Zlata's Diary

by Zlata Filipovic

  I’d find it hard to look at. We’re left with only our memories.

  I tried to imagine those abandoned houses overgrown with grass. And I have to tell you, Mimmy, that I got a lump in my throat. War has destroyed Jahorina as well, and all the lovely times we spent there.

  They’ve invited me to come and be with them in Italy, because I don’t deserve to be here. I’d love to go, but it’s impossible. Nobody can leave this cursed town.

  The shooting has died down, there’s hardly any gunfire at all right now, and Mommy and Daddy keep thinking about the future. They say there is none in this town. That’s what many people think. But it’s impossible to leave this town.

  Love,

  Zlata

  Thursday, October 14, 1993

  Dear Mimmy,

  Those lunatics up in the hills must have read what I wrote about the shooting yesterday. They want to show me that they’re still around. They went SHOOTING today. Shells fell around the marketplace, and we don’t know how Grandma and Granddad are. Poor things. These lunatics haven’t just stolen from us our childhood, they’ve stolen from my grandparents and other old people a peaceful old age. They’re not letting them live out the rest of their lives in peace. They had to ruin that too.

  I didn’t have classes or music school today. They sent us home, so I’ll spend the whole day at home reading, playing the piano, spending some time with Nejra and Haris. I was supposed to go to Mirna’s today, but they spoiled that for me.

  I didn’t tell you, Mimmy, that you’re about to go out into the world. You’re going to be published abroad. I allowed it, so you could tell the world what I wrote to you. I wrote to you about the war, about myself and Sarajevo in the war, and the world wants to know about it. I wrote what I felt, saw and heard, and now people outside of Sarajevo are going to know it. Have a good journey into the world. Your Zlata

  Sunday, October 17, 1993

  Dear Mimmy,

  Yesterday our friends in the hills reminded us of their presence and that they are now in control and can kill, wound, destroy ... yesterday was a truly horrible day.

  Five hundred and ninety shells. From 4:30 in the morning on, throughout the day. Six dead and fifty-six wounded. That is yesterday’s toll. Souk-bunar fared the worst. I don’t know how Melica is. They say that half the houses up there are gone.

  We went down into the cellar. Into the cold, dark, stupid cellar which I hate. We were there for hours and hours. They kept pounding away. All the neighbors were with us.

  AGAIN! Again and again they keep sinking all our boats, taking and burning all our hopes. People said that they wouldn’t do it anymore. That there would soon be an end to it, that everything would resolve itself. THAT THIS STUPID WAR WOULD END!

  Oh God, why do they spoil everything? Sometimes I think it would be better if they kept shooting, so that we wouldn’t find it so hard when it starts up again. This way, just as you relax, it starts up AGAIN. I am convinced now that it will never end.

  Because some people don’t want it to, some evil people who hate children and ordinary folk.

  I keep thinking that we’re alone in this hell, that nobody is thinking of us, nobody is offering us a helping hand. But there are people who are thinking and worrying about us.

  Yesterday the Canadian TV crew and Janine came to see how we had survived the mad shelling. That was nice of them. Really kind.

  And when we saw that Janine was holding an armful of food, we got so sad we cried. Alexandra came too.

  People worry about us, they think about us, but sub-humans want to destroy us. Why? I keep asking myself why?

  We haven’t done anything. We’re innocent. But helpless!

  Zlata

  Epilogue

  December 1993

  Dear Mimmy,

  PARIS. There’s electricity, there’s water, there’s gas. There’s, there’s ... life, Mimmy. Yes, life; bright lights, traffic, people, food ... Don’t think I’ve gone nuts, Mimmy. Hey, listen to me, Paris!? No, I’m not crazy, I’m not kidding, it really is Paris and (can you believe it?) me in it. Me, my Mommy and my Daddy. At last. You’re 100% sure I’m crazy, but I’m serious, I’m telling you, dear Mimmy, that I have arrived in Paris. I’ve come to be with you. You’re mine again now and together we’re moving into the light. The darkness has played out its part. The darkness is behind us; now we’re bathed in light lit by good people. Remember that—good people. Bulb by bulb, not candles, but bulb by bulb, and me bathing in the lights of Paris. Yes, Paris. Incredible. You don’t understand. You know, I don’t think I understand either. I feel as though I must be crazy, dreaming, as though it’s a fairy tale, but it’s all TRUE. All right, let me explain.

  You probably remember December 8, Mimmy, when Paris was supposed to happen but what happened was Sarajevo. On December 6, three days after my 13th birthday (my second in the war), the publishers told us that on Wednesday, December 8, we were to be ready, that they would be coming for us—we were going to Paris for your promotion, Mimmy. It was a real shock. Although that’s what I had wanted, I had wanted to leave that hell, to escape with my parents from death, hunger, the cold, because it really had become unbearable, but it was a shock all the same. We had one day (because we weren’t told until the evening of December 6) to accept that we were leaving Sarajevo, to say our goodbyes to Grandma and Grandpa, the whole family, Mirna, to pack and be ready at 8:00 A.M. on Wednesday, December 8, when an UNPROFOR personnel carrier would be coming to pick us up. For me, the hardest part was to accept that I was going, that I was leaving the people I loved behind, knowing the situation I was leaving them in. I was leaving them in war, in misery, without water, electricity, gas or food. And who knew when or if I would ever see them again.

  It’s impossible to explain those mixed feelings of sorrow and joy. Joy at being able to leave the war and sorrow at having to leave EVERYTHING behind. ALL MY LOVED ONES. Oh, Mimmy, all those tears! Saying goodbye in tears, packing in tears. I cried and my loved ones cried (but I most of all). When I packed my things I cried and I think that all those things that were supposed to go with me, the ones that remained behind to wait for me in Sarajevo, cried too. I wanted to take everything, because I was equally fond of everything, but it wouldn’t all fit into one suitcase. I had to choose. It was hard and it was sad, but at least Bimbilimbica and Panda were lucky—I only just managed to cram them into the suitcase.

  The day was short and most of it was spent in tears, while the equally short night was spent packing, by candlelight, again in tears.

  Wednesday, December 8, 8:00 A.M. It was all done. We had cried our eyes out, said our goodbyes, packed for the trip which was going to be who knows how long? Eight o’clock came and went. No personnel carrier. We waited. Noon. No personnel carrier. Four P.M. It was getting dark. No personnel carrier. Why? Who knows? Something went wrong. Again that strange mixed feeling, again that feeling of disappointment.

  That evening I was asked to go to the television station to take part in a live show with the French Defense Minister, Mr. Francois Leotard. He promised he would do everything in his power to help me and my parents get out of Sarajevo. And ... he kept his promise. Because:

  On December 22, Mr. Jean-Christophe Rufin, Mr. Leotard’s advisor, came to Sarajevo, negotiated with the “warring sides,” wrapped it all up, and told us to be ready on December 23 because an UNPROFOR personnel carrier would be coming for us. There was no shock this time, maybe because we had survived the disappointment of December 8, and maybe because we had come to realize that in Sarajevo anything was possible.

  We did and we didn’t believe it. Maybe that’s why there weren’t so many tears as before.

  At 10:00 A.M. on December 23, the personnel carrier actually came, Mr. Rufin came, and Mr. Guy de Battista (from UNPROFOR). They held out their hands and we finally stepped into the personnel carrier.

  Through the little window of the vehicle I watched the Post Office pass by, the Law Faculty, the Holiday Inn, Marin Dvor,
Pofalici, Hrasno, Ali-pašino polje, Nedžarići. Sarajevo was passing by. We reached the airport safely. Everybody there kindly welcomed us. Mr. Rufin clasped our hands warmly, telling us to be strong. They offered us food, drink, sweets. We talked with them. Every so often our eyes welled up with tears because there was that strange ever-present mixed feeling of sorrow and joy.

  Then the Hercules cargo plane, flying over Bosnia and Herzegovina, leaving it behind. We flew over the Adriatic Sea. I saw it all from the pilot’s cabin. Our landing point—Ancona. And ... we stepped out of the Hercules, and together with Mr. Rufin, our friend Jean-Christophe Rufin, we boarded a small French government plane and then—VIA PARIS. In the plane we were given Coca Cola, salmon, eggs, steak, chicken, tomatoes ... YUMMY. Everything I hadn’t seen for almost two years.

  And then ... the lights of Paris appeared. There was electricity. Then I caught sight of the Eiffel Tower, the Arch of Triumph, cars, houses, roads, people ... LIFE.

  At about 5:00 P.M. we landed at the military airport in Paris. A wonderful reception, warm words of welcome. I was given a letter from Mr. Francois Leotard. His words were warm, friendly, and encouraging. After the airport, we were driven to the Cercle National des Armees hotel. Then a SHOWER, WATER, TUB, HOT WATER, COLD WATER, SHAMPOO, SHOWER. Bliss! We spent about an hour in the water because we had to go to the television studio.

  Waiting for us in front of the TF1 building was Alexandra with an e-e-e-normous bouquet of flowers. She kissed us and clasped our hands in welcome. There we were introduced to Mr. Bernard Fixot and his associates. You could see in everyone’s eyes how happy they were to see us finally in Paris. And so the operation of leaving the hell of Sarajevo succeeded. Thank you. Thank you everybody, a hundred times over. Thank you are the only words I can say. Thank you Alexandra, thank you Mr. Fixot, thank you Mr. Leotard, thank you Mr. Rufin, thank you Mr. de Battista. Thank you Boba in Sarajevo.

  I don’t know whether I’ve managed to give you a better idea of it all. So much has happened. It’s as if I’ve been dreaming it all.

  That’s how Paris welcomed me. That’s how I came out of the darkness and saw the lights. Are these lights my lights as well? I wonder. When even just some of this light illuminates the darkness of Sarajevo, then it will be my light as well.

  Until then ... ????

  Zlata

  Credits for Photographs

  1, 2, 3, 4, 5: Private collection.

  6, 7, 8, 10, 12, 14, 16: Alexandra Boulat/SIPA Press.

  9: Paul Lowe/Magnum Photos.

  11, 13, 15: Robert Laffont/Fixot.

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  1) Zlata, in 1981, one year old.

  2) Five-year-old Zlata is enjoying the Olympic peaks of Jahorina, close to Sarajevo, according to her “the most beautiful mountain in the world. ”

  3) Zlata celebrates her fifth birthday with friends.

  4) At eight, a conscientious music student, she plays the piano and sings.

  5)

  Spring 1991. Zlata is in the fifth grade enjoying school before bombs start falling on Sarajevo.

  6) War breaks out in Sarajevo. In the beginning, the arrival of blue berets brought hope.

  7) Cooking is quite an achievement without electricity. It is sometimes necessary to search the neighborhood to find an oven. Zlata’s mother proudly shows off the bread made in a pressure cooker.

  8) Zlata writes at her desk even as the sound of machine guns echoes from the hills.

  9) Zlata carries water back to the house.

  10) Her father also helps her as they walk through the dangerous streets.

  12) Zlata, who loves books, reads by candlelight.

  14) Zlata with her mother and father. “What is this war doing to my parents? They don’t look like my Mommy and Daddy anymore. ”

  16) “I will try to get through this, with your support, Mimmy, hoping that it will all pass and... that I will be a child again, living my childhood in peace. ”

  1 The Catholic humanitarian aid and relief organization.

  2 President of the Soros Foundation in Sarajevo and editor-in-chief of ZID, the independent radio station.

  3 Resort outside of Sarajevo, now headquarters of the Bosnian Serbs.

  4 A well-known newscaster on television, one of the founders of the YUTEL television station before the war.

  5 General of the then Yugoslav Army, who was in Sarajevo when the war broke out.

  6 This may be referring to the “h” once given to certain local Turkish and other words and pronunciation, and later dropped from usage.

  7 Kurban-Bairam is the second of the Muslims’ two Bairam religious holidays; rams (kurbani) are slaughtered for this second Bairam.

  8 See photo 13. Above the arrow pointing to a can of Pepsi, Zlata has written: AAAAAH—IT’S POURING OUT!“