Dragon Tales from Sarajevo Written and Photographed by Jasmin Mutabdzija
If I tilted my head and squinted my eyes, I could just make out
the long tail that curled slightly at the tip, the jagged talons,
and a sinewy body that flowed across the naked mountainside.
His name was Azdaha. I made a short curtsy. It was the first time
I had ever come face to face with a real dragon.
We were on the outskirts of an ancient village, at the tippy-top
of one of the many mountains towering over Sarajevo. The local
villagers living here were reputed to be as tough as their little
metal teepees. Legend has it, they had grown fed up with Azdaha
eating their sheep (and the occasional shepherd), and they joined
and prayed to God for help. So chaste were the people of this
village that God decided to lend a hand by turning Azdaha to stone.
It was our last day in Bosnia; we would be leaving that night
by bus, heading back towards Belgrade. Azdaha’s frozen statue
was the last of many clues I had seen over the past few weeks
hinting at the secret behind Bosnian resilience. The country is
still struggling to recover from its bloody civil war, and poverty
is rampant, but it is not remorse fueling this city. The energy
that drives its occupants is community.
Ever since arriving to visit the family of my husband, the family
he was forced to leave behind during the war of the 90’s,
I had been overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of social callings.
There never seemed to be an end. In the morning, people would
flow through the door as Nana was putting the final touches on
the thick Turkish coffee and the tea she made from dried apple
peels. By the time everyone had cleared out, we were due at a
neighbor’s house for lunch. Lunch turned into afternoon
coffee, then dinner.
In the beginning, I always hoped our day stopped there, but no,
dinner was a mere pause in the conversation. Others who had worked
long hours began coming home from their jobs, and were longing
to catch up on neighborhood gossip. Kitchen lights and wood stoves
glowed as groups flowed like ocean tides, in and out of apartments
all night long.
I was quick to assume these activities were for our benefit,
the excitement of a beloved son returning from America with his
wife from Hawaii and their young children. How wrong I was.
The acquisition of a highly unusual pet by a neighbor soon replaced
the novelty of our arrival, but the social calls kept up their
quick pace. He already had a dog, two turtles, and a parrot. Now,
the streets were abuzz with excited children.
“He got a crocodile!” A group of children under the
tree in the yard shook with excitement. The cluster soon scatters
towards various doorways after beckons from kitchen windows. It
was just another night on the streets of Sarajevo.
I slowly adjusted to this coagulation of people softening the
blows of war scars and scarcity. They colored their gray concrete
apartments like a bag of Skittles. I had always been a bit shy,
but being shy in Bosnia was just not an option. They coaxed me
out of my shell with firm persistence, as a mother would to her
lonely child on the playground.
Sure, it was nice to return to my smoke-free home in the States
complete with bursting refrigerator and icy air conditioner, but
I had never realized how lonely my life was. My doorbell does
not ring unexpectedly in the middle of the night with someone
wanting to borrow blood pressure medication, I drink my coffee
alone in front of the computer in the mornings, and my closet
is filled with dresses just waiting for an occasion.
I may have a wallet full of credit cards and a mall down the
street offering every material thing under the sun, but for the
life of me I am having a hard time remembering why the world considers
me richer.
Jasmin Mutabdzija
was born on the Big Island of Hawaii and is married to a Bosnian
refugee. She is working to finish her book about the adventures
of her family through Bosnia, Serbia, and Greece. Along with
their two children, they reside in California, although a
suitcase is always waiting by the front door just in case.
