That afternoon, Zlata’s mother asked me if I would drive to a very dangerous part of town to make sure her sister was still alive. Her family lived in an area where the shelling was intense. I said I would, because I had access that day to an armored car. But the area was deep in the territory of a war-lord who was notorious for stealing cars and flak jackets and for dragging Bosnians out of their cars and forcing them to dig trenches. My driver, who had Serb identification, refused to go and told me it was suicide if I did. Frustrated, I abandoned the attempt and drove back. I used my Deutsche Marks to buy all I could find on the black market: the selection was pathetic, but I knew that Zlata and her parents would welcome anything. So I climbed the stairs to their apartment with a few bags of wilted vegetables, a few cans of Coke, some chocolate, a few cans of meat, some candles. When I entered the room, the family’s eyes lit up: as though, instead of a few onions, I had brought a turkey from Harrods. When I talked to Zlata later about food, she reminisced about all the wonderful things that she used to eat, and then laughing, said, “Stop! That’s enough!” The memory of walking through the streets of the old town of Sarajevo and stopping for a pizza or spaghetti (“real spaghetti, with meat and cheese, not the kind of spaghetti we have now, with nothing on it”) was too painful to bear for a thirteen-year-old who existed on rice and beans.
We sat on her bed in her bedroom decorated with posters of supermodels, and she showed me family pictures of a different world: Zlata as a baby being held by her grandmother, Zlata and her mother outside the beloved weekend house, Zlata and her father on the beach in Italy. There was one faded picture of two small children standing in a park. She stared at it and said, “That’s my friend Nina. We were playing in the same park that she was killed in.” Before turning the page, she paused over the photograph, touching it as though she could touch her friend.
Zlata is an only child, treasured and protected by her parents. Perhaps it was the confidence inspired by her family life that gave her the will to endure the horrors that were taking place on her doorstep. During the course of reporting the war in Bosnia, I met many children, sat with them in the hospital, in their homes, in orphanages. All of them were traumatized and shell-shocked. I spoke to psychiatrists who talked of post-traumatic stress syndrome and the effect of the war on all these children. Zlata was different: she was suffering, but because she was recording the events taking place around her, she tended to see the world from a slightly detached viewpoint. It was almost as though she was watching a film in which she was a character. There are hundreds of thousands like her in Bosnia: besieged, frightened, their short lives suddenly ground to a halt. The difference is that Zlata kept a careful record of the chilling events—the deaths, the mutilations, the sufferings. When we read her diaries, we think of desperation, of confusion and of innocence lost, because a child should not be seeing, should not be living with this kind of horror. Her tragedy becomes our tragedy because we know what is happening in Sarajevo. And still, we do not act.
I wrote about Zlata in the Sunday Times [London] and shortly afterward, I received this letter from an eight-year-old in Glasgow, which she asked me to forward to Zlata:
Dear Zlata,
I feel sorry about your friend Nina. I wish the war would stop. I don’t see the point of having wars.
When my mum read me the interview you gave Janine di Giovanni, I was really interested. I thought you sounded like a nice person. I would like to be your pen-pal. I live in Glasgow, in Scotland. Hope you have a merry Christmas and no shooting or shelling in the new year.
Yours sincerely,
Helen Harvey
Unfortunately, there was increased shelling and shooting on Christmas Day and over the New Year in Sarajevo. Five children were killed when a kindergarten was shelled by the Serbs.
However, on December 23, 1993, Zlata and her parents were transported from their home in the Skenderija district of old Sarajevo in two armored vehicles of the French UNPROFOR contingent and taken through government and Serb checkpoints at the airport. A few hours later, they left for the safety of Paris on a UN plane.
As I watched the television images of Sarajevo at Christmas, I remember Zlata telling me about her dreams and I wonder what she is dreaming now, safe in Paris. “I used to dream about the beach, somewhere warm,” she once told me. “But when there is shelling, I only think about being safe.” She is now safe, but there are thousands of other children who are not, who are sitting in the dark around a candle, hungry, terrified by the shelling, who have lost parents, brothers, sisters. It is for them that Zlata wrote this book.
JANINE DI GIOVANNI
London 1994
Zlata Filipović’s Family and Friends
ZLATA’S FAMILY
Malik
HER FATHER
Alica
HER MOTHER
Melica
HER FATHER’S SISTER
Braco and Seka
BRACO IS HER MOTHER’S BROTHER; HE IS
MARRIED TO SEKA AND THEY ARE THE PARENTS
OF MIKICA AND DACO
FRIENDS OF ZLATA
AND HER PARENTS
Kemo and Alma
NEIGHBORS; PARENTS OF HARIS AND NEJRA.
RELATIVES OF NEIGHBORS EMINA AND SAMRA
Bobar Family
CLOSE NEIGHBORS AND FAMILY FRIENDS.
GRANDMA MIRA. AUNTIE BODA AND UNCLE
ŽIKA; MAJA AND BOJANA, THEIR DAUGHTERS
Emina and Samra
NEIGHBORS AND FRIENDS; RELATIVES OF
KEMO AND ALMA
Irena
SUMMER SCHOOL TEACHER
Ivanka
MOTHER’S FRIEND FROM WORK
Braco and Keka Lajtner
HUSBAND AND WIFE; PARENTS OF MARTINA
AND MATEA
Mirna
ZLATA’S BEST FRIEND
Mišo
MIRNA’S FATHER
Mladjo
SRDJAN’S BROTHER
Neda
MOTHER’S BEST FRIEND FROM WORK
Nedo
TWENTY-SEVEN-YEAR-OLD REFUGEE, FRIEND
AND NEIGHBOR
Radmila
MOTHER’S FRIEND FROM WORK
Slobo and Doda
HUSBAND AND WIFE; FRIENDS OF ZLATA’S
MOTHER; PARENTS OF DEJAN
Srdjan and Bokica
HUSBAND AND WIFE; FRIENDS OF ZLATA’S
PARENTS; PARENTS OF ANDREJ AND VANJA
Monday, September 2, 1991
Behind me—a long, hot summer and the happy days of summer holidays; ahead of me—a new school year. I’m starting fifth grade. I’m looking forward to seeing my friends at school, to being together again. Some of them I haven’t seen since the day the school bell rang, marking the end of term. I’m glad we’ll be together again, and share all the worries and joys of going to school.
Mirna, Bojana, Marijana, Ivana, Maša, Azra, Minela, Nadža—we’re all together again.
Tuesday, September 10, 1991
The week was spent getting my books and school supplies, describing how we spent our holidays on the seaside, in the mountains, in the countryside and abroad. We all went somewhere and we all have so much tell one another.
Thursday, September 19, 1991
Classes have also started at music school now. I go twice a week for piano and solfeggio. I’m continuing my tennis lessons. Oh yes, I’ve been moved up to the “older” group in tennis. Wednesdays I go to Auntie Mika’s for English lessons. Tuesdays I have choir practice. Those are my responsibilities. I have six lessons every day, except Fridays. I’ll survive ...
Monday, September 23, 1991
I don’t know if I mentioned my workshop class (it’s a new subject) which starts in fifth grade. Our teacher is Jasmina Turajlić and I LIKE HER. We learn about wood, what it is, how it’s used, and it’s pretty interesting. Soon we’ll be moving on to practical work, which means making various things out of wood and other materials. It’ll be interesting.
T
he teachers have already started testing us, there’s history, geography, biology. I have to study!
Friday, September 27, 1991
I’m home from school and I’m really tired. It’s been a hard week. Tomorrow is Saturday and I can sleep as long as I like. LONG LIVE SATURDAYS! Tomorrow night, I’m “busy.” Tomorrow is Ivana Varunek’s birthday party. I received an invitation today. More about this next time ...
Sunday, September 29, 1991
It’s now 11:00 A.M. Ivana’s birthday is actually today but she had her party yesterday. It was super. There were little rolls, things to munch on, sandwiches and, most important of all—a cake. Boys were invited as well as girls. We had a dance contest and I won. My prize was a little “jewelry” box. All in all it was a great party.
Sunday, October 6, 1991
I’m watching the American Top 20 on MTV. I don’t remember a thing, who’s in what place.
I feel great because I’ve just eaten a “Four Seasons” PIZZA with ham, cheese, ketchup and mushrooms. It was yummy. Daddy bought it for me at Galija’s (the pizzeria around the corner). Maybe that’s why I didn’t remember who took what place—I was too busy enjoying my pizza.
I’ve finished studying and tomorrow I can go to school BRAVELY, without being afraid of getting a bad grade. I deserve a good grade because I studied all weekend and I didn’t even go out to play with my friends in the park. The weather is nice and we usually play “monkey in the middle,” talk and go for walks. Basically, we have fun.
Friday, October 11, 1991
A hard but successful working day. Math test—A, written test in language—A, biology oral—A. I’m tired, but happy.
Another weekend ahead of me. We’re going to Crnotina (our place about fifteen kilometers away)—it has a big orchard with a house that’s about 150 years old—a cultural monument under protection of the state. Mommy and Daddy restored it. Grandma and Granddad are still there. I miss them. I miss Vildana, her dog Ati, I miss the clean air and beautiful countryside.
Sunday, October 13, 1991
It was wonderful in Crnotina. I like our house (it’s really unusual) and the surrounding countryside more and more every time we go. We picked pears, apples, walnuts, we took pictures of a clever little squirrel that stole the walnuts, in the evening we had a barbecue—my specialty is ćevapčiċi [grilled meat rolls]. Grandma made apple strudel. I collected different leaves for the herbarium and played with Ati.
Autumn has already replaced summer. Slowly but surely it is painting and coloring nature with its brush. The leaves are turning yellow, red, and they are falling. The days are getting shorter and it’s colder. Autumn is really nice too! In fact, every season’s nice in its own way. Somehow I don’t notice and don’t feel the beauty of nature when I’m in town the way I do when I’m in Crnotina. In Crnotina it smells good, it caresses me, it calls me into its embrace. I had a really nice rest enjoying and feeling the beauty of nature.
Saturday, October 19, 1991
Yesterday was a really awful day. We were ready to go to Jahorina (the most beautiful mountain in the world) for the weekend. But when I got home from school, I found my mother in tears and my father in uniform. I had a lump in my throat when Daddy said he had been called up by the police reserve. I hugged him, crying, and started begging him not to go, to stay at home. He said he had to go. Daddy went, and Mommy and I were left alone. Mommy cried and phoned friends and relatives. Everyone came immediately (Slobo, Doda, Keka, Mommy’s brother Braco, Aunt Melica, there were so many I can’t remember them all). They all came to console us and to offer their help. Keka took me to spend the night with Martina and Matea. When I woke up in the morning, Keka told me everything was all right and that Daddy would be home in two days.
I’m home now, Melica is staying with us and it looks as though everything will be all right. Daddy should be home the day after tomorrow. Thank God!
Tuesday, October 22, 1991
Everything really does seem to have turned out all right. Daddy got back yesterday, on his birthday. He’s off again tomorrow, and then every two days. He’ll be on duty for ten hours each time. We’ll just have to get used to it. I suppose it won’t last for long. But, I don’t know what it all means. Some reservists from Montenegro have entered Herzegovina. Why? For what? Politics, it seems, but I don’t understand politics. After Slovenia and Croatia, are the winds of war now blowing toward Bosnia-Herzegovina??? No, that’s impossible.
Wednesday, October 23, 1991
There’s a real war going on in Dubrovnik. It’s being badly shelled. People are in shelters, they have no water, no electricity, the phones aren’t working. We see horrible pictures on TV. Mommy and Daddy are worried. Is it possible that such a beautiful town is being destroyed? Mommy and Daddy are especially fond of it. It was there, in the Ducal Palace, that they picked up a quill and wrote “YES” to spending the rest of their lives together. Mommy says it’s the most beautiful town in the world and it mustn’t be destroyed!!!
We’re worried about Srdjan (my parents’ best friend who lives and works in Dubrovnik, but his family is still in Sarajevo) and his parents. How are they coping with everything that’s happening over there? Are they alive? We’re trying to talk to him with the help of a ham radio, but it’s not working. Bokica (Srdjan’s wife) is miserable. Every attempt to get some news ends in failure. Dubrovnik is cut off from the rest of the world.
Wednesday, October 30, 1991
Good news from my piano teacher today. There’s going to be a school recital and I’ll be playing in it!!! I have to practice. I’ll be playing Kabalevsky, Six Variations on a Slovak Song. All the variations are short, but difficult. It doesn’t matter, I’ll do my best.
Nothing new at school, it’s the half term soon and we’re working on our grades. The days are shorter, it’s colder, which means it’ll snow soon—HOORAY! Jahorina, skiing, two-seaters, one-seaters, ski-lifts—I can hardly wait!!! I’m pushing it a bit, there’s still some time to go, but we’ve already bought ski tickets for the whole season.
Tuesday, November 5, 1991
I’ve just come back from choir practice. I’m hoarse! Imagine, our choir teacher told us today that we would be giving a performance soon. What a “public life” I’m having! We’ll be singing “Nabucco,” “Ave Maria,” “When I Went to Bembaša,” “I Sing of Thee” and “Ode to Joy.” All the songs are wonderful.
Friday, November 8, 1991
I’m packing and I’m putting you, dear Diary, in my backpack. I’m spending the whole weekend with Martina and Matea (M&M). Super!!! Mommy is letting me go. In my backpack I’ve got my school books, my pajamas, my toothbrush ... and as soon as I put you in—off I go.
CIAO!!!
Sunday, November 10, 1991
It’s now 4:30 and I’ve just come home from M&M.
It was wonderful. We played tennis, watched MTV, RTL, SKY ... went out, walked and had fun. I took you with me, dear Diary, but I didn’t write anything. You’re not cross with me, are you?
I’ve done my homework and now I’m going to have a bath, watch TV and then go to bed. A weekend like any other—wonderful!
Tuesday, November 12, 1991
The situation in Dubrovnik is getting worse and worse. We managed to learn through the ham radio that Srdjan is alive and that he and his parents are all right. The pictures on TV are awful. People are starving. We’re wondering about how to send a package to Srdjan. It can be done somehow through Caritas.1 Daddy is still going to the reserves, he comes home tired. When will it stop? Daddy says maybe next week. Thank God.
Thursday, November 14, 1991
Daddy isn’t going to the reserves anymore. Hooray!!! ... Now we’ll be able to go to Jahorina and Crnotina on weekends. But, gasoline has been a problem lately. Daddy often spends hours waiting in the line for gasoline, he goes outside of town to get it, and often comes home without getting the job done.
Together with Bokica we sent a package to Srdjan. We learned through the ham radi
o that they have nothing to eat. They have no water, Srdjan swapped a bottle of whisky for five liters of water. Eggs, apples, potatoes—the people of Dubrovnik can only dream about them.
War in Croatia, war in Dubrovnik, some reservists in Herzegovina. Mommy and Daddy keep watching the news on TV. They’re worried. Mommy often cries looking at the terrible pictures on TV. They talk mostly politics with their friends. What is politics? I haven’t got a clue. And I’m not really interested. I just finished watching Midnight Caller on TV.
Wednesday, November 20, 1991
I’ve just come home from music school. I had my school recital. I think I was good. I tried. I made only two mistakes which they might not even have noticed. Matea was in the audience. I’m tired because it was nerve-racking.
Wednesday, November 27, 1991
It’ll be November 29th, Republic Day, soon. Mommy and Daddy are going shopping and are getting everything ready to go to Jaca’s (a family friend) and Jahorina.
HOORAY!!! I can hardly wait. Jahorina will be wonderful and unforgettable as always.
Friday, November 29, 1991
We’re on Jahorina. Jaca has warmed up the house, there’s a fire burning in the fireplace. As usual, Zoka (Jaca’s husband) is making something special to eat, Daddy is talking politics with Boža (our friend and Daddy’s colleague). Mommy and Jaca keep jumping into the conversation, and we children, Branko, Svjetlana, Nenad, Mirela, Anela, Oga and I, are wondering whether to take a walk, play a game, watch a movie on TV or play the unavoidable Scrabble. This time we’ve decided to play a game. We always have fun and laugh in our games, we have our own sense of humor. It’s cold but wonderful . I’m so happy, I’m having such a good time. The food, drink and company in Jahorina are so nice. And at night, my favorite moment—Oga and I are the first to go to bed—for a long, long talk before going to sleep. We talk, we make plans, we tell each other secrets. Last night we chattered about MTV and the new music video.
Zlata's Diary Page 3