(The name in the following story has been changed to protect the identity of the main character.)
I met Darko on my first trip to Bosnia a few years ago. He was a skinny, dark haired boy with tanned skin and cheeks flushed red. For being ten years old he spoke English very well and served as my translator with the kids in the orphanage. I talked with him more than most other kids here because of his ability to communicate in my language. For the rest of the orphans who had to rely on my knowledge of the Bosnian language, we had trouble getting past, “What is your name? What do you like to do? Waiter, may I please have another coke?” So Darko was one of my favorites.
It was a warm summer night and Darko and I decided to get some Ice Cream. For a Half-Mark (equivalent to twenty five cents) I could get one scoop of Jagoda (Strawberry) and one scoop of Chocolate. For fifty cents I could win friends at the local orphanage and it cost me less than buying one donut back home. On our way home we sat in the park eating our ice cream and talking about life. The skinny little boy I once knew was much taller now and his voice was deepening. As we sat and talked I realized that I never asked him about his story. I couldn’t believe that after four years of knowing him I still did not know how he ended up living in an orphanage. It is a hard thing to ask an orphan because it brings up bad memories of life that went wrong at an early age or it reminds the child that he doesn’t even know his story because the cold walls of this sterile building is all he has ever known.
After four years I had to hear it from him so I asked what he knew and with beautiful openness he told me his story;
“My father had already died from drinking so I lived with my mother, sister, and younger brother. During the first year of the war my younger brother died so my family decided we could not bear living here any longer. We packed everything we owned into our tiny, broken down car and headed out of town. The chances of making it all the way through Bosnia and into Macedonia without harm were not good but we had no other option. Food was scarce, we had no electricity, and reminders of my brother’s death were everywhere.
Early in our journey my mother explained to me that we had to make a stop before continuing with the drive. We turned down the narrow dead end street and saw the orphanage hovering ominously at the bottom of the hill. With tears in her eyes, my mother explained that the three of us would not be able to make the journey to Macedonia and that I would be staying here. She helped me carry my bag out of the car and we walked up the stairs passed the glaring eyes of sullen faced kids who would be my new siblings in my new home.
I was introduced to the disinterested Orphanage director and brought up to my room. I walked with my mom back to the front steps, she kissed me, and said ‘goodbye’. I remember the anxiety I felt sitting on those steps as my mother and sister drove up the hill and out of sight. I tried not to cry so that my new roommates would not think I was weak but I was too young to have mastered that skill.
I was six years old and all I felt was fear. I feared that my family would not make it to Macedonia, I feared that I would not make it in Zenica, and I feared that I would never again see the only people I had left in my young life.”
With tears I listened to Darko’s story and all I wanted to do was to wrap my arms around him and give him the life he missed out on. I wanted to take him home and allow him to laugh and cry and run and play like a normal kid. As he described watching his family disappear over the hills and into a new life I knew that more than his family drove away that day. Sitting in that car next to Darko’s mother and sister, my young friend watched his childhood disappear.
