Saturday, November 28, 2009

So what about them mountains, Dino...?

When you look out of the window of Dino's old Mercedes, fogged thouroughly by cigarette smoke and devastating memories, you are naturally immersed into self-reflection and philosophical conundrums.

Many times I nearly cried during my 14-hour day with Dino, a veteran and torture survivor of the Balkan wars of the 1990ies. He has become a dear friend to me even though 22 years and a bottomless pool of events and actions creates a distance in life experiences. His likeness with me moves me - the way we understand each other and can finish sentences when they haven't even been uttered. Thee silence between makes my soul ache for him because only then will he expose the scars of his trauma and true age - closer to 150 than 50.

Every 15 minutes of silence would be broken up by Dino exclaiming 'Hej Sara!! Hvordan går det??' Ín the beginning I felt obligated to come back into the realm of the car, but soon realised that this was Dino's way of pulling himself back into this world rather than disappearing into the past. Thus, I'd respect his wish and answer 'Hej Dino!! Det går fint, hvad med dig?'

The one thing I absolutely hate in this world is loneliness. I hate when I feel lonely - I hate when I meet people who are lonely. But in these past months, working with the traumatised refugees of Bosnia, I've had to learn that loneliness is a part of the human condition. That some lonelinesses are existential and impossible to break apart and vanquish. It is hard for me to accept this fact, and I - you know me - just really wanted to hug Dino, behind the wheel, staring into space, the lines on his face more vivid than ever, the scars of torture screaming at me. I wanted to make sure he feels remembered and important and knows how fantastic he is - for he's gonee through, for what he was and what he has become.

Outside the car, ruins of houses stare at me blankly. Like big empty eye sockets, the window panes gives you a sense of death, despair and hopelessness - there's nothing to do about the past, these houses are not worth saving. So my mind races an analogy to the people I see in the streets here in Bosnia - are their souls liek empty eye sockets, showing you the scars? No. Is life here predetermined by the war? Yes and no - the financial situation is dependent on the war, but the everyday life does not include it as a meaningful factor.

Dino tells me, as we pass by his childhood home, that he was the one to introduce Janis Joplin, Hendrix and all them to Prozor. He would hold disco nights in his house, on the 1st floor, bringing people together, bringing the world outside the Balkanns to them. He had long hair back in the day. I laugh. Dino, the rock'n'roller. Not hard to imagine - even if it seems like a different lifetime.

Dino's aunt, only known to me as Tetka (aunt), prepared a Bajram meal for us in her home. She is beautiful beyond compare, at 81 surrounding herself with an admirable air of calm and caring. I loved her at first sight. Dino calls her his best friend, and I'm sure this is an objective fact of the world. She is a best friend.

And as we drive through the night, towards Sarajevo again, I try to fit the day's experiences into my pool of life lessons. How lucky am I to have met Dino. He shows me all sides of humanity, struggles to keep himself on the right track, after having his identity and life force broken by torturers. His existence is driven by the need to feel human, his thoughts circling around the fact that someone tried to take that away from himm. A professor. A wise man. Broken and angry at himself for not having the strength to develop his intellectual skills after the war. I love him so, my friend Dino.