Zlata’s Diary: Preface

In some ways it seems like a long time ago that it was written, being a record of a conflict that many people have forgotten about and that has been replaced in our collective memory by numerous other conflicts.

I still find it baffling that this diary—these scribblings of mine that I originally started writing for myself—even became a book, let alone that people are still reading it today.

The year 2005 marks the tenth anniversary since the war ended in Bosnia, and somehow we all still commemorate these anniversaries, remember these dates—the day the war began, the day we had our first real day of shooting, the day my mom barely escaped death, the day various friends and family members were killed, the day we got our first aid package, the day my parents and I left Bosnia, the day the peace treaty was signed.

All these dates are so ingrained in me that each time such a day comes in the year, the first thought of that day is dedicated to the significance of it.

Maybe that is just the destiny of a diary writer, someone obsessed by dates, but maybe it is also because the war and everything surrounding it is the biggest thing I have ever experienced, and will always remain one of the most important experiences of my life.

Maybe that is just the destiny of a diary writer, someone obsessed by dates, but maybe it is also because the war and everything surrounding it is the biggest thing I have ever experienced, and will always remain one of the most important experiences of my life.

It is strange looking back it on it all now, with the perspective of time, with me that much older.

Getting back to school and being a schoolgirl again, something I wanted so badly in the middle of the war, happened without much difficulty—in fact, most young people who left the war and had had their educations interrupted ended up compensating really quickly and well—maybe we were all very hungry for learning.

I often wonder why it was my diary that was published, when there must have been thousands of others written in Sarajevo, diaries that were probably more fluent and packed with events more grave and devastating than those that my family and I, in our luck, escaped.

I often wonder why it was my diary that was published, when there must have been thousands of others written in Sarajevo, diaries that were probably more fluent and packed with events more grave and devastating than those that my family and I, in our luck, escaped.

I often wonder why it was my diary that was published, when there must have been thousands of others written in Sarajevo, diaries that were probably more fluent and packed with events more grave and devastating than those that my family and I, in our luck, escaped.

People have often asked me whether I find it painful to recount my own experiences over and over again—wouldn’t I like to leave it all behind and make a life that did not include the war?

These moving missives came and still come from people ranging from the age of ten all the way up to grandmothers and grandfathers across the world.

And it is still here today, as a confidante, a way of getting things out of my heart and my head, a way of getting some perspective on problems and ideas.

Everything feels so much different and easier when it is externalized on a blank page that does not judge or say anything back.

I am not a character in a book that is frozen in time and space, that is immutable; I am a true living person.

The only way I can explain it is that it is no longer a story of a girl from Sarajevo, but a story of a child growing up in war, of a child without a childhood, and is therefore symbolic of so many others.

Upon leaving for Paris, I started another chapter of my life, that of a refugee, migrant, someone who no longer lives in her country of birth where she thought she would spend her whole life.

This challenge is not comparable to the hardship of war, but is a difficult process all its own consisting of learning new languages, finding new friends, starting from zero in every aspect of life.

This challenge is not comparable to the hardship of war, but is a difficult process all its own consisting of learning new languages, finding new friends, starting from zero in every aspect of life.

This is a question that so many people living in the world today as refugees, asylum seekers, migrants, exiles—whatever they might be called—are asking themselves.

This is a question that so many people living in the world today as refugees, asylum seekers, migrants, exiles—whatever they might be called—are asking themselves.

While it may take decades for a country torn apart by war to recover, the people who experienced the war, who lost their dear ones in it, who perhaps escaped and have become displaced elsewhere, must find the strength to continue with their lives on a daily basis.

There is a War Crimes Tribunal putting the people responsible for the war and the atrocities that happened on trial and maybe even in jail.

Various ethnic groups are trying to talk to each other again, with varying success; refugees are trying to return to their old addresses; families who have lost members are living daily with their grief and trying to pick up their lives; factories and companies are trying to rebuild from where they were interrupted by war.

The full truth of what happened, one that can be accepted by all sides, is still not fully unearthed, it is still not ready.

We become numbed by the onslaught of cold facts, and we forget that every event touched individuals, ordinary people, children, young people, grownups, grandparents, one by one.

I think we all need to remember our capacity for empathy and through education, stretch ourselves to imagine what it is like to be in someone else’s shoes and wish every person the same pair of shoes that we would like to wear.

I think we all need to remember our capacity for empathy and through education, stretch ourselves to imagine what it is like to be in someone else’s shoes and wish every person the same pair of shoes that we would like to wear.

If, on top of it, they feel compelled to remember this, to apply this knowledge elsewhere, to learn from it, to teach it to others, to truly understand it, then I feel completely delighted at what this tiny diary did and maybe still can do.