Jura
"In wide open fields,
I'll spread my arms and pretend I'm flying.
In wide open fields
the world seems so far away.
I will run to find
the field where I'm
the only one;
And there in wide open fields I'll lay".
Lyrics always sound a little banal without a melody to back it up, but that’s part of a song that I've scribbled down today, having driven past some open fields on my way to work. I gazed at those rolling hills in the distance, wishing I could be in wellies today instead of my office garb.
The office is quiet now, most people have gone home defeated by the sheer volume of work that needs to be done in time for the audit on Monday. I remain here, listening to old mp3s on my computer, revisiting songs that I used to cling to when I travelled solo across continents. I have a travel playlist, and each song encapsulates a memory so distinct, I can almost smell the city sidewalks.
I looked at the Leeds post again today, my fingers tapping on the table sub-consciously, like an apprehensive metronome. I thought about what led me here, and why I left Birmingham. I thought about why I gave up London, and the hypothetical four cars that my father says is within my grasp. Often, after a busy day like this, I do become introspective because I think it is important to remind myself of who I am. There are a great many things I have yet to learn, but I would like to think that I know what centres me, and that I hold fast to it.
I did much soul searching when I worked in Bosnia, and in as much as that time away was difficult (and insular, for the most part) – it was a time when I heard myself loud and clear. I have never been able to write about it, and in fact this would be the first time that those personal memories will be translated into words. I wrote so many chapters in my mind, whilst I was there; but the act of translating the everyday into the two dimensional felt like I was trivialising the experience somehow. The intensity of suffering and tears that I dealt with each day overwhelmed my ability to fit the daily into words. My journal barely saw a few entries, but my mind wrote whole books.
It's strange, thinking back now. I don't know why I asked Paul for a sabbatical, or why I applied to work with the War Crimes prosecutions team. I just felt it was something I needed to do. As fate would have it, I was offered a position and before I knew it, I was on my way to Sarajevo. The backpacker in me opted to get there by local means, which entailed a sleepless night travelling on busses and the back of a truck. I eventually ended up in a train station staring blankly at run down trains that only ran twice a day to Sarajevo city. I remember my pre-journey research indicating that the overnight train would have a sleeper compartment and my sinking heart when I realized that the actual train didn’t. I spent a full 10 hours with one leg wrapped over my rucksack and one hand holding onto my sling bag which had my passport and travel documents. I remember the cruelly timed border crossings and being thrown out of the carriage at 4am, somewhere in between obscure townships. I can still hear the tobacco stained voice of the inspector barking "Hnmmn, ghojdhdic" and leaving me standing in the cold whilst he fingered my passport with a scowl.
I remember staying in a settlement area that had nothing around it except makeshift graveyards, anywhere that there was space. I remember having to leave the room 4 times, the first time I took a statement from a girl my age, who told me how many times she had been raped and tortured. She was barely 12 when they shot her mother in front of her. Barely 12 when four inhuman soldiers held her down and tore her innocence from her soul.
I remember the heavy stench of cigarettes as one man told me in lucid detail how his 3 daughters were massacred in front of him. He then looked down, tied his shoelace and began talking about how he liked to grow tomatoes. He was one of the many walking dead that I shared time with, and like others, was trying to reconstruct something tangible from a nightmare. The stench of cigarettes still makes me think of his face, and his dead daughters - all of whom I saw pictures of and whose bodies are in a mass grave somewhere in Banja Luka.
There is a song that is playing at the moment that brings me straight back to my room in Dobrinja:
I used to think it was a beautiful, if somewhat haunting tune and it always reminded me of dusk. Until I lived in Bosnia. It took on a whole new meaning then. I used to open the door to my damp, dark apartment after a grueling day, and cry. There was a balcony that fronted the living room, but I was warned not to go outside or stand on it as snipers were still at large and I lived only a couple of miles from the Serbian border. For comfort, I used to warm up a large towel and wrap it around myself, trying to replicate human warmth, and then cradle myself to sleep.
The only thing I had in that room was a rusty bed and a small side table that had the initials “L.N” on it. I used to think it was a sign, because it looked like my name. It was as if I was meant to be there, and I found that comforting. Every day, I looked into the faces of tired people with sad eyes, carrying so much pain. So much loss. Every day, I wondered how I was going to make it through. I guess I did not realise it then, but I became stronger with each encounter and with each scarred hand that was placed into mine as a sign of trust and solidarity. As the days rolled into weeks, I found something of myself in the wreckage around me. I found that I had an ability to remain passionately compassionate, and that ultimately, I deeply cared for hurting people.
I came back to England grateful that I was not going back to a corporate office. Although the things I saw and did cannot compare to the injustices I take on now, I think I am still fueled by my humanistic passions. This is what drives me. I chose the unceremonious and grubby path of pro bono work knowing full well that jobs like these are few and far between, and not high paying. Unlike the corporate sector which spews out positions promising a world of money, I want to hold fast to who I am.
I believe in doing something I am passionate about. Sitting in an office dealing with more paper then people IS NOT my passion. But yes, it will grant me a big house and four cars.
Coming away from it all, I guess when I become introspective, I remind myself that there is merit in holding fast. I yearn for the simple life where I can help people. That is what I love. I don’t think I can be happy in a job that did not have that aspect. Job aside, I want to live in a house that has love. And animals. And children. And music. And laughter. And the smell of baking. I would like to look outside and see trees. I think that sums me up.
There is no rhyme or reason to this; I guess I just needed an outlet. Sometimes the memories come flooding back and I don't know what to do with them, except to be true to myself and continue doing what I believe in.
I have a note that I treasure, in a hastily scribbled hand of broken English. If it was anyone else's writing, the sentences would look inane and stupid. But as it is, they are perfect to cry over because it was given to me by Jura, a 12 year old girl with hazel eyes, who looked at me, took my hand and told me to hold fast.
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