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.

• Vejle, Denmark
• Holstebro, Denmark
• Kolding, Denmark
• Viborg, Denmark
• Bosanski Šamac, Bosnia
• Sarajevo, Bosnia
• Pascha Bay (Alanya), Turkey
• Paris, France

My 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009 and 2010 lists.

Gazdarica, žena sa cigaretom u ustima, je bila blizu sedamdeset godina, imala je hrapav glas, ali je bila strašno komunikativna, što mi se na prvi pogled svidjelo, jer ipak je danas teško pronaći stranca koji je spreman odmah stupiti u razgovor.

Prvo što nam je rekla da je ulica pored kuće jako prometna i da to nikako nije dobro za naše curice, jer tuda prolaze bez prestanka automobili. ”Hajde, dobro”, pomislih, “možda se brine za naše curice. Vidi da imamo malu djecu.” Osim toga, pomislio sam da je starija žena i da, zbog svojih godina, nije skroz svjesna da ona ovdje treba nama prodati svoju kuću, a ne odvraćati nas od nje kroz dobronamjerne komentare.

Međutim, kada je spomenula da se kuća nalazi u nimalo prijatnom susjedstvu, u kojem svako svoja posla gleda, i da niko ne želi da ima kontakta sa ostalima susjedima, postalo mi je jasno da starica ima nekakav plan sa svojim komentarima.

Brzo smo saznali da ona u kući živi skoro deset godina, a da ona nije vlasnica, nego njen sin kome ona plaća kiriju. Također nam je rekla da “tamo preko puta živi žena koja nikako ne trpi galamu, a isto tako i starac koji živi u kući pored nje”.

Amra i ja smo se u više navrata samo pogledali, što je značilo da smo bili svjesni da se starki nikako ne izlazi iz kuće. I još nam je rekla da u blizini ima i stranaca (nedanaca), valjda ne shvatajući da smo i sami takvi. Starica nam je na svaki mogući način dala do znanja da ovo susjedstvo nikako nije dobro za nas i našu djecu. Međutim, ona je to jako loše radila, jer je bilo upadljivo i naivno. Zaključili smo da se njoj iz kuće nikako ne izlazi, i da je vjerovatno sin tjera iz nje, kako bi on zaradio na prodaji kuće, a ona preselila u starački dom.

U tom je došao trgovac nekretnina u svome autu i odmah sam primjetio na njegovom izrazu lica da mu nije bilo drago što se gazdarica nalazi ispred kuće. Pozdravili smo se, a onda smo zajedno ušli u kuću. Vrlo brzo sam shvatio da kuća nikako ne zadovoljava naše zahtjeve i da ima isuviše male dječije sobe, što smo rekli trgovcu. On nam je odmah predložio da, ako hoćemo, pogledamo jednu drugu kuću, koja je, po njemu, dosta relevantija za nas, što sam prihvatio.

Nasmijao sam se staricinim naporima da nas odvrati od kupovine kuće njenog sina, koji je najvjerovatnije htio da nju preseli u starački dom (što nam je ona i rekla) kako bi zaradio na prodaji kuće. Međutim, ona je dosta više vremena koristila da nas uplaši sa svim silnim njenim komentarima o lošim susjedima, strancima i prometnoj cesti, nego što je nama trebalo da zaključimo da je njena kuća premala za nas. A onda mi je bilo žao starice. Ona zasigurno ne želi da ide u starački dom, pa na svaki način pokušava da potencijalne kupce odvrati od kupovine. Imao sam nekakav osjećaj da je toga bio svjestan njen sin, a čak i trgovac nekretnina. Kako god bilo, njoj je, u neku ruku, uspjelo da ostane u kući njenog sina, ali to se nije desilo zbog njenih nesuptilnih pokušaja da nas komentarima odvrati od kupovine.

I zaista, iznenadio sam se kako je dobar Ipod Touch. Iako sam u najmanju ruku kritičan prema politici koju vodi Appl, moram priznati da su im produkti odlični, pa tako i Touch.

Na njemu Hana može igrati bezbroj igrica, slušati muziku, gledati video fajlove, ima pristup internetu, slikati, snimati i ko zna šta sve ne. A putem fenomenalnog Skype-a je razgovarala sa svojom tetkom u Horsensu i rođacima u Sarajevu.

Već sam joj instalirao nekoliko besplatnih igrica, ali i kupio par edukativnih igrica, kao i neizbježnu, zaraznu igricu Angry Birds, koja je ujedno bila jedna od razloga zašto je moja kćerka uopšte izabrala Touch a ne Nintendo.

Osim igrica u kojim Hana uživa, ima tu i nekoliko vrlo zanimljivih aplikacija. Drago mi je kada vidim zadovoljstvo u njenim očima kada mi može reći kakvo će vrijeme biti danas ili sutra, ili kada mi kaže: “Tata, hoćemo li vidjeti šta ćemo danas kupiti od namirnica?”.

Uostalom, zašto će joj Nintendo, čije igrice koštaju između 200 i 400 DKK, kada može imati cijeli digitalni svijet u ruci i igrice koje koštaju između nule i 50 kruna? Ovako je kćerkica zadovoljna, a sa njom i njen tata.

Proveli smo sedam prekrasnih dana u resortu Pascha Bay, desetak kilometara od grada Alanye. Pascha Bay je poput gradića u kojem su smješteni stanovi, rekreacione površine, bazeni i prodavnice. Sami resort se nalazi na pješćanoj plaži na kojoj smo, doduše, bili rijetko zbog velikih valova. Međutim, ogroman bazen je bio odlična alternativa jer je u njemu bila morska, čista voda.

S obzirom da smo bili sami, uzeo sam all-inclusive paket, što znači da smo imali pored odličnog stana i ishranu (svi obroci + užine, napitci i dr.). To mi je bio veliki spas, jer smo se mogli hraniti u svako doba dana i noći, a nisam morao brinuti šta kupiti i kako napraviti. Jedino što smo morali uraditi je ponijeti našu zlatnu karticu svaki put kada bi ušli u jedan od restorana resorta i mogli smo jesti šta smo htjeli.

Znači, za tih sedam dana Hana i ja smo maksimalno uživali i u potpunosti se odmorili od danske svakodnevnice, ali da malo spomenemo i lokalno stanovništvo. Iako skoro nismo izlazili iz resorta (znači, ne mogu generalizirati Turke kao stanovništvo), ne mogu reći da su Turci izvrsni domaćini kao npr. Italijani ili Nijemci. Ovo baziram primarno na činjenici da Turci očigledno vole izvući svaku paru (a bogme i liru) iz tvog džepa. Naravno da to svaki domaćin želi, manje ili više, ali ne sviđa mi se način na koji to oni rade – isuviše cinično i hladnokrvno. Pa da mi se barem nasmije dok me pelješi bilo bi mi nekako lakše. :) Ali, dobro, ima to sigurno i sa turskom kulturom i ondašnjim mentalitetom.

Hana je skoro svaki dan išla u dječiji klub gdje je se igrala sa drugom skandinavskom djecom, kao i Bamse-om (Medvjedićem) i njegovim prijateljima. Ona je upoznala nekoliko danskih djevojčica sa kojima se svakodnevno igrala.

Svaku večer smo imali zabavu, kako za djecu tako i odrasle. Bilo je tu diskoteka za djecu, show sa klaunima, mjuzikli, predstave i koncerti za odrasle. Bilo je nemoguće neopustiti se u takvom ambijentu.

Oboje smo uživali cijelu sedmicu, a siguran sam da će Hani ostati ovo naše putovanje dugo u sjećanju.

Her er et TV indslag fra TV2 Syd. Jeg kan også ses et eller andet sted i indslaget. :)

Avdibeg ima neobičnu potrebu. Radi se o potrebi da kada naruči neku stvar preko interneta, knjigu, CD ili neki dio za kompjuter, on mora kordinirati familiju na jedan ili drugi način, ali NEKO mora biti prisutan u kući da bi preuzeo pošiljku u stanu.

Da pojasnim, u Danskoj, kada poštar ide sa paketićem da vam ga preda, ako vas ne nađe u stanu, onda vam ostavi poruku na kojoj piše da se već od sutra pošiljka može preuzeti na mjestu gdje pošiljke završavaju ako ne budu predane. U našem slučaju je to poštanski boks udaljen 300 metara od našeg stana. Znači, nije problem u daljini, problem je u vremenu.

Ove sedmice Avdibeg nije bio kući tri dana. To je rezultiralo da sam ja bila u posjeti kod moje mame, i da sam našla dvije posjetnice od poštara za pošiljke koje treba da se preuzmu jer niko nije bio u kući. To je bio VELIKI znak da Avdibeg nije boravio u našem stanu. Da bi stvar bila još interesantnija, Avdibeg je u međuvremenu naručio nove dvije pošiljke dok je bio odsutan, tako da, po mom proračunu, četiri pošiljke su na putu ili u poštanskom boksu za našu malu familiju.

Avdibeg dolazi sutra, večeras me nazvao, pitao je kako sam ja i dijete koje je ostalo sa mnom (drugo dijete je u posjeti sa njim), i brzo počeo pričati o tim pošiljkama. Kako mora podići neke dvije, kako su mu nove dvije na putu, kada ću ja biti kući, kada će on stići…

Pored potrebe da paket ne smije završiti u boksu, tu je i čitava procedura kako otvoriti paket, kako pomirisati novu knjigu ili odmotati neki kompjuterski dio, da je i naša starija kćerka, koja to sa mnom gleda već 6 godina, naučila da ga sluša kako govori: “Sada će tata otvoriti paket, da vidimo šta ima u njemu”.

Pošto vam on sam neće spomenuti tu njegovu neobičnu potrebu, ja sam to odlučila uraditi umjesto njega. Možda to i nije nešto strašno, veliko ili neobično. U biti je to slatka neobična potreba, koja možda mnogi ljudi imaju, a među njima je i Avdibeg.

I dobra stvar u svemu tome je ta da je moga muža najljepše iznenaditi upravo na taj način, pošaljite mu pismo, knjigu,  kompjuterski dio, burek… bilo šta u paketu ili koverti i definitivno ćete ga obradovali, nasmijati i postati njegov  prijatelj favorit.

A ja, kao njegova žena, moram naučiti živjeti sa njegovom neobičnom potrebom. :)