painted white, sarajevo

XVIII

The city was starting to slip into its tiresome state once more, the entire area lit up with the light gray of the sky.

Elias stared down at the beginning of Safet's second-to-last entry.

February 28th, 1994.

I've been assigned to watch over others. Not just hand out newspapers, but to assure families and people are safe. It's one of the few things I can do: provide hope, provide help.

I watch over them, I watch over people on the streets. I watch, I pay attention, I observe.

I see!

In the streets. On the way to work. Near the market.

I see them walk with their heads held high. Mostly women. Men are on the front lines. I see women, young and old.

It's almost fascinating to watch. Not only watch, but to hear, to listen. To hear the clicks of their heels, the shift of attention. I can even feel irritation bubbling in the square.

These women march with confidence and passion, with their back straight and heel tough against the ground of the city. Their faces are beautiful in the dim light that Sarajevo sheds down upon them—radiant in an act of defiance, in an act of resistance.

Bright lips are splashed with lipstick, eyes touched with makeup.

I see them cross sniper alley, and for a moment, my heart beats erratically in my chest, fueled with fear for these women I had never seen before in my life.

But no sniper shots are fired, so I force myself to relax. I force my shoulders to loosen and sag, for my arms to fall slack at my sides.

They're okay.

They don't do it excessively, but they make a point of defying Serbians this way.

I am not filth. I am not something underneath your feet. Look at me. I am beautiful. I was beautiful before this, and I am even more beautiful today. You will not defeat me. I am proud and I am strong. You will not defeat me. You can not defeat me.

That is what they're saying.

Every day, every hour, every minute, the people of Sarajevo are coming up with ways to fight without blood splattering the stone that rests underneath our feet. You can't be reckless. The price is too high.

You have to ration your own life carefully—every step could be your last.

Elias stopped reading, glancing up. He sat on the bench in the square, letting the dim, natural light of the city accompany him.

His eyes strayed across the scene before him, catching sight of a woman that walked past.

Her nail color and lipstick color match, and does she wear them with pride, like something—a crest or badge, that you would wear in a celebration parade?

This woman walking through the streets of Wistinburg was beautiful in an ethereal manner—streaks of red within her hair that contrasted greatly from those around her, a confident strut and a curving, light smile that told everyone around her that she knew exactly where she was going.

She walks like a predator, daunting, uncaring to the enemies on the hill, the enemies that don't matter. All of those around her on the hills are nothing but mere flies, irritating in her walk to glory.

Elias watched her for a moment, with a blooming conviction in her step. For a moment, he could imagine himself in Safet's place—by the sidelines, watching the women of Sarajevo blossom as they waltzed down the street, fighting.

They aren't the victims. Not anymore.

- Safet Kapić

Elias closed the file, letting his gaze drift once more. The woman disappeared around the corner, and so did the imagery of the women in Sarajevo walking proudly in his mind. With a deep inhale, Elias pulled himself upwards, casting a look across the area once more, taking note of the orange dust across the ground and noticing how the trees seemed to have a tint of blue.

He considered going to talk to Kane again, but...

"He's probably still mad at me, isn't he?" He sighed, digging a hand through his hair. Now that all the excitement and feel of freedom from earlier was gone, his chest had started to carve in on itself.

How deeply had he gotten tangled up in Safet's story? To the point where he had stopped caring so much for his friend? Kane was still his friend, but there was the feeling of attachment. Or, the lack of it.

Stretching his arms up above his head, Elias let out another sigh, then started to walk in the direction of the hotel again.

Safet's story was beginning to come to a close.

The last entry was probably going to be a long one, detailing the end of the siege.

As Elias was just about to step into the lobby of the hotel, a hand at his shoulder stopped him. He tossed a glance over it, only for his expression to relax into an easy-going smile. "Ada!"

"Mr. Wilcox," she said. From her bag, Ada pulled out a leather-bound notebook, handing the small object to him.

"I placed a cover of leather over it to reduce any more deterioration," she said, then bowed. "Farewell, Mr. Wilcox."

"Ada—wait—"

With that, she stepped out of the lobby, a brisk step to her stride. Elias was left with his fingers clutching onto Safet's diary, staring at her retreating back.

After a moment, he tucked the diary underneath his jacket, feeling the edge of it press into a curve of his chest while he walked towards his room.

It burned against the skin.