The truth is - I hate airports. I really do. Airports remind me of my passport. Everytime I go to the passport control and I look at my passport. Letters of my birth place carved into the paper. I mentally curse Tito, Yugoslavia and the war for those letters. I wish the letters wrote Bugojno or Travnik so that I could hold on to my roots tighter.
The truth is - I love the smell of my country when I first step outside the plane. It reminds me of my childhood. Running through the streets, yelling and laughing. That was before all my friends grew up, and all my cousins were born. Now there is a small chirp of kids every now and then. My generation has moved from the streets to the clubs. Not that I mind much, but there is just something about that smell that makes me smile.
The truth is - when he said that I was his neighbor instead of some girl from wherever, my heart was as big as a heart can get before it explodes. And even though my aunt is his neighbor, and that I could never be his neighbor or his anything but his friend, I appreciated it. After the constant, “you’re not from here, are you?” and the “your Bosnian is so good for someone who is Swedish!”, you appreciate the little things. The little acceptance in a society where you don’t really belong. Or you do, but there’s a language barrier. They hear the foreigner in my mouth and there is nothing I can do.
The truth is - I am surviving an ethnic cleansing. Everytime I speak my language I am reminding the ones who killed thousands just so that I wouldn’t have a language that they are not going to win. I refuse. Even if I have to sit in an uncomfortable chair every tuesday afternoon learning about my mother tongue and its grammar. Even if I am tired. Even if I struggle. I hate airports. I love my country and I love the treasures I found in it. I love my country. I love my country. I love my count I love my co I love m I lov I l I m I miss I miss my I miss my co I miss my count I miss my country
— The truth