Not Like My Mother

1

Samira lived in the palm of a valley. In the winter, snow clouds blew white dustsheets over the battered Balkan lands. The river slowed its rhythm as plates of ice formed, glistening under brief spurts of sunshine. Icicle chandeliers hung in the trees. In the mornings, wolf prints circled the houses.

Lying in bed, Samira could hear the preparations beginning. Her mother sang praises to Allah for the blessed day, as her aunts bustled around in the modest kitchen preparing lamb. They had little to work with, but each had brought something—a few cloves of garlic, the last bit of dried rosemary, a cube of lard and a couple of lemons. They pooled the ingredients, applying their seasoning to the lamb in ritualistic fashion, not mourning their sacrifices but instead allowing themselves to finally hope, in the knowledge that soon they could once again plough their fields in safety. When they were done, the men took the lamb out to the spit to roast it over hot ashes.

Samira still had doubts. An arranged marriage didn’t seem right, even though it had been done that way for centuries. Her father said marriage wasn’t about love; it was a business union that would lift the family’s social station in the small community. Samira knew her father loved her, but when he had told her of the match she had felt like a piece of meat being sold off or the sacrificial lamb now being roasted on the spit. Her soon-to-be husband’s home was two villages away, in Kamenica. Samira was surprised the house still stood. Germans and Serbs had spent weeks there, gnawing the guts of the village, feeding their insatiable hunger for blood. It would take them a whole day to get there and she would hardly ever see her mother again.

The doubts in her mind rang out like bells, but she threw back her old feather quilt, deciding to make the most of the situation. She leapt out of bed, opened the windows, closed her eyes and leaned out to breathe in the palette of smells collected by the forest breeze. For a moment she wished her wedding could have been held in the spring, when she would have picked wildflowers for her hair, but she quickly chastised herself, thanking Allah that she would not be dancing to the distant beat of gunshots. Samira glanced down to the tree where one of the neighbours had been hanged during the war. The branch had snapped when soldiers tried to hitch two brothers to the same spot. They had been suspended for a moment, wriggling like the snakes they were accused of being, when a loud crack sounded and they crashed to the ground as if Allah himself had intervened. Samira had watched as the soldiers finished the job nature could not do. She had been so young. Now, the killing had ended and once again the Serbs, Croats and Bosnians walked together down the street, though sometimes on opposite sides.

The wedding celebrations had been going on for three days. Family and friends had travelled to take part in festivities; across regions as vastly different from each other as the people that inhabited them. Her relatives were scattered from the flat plains of the north near Hungary, to the sparkling Croatian coast and the central hinterland of Bosnia. All of it had been marred by the war. In some villages, there were only remnants of dilapidated machinery, but others were a tip yard of ruins. Most people tried to avoid the large mounds of dirt encasing the dead, but there were some, either curious or victorious, who were drawn to the graves in the knowledge that at least one person they knew lay beneath their feet.

Today was Kina, the last day of celebrations. The men competed in traditional races and games, each of them trying to prove their manhood.

Today, Samira would see her soon-to-be husband for the first time.

“Are you ready to become a bride?” called her brother, Omar. Samira opened her eyes and burst out laughing. He was wearing a pair of dirty old pants with mud up to his knees—chest bare. His sandy hair was plastered to his forehead.

“You’re not coming to my wedding like that,” Samira yelled, flashing him her famous grin. She was renowned, much to her father’s despair, for her outspoken manner, Samira knew he feared her new husband would take his cow and run home the moment Samira opened her mouth. Her father had told her over and over: women are not meant to answer back or challenge men, but the proud expression in his eyes had said otherwise. She’s a wild filly, that one, he said whenever she argued with her mother over the tedious household chores. All her brother did was lie around in the paddocks watching the goats. It angered Samira that women were treated so differently to men, but she could never stay angry with Omar for long.

“I think I’ve got a mud-splattered shirt that will match these beautifully,” Omar joked. He dodged the hairbrush Samira threw at him and ran off, chuckling.

“Just wait till I tell Majka,” Samira called.

Samira’s mother led a flood of female relatives into the room. “It’s time to get ready for your big day,” they called.

As the women helped Samira dress they sang an ancient Jugoslav bridal song in nasal tones.

Samira laughed despite the unease in her stomach. Her breakfast did not feel safe. She stepped into the dimije that had been worn by her mother, and her grandmother before that. Seven metres of rich green fabric were draped around her ample hips. A white blouse was slipped over her head. Samira fingered the jelek, an embroidered jacket, wondering how her mother had felt the day she had worn it. Had she been nervous, or excited? Had she been scared? As scared as Samira felt now? Samira wasn’t sure if she would make a good wife. It was only a few years ago her mother taught her how to cook. She hoped she would fall madly in love with her husband the moment she saw him, love evaporating all her fears. The day seemed like a game she would play with her dolls, her children; she would be the matriarch who ruled the house with benevolent grace.

Samira’s eldest aunt wrapped the marama over her long auburn hair before placing the sef, a little velvet hat, on top.

“It’s time for the sedefi,” her mother announced. The women gasped over the precious family heirlooms she lifted from an old, velvet-lined oak jewellery box. The jewels embedded in the gold sparkled like stars in the sky as her mother fastened it across Samira’s forehead. Throughout the war her mother had kept the heirloom hidden in the lining of her dimije, refusing to sell it for food, knowing this day would come. Next, each of the aunts and cousins placed gold bangles on Samira’s wrists, which jingled lightly as she twisted her arms, admiring them.

Samira went to the window to see the guests. Outside, the men gathered around the horses hitched to the carriage, which they had decorated in ceremonial splendour. Each guest tied a gift to the horses: a pair of chickens was slung over their necks, handmade blankets, doilies and knitted slippers over their backs, together with a sack of fine flour, sickles and pots—everything Samira could possibly need to set up her first home.

It was time.

She followed the women downstairs as they trilled their tongues to announce her arrival. Samira turned to look at the man she would marry. Her body went numb, her heart seemed to stop beating; it was as if the clouds had dropped from the sky, blurring her vision. He was so old! At least ten…twelve years older than her fourteen years. A tall, stern man with cool grey eyes and coal-black hair, dressed in an SS uniform. How many men had he killed? Azis looked hollow, as if everything inside him, everything that had made him who he was, had been sacked from his being. Compassion, empathy, love and hope were nowhere to be seen in the hard face. She wanted to blurt out, ‘What happened to you?’ She turned betrayed eyes to her father, did not hide her disappointment.

He failed to see.

Samira felt Azis scan the length of her body, as if he was assessing his purchase, before his gaze finally rested on her face. She offered him a timid smile, but Azis didn’t react, his eyes were devoid of any warmth or flicker of emotion. Samira’s stomach twisted. She felt no love. She desperately wanted to turn and run, high up into the mountains behind her, reclaim the lightness of childhood. This was not a game she could end. A gentle shove reminded her she had to stand next to Azis for the ceremony.

Samira’s mother passed her husband the pogaa; he broke the bread over Samira’s head and threw it to the children gathered around her. Some were the same age as Samira. Omar, who was Kum or best man, handed over the ring. Azis slipped the simple gold band onto Samira’s finger. It was cold. Hard. Final. His hands were as frigid as his eyes. When she flinched, Azis glanced at her before quickly releasing her hands. Her head began to spin. She felt hot and wanted to rip off the thick dimije crushing her waist.

Finally, her father threw lollies and chocolates over their heads to seal the vows; they rained down like winged birds. The children dived for the ground, stuffing their pockets full of sweets.

“With this union, we strengthen our ties to Allah. May he bless you both with many children,” said her father.

Samira took a deep breath; she could see the pride in her parents’ eyes, the smiles on people’s faces. She forced herself to be happy with them. She did not want to shame her parents.

The women trilled; the band struck up. The whole village danced around the...