Safeta Obhodjas
From Bosniak Magazine:
She was born in 1951 in Pale, near Sarajevo, in a
Bosniak family of Islamic religious tradition. There she also got
married und gave birth to her two daughters. With her family, she lived
in Pale and commuted to Sarajevo.
She studied journalism at the University of Sarajevo. In 1980-1992, she
published various radio plays for Radio Sarajevo, Belgrade, and Zagreb.
She also published numerous articles and stories in the literary
magazines in Yugoslavia.
Her first book "The Women and the Secret" was published 1987 in
Sarajevo by the publisher "Veselin Maslesa." She received numerous
accolades for her stories and radio plays.
In 1992, because of their Muslim religious background, she and her
family were expelled out from Pale by self-proclaimed monoethnic Serb
military. Since then, she has been living and working in exile in
Wuppertal, Germany.
She is the first Bosnian writer who writes about the challenges of
modern times in Bosnia. Her main subject in her literature opus has
been women's life and women's destiny in Bosnia's multi-religious and
culturally complex society in the last 50 years. As a writer she keeps
the role of a neutral observer who describes the events of peoples'
destinies with very precise details and with a great deal of humor and
irony. As a storyteller she upholds the suspense from the first to the
last page
In Germany, she writes both in Bosnian und German language.
Critics describe her prose as a compilation of writings that connect
Orient and Oxidant together. She has received financial support from
various German cultural foundations for her cultural engagement and her
writing.
In the last few years four of her books have been published in German:
- the novels "Hana", "On a Bosnia's Banquet", "Sheherezade in a Winter-Country"
- short stories "The Woman and the Secret" by Melina Verlag;
"Sheherezade in a Winter-Country", by "Bosanska rijec" (Bosnian word)
Tuzla and Wuppertal in Bosnian language.
Her story, Djamila's ideal:
Dzamilla's Ideal
This morning I was to deliver a lecture for the upper level students of the Siblings Scholl Gymnasium.
As I was about to enter the room, I instantly noticed a familiar face.
Who could have overlooked the dark glistening eyes of my neighbor
Dzammila? This unexpected encounter was not exactly pleasant for either
one of us.
We knew one another well, even though until this very
moment, we had barely exchanged few words with each other. Only a small
fence separated our backyards in the Wiesenstrasse.
Nonetheless, the modest shrubs and flowers that grew there could not
prevent us from observing and getting to know one another. Thus, every
day I watched Dzammila play in the backyard or at the terrace with her
younger siblings. I watched the little ones eagerly make noises and run
around ferally. Yet, when her father returned home from work, they
would instantly change back into quiet and well-behaved children
without him raising his voice.
I saw a friendship develop between
Dzammila and a neighborhood boy as they exchanged their CD's and
videotapes. If it so happened that Dzamilla's brother caught them, a
grand finale with a slap in Dzamilla's face would generally conclude
this exchange. Also, Dzammila's mother would intervene loudly and
screamingly. Although I was not able to understand her language,
nevertheless I could easily guess what she was saying.
This little
woman seemed to be a good guardian of her tradition and tried to teach
Dzammila the virtues of an obedient daughter. I was certain that these
were the same orders that I used to hear back then from my Nana
and later on even from my mother: " Girl, shame on you, your skirt is
too short! Go and change fast before your father comes back! Dzammila,
where are your siblings?
Haven't I told you that you should be watching
them? If they did something again, you'd have to pay dearly for that!
Haven't I told you to come home right away after school?"
The
atmosphere in the neighbor's family reminded me of my own childhood in
a desolate place far away from here in a Bosnian provincial nest. And
still it appeared to me that in comparison to my current situation, my
childhood was a single sunny oasis. To rid myself of my war experiences
and of the recently acquired condition of being a refugee in a foreign
country, I started to use my childhood memories as a foundation for new
stories.
First, I wrote a story with the title "The Prize," and was
very content with the depiction of the contradicting traits of my
father's personality. Thus, I was able to forgive my father everything
that had hurt me before. My newly discovered childhood gave me strength
to overcome the challenges of a foreign country. This could have been a
fast healing experience, if it were not for my husband's insistence to
dwell psychologically on the war and the fleeing. That used to be a
time of horrible arguments between us. Only deaf ears in our
neighborhood could have overheard these quarrels. In order to get away
from his never-ending analyses of the situation on the Balkans, I would
retreat to a table under a plum tree in the backyard, and work there
during the summer.
Nevertheless, the apartment soon became too narrow
for my husband. He could not stand being lonely anymore, and would come
outside to share his new insights on the war, the reasons why it
happened, and who was to blame. He dealt with this in such a manner as
if we were living in a waiting room, and were never allowed to forget
our suffering. Thus, he failed to notice that our relationship was
breaking apart gradually. In order to distance myself from him, I used
my readings and writings to build my own defense wall. In this little
niche, I attempted to become better acquainted with the new language
and the new culture.
My husband was upset because I found an activity
for myself alone and hence allowed myself to continue living
spiritually in exile. Consequently, our mutual respect sank to point
zero, and would continue to sink even further until we both realized
that it was impossible for the two of us to be living together. As a
matter of fact, Dzammila and her mother were able to hear our last
fight in the backyard.
I was working under the tree when he came by
firmly convinced to victoriously set an end to our marriage. He blamed
me for not having any understanding for him and his suffering. " I have
not been exactly spared. I, as well, have lost everything!" I said and
stuck my nose deeper in a book in order to hide from him. Suddenly, all
the books, papers, and notepads flew all over the backyard. " Stop
showing off your strength to me! Who do you think you are? To me you're
nothing but a conceited, ignorant and insensitive witch that only
deserves to live in solitude," he yelled at me, pale with anger. "
Fine! Go ahead, leave at last!"
My voice was shrill. " I'd rather
choose solitude over you being buried next to me. You're not living any
more; instead you're only eking out a miserable existence. And, you're
also forcing me to die spiritually! You take great delight in torturing
me mentally!" I was happy that Dzammila and her mother, who were
sitting in their backyard, could not understand us.
After my
husband returned to our home country, I found a new occupation.
I
collaborated on the projects of intercultural organizations that dealt
with the situation of female immigrants in Germany. There, I was often
introduced as a role model and invited to give readings. The organizers
and moderators were always able to find very nice wording for my
feminist engagement. "A woman, who was born and raised in a traditional
Islamic family and later dared to pursue her own paths. A writer who
had the courage to represent the society from a point of view of a
woman..." - These flattering words were the balm for my wounds. This
made me forget how much I missed my husband and how being in solitude
had been torturing me lately.
Now I was convinced that my work had a
purpose. Hence, the commission to give a lecture about the women in
exile led me to Dzammila's classroom this morning. The principal, who
invited me, introduced me emphatically to the students and asked me to
read my narrative " The Prize," that has already been familiar to her.
She was curious, and kept asking if I let my own experiences come
across through my literature.
"Only a little bit," I said with a smile.
While I was reading and revealing my paths between the cultures,
Dzammila's eyes were following me attentively. "Girls, please do not
get me wrong, " I thought, and stressed how my father, despite his
patriarchic behavior, allowed me to have a happy childhood. When the
reading was over, I immediately sensed that the principal was, all of a
sudden, cold and distanced towards me. I could read her discontent from
her petrified face expressions. It was obvious to me that I had not
fulfilled her expectations.
While we were drinking coffee in her
office, an unpleasant silence prevailed between us. I wondered if that
had anything to do with my German. She noticed my embarrassment and
tried to act more friendly. " You know, you have really learned to
speak our language well. Good for you!" she said. "Thanks, but I
apparently must have done something wrong." My curiosity superseded my
embarrassment. Her face regained a somewhat milder expression. " You
did not ... You did not emphasize enough that you had been distanced
from your family. The girls have to hear clearly how you have won your
struggle against tradition. You probably have to give more readings in
schools. I would like to give you a few tips for your next
appearance...".
" I beg your pardon!" I tried to digest her words.
" Who said that I wish to distance myself from my family and my
roots?!" "Don't you see, you do not grasp your own emancipation!" "No
wonder, I cannot grasp anything anymore, my own life seems strange to
me." I tried to overcome our misunderstanding with humor.
"No. No,
please do not get me wrong, but how could you support a family, an
Islamic family, that had treated you so badly in your childhood? You
yourself described this!" "You understood that the wrong way. I
described, how with the help of my family, I was able to rid myself of
the obstacles imposed by the tradition. Yes, my father was very
patriarchic; he may have sometimes acted as a despot. This however has
nothing to do with the religion. He did not even believe in God.
Nevertheless, he gave us a lot. He worked very hard in the forest and
on the fields to be able to feed us and send us to school. The times
were difficult in our country. I was the first girl in my family
allowed to go to school. I was the first girl in our community that won
a prize for literature..." "But your father wanted to beat you when he
heard about this prize!" " That's true but only because I did not ask
him for permission. Instead I entered the contest secretly. But, when
my teacher explained to him that he should be proud of his daughter, he
gave in. I spent my vacation with other children on the sea and was
able to get out from my village for the first time. That was my prize.
The prize for my story. My father did not prohibit that." "Now you talk
like your old grandma in the story. I was expecting a self-confident,
determined woman..." Half an hour of a heated exchange led to nothing.
We parted without having reached a common understanding. I immediately
forgot all the tips that she had given me for my next readings. This
afternoon, I was sitting alone and unhappy under the plum tree in my
backyard. At that moment, I hated my work as a writer. There was a
great weight on my soul. How could I have used and betrayed my
childhood memories in this way? Never again in my life did I ever have
such a feeling of complete safety as back then in my father's house. It
is a house that no longer exists for it was burned down in the war.
There was no longer a place in the world where I could return, and no
one who I could ask for advice. Still, in his own ways, my father did
do everything for us. Angry shouting from the neighbor's backyard
pulled me away from my memories and my self-pity. Dzammila's mother and
her older brother stood behind the fence. Few minutes passed until I
realized that their shouting was addressed to me. "You are the woman
who's our undoing!" interpreted the boy. Suddenly, it was apparent to
me that this scene must have had something to do with my reading at
school. "What did I do to you?" I tried to remain calm. "You incited
our Dzammila to become a disobedient daughter." "Wait a second, I have
not exchanged a single word with your daughter," I yelled back and was
already about to disappear back into my apartment. But my curiosity was
stronger. I wanted to know what on earth I did this time. " But, you
were in her class this morning?" The boy avoided looking me in the eyes
while interpreting. "You said that you are a Muslim and nevertheless a
woman who makes her own decisions. Since childhood! Your father was a
good man. You have destroyed his dignity and honor of the whole
community. You went where you pleased without asking for your father's
permission.
My daughter told me our neighbor is a Muslim and her role
model. Dzammila had threatened to run away from home if we do not allow
her to go on a class trip. You are an evil woman! You have driven your
husband away; we all could see how badly you have treated him. A Muslim
woman takes care of her family and her home. And what do you do? You
read and write all day long. Your poor husband! He did not have
anything to eat.
Every day he asked you to do something sensible. Do
not say ever again that you are a Muslim. I am certain that you will
have to move from this apartment. My husband will not agree, for our
daughter, to have such a bad role model in front of her eyes every
day!" When the little woman finished pouring out her anger, she turned
away. The boy still stood there. He still wanted to tell me something.
"Please, understand our situation. We have no one here. Our family has
to stay together," he said with the lowered head and so silently that I
could hardly understand him. "My father had to work so hard from the
beginning to be able to feed us and send us to school. We cannot
disappoint him.
My sister cannot become like one of these Western
girls. All of us love Dzammila; we want to protect her. She'd be lost
without her family's protection. You do know that." While he was
talking, I glanced at the house where they lived. Dzamilla stood at the
window. She smiled at me, and waved before she disappeared in the
darkness of her room.