Moj brat Amel je kupio ovaj sat za nekih 20 maraka. Mislim da je to bilo krajem 1994. godine. To je sad tako jeftino i nebitno ali u toku rata to je bilo pravo malo bogatstvo. Kupio ga je od prijatelja kojem je otac bio van zemlje. Mislim da nije očekivao da će se vratiti. Rat ubija nadu. Sadašnjost postaje prioritet. Možda ovaj sat neodgovara nekome ko ima šesnaest godina ali molim vas lijepo to je Seiko 5. Klasika. Otac je nosio isti i bilo je kul kopirati oca, imitirati svog uzora. Onaj osjećaj da ste odrasli.

Kad mi je brat ubijen, 3. maja 1995. godine, ovaj sat je bio prva stvar koju sam od njega naslijedio. Na silu sam ga naslijedio. Ne znam zašto i kako ali sam ga skinuo sa njega. Bio mi je na ruci prije nego što smo došli do bolnice. Bojao sam se da bi ga neko mogao uzeti od mene, da ću da budem uskraćen za ovaj sat. Sav umrljan krvlju. Njegov sat, moj sat. Došlo je moje vrijeme da kopiram svog uzora i to sam ponosno uradio. Bilo mi je dvanaest godina i imao sam na ruci ovaj veliki sat. Narukvica je visila ali sam ga nosio. Poprilično dugo ga nisam skidao sa ruke. Odjednom sam odrastao ali ne zbog sata nego zato što je Srpski snajperista ubio mog brata, na moje oči. Nisam više imao djetinjstvo. Jednostavno, nisam imao taj luksuz da budem dijete.

Ja danas posjedujem drugi Seiko sat.
To mnogo govori o uspomenama, sjećanju, traumi i kako mi želimo da pamtimo one koje volimo.
On je tu samnom, svaki otkucaj, svaku sekundu.

A što se tiče našeg sata, niko ga ne nosi.

Ne više.

Sada je samo suvenir.

Uspomena.

Skriven.

Vječan.

* ovaj sat je uvršten u virtuelnu izložbu ‘Ostatci Genocida’: www.srebrenicaexhibition.com

On the way back home, it was the other way around.

We would then walk in front of him.

I will never forget his words, “I am the one who should get killed first.”

Let it be in order he would say.

Normal human instinct, wishing offspring could outlive you.

Basic survival thinking.

When his son, my brother, was killed,

he was the one who laid his body to the eternal resting place.

It still echoes, “I pray that you bury me when the day comes.

No father, no parent, should bury its own child.

I did it once and I wouldn’t last for the second time.”

My late father passed away on the 23rd of November 2016.

On this day, three years ago, I laid him down to his grave.

It was in order, as he wished.

His legacy lives on.

I am.

Father.

People use it when calling their brothers, cousins, close friends,
sometimes even random strangers in the street, coffee shops, airports.

Hey bro.

Brother.

I get to be called ‘bro’ a lot.

It doesn’t mater when or who does it
I automatically have a slight discomfort in my stomach.

A pinch in the belly.

Not necessarily negative one, just a strange feeling.

That’s something I can’t help but feel.

I keep quiet, don’t tell them of my mild soulache.

My surroundings don’t know this so they keep doing it.

Those emotions are not visible to them.

I’ve never called anybody that,
I’ve never said bro to someone.

Can’t reply the same way, I can’t utter those words.

Just can’t.

That’s just a phrase or common greeting but for me it’s more than that,
it’s a privilege reserved for someone who will never call me that.

Ever again.

Bro.

Hladnoća.

Leden zrak se probija kroz prigušena svjetla.

Tišina, nečujni šapati u daljini.

Oštar smrad željeza,
koračanje bijelim istrošenim pločicama.

Vriska starih metalnih vrata.

Zamrznuta kosa poput jutarnjeg inja.

Bezbojna, beživotna koža.

Sive usne, poluotvorene.

Mislim da sam ga poljubio posljednji put.

Nekako mi sve zamagljeno.

Volio bih da mogu vratiti to posljednje zbogom.

Možda samo umišljam.

Ne mogu se sjetiti.

Ali se zato sjećam njegove vječne ljepote.

Zaleđene u vremenu.

Zauvijek.

Ljepota.

Dovoljan je mali detalj, jedna riječ, treptaj oka.

Iskra koja zapali i pokrene romane ispisane u prošlosti.

Čovjek sebi stvara i ono neostavreno.

Kao da me neko vidi, ko to može znati da ja sebi lažem.

Ja ću da sanjam šta ja hoču.

Snoviđenje. 

Da li je to zato što mi nedostaje.

To neko neiskorišteno vrijeme.

Uspomene.

Ponekad kiša crtica.

Pljusak.

Voda koja buja i nema gdje.

Poplava misli.

Naviru naglo, isprekidano i nepovezano.

Kao da su u vremenskom sukobu.

Na momenat izgledaju kao mali i beznačajni djelići života, sitni detalji.

Krnjavi komadi razbijenog ogledala.

Odrazi nekog drugog ja.

Svaki za sebe je dio slagalice koja proizvodi kolaž mirisa,
zvukova, dodira, koji meni daju jedan prošli život.

Kako tu javu sačuvat da je posjedujem kao dio mog bića.

Kad se svijet strovali na mene.

Kad čeznem.

Da je imam kao utjehu.

Možda ja sebi stvaram iluzije, sanjarim, umišljam
u nadi da ću formirati lik. 

Da ću vratiti nepovratno.

A danas.

Stvaram uspomene svojoj djeci,
oživljavam sebe kroz njihovu igru.

Ponovo udišem prošli život.

Živ je.

Živ sam.

I can’t help but take notice of that year whenever I see it, wherever I see it 

But especially when I hear it.

Every time I meet people and we get into a conversation about age, I tell them mine and they mention theirs, I quickly do the math in my head.

Trying to see if they fall under that dear category of people, if they meet the criteria to be treated with special care.

Nineteen seventy-nine.

I stop.

Stop breathing.

Impact is bigger if they just say it without me calculating.

I have a short circuit in my heart.

Brain starts imagining my brother being that age.

Forcing my neurons to form the image of him.

Flickering some unreal photos of me still being younger than him even though I can’t project that character.

I check the wrinkles around their eyes.

Analyze their every move, gesture, smile, height.

Haircut.

Grey hairs. 

I wonder about his looks.

Their matured expressions, colour of their voice, huskiness, would he sound like them, I try to hear him.

Even when I was 16, I observed people who were 20, looking for him.

Forty, he would have been forty this year.

Wishful thinking never stops.

It’s there, all the time, in the back of my head.

What would his job be , would he be married, kids?

I can’t escape those thoughts, it’s stronger than me.

Seemingly just a number.

But not any number.

Not to me.

‘79.