After a moment of silence, Jadranka said that she and her sister, brother, and parents had been sent to Omarska. That her father and brother had died there. She looked into Amir’s eyes as she spoke the concentration camp’s name to see if he understood. It was like saying “Auschwitz,” except that few people had ever heard of Omarska and its dark secret of hidden genocide. In the beginning days of the war thousands of civilians had been captured in and around the area of Prijedor in northern Bosnia, many of whom were never seen again. How many of the “disappeared” perished in the camp, which had been set up in an open-pit iron mine that lay outside the town of Omarska, was never clearly ascertained. The camp was shut down six months after its inception, when photos of the camp’s prisoners appeared in the international press: emaciated men with shorn heads and with bodies whose bones seemed almost to protrude through their sallow skin, their sunken faces framing hollow eyes that belonged more to the dead than the living.
Jadranka saw the musculature of Amir’s face and upper torso grab tight at the mention of Omarska. Margaret, who had read every book there was to read on the Bosnian War, had put the best of them aside in her library…for when Amir reached an age and a point in his life at which he might be ready to take in their content. In his last year of high school, when the subject of the Bosnian War came up in the course of his studies, Amir attempted to brave the reading of the books. He had not gotten far into the first one when the name Omarska appeared, followed by stories not to be found in high school history textbooks. The recounting of the horrors that took place there—the serial beatings, tortures, rapes, murders, and the infamous white house where much of the camp’s most horrific brutality took place—were too much for the boy to bear, and he had quickly replaced the book back on its shelf, never wanting to touch it again.
When Jadranka had spoken the word “Omarska”—her eyes meeting his as the word sounded from her mouth—Amir felt like a coward. She had looked at him to see if he understood the meaning that the name of the camp held. But there was more to her look than that. She wanted someone to share her terrible secrets with. She wanted him, who could understand, to listen, to help free her from some small piece of the terrible pain that owned her. But his eyes stopped her, invoked their unspoken agreement. Without hesitation she moved on, the grace of her acceptance making him feel all the worse for his inability to confront his fears. With his camera for shield, his quiet demeanor for cloak, and his silence for sanctuary, the little rabbit still hid. Then a voice spoke its angry emotion within Amir’s head: And what good is life, if you live it as a coward every day you wake to the sun?
The voice within him sought no equitable judgment but only condemnation. No matter what rational reasoning that proved his innocence, he had survived while his family had been murdered. Both Margaret and Dr. Caron had tried to help him understand that feelings of culpability stemming from traumas like the ones he had undergone were common but at the same time irrational. As an eleven-year-old, he could have done nothing to change the outcome of the event. Yet even as Amir heard their words and understood them to be true, a sorrow deep inside of him couldn’t let go of the guilt.
During this internalized struggle, his body, pulled by a force of gravity beyond his control, moved into Jadranka’s arms, who, equally affected, drew into his. There, lost to her warmth, the ghosts of Amir’s past dimmed, paled, and retreated. The gravitational pull exerted itself still further and the two lay down upon the daybed, where, cradled in each other’s arms, they fell asleep, the pulsing of their hearts falling into synchronous beat with the rhythmic pounding of the surf, their dreams carrying them gently to a safe haven.
Chapter 24
Beginning his second year of school, Amir felt as though he had stepped into a world of larger dimension. His sense of being had begun to blossom and expand, and hope was no longer an emotion he felt he had to hold at bay for fear that it could be nothing more than a dream. It had actually arrived and brought with it more than just a promise, an expectation of good, and a potential of future. There was Jadranka. There was the finding of his talent as a filmmaker, validated by the honor of an award and an internship. There were all the new friends he had made at school.
Amir saw that hope had, in truth, been there all along. It had been there when he was in the refugee camp, when the UN volunteer had found a way to get him relocated far away from the war zone. It was there when Margaret had become his foster mother and then adopted him and given him back a family to love and be loved by. He thought of how his father, Asaf, would have wanted him to be strong, to be brave and not succumb to the voices that would have him hide from life, fearful and without hope. His mother would have wanted him to love, to have braved his emotions. And Minka was there too, in the form of Alice, who cared for him, took interest and pride in him, her touch on his shoulder full of sisterly love.
But even as the voices of gloom within him were pushed to the periphery of his mind, they had not been banished. Amir no longer saw Dr. Caron, but the physician’s experienced counsel had taught him that what he had suffered as a child was not a thing that could be shed as might an illness, from simple medication and rest. The results of the trauma would likely revisit him for years to come, if not for the rest of his life. They would come and go, Dr. Caron had said. It wasn’t about defeating them, burying them deep within the past. It was about learning how to cope with them, to become aware of their visitations upon him, to recognize their arrival, and to not confuse them with the present moment in which he was living.
Moderating voices within Amir spoke to him of caution about feelings that had begun to spin bright, idealistic futures of himself in his mind. The voices repeated Margaret’s advice about pacing himself through the highs and lows, the varying landscapes that all people face in one form or another. Even the luckiest people on earth have burdens to deal with, she had cautioned. Good fortune itself could even potentially become an obstacle to growth and fulfillment.
Leaving behind the relative security of dorm life for the freedom of off-campus housing, Amir decided to share a rambling, rundown, five-bedroom house with a group of students from his school. As the last one in, his choice of bedroom had come by default, yet that room would have been his first pick. What had for his roommates been the room’s major detractions seemed to Amir merely minor inconveniences compared to all of its benefits. True, one had to walk up three flights of stairs to the attic to reach it. And then back down a flight again every time he needed to use the bathroom. And the room had no heat. But if you left the door open, the heat from below would rise. That, and a small space heater, he was advised by the others, would make it bearable in the winter.
When Amir first saw the room he immediately felt at home. It was perched high, and if he looked out through the large, mullioned window at its gable end he was greeted by the great, green crown of an old oak that graced the home’s backyard. The space was large and open. The room’s side walls reached to nearly shoulder height before intersecting the roof, which was supported by beautiful, old rafters, the resulting cathedral ceiling opening up the entire south-facing gable end for the arched window that flooded the room with light.
Amir proudly showed his new living space to Jadranka on his second day in residence, when he had yet to furnish it with more than a mattress and desk. She laughed in appreciation of his enthusiasm and said the room did indeed have real character, leaving unspoken her thought that he might perhaps be a bit naïve to believe his roommates’ assurances that the space could be adequately heated in the dead of winter.
As their feelings toward each other slowly advanced in physical expression, Jadranka had been comforted to see that Amir was content to move at the pace she set. It seemed that, for his own needs, he wanted her to take the lead in its progression…even though it was Amir who, after their last night spent together at the beach house, braved the acknowledgement of their now more-than-just-friends relationship by taking her hand when they first met back at school. J
adranka’s experience in the war had made her intensely wary of men, sometimes, it seemed, irrationally so. She often found herself shuddering at a male’s advance, even a benign and ultimately kind one. After what she had experienced at Omarska, sorting men who had good intentions from those who didn’t had become an exercise of complex nature.
If a certain amount of anxiety played within Amir’s emotions at what appeared to be the beginning of a first love, it was to an extent mitigated by his immersion into his studies, which now, in his second year, allowed him to concentrate more of his efforts on his chosen major. An idea for a film had been brewing inside of him since early summer, and the environs of the film department—the sight of cameras, editing rooms, and students busy about their work—helped to quickly focus his thoughts on the project whose storyline had already begun to play in his imagination.
The idea for his project had begun as a simple visual image that arose in his mind like a photograph, a still shot of an object that lingered briefly in the camera’s eye, unmoving, and in so doing had the possibility of turning it into a symbol that held a deeper meaning. He had first been struck by this possibility of view in a Kurosawa-directed film, Dersu Uzula. In a number of its scenes, Amir felt the density of the physical imagery pass from an object into something far more profound than its simple, material form.
The young filmmaker’s idea was that he would film a single category of objects—doors. He couldn’t see exactly what it was he was after, though he could feel it. As integral as wall or roof to any construction, doors abounded in the human realm. They served to permit or deny access, protect and keep out unwanted intrusions, to invite in those whose company was welcomed. They existed, as well, in nonmaterial form. Their manifestation within the human psyche was as myriad as their physical counterparts. Amir had seen the swinging of invisible doors in the act of opening and closing inside of himself and others untold times, the awareness of their action most often lost to the routine of everyday life.
Jadranka and Amir made time to meet almost daily. Each of their schedules was full; between classes, study, and projects there was only limited time, and some days they met only briefly, to share a meal at the dining hall or study in the library side by side. The only free time to be counted on, that each of them always had at their disposal, were the late hours of the evening, the time of sleep. But neither had yet to approach this possibility, the physical nature of their relationship straining to find its way past barriers of nervous caution.
Given Amir’s intense involvement with the production of his new film while he was trying to keep up with the rest of his other course load, Jadranka was surprised when he told her that he had agreed to help his former professor, Dr. Ashrawi, create video clips for an Internet website. Jadranka chided Amir for being such easy prey to Zack’s imposition and cautioned him about becoming involved with the man, especially given the events of the recent weeks. The 9/11 attacks were not even a month past, and the country was still reeling from shock.
“There are people who do not like Zack’s politics,” Jadranka warned. “Now he will become like the bull’s-eye. It is not so smart to stand too close to him.”
“I’m not planning on it,” Amir smiled in response. “I don’t think it will be much work. Anyway, the attack on the World Trade Center didn’t have anything to do with Zack’s politics. It’s nothing to do with the Palestinians. They’re saying it’s a group in Afghanistan called Al-Qaeda.”
“Does it matter? You haven’t seen this before?” Jadranka asked. The Bosnian girl fought to keep her cynicism at bay, but her life experience didn’t make it easy. “There are men who make of things what they want them to be. And there are many whose ears are easy audience for their twisted words. It happened in our country. You think it can’t happen in this country as well?”
“I know, but I think it’s going the other way here,” Amir spoke with a nod of his head, a gesture meant to assure himself as much as Jadranka. “People are stopping to think how such a terrible thing could happen, to ask what could cause such hatred in others that they could do something like this.”
Throwing her head back, Jadranka blocked the sarcasm about to escape her mouth, allowing it only the look on her face. She knew something about these things. She had little doubt that the time of American reflection, the talk of trying to find ways toward a more peaceful world, would soon give way to those whose purposes were not served by hope but who saw in vengeance a more useful, pliable tool to help direct the path of their interests. Jadranka found herself momentarily annoyed with Amir.
“Look,” Amir continued, filling in the pause, “the videos Zack wants me to make into clips are to gather support for the families in the Palestinian refugee camps. That’s not a bad thing. They need help. People have no idea what it’s like to live in those places. But don’t worry, I’m not going to become one of Zack’s mujahideen.” Amir paused, the look on his face changing from serious to lighthearted. “Although I did go to prayer with him after we talked.”
“Are you becoming religious, then? Maybe you will have to stop seeing such a corrupted woman like me?” Jadranka responded, her voice taking on the same tone of banter as his.
“I was going to talk to you about that. You know Muslim women are supposed to be obedient,” Amir smiled, reaching out to take Jadranka’s hand.
“Hummm, and now I suppose you want me to wear the hijab whenever I go out?”
“No, I was thinking of something more proper. Like a burqa.”
“Then maybe that is enough of the going to prayer for you. You’d better be careful or soon you will be running off to the madrasa college to become an imam.”
“I think you’re the one who should be careful. You engage in unholy practices like yoga and meditation. The imams will declare you a blasphemer.”
“They are lazy old men who do anything to keep from sharing the housework. You think God, she sits in paradise with nothing better to do than keeping one eye on the clock and the other on us? You are all the same, you men. Christian, Jew, or Muslim, it makes no difference. I can see you are trying to make me mad, and I’ll prove to you it doesn’t work. But just for trying it, you are going to take me to dinner. So do not even think about working on this movie of yours tonight.”
Grinning, Amir agreed to the evening out, happy for the distraction from all of his schoolwork and the terrible and unimaginable events that had so recently caused the deaths of so many innocent people. Seeing the news photos of the World Trade Center in flames, the falling bodies and collapsing buildings, he heard a dark, low hum of despair arise in distant chambers of his mind like a sudden wind singing the portent of a coming storm.
When the shooting of his new film, Doors, was finally completed, Amir began the work of cutting and re-splicing the lab print he had made from selected footage. He then used the copy print to work out the editing before making the final version from the original, knowing any mistake made on that precious film would be irreparable and cost him dearly. Amir took the print to a viewing room, placed the reel onto the projector, and watched it as if seeing the film for the first time.
After the six-minute movie had run, Amir sat quietly pondering his work. His initial viewing of the film had left him feeling as one might when looking into a mirror on a good day: surprised and pleased to find an attractive and pleasant face staring back. Happy, he replayed the film several more times. With each succeeding viewing, however, the movie’s flaws began to grow increasingly apparent to him. It was the same mirror and the same face that he had stared at minutes before, yet now its reflection brought disappointment—the handsome face had vanished and been replaced by one ordinary at best. Returning to the editing room, Amir reclused himself for the remainder of the day, until his eyes grew too tired to focus and his mind too fatigued to function. Suffering doubts that his short film would ever amount to anything more than a jumble of empty and meaningless scenes of doors doing nothing more than opening and closing in pretentious attem
pt at artistry, he returned home to the comfort of his attic room.
Jadranka had not seen Amir since the day before, an absence unremarkable within the bounds of an ordinary friendship. But both understood that their relationship had evolved, even though their emotional bond had yet to be matched by an equally intimate physical union, something each nervously anticipated though neither had yet attempted to initiate. But even as Jadranka’s mind maintained the rationale of a right moment appearing of its own accord on some future day, there was another part of her demanding that she abandon the illusion of such a prescribed construct.
Debating whether to call Amir or to wait for him to contact her, Jadranka decided she was being ridiculous. As she walked up to his attic room, something inside her knew she had come for a purpose whose premeditation her conscious mind would only later come to acknowledge. She had grown weary of waiting for the right moment. The strength of her need had finally risen to decry her mind’s cautions; it was in the arms of a lover that she might find her healing, not in evasion of the terrible memories of a brutal past.
Climbing the stairway to Amir’s room, Jadranka heard music. The door to Amir’s bedroom stood half open, speaking neither an invitation nor a prohibition. Jadranka paused, a part of her stammering excuses to leave Amir to his work, then questioning why she had come in the first place, when she had so much work of her own. The force of her desire shut off the dialogue of doubt, pushing past both it and the door to enter the room. There she saw Amir lying on his bed, quiet and unmoving, his head faced away from her in direction of the large, arched window that overlooked the backyard. His eyes did not move when she entered, even though the sound of the door swinging open made her arrival obvious. A television sat on top of a tall bureau in front of his bed, its glare calling her attention. Nearby, sitting between the television and the bed, a camera mounted on a tripod stood aimed in his direction. Connected to the television by cable, the camera lens pointed at Amir. Neither program nor movie was playing on the set. Instead, the image of Amir’s face looked out from the screen, staring so still and quietly that it appeared more like a single frame frozen in place than it did the live video feed it was.
The Solace of Trees Page 24