaljen svega 20 metara od plaže. Bili smo prezadovoljni, tim više što smo uzeli polupansion. Jeste da smo možda platili malo papreno, ali bilo je vrijedno kada pomislim kakav smo smještaj dobili, blizinu plaže, a najbolja plaža u Evropi (barem prema Forbesu) Punta Rata bila je udaljena svega 150 metara. Čak sam dobio i sniženje od 40%!
Tokom boravka u Breli kupali smo se na plažama, uživali u čistoj vodi. Na Punti Rati sam vidio i Muhameda Konjića. Očigledno da je Brela baš popularna među poznatim i dobrostojećim Bosancima jer mnogi dolaze tu. Inače, u Breli smo vidjeli jako puno stranaca, pogotovo Čeha, Slovaka i Poljaka. Bili smo prezadovoljni tokom boravka u Breli, a Hanku smo vodili na sladolede, palačinke i u diskoteku za djecu.
Zadnji dan u Breli sam izgorio, pa sam se mazao jogurtom po leđima i po glavi. Navečer sam sa Elvisom imao noćno kupanje u osvježavajućem moru.

IV.

Sljedeće jutro i zadnje jutro u Breli doručkovali smo i spremili naše stvari. Platio sam račun na recepciji, pozdravili smo se sa mojim roditeljima koji su namjerili za Goražde, a mi smo se uputili put Danske u 8.45 preko Splita i Zagreba. Blizu slovenačke granice smo se zaustavili u mjestu Sveti Križ Začetje gdje smo pojeli pice, a tu sam sebi kupio knjigu Austerlitz od W. G. Sebalda. Možda smo tu napravili isuviše dugu pauzu, sigurno sat i po. Nastavili smo kroz Sloveniju, Austriju i Njemačku, ali smo pravili nekoliko dužih pauza, tako da smo u Vejle stigli tek sljedeće jutro u 10.25, što znači da smo se vozili predugih 25 sati.
Elvisa smo izbacili na željezničkoj stanici u Vejleu, a mi smo se uputili do našeg stana, gdje sam nakon kupovine osnovnih namirnica otplovio u duboke snove.

Tokom putovanja u Bosnu i Hrvatsku i nazad prešao sam ukupno 4410 kilometara.

Pogled u Bosnu

Knjigu je napisao Matija Mažuranić nakon što je tokom 1839. i 1840. putovao zemljom Bosnom koja je u to vrijeme bila pod kontrolom Osmanlijskog carstva. Kao dvadesetodvogodišnjak prešao je rijeku Savu na tajnoj političkoj misiji Ilirskog nacionalnog pokreta Hrvatske kako bi evidentirao stvarno političko i društveno stanje u Bosni, te kako bi se upoznao sa stepenom nacionalnog osvješćenja među Bosancima. Članovi Ilirskog pokreta su tada bili svjesni da su njihovi susjedi Bosanci i Srbijanci, koji su bili pod turskom čizmom, u stvari njihova ilirska braća koji trebaju da se riješe okupatora i ujedine u zajedničku državu.

Matija Mažuranić prikazuje na odličan način tadašnji život, navike i tradicije bosanskog čovjeka. On je posebno zainteresovan u muslimanske običaje, pa njima i daje najveću pažnju u svome putopisu. On opisuje kako se bosanski musliman moli bogu (klanja), kako posti tokom Ramazana i kako slavi Bajram, kako se hrani, ali opisuje i život u bosanskim gradovima, zanate i objašnjava mnoge bosanske turcizme (na kraju knjige je stavio listu mnogih “turskih barbarizama”). Pisac u više navrata piše o legendama i anegdotama koje je čuo od Bošnjaka (potrebno je naglasiti da Mažuranić konsekventno naziva sve stanovnike Bosne Bošnjacima, bilo da su muslimani, pravoslavci, katolici ili Jevreji, što je tada bilo i uobičajeno). Jedna od njih je priča o lijepoj Fati i Mehmedu koji su se voljeli i susretali (ašikovali) u sarajevskoj Ašik Mahali (str. 49).

Sa najvećom dozom radoznalosti Mažuranić prevodi i objašnjava mnoge bosanske riječ kao što su ašikovati, milostnica (najdraža, ljubavnica), nizami (pješadija), džamia [sic], vidovine, kaurin (nevjernik) itd. On takoër opisuje vjerske obrede i poydrave, ne samo muslimana već i kršćana. Vrlo detaljno opisuje čak i obrezivanja (sunet) muslimanske djece i čin moljenja bogu.

Nerijetko spominje i raspostrano praznovjerje među Bošnjacima svih vjera, kao npr.: “They believe in everything which for us is the subject of tongue-in-cheek stories – witches, vampires, werewolves, vidovine, and devils who carry people off in their sleep and then bring them back. All this for them is hard truth.” (str. 97)

Mažuranić također ima i mjesta za kritiku svojih domaćina; on smatra da je komunikacija među Bosancima veoma oštra i puna neprimjerenih riječi: “Their discourse is very rough, offensive to the ear, unashamed and quite rude. (…) All the people of Bosnia (wherever I went) were infested with this accursed spirit, which will survive even 300 years after the Turks have gone: this is their greatest pastime, their sole education and learning about the world and mankind.” (str. 97)

Pogled u Bosnu je fascinantan zapis jednog “Švabe”, stranca koji dotad nije imao priliku susresti se sa turskim i bosanskim običajima i načinom ophođenja. Ova knjiga ima veliku vrijednost jer nam iz prve ruke prikazuje tadašnje bosansko društvo i ljude. U više navrata je Mažuranić bio izložen smrtnoj opasnosti, a nezaboravni su njegovi susreti sa seljanima koji su ga zamijenili sa đavolom koji je došao po njihovu djecu. Vrlo precizno je opisao i ponašanje bosanske vlastele, jer je bio na pašinom dvoru i imao je priliku susresti se sa kadijama, begovima i spahijama.

Iako se gotovo u potpunosti Mažuranić usredotočuje na Bosnu, on ipak opisuje i život, ljude i prirodu Srbije, jer je preko nje ušao u Bosnu i vratio se u svoju Hrvatsku.

Odlična knjiga koja baca veliki strop svjetlosti na dio naše historije koji je u dobroj mjeri nepoznat ljudima naše zemlje i okruženja. Obavezno pročitati.
(Saqi, 135 stranica)