Author: Ivan Marinić, OŠ Antuna Mihanovića Osijek
February 2nd, 1990 Friday
First, a little backstory about myself. My name is Marica Lee. I am 22 years old. I was born and raised in Westminster, London, so I’m pretty used to the rumble and noise of the city. My childhood was pretty normal, I went to a huge school in Central London. I didn’t stand out from anybody else that much, except the one that made me different from anybody else – my name. You see, my mum – Bruna – is from Croatia. It’s a small country in Central Europe and it’s pretty famous for its coastal cities. My mum moved to England when she was 20 and fell in love with my dad – Joseph. She never wanted to lose touch with her culture or her mother tongue. She made me study Croatian! I had to compensate for my lack of knowledge of the language by eating, wearing or listening to any other grotesquerie she had dragged on here from Croatia. Whether it was eating literal deep-fried pig fat – čvarci, to wearing five layers of national costume – I had to live it all. But I didn’t mind, I knew how she felt being away from her home and culture for so long. Imagine being secluded from your own people, country, and most importantly – culture, and being surrounded by somebody else’s. I smiled through it all. And recently, she passed away. After she died, I felt like visiting her home town would be the right thing, to finally get a glimpse of who she really was and where she lived, so I booked a trip to Vukovar! I’m really excited, maybe I’ll even find some distant relatives. I’m leaving London tomorrow! I have to go pack now!
February 4th, 1990 Sunday
Phew, that was a rocky ride! The first thing that hit me was the smell! It’s so fresh and damp in the wintertime. The small town of Vukovar is just… beautiful. The “Vodotoranj” is just something you don’t expect to see in such a small town. And people! They have been treating me with so much respect and kindness. I learned the hard way that you just don’t refuse food or drinks in a Croatian house. First I went sightseeing and then I went to a local bar. The waiter struggled with his English but he managed to murmur out a little: “And whose are you?” with a strong accent. “My mum is Bruna.. uhhh.. Bruna Martić?” He widened his eyes and let out a relieved sigh. “Ohhhhh,” he then started speaking to someone behind the counter in Croatian. They were both surprised and happy to see me, like they’ve known me and my mum for decades. He told me to go to a yellow house next door. “It’s your relatives,” he explained. “Just tell them Ivo sent you.” As I thanked him and walked out I noticed the two of them whispering. They looked both puzzled and scared by the news on TV. The woman in the yellow house turned out to be my aunt. She greeted me with a big hug and a smile on her face. Inside, it was so crowded that I didn’t even see all of the people’s faces and remember their names by the end of the night. There were aunts, nephews, cousins, uncles. They all heard I was coming. They were all really loud, talking over one another, but that’s what made them so… approachable, in a way. You needn`t be a genius to conclude that most Croatians behave that way, and that’s what they, and pretty much the whole Balkan region are known for, their kindness and candor. We talked, ate, sang their folk songs and had a good time. I saw a boy that I fancy.. I think he was a neighbour. He seemed to have an eye on me too… When all the noise of the family died down, they felt the need to comment on the situation in the country. “Why did you come here right now?” They assigned the best English speaker in the house to translate. “What? I don’t understand, I just wanted to visit my mum’s hometown.” He translated it back to them and the oldest ones started to shake their heads. “You know there are rumours about…. about a war coming, right?” I was bemused. I looked around. All eyes were on me. I hadn’t heard about any war, and I didn’t want to spread any negative energy so I changed the subject. That night, I couldn’t get my mind off two things: a) that boy in the living room and b) the “war”. I stayed at my aunt’s for the rest of the week.
February 10th, 1990 Saturday
I wasn’t able to update you until now. Basically, me and the “boy in the living room” went on a date…. three dates actually. Turns out his name is Branko. He already proposed going steady, and I couldn’t deny that I didn’t feel an instant connection. That once-in-a-lifetime opportunity you get when you meet the one is not something you turn down so easily…
…
April 14th, 1990 Saturday
Well, what can I say. Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and now I’m here – getting married! I better start learning the language…
…
June 19th, 1991 Wednesday
I can’t help but hear the sounds of troops marching and tank engines running…. Drafting season is about to begin, and Branko has served his time in the military. I’m hoping for the best – that Branko doesn’t get drafted and the both of us go back to England. I know this is a shock – but for the last year we have been worried sick, which led to us taking all kinds of low-paying jobs just to get enough money to go back to England. We only need a couple hundred more kunas to buy a plane ticket… I vomit almost every day now.
August 29th, 1991 Thursday
I feel as if Judgement Day had rained down on me. Branko has been drafted and I couldn’t do anything but hide… I’m in a hideout with 30 other people. We live in darkness and quiet every day. There is a 91 year old woman named Marica, just like me. I started talking to her more and more and we became kind of friends. The vomiting isn’t getting any better.
August 30th, 1991 Friday
UPDATE: a doctor in the hideout told me I’m probably pregnant.
September 11th, 1991 Wednesday
We’re running low on food and water. Most of what we have left is going to the kids.
Why can’t people just live in peace?
We’re DYING over here while old rich white politicians are having a laugh and signing peace treaties and agreements just for fun. This is at the ESSENCE of war. Rich politicians in power going to war with countries knowing full well that they aren’t the ones dying. They just make the idea of conquering an entire nation, killing millions in the process, sitting on a desk and waiting for something exciting to happen. Meanwhile this is happening. The actual people are dying.
September 16th, 1991 Monday
I had a nightmare. All of the people in here, including myself, were transported to a camp. It was so vivid I cannot get it out of my head. Scariest dream in a while.
October 3rd, 1991 Thursday
In short, my dream came true. I don’t have enough time, but the Serbs opened up a new camp and they want to try their new toy out. I sneaked this diary under my skirt. The camp name is Begejci. That’s all I can write for now.
October 20th, 1991 Sunday
The weight of their sweaty, heavy bodies is overwhelming on my starving being. At this point I had abandoned hope; for me, and my baby, which was kicking more and more every day. They enjoy beating it. Not even the actual feeling of kicking my stomach – but the pain it causes me. Psychological pain. I am praying every day for God to pull me out of this corporeal being, but he wouldn’t listen, for I knew I was currently in hell.
I don’t even hold hatred towards these people. Just numb.
October 22nd, 1991 Tuesday
I can’t write much. I’m dying, and they come to me every day about 3 p.m. I’m almost certain that I will die today. The thought of them holding my dead body is what disturbs me the most. Not the fact that I will probably die bleeding, beaten and humiliated. I have decided not to fight back. I just want to die. But before I go, here us a poem that has really kept me going for the last year. It’s one of my favorite songs that was in a movie me and Branko watched once.
In Heaven, everything is fine.
In Heaven, everything is fine.
You’ve got your good things, and I’ve got mine.
In Heaven, everything is fine.
In Heaven, everything is fine.
You’ve got your good things, and you’ve got mine.
In Heaven, everything is… fine.
