.. . • I - •
Staci McKee/DN
Emin Smajlovic says simple pleasures are the most valuable. He keeps his
possessions—a couple packs of cigarettes, a radio and a hat—close by him
in his bed.
Stacl McKee/DN
A man sleep; the day away in his bed at the refugee camp in Tuzla.
*
Halid Hodzic weeps, remembering the beatings he took from Serbs durin*tt
“To remember their suffering is to j
are possible whenever one group p>,
— Fran
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Camp
Continued from Page 1
But the run-down building stays open.
It houses a group of Muslims who have
made it home. It houses Muslims who have
hope.
The hope it houses is the dream that some
day, maybe with the help of American
soldiers, they can return to their homes.
And it houses stories of pain, struggle and
loss.
Stories like that of Smajlovic, who has
never walked. If it weren’t for his neighbors,
he would have burned in his home, which was
set ablaze by Serbians.
If it were not for UNPROFOR, the U.N.
Protection Force, he would have died in
Srebrenica.
Smajlovic (pronounced smy-lo-vich) has
been at this camp for more than four years.
His face is riddled with wrinkles, and he has
only two teeth.
But he tells his tale with humor and tears,
with energy and tragedy, all at the same time.
He is quick to joke about drinking, and he
holds his possessions — a couple of packs of
cigarettes, a hat and a radio — close to him in
his bed.
He shares the 15-foot by 10-foot room
with five other men, all of whom are bed
ridden. The room is dirty by American
standards, and it reeks of urine and vomit.
Each bed has white sheets and two old
gray blankets. Windows cover the west walls,
overlooking the courtyard below. The floors
are wood, stained and dusty.
Smajlovic says he wishes it were summer,
when he could go outside on the grass and
drink whiskey. But it is February and
Ramadan, and he is sworn not to drink this
month.
But he can still smoke. He buys his
cigarettes with the social aid money he gets
each month.
“That is my money, and those are my
cigarettes,” Smajlovic says through an
interpreter in his native Bosnian language, a
dialect of Serbo-Croatian. “It’s a strange
feeling for me.”
For the past four years, Smajlovic has
passed the time by smoking cigarettes,
listening to music on his tape player and
drinking alcohol.
When the music is beautiful, he cries. The
smoking hurts his neck, but he does it
anyway. And the nurses get mad at him when
he drinks.
When asked, the old man smiles a tooth
less smile and says his favorite drink is
“everything.”
“I haven’t any reason to lie,” he says,
raising his eyebrows.
Smajlovic waves his hands in the air and
uses his face as an expressive tool when he
talks. His conversations wander from what
life was like before the war to what he would
like to do right now.
“I would like to walk,” he says for the first
time this day. “But nobody wants to take care
of me. I am dependent on human aid.”
Smajlovic was never married. He has no
children. His brother took care of him until he
died a year ago.
Questions about his brother bring tears,
also for the first time.
When the war started, his brother fled to
Austria, where he died. Now, his sister-in-law
comes to visit him from time to time.
“Now I have friends here,” Smajlovic says.
“That is my life.”*
Smajlovic repeatedly tells everyone in the
room that if he could, he would go to Austria
and Germany, never to return. And he says he
would send pictures back to his friends in the
room.
But he can’t leave. He says he will die in
this hospital.
Simple pleasures are the most-treasured
now. Two bottles of water lay on the floor
next to his bed. Both are 1.5-liter Pepsi
bottles, refilled with water.
“I will drink water and think that it is
whiskey,” he says, just before tilting the bottle
up for a shot.
After his drink, classical Muslim music
comes on the tape player. He turns it up and a
tear rolls down his cheek.
“I buy this tape recorder, but it would be
better if I drink that,” he says, laughing. “I
love every kind of music. The tape recorder is
work, work, work. It always work.”
After a nurse tells him to turn it down, he
starts to talk about getting out of his house.
He says he would rather have died to end the
suffering.
“It is easy to die,” he said, tears streaming
down his wrinkled face.
A deep breath later, Smajlovic says things
are better now.
“Now I have water, food, cigarettes here,”
he says. “It is better than the social aid I was
getting before the war.”
The conversation turns back to his drink
ing.
“Everyone who gives me drink, they think
bad for me. It would be better if I never
drink,” he says. “I don’t have enough money
to buy drink.”
Smajlovic stops, looks around the room
and says “I feel every’:: jy needs to drink.”
Just as the head nurse of the camp starts to
walk through the room, Smaj lovic says he
doesn’t like her. She is always mad at him for
drinking and smoking. She wants him to stop.
“But I won’t and that’s the end,” he says,
smiling. “I don’t ask. If I want to drink, I
drink.
“She can get mad at me, but I drink.”
Smajlovic, who sits with his knees folded
and his legs underneath him, looks down and
says he would like to walk and earn money.
“If I sold my tears that came out of my
eyes, I would be rich,” he said.
Smajlovic said he wants to walk and make