“During another Ceca song, I saw a man waving the three-finger salute — to me, the equivalent of ‘Heil Hitler’ — and a switch went off in my brain. I flashed to the time my family was stopped at a checkpoint and a paramilitary cocked his gun at my back. The soldiers laughed, proud to demoralize a 12-year-old boy. I wished I could wake up the next day at age 18, to take revenge as a soldier. But as an adult, I’ve never once used my fist, afraid of what I might do. To get the guy’s attention, I threw a crumpled napkin across the bar. It bounced off his head. His table looked in my direction, and I smirked. I used to stand on the banks of the river in Brcko, tossing rocks into the ripples. I waved my index finger side to side, cautioning him not to repeat the gesture. It would be two against six, but they couldn’t imagine how much rage we had pent up. I had no idea myself until that moment. Fortunately, the Serbians stayed on their side of the bar, merely muttering insults.”
— Today’s op-ed from Kenan Trebincevic, a Yugoslavian immigrant living in Queens, is great and harrowing and makes me want to read the book he’s writing about living through the Bosnian war.
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I grew up in New Jersey. I live in New York. I write for the Awl, and also a book called Public Apology, for Grand Central Publishing.