I’M AFRAID OF AMERICANS ~ BOJANA STOJCIC

Attention, attention. Air raid. Go to a bomb shelter immediately. Open the windows, lower the shutters, turn off the power supply, turn off the gas, and take only the bare necessities with you. If you are in a vehicle, park it on the side of the road and head to the nearest underground shelter. Air raid, please follow the instructions provided by the Information Center. Over.

On March 24, 1999 at 7:45 PM CET, the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation (NATO) launched air strikes against the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (FRY), composed of Serbia and Montenegro, during the Kosovo war, with the bombing of Serbian military positions in its southern province of Kosovo. An uninterrupted 60 second signal tone denoted a state of emergency that lasted until 5.30 AM the next day. We heard bombs rumbling in the distance. I remember the panic, the terror, limbs going numb, heart racing, squatting in the middle of the living room and holding each other tight. An ‘imminent threat of war against Yugoslavia by NATO’ was declared on national television right after the fist bombs hit, along with a list of instructions on what to do when air raid sirens go off, followed by a huge mobilization of troops and resources. As of day one, the creepy music of penetrating warning sounds was played on a regular basis, giving us chills every fucking time.

The following day, the sirens start wailing at 1.30 PM. Once again, we switch off the lights and electrical appliances, open the windows wide, and lower the shutters, blocking out the sun, rain, wind, life. Wrapped in a blanked the color of veins, I’m kneeling on the floor in the dark half of the hall in the central part of my parents’ house, listening to the indistinct voices of the street, the voice of a mother, a grandfather, a brother, a husband, a toddler, whimpering dogs, and bewildered roosters. In the night between Mar 25 and 26, I heard the deafening noise of swarming planes for the first time. Deadly mosquitoes buzzing endlessly in the skies above made our blood run cold and caused us to develop an arrhythmia on the spot and chronic insomnia and noise phobia with time. The sound produced by warplanes, especially when flying low at high speeds and perceived as danger, is hard to describe. Your body reacts without conscious thought, seeking cover, and you feel its intensity in your nostrils and your throat, it chokes you, it makes your knees tremble, it vibrates in your stomach, turning your bowels upside down, it incapacitates your legs, paralyzes your spine and tongue, blurs your vision and messes with your brain. The lights have gone out, candles being a rare commodity these days. We have only one left which we decide to keep for a rainy day. I close my eyes for a few seconds and feel a wave of claustrophobic darkness wash over me.

Three days after the bombing had started, the wise men of our small tribal community decided we should start hiding in the basement of a shaggy old house at the end of the street. Most towns didn’t have a proper underground bomb shelter so that people were mainly hiding in house/apartment building basements. The decision to leave your house and join a bunch of strangers isn’t the one you’ll make lightly. However, the elderly think it’s necessary when the unthinkable occurs. Choosing your emergency shelter supplies is not easy either as you have no idea how long the air raid could last and what might come out of it. Most importantly, you need something to keep you comfortable and well-fed during the time you’ll spend there. A sandwich, enough drinking water and blankets were a must. But, as no one could imagine a temporary visit to the shelter would turn into a prolonged stay, a couple days’ worth of non-perishable food, let alone the first aid kit, wasn’t on our mind. Everyone thought about how to make it that very day. Tomorrow was too far away.

Our new temporary shelter was a centenarian, which made it the oldest fella in the neighborhood. Stone, and blocks made of mud and straw were protruding everywhere. In today’s world of advanced architecture, such a home would be considered healthy and safe for a living after some additional renovations, but no house can be safe enough to protect you from bombs unless it’s a proper fallout shelter. In spite of this, at the time being, we find comfort in sharing our plight with others, although we don’t really know each other. Ironically, a couple of decades later, I’ll read about a video game, the war and post-war world of the underground nuclear fallout shelter that will prove to be massively popular on mobile phones and PCs, which will be downloaded by millions and earn staggering $5m in its first two weeks on sale. It’ll be described as ‘a highly addictive building and management game in which you construct your own vault and carefully manage the people and resources to create a thriving sun-free community.’ They suggest stockpiling granola, as well as salt, pepper and other spices. Oh boy! If the game makers had known half of what we did about the shelter, they would have never come up with such a dull pastime because it’s impossible to turn an apocalyptic hell into a home.

I walk into a dungeon I’ll be sharing with my neighbors, cramped in a matchbox with wooden benches on the side, waving hello to wrinkled faces of the elderly, kids chit-chatting, serving tea and sweet coffee, sleeping, acting out, a two-year old girl who can’t stop crying, and her older sister who has a hard time being called by her nickname (Nato), preschool and elementary school children with their parents who cling to the hope that this frenzy will soon come to an end and a charismatic guy in his late 60s apparently skilled at making everyone feel better. I’m trying to avoid close encounters, unnecessary remarks and compulsory smiles, turning my head not to feel bad breath coming from teeth they haven’t brushed in days. It’s terribly cold and smells of mold. I’m wearing a T-shirt, an undershirt, a sweatshirt, a woolen sweater, a warm hoodie, a winter jacket, thick tights, two pairs of woolen socks pulled over my knees, and sport shoes. I take a seat on a bench without backrest, feeling cushions underneath, and cover my shoulders with a blanket. After a few hours of uncertainty, the sirens blare the end of danger and we all go home only to head back to the improvised bomb shelter as soon as the ear-piercing screech goes off again. We’re back to black: drowsy kids, worried parents and toothless old women in PJs who hurried back, obviously forgetting their teeth at home. They don’t feel like prattling any more, and place their hands over their mouths when laughing wholeheartedly. Leaning against the wall, I’m closing my eyes to catch up on some sleep but wake up at the slightest sound. From a heavy sleeper, I turned into a light one. A pin dropping two rooms away behind a closed door would startle me awake, let alone a truck driving by or honking.

I’ve been dreaming a lot lately. I had a dream that all people were created equal…

 

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* You can read more of Bojana’s work at Blogging with Bojana

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12 thoughts on “I’M AFRAID OF AMERICANS ~ BOJANA STOJCIC

  1. Pingback: I’M AFRAID OF AMERICANS – BOJANA’S COFFEE & CONFESSIONS TO GO

  2. Maybe I’m too close to you now…a year of learning about someone will do that to me…I just wish it wasn’t. I wish a lot of things.

    My word the way your words make me feel the oppression…the utter wrongness of it all.

    Liked by 1 person

    • People are more prone to seeing the wrongness in an idea or sb’s actions than the rightness. In this case, what was considered right by many is turning more and more into terribly wrong as time goes by. How can any war be right, right?

      Thank you, my friend, you know how much it means to me that you’re here.

      Liked by 1 person

  3. That was a tough read. From a writer’s perspective, I appreciate that you were able to add some rhyme, some poetry, some lovely description to your memories of a horrifying and horrifying trying time in your life (and world history).

    I appreciate having some insight into who you are. I think we get along for the same reasons, although I have a hard time putting it into one word (I got called a sad clown quite a bit by one kid in college, not that I’m calling you that). Maybe it’s something like joi d’vivre crossed with cynicism or realism, smiling through the pain, Elvis Costello’s bitter take on life and love, a great smile with sad eyes (it’s just a guess; the only picture I’ve seen of you is your gravatar), a desire for life to be as good and perfect as it can be juxtaposed with the realization that this world is shit and because of us.

    Anyway, I appreciate the insight. It was a tough read.

    P.S. I, too, am afraid of Americans. It’s hard being one. Like when my students indicate that they don’t like me, my typical reaction is: “Can you imagine being ME then? I get zero break from me, whereas you get to go home at the end of the day.”

    America: Where ALL Lives Matter.

    Period.

    Liked by 1 person

    • You got it all right, Justin. That’s me, a big smile with sad eyes, melancholic, pessimistic, a cynic, a realist with dreams as I often describe myself. Having had to put up with so much shit, I can’t see myself in any other role. Regardless, this is my movie, so I’d better star in it, right?

      Warning: it’s gonna get much tougher so stick around. (Thanks)

      Btw, I totally get you. It’s damn hard to be me too, and I’m not an American. I’m basically afraid of this whole fucking world.

      Liked by 1 person

  4. There are no words to express what I am feeling after reading this. Your ability to pull us into that shelter… To experience the horror of it all… is so special. You survived to write about the horror of it. You survived to tell us and I am so grateful. I’m just a simple old man who writes this with tears in his eyes. A man who is blessed to have met you and call you friend.

    Liked by 1 person

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