The unexpected normalcy at the gates of Klis

I was somewhere close to Sarajevo airport. I did not have time. I had to go to a distant city of an old, powerless emperor, but, like all the travelers who do not have a plan; I could not actually go anywhere. It was three hours and 30 miles later that I realized hitchhiking was not the way to go.

I managed to make somebody to drive me a to a town center, where I met Samir; a big, blue eyed fellow with a lot of wit but not so much grace. After a very though and fruitless bargaining, there I was, in a pretty neat Volkswagen Sedan, going west with uncomfortable speed.

We drove through tiny roads, heroically entering small, dark tunnels with millions of warning signs on them, and dangerously rejecting the call of mesmerizing landscape in each curve of the road.

And we talked mostly about soccer and food. I avoided asking anything about the war as much as I could. It was hard to do so, as my eye was constantly catching images of countless cemeteries along the road. It was futile anyways.


I just innocently asked Samir about his family and he told me about her mother, who died recently of breast cancer. Suddenly, his face went dark and he told me:

“It was, of course, the war.”

He said:

“It was too much for her. Not hearing from me during the war, losing my father.”

He continued, without me asking:

“I searched for him for months, you know. We never saw his body again, but I am sure he is dead”

Here it was, just slipping from the man’s lips: A too-well-known, almost cliché dialogue. It was cheesy, it was blunt, it was simple. But, somehow, there, in that car, and on that road, it was too painful to listen, and too simple to ignore.

It was real.

And he continued even further.

“Well, now I have a little kid, a girl. She is the only meaning in life for me”

At that moment, thinking about the dramatic construct of a Hollywood film, I expect a mine to explode, or a sniper to hit Samir on the forehead.

I closed my eyes.

Nothing happened, but silence fell between us.

Hours later, that silence was awarded with the calming view of an Adriatic Sunset.
The war was over.