FINALLY, TOGETHER

Alisa stopped working at the restaurant. We were finally all home. We didn’t have much, but we were happy. Even though the war was ending, life was still not safe. Corruption was everywhere, and people did everything to survive.

Dad was released from military duty. The company where he worked before the war had been turned into an arms factory, so he was allowed to stay and work. We were relieved. At least he would sleep at home instead of in a pit in the middle of nowhere.

At that time, Alisa was in a relationship with a man named Samir. He seemed kind and caring. He spent time with us, drove us around daily, and for a while, life felt normal again. He had a van large enough for about ten people, and during that period, it gave us a sense of movement and safety.

I was sixteen, but after growing up in war, sixteen felt much older. I had already learned how to survive, endure, and keep going no matter what.

TUZLA, 1995 — THE KAPIJA MASSACRE

On May 25, 1995, a 130 mm shell struck Kapija, the gathering place for young people.

Seventy-one civilians were killed.

Two hundred forty-five were wounded.

The youngest victim was two and a half years old.

Alisa and I were in Lukavac when we heard the explosion. Samir and Adnan, friends who were with us that day, were driving us home, unaware of the scale of what had happened.

The next morning, Adnan arrived pale and trembling. He had spent the entire night helping carry the wounded and collecting bodies. Some of his friends had not survived.

That day, Tuzla cried. And we cried with it.

BETRAYAL

One afternoon, we returned from the lake to find Mom furious. She ordered us inside and banned Samir from ever approaching our house again. We didn’t understand what was happening.

Later, Mom told us the truth. Samir’s sister had come to her and revealed that he was married and had three children.

We were in shock.

Alisa said nothing. She never spoke of Samir again. I still don’t know whether she loved him, or whether the betrayal simply locked whatever feelings she had away. That was how she endured— guarded, unreadable, never showing what hurt her most. I used to call her a poker face.

After that, Samir tried to contact her, but dad was always there, protecting us.

Alisa carried her pain quietly. She didn’t demand explanations. She didn’t ask for closure. She folded the truth away and kept going, the way so many women learn to do.

Looking back, I see how betrayal teaches silence, and how silence, once learned, can become a shield for life.

Love can be blind. But betrayal opens your eyes. And that was the moment mine opened forever.