Sandra Pašić

LIFE WITH THE BLACK DEMON

Psychological confession

Bihać, 2021

Sandra Pašić

LIFE WITH THE BLACK DEMON

PUBLISHED BY:

Visual Marketing Agency

PUBLISHER:

Isa Šarić

EDITED BY:

Sedžida Beganović-Isaković, LLB and master manager

REVIEWERS:

Ass. prof. Vildana Aziraj-Smajić, MD, PhD,

the specialist of clinical psychology

Sedžida Beganović, LLB and master manager

DTP:

DEAL EL TANT

PRINTED:

in Fojnica by Printing house Fojnica JSC

PRINTED IN:

500 copies

Translated by Ermina and Šejla Švraka, 2021

© All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am grateful to my psychologists and nurses at Bad Homburg (Day Clinic) who helped me face the truth, ground myself in the real life and not to live in the past.

I owe a special gratitude to my husband Admir Pašić who has stayed by my side all these years and through all of my tribulations. He has never left my side, even when I was at my worst, he was always there for me and kept our marriage and our children safe.

I want to thank my father-in-law Brko (Omer) who has shown me what a real father should be like. He was always my support, counsellor, help; he was always looking for the best in me and for a solution to every problem.

I am also grateful to my mother-in-law Samira, a wonderful person. She was always by my side and a great support from the beginning. I love her very much because she is such a fair and wonderful person to have.

My brother-in-law, Ami, is like a real brother to me. We have so much in common, our topics, respect and appreciation for each other. Thank you for all the conversations and advice.

A special, and perhaps the greatest support came from my dear Indira, a friend, a sister-in-law, a “sister.” She is a marvelous person. She has always been not just my support, but also my tower of strength. She would always find the best way to reach out to me. She was my motivation, even when I was ready to give up on writing this book, she encouraged me. She cried with me countless of times, she calmed me down (sometimes with the help of tranquilizers), she embolden me…

I would also like to thank my colleague Nejra, with whom I remain in touch on a daily basis, who listened to me and gave me some useful advice. She never turned her back on me despite her own personal problems and illness. My blue-eyed beautiful girl has been my support since day one.

I want to thank Mehmed Jahić – Meho, who was always there both for me and my family, for our daily conversations. Thank you for your understanding, and even when I didn’t show sincere gratitude, you didn’t mind that. He and his wife Sabaheta are wonderful people. It is a great honour for me to be able to call them my friends.

I met some wonderful people, and made new friendships throughout my treatment. I don’t have many friends, but those few I do have I can proudly call my sincere and true friends.

I am grateful to everyone who helped me in any way!

Sandra Pašić,

the autor

PREFACE

To write a story about one’s life is hard for everyone, I think. It is especially hard for someone who has had a kind of life or a portion of that life that they wouldn’t wish on their worst enemy. Especially when you know that because of your truth and pain, you will immediately run into resistance, disapproval, misunderstanding, condemnation, gossip and everything else that comes with an unpleasant story. Nevertheless, I have decided to write a story about my life. For my own sake, for truth, God, and all those who were or will be in similar life situations. Let this be a lesson to everyone.

This is my story. Sad, painful, difficult, unpleasant, odd, truthful, but my own nonetheless.

I want to dedicate this book primarily to children who were or will be victims of domestic abuse, especially by their fathers, but also abused in general. I have to share my pain. Let everyone, and especially children of the world learn the lesson of this story. Let no one go through what I experienced and let no one feel the “bite of the black demon,” the bite of pain and suffering of life. Let this confession be a lesson for every child who has experienced and who is still experiencing the bites of their loved ones.

Such pain, such feeling, trust me, no human can endure. Yes, I know, my own family will criticise me, condemn me, because it is shameful to reveal such “stuff.” No one understands the kind of wounds I carry inside of me. No one knows what kind of life I’ve had. Life wasn’t easy for me. I didn’t have any support. My loved ones turned their backs on me. I grew up with no support or firm embrace which I craved my whole life. Understanding and support was what I lacked the most.

I look back at the past. Life, like a black demon, wasn’t easy for me. The burden I was carrying blocked my view and hearing… I couldn’t hear nor see anything around me, including the people or what was happening. Sometimes, when I thought about myself, I thought that if I opened up, I could overcome “the black demon.” I hoped I would have the support of my loved ones, or at least that they would feel sorry for me and my fate.

I fell, got up, knelt, fell again and got up again. It’s a fight. Even today. I’m still fighting. I live with my struggle; I go through this pain with a broken heart and a doleful look.

I ask myself: where is this strength and power coming from?

After everything, the story which has been told and shared, I can say that the misery which lay at the bottom of my heart has come to an end. I’m not ashamed anymore. What’s more, I am proud. I spoke out. Let no one be ashamed or have second thoughts about speaking openly and loudly about the pain which is concealed by shame, and barricaded by inhibition.

We should not keep quiet; we should not seal our mouths, barring them to speak up. We should speak. We should share our pain. There is always somebody in the world who will listen.

I waited and carried the pain that was killing me. I did not have the courage or strength to fight the “black demon.” I thought it was my end and that I was doomed to fail, to sacrifice myself.

That was all I thought about because I didn’t know there were professionals who could help me. Thank God, I found those people at a clinic in Germany. Doctors and experts helped me to finally open up and start my recovery. They advised me to let everything out. I listened to them and gathered my strength and started writing my life story. The very decision to start writing helped me immensely.

I got rid of the burden, got rid of the pain, the suffering, and now I walk with my head held high. I am not afraid. I am now a brave woman and a strong, respected mother and wife.

I want to say to all the victims of abuse: don’t be silent, don’t hide everything inside of you, don’t wait for a better tomorrow, open your mouths and raise your voices now.

No one deserves to be abused, to be punished by violence. Let everyone know that only the voice of justice and reason prevails. Like every other victim, I will too, after all,

be condemned by those who are silent and covered by “a blanket of shame”, but also by those who are not worthy of understanding.

Everyone deserves to live, love and be loved. Everyone wants me to think and pay attention to them, even though I’ve been doing just that all these years. Trust me when I say I can’t do that anymore, I have to think of myself from now on.

All these years I have never thought about myself, because if I had, this story would have seen the light of day a long time ago. I constantly thought about what everyone else would say. People talk even when everything is wonderful, let alone when they can enjoy someone else’s misery. My growing up means realising that humans are the only monsters in this world. There are exceptions, of course.

I never thought about this, but I realised that my father had the number 666 in his date of birth. The Bible says that the number 666 is the number of the “BEAST” or the antichrist or the devil.

I declare with certainty that my father bore a stamp with the name of the beast on it.

As I reached this part of my story, I realised that the title of my book “Life with the Black Demon” with three sixes always coincided with my life.

The black demon, in reality, is my depression, fear, pain, suffering, nightmare, sadness, despair and everything else I had experienced over the years.

And after the story is told, they condemn me. And now, just as before, they condemn me, make fun of me, say it’s not true, that I did it for the benefits, etc. I know it’s all true. And that’s why I will look in the distance with a smile on my face. I want to be content. Everyone deserves happiness, including me, with honour and with my head high. After everything I’ve been through, I want to sail the waves of life!

And no matter what, I am ready to forgive, embrace and to wish the guilty ones to rest in peace, because it is human to forgive. It won’t be my burden anymore...

No matter how dark the night is, it will pass...

The rays of the rising sun awaken hope for a new day of our lives...

Make the most of that day, sail across all the beauties that life has to offer!

Part I

My childhood

N

ight, long and cold. Memories penetrate deeply into my soul. Feelings are awakened. I can’t fall asleep.

I can’t keep this to myself any longer. I have to say what hurts me. I have to begin, but, from where? Begin from where? From the deep dark past that haunts me constantly?

It’s in my dream again.

My childhood wasn’t a happy one. Those were the days of sorrow and misery. Perhaps I was marked, maybe it was only fate, or a test or a lesson for others. Who knows?

My entire upbringing and my childhood are marked. There was no joy, no happiness, and if there was any, it was fake.

Already at the age of four I felt, in some way, that I was going to be one sad child. Even though I was innocent, I only wanted, like every other child in the world, to be happy. Ever since I was little, I felt that no one loved me, though my mother claimed otherwise. I had a sense of rejection in every single way. The heavy burden I carry inside of myself is the burden of sorrow, hatred and loneliness. It tears me apart.

At the beginning of the war, way back in 1992, we moved, or better said we evaded, from Orasac to Bihac… due to the state of war.

I remember that period. I remember the grenades falling, leaving children traumatized for life. Residents of the building we lived in would often stay in hallways, ourselves among them. I remember the cries and screams which provoked fear and trembling in my bones. Much like other children, I was not aware of what was happening.

I know that, every day, I went together with my mother and sister to get food that was distributed to the refugees. I remember going with my mother to the river Una to do our laundry. There was no water, no electricity. Coldness and freezing weather outside, mother had to wash the laundry in the cold water for us to have something clean to wear. I felt sorry for her.

Day by day we lived that way… Days, months went by. Our father was not with us that day.

I heard crying, moaning and groaning from the other room. Wooden accordion doors divided the living room and the kitchen. I didn’t understand anything then, I only remember that mum had a big belly and that she was lying on the floor with so much blood, her legs spread in a gynaecological position, while another woman was kneeling in front of her. It was our neighbour R.V. I was looking confound and I couldn’t understand anything. All of a sudden, I saw a small baby in my mother’s arms. My brother arrived to this world. I was both joyful and sad at the same time, because he would get more attention and love.

During that period, the events regarding my sister are all blurry to me.

Night fell. We all fell asleep. I loved sleeping next my dear mummy the most. I loved her scent, her warmth, I just felt protected next to her and I knew that no one could do me any harm. I was a little girl.

My father kept returning home constantly, but he also kept going away somewhere. I heard my mother say that he was on the frontline and that he had to go to war. Even then, as a little girl, I didn’t feel any bond with my father.

That night the doorbell rang, immediately followed by a knock. Mother went to open the door. Father was standing there with two strangers, a woman and a man. My mother didn’t know those people either. I heard my father swearing at the door and hitting mother. The people who were with him did not even say a word, nor did they try to help my mother. I felt tremendous fear. I shook like a leaf. I was cold, even though the heat was spreading throughout the house from the old stove. My mother kept the fire burning so that it would be warmer for us during the night as well. Still, I was cold.

There was no electricity that night either, only two candles on the kitchen table illuminated the room. Mother was cooking something on the stove, prepared the hors d’oeuvre,{1} all by my father’s orders of course. I remember that I had to sit with all of them the whole time that night. Even though I could hardly keep my eyes open, I couldn’t even dream of going to bed. It was all in vain.

I remember my father’s words:

- Come here you fucking bitch!

Who could he address in such a way to but my poor mother? Mum couldn’t even cry. I watched her tremble with fear and obey father’s orders.

I heard my mother anxiously saying:

- Wait, old man, don’t do that in front of other people, calm down, please.

I went to hug my mother, but I was slapped immediately. He wouldn’t let me approach her even. Those people, strangers to us, did not lift a finger to prevent father from doing this.

I don’t even know what happened that night. Somehow the night passed.

It was dawn. My sister and I went to play outside with the other kids. On our return to the house, we saw that our father wasn’t there. I was happy he wasn’t there. Unfortunately, my happiness did not last long.

Father returned again. Alone this time. Usually, late at night, hell and agony begin for us in the house. He placed plenty of alcohol bottles in front of him, he sat there, cleaning his rifle. Suddenly, for no reason at all, he got up and hit my mother. My sister got scared, of course, as well as I did. My brother lay in a brown wooden crib, still a little baby. The beating started, and then the crying, imploring, begging... It was painful to watch my mother defending herself with all her strength, begging my father to let her go.

I will never forget her words:

- Don’t beat me, I beg you. Don’t let the kids see.

My father wasn’t fazed by it. He continued as he pleased. I couldn’t take it anymore and I said:

- Let her go, father! Don’t beat our mum.

Surprised by my reaction, he turned to me, wondering where I found the courage to meddle in this affair. He glared at me, red-faced and wide-eyed, grabbed me and lifted me up, then threw me to the floor with all his strength. At that moment I instantly urinated my clothes. When he saw the wet pyjamas and when he realised I peed myself, he got even angrier. He pulled the belt out of his pants; I remember it well, it was brown, and he began hitting every part of my body uncontrollably. He didn’t pay any attention to me, didn’t even look where he was hitting. The more I cried and begged him to stop, the more hits I suffered.

All in tears, my mother begged him to let me go, saying he would kill me like that, but no! He neither heard nor wanted to hear either my mother or me, nor did he have any compassion for any of us at that moment. Ultimately, my mother’s plea made him even angrier. Enraged, he grabbed his rifle and hit mom on the head with it.

My God, I will never forget how my mother got up with difficulty after the blow, and was totally disoriented, confused, and crying. Blood effused down her face in great quantity. For me, it was - horror. I almost fainted due to the shock I experienced. I was afraid to approach my mother, but I wanted to hug her so much, I wanted to wipe the blood of her face, comfort her, and tell her that everything would be fine, even though I knew it wouldn’t. He sent my sister and me to bed.

I went to my room. I couldn’t sleep. How could I fall asleep when the music was playing so loudly? I could hear him swearing. I wanted to get up, I gathered all my strength, because I was afraid of his reaction. I had an odd feeling, or rather, I felt a strong uneasiness deep inside me. And yet, there I was, in the living room. Fortunately, he didn’t say anything to me, but I heard my mother say to him:

- Put that rifle down, you’re going to kill someone.

He, furious and with a strange look on his face, got up and fired two bullets into the wall. He shot right above the crib where my brother was sleeping. My little brother’s cries echoed throughout the room. That small innocent being did nothing wrong. My father, angered by my brother’s crying, got up and shook the crib as strongly as he possibly could. Brother didn’t stop crying, and father didn’t let my mother comfort my brother, not even to try to calm him down. No, he didn’t want that, instead, he picked my brother up and threw him back in the crib. Mother stood up, covered in so much blood that her face was barely visible. A terrifying sight! Terrible images in front of my eyes. Stomach cramp, pain in my soul. I thought my mother was going to die. I don’t even remember how that night passed.

Father did not want to sleep next to mum. We finally went to our room. He remained sitting in the living room, drinking, smoking cigarettes and listening to loud music. We fell asleep fearfully and with some difficulty. Before I fell asleep, I was afraid he would enter the room and beat us all. Although I was a little girl, I was not afraid for myself, I only wanted to protect my mother from him ever coming close to her...

A new day dawned... We woke up in the morning and he was still sleeping in the living room. The day passed, night came... and, unfortunately, it all happened again.

I couldn’t understand why those problems concerning my father always happened after nightfall. Alcohol on the table; he’s drinking, and I sense a disaster of some sorts.

Uncertainty again. Fear. I started shaking... His unan- nounced guests arrived out of nowhere. I didn’t know them.

My mother was told that someone from her side of the family was going to war, someone close, I don’t remember well, but I think it was my mother’s brother. She was very sad, but my poor mother wasn’t even allowed to cry. It was too much for my father. He couldn’t stand my mother’s grief. Instead of compassion, he became aggressive. The mother was silent, did not speak, did not utter a word. He would quickly find some reason just to beat us.

It was very cold outside that night, it was snowing. We all had to be lined up next to each other, as close to him as possible. He hit my mother, but she quickly got up and ran to the hallway. I ran after her, but my brother and sister stayed with him. We knew what awaited us. Another night of beatings, pleas, tears, begging, to no avail.

Mother and I ran away from home. We tried to find a place where we could spend the night. We knocked on our neighbour’s door... Neighbour S.Z. let us into her house. I lied next to her daughter who was lying on a mattress placed on the floor. It wasn’t long before the doorbell rang. It was the father. He asked the neighbour if she knew where we were, if we were with her.

The neighbour answered:

- They’re not here, you’ll have to look for them somewhere else, I’m alone with the kids, my husband isn’t here and I can’t let you in.

Father believed what he was told. We all fell asleep, filled with fear.

New day. My mother woke me up:

- Get up, Sandra, we’re going to your granny’s.

We were on our way. It was freezing outside. We arrived at my granny’s. As soon as we were able to briefly recount what happened, we heard my father entering granny’s house. In terror, we jumped out of the window and fled into someone else’s garden. There was a tractor in the garden. We hid under the tractor and waited to see what was going to happen. We could hear my father’s voice. Granny called our names and said that my father had calmed down and that he wouldn’t hurt us. We believed granny and went into the house. Father was sitting on the couch, his hand was covered in blood. Mum asked him what happened to his hand, and he replied that he hit our neighbour’s glass door and injured himself. A conversation ensued. He promised not to hurt us, neither me, nor my mother, and begged us to return home with him.

Of course, once again, mum believed his words. Maybe she didn’t believe my father’s promise, rather, she wanted to go to my brother and sister, because he left them all alone back in our flat.

The next day mum and dad went somewhere. My sister and I were left alone in the flat with our brother. Father said that they would be back soon, and that we were supposed to keep our house and brother safe and keep the fire burning.

Having this freedom to ourselves, my sister and I went out on the balcony and called the names of the other children outside. When the children noticed us, we hid ourselves. Our brother was sleeping in the crib. While we were playing like that, we completely forgot the task our father had given us. When I remembered my obligation to keep the fire burning, I went to stoke the fire, terrified of what would happen if he noticed. The fire was out. At that instant I felt chills down my spine, and knew immediately that there would be consequences.

- O my God, what should I do now? Father’s going to beat me when he comes back.

I was frightened and shaking, and my sister looked worried. We both cried. Even though we were just little children, the idea came to us to start another fire. I took a lot of paper from a cardboard box used for storing the firewood which was next to the stove. I lit the paper in the stove on fire, and I threw a used match stick in the cardboard box, not noticing that it was not completely burnt. A big flame appeared immediately. We panicked. I was not afraid of the fire but of the consequences that followed for what I had done. I had to find a solution. We took the cardboard box with fire inside of it and dragged it across the hallway, so that we could throw it out onto the balcony. My sister found spare keys on a shelf in the hallway, she quickly unlocked the door of our flat and went to our next-door neighbours for help. The neighbours managed to put out the fire. Traces of ash remained in the hallway, and also, naturally, the smell of smoke.

After about thirty minutes, father and mother returned home. Neighbour R.V. was with us and tried to explain in the simplest way what had happened, but without much success. Seeing his anger and her own defeat, she stopped explaining, simply said goodbye, turned around and left.

I knew what was coming. He immediately started yelling at me and my sister and through all that shouting and swearing, he started beating us. He hit me first as hard as he could, he lifted me and threw me on the couch. I bit my tongue and blood ran out of my mouth. He turned and started beating my sister. My sister was weak and skinny, a gentle little girl.

Our mother tried to calm him down in every way imaginable to make him stop beating us. Somehow, she succeeded. Father calmed down. They told us to go outside and play with the other kids. My sister and I didn’t really like playing with the kids from the neighbourhood because they mostly made fun of us or were afraid to hang out with us, knowing what kind of father we had. On top of all that, they used to laugh at me because I stuttered a lot. I could hardly produce two sentences together without stuttering or getting stuck on some words. I don’t know why, but I felt rejected during that period. Awful feeling.

I was very jealous of the other children who had wonderful parents, and especially wonderful fathers. It pained me when I saw fathers hugging their children because we didn’t have that. The three of us, my sister, my brother and I were unhappy kids.

The next day, mother made lunch, a soup of some sorts. We were all sitting at the kitchen table, while my father was swearing and yelling. Although I got hungry playing with other kids, I immediately lost my appetite. Who could eat in such a situation, listening to all that noise and being under such stress? He was terribly moody and angry because the soup didn’t have any meat in it.

He stood up, lifted the lid from the bowl of soup, spat into it, and said:

- Motherf…ers, now you can eat!

I immediately got the urge to vomit, but we had to eat. There were three scoops left on my plate, which I really couldn’t finish. It bothered him, and my mother signalled me with her look to force myself to eat, just so he wouldn’t beat us. The lunch was finally over. We helped our mother clear the table. His mood swings were so frequent, unreasonable, and unpredictable. He gave us money to go buy ice cream at the ‘Trova’ patisserie, which was located near our building. They had the best ice cream in town. We came back, played a little more just outside the building.

Night fell. By the grace of God, father was calm.

We all went to sleep. We all slept in one room. Mum and dad slept on the bed, and we slept on the mattresses on the floor. My sister and brother had been asleep for a long time, but I couldn’t sleep at all. Even though we couldn’t fall asleep sometimes, we were never allowed to show it. We simply pretended to be asleep.

At one point I heard a faint noise. The bed was creaking and mum’s moaning. Something was happening. The fact was, my father and mother were having a sexual intercourse, but I didn’t know what that meant at the time. All I knew was that I wasn’t supposed to speak, even breathe, lest they would discover that I wasn’t sleeping and that I could hear them. It came to an end, finally.

In the morning, it was as if nothing had happened. We set off, with dad and mum, to our uncle who lived about two miles from us. We went there so that mum and dad could plant a garden at their place. I enjoyed it, because I loved spending time with my nieces. My parents decided I should stay with them for a few days. I was very happy. We played a lot and I felt freedom there.

Those three days passed quickly. I came home to my parents. That day my father and mother bought me some new clothes and a school bag.

I started the first grade of a primary school in 1996. The school was located in a park in Bihac, and it was called “KULEN-VAKUF - ORASAC.” I was excited about starting school. I was an excellent student, even though I stuttered a great deal.

A lot of kids imitated the way I spoke and made fun of me, which was difficult for me. They would even run away from me and say:

- “Stutter girl” is coming.

Like in any other school, naturally, there were some bad marks from time to time. I got bad marks in maths mostly: adding and subtracting. Every time I got a negative mark, my mother would do some exercises with me. She wouldn’t let me go out until I did my maths assignment. Kids were always playing outside the building: playing hide-and-seek, with marbles, or skipping of a rubber band. I loved playing it the most. My knees were constantly injured and in scabs, because I often fell on my knees, mostly when riding the bike.

During that period, everything I did was controlled and limited. When I was told to come inside, I had to stop playing immediately and obediently go into the flat. That was hard for me, because when I played with other kids who didn’t tease me, I was very happy. I didn’t have to listen to quarrels, insults, and I wasn’t beaten.

One day, my father came home wounded. I saw the wound on his leg, an open wound, blood everywhere. A medic came in every day to treat his wound. My father had severe shrapnel pain. Later I found out how my father sustained injuries. He was sitting with some drunk people in a room and he detonated a bomb. He received shrapnel in his leg, which created pressure later on, but also pain. One night he was in so much pain and said he felt something moving in his leg, and that he felt like ants were walking over him. He ordered me to take eyebrow tweezers and take out the shrapnel that appeared right on the surface of the skin. I never did something like that, of course; I was scared, which is why I refused and said I didn’t dare to. He got so angry and shouted:

- Take it out right now. What are you afraid of? Take it out now!

I gathered my strength and took the tweezers and with my hand, trembling, managed to pull the metal out of his leg. When I saw that I had succeeded, I was pleased with myself. From that moment on, I wanted to be a nurse. My father praised me and said that I did a great job, that I was his son, not his daughter, that I was brave like him and that I should never be afraid of anyone, because he was not afraid of anyone either.

In the evening some guests arrived again, a man, a woman and two children. Since they were small children, I didn’t want to hang out with them. My brother and sister played with them, and I went to the living room to sit with my mom.

I had a strong need for my mother, her attention, her love, her embrace. Father didn’t like seeing our mum hugging us. Feeling close to my mom, I relaxed and took food and snacks from the table that were there for the guests only. Father just smiled. I didn’t recognise his emotions.

I thought he was looking at me with love because I was eating. But no! His face was burning red. He could not hide his anger. When the guests left, something my father was waiting eagerly, he pulled the army belt out of his trousers and started beating me, and saying:

- You fucking bitch. This will teach you not to take food of the table when there are guests.

I promised that I would never take anything of the table in the presence of guests. My father was extremely upset and my mother was preparing our bed for sleeping. I remember there was always plastic film beneath me so that I wouldn’t wet my bed.

Not a single night went by without me wetting it. I also remember when I was a bit older, I would unconsciously, in my sleep, wet the bed every time I was frightened. And when the morning came, both dad and mom would criticise me. They would ask for how long I was going to wet the bed. “You’re already a big girl, aren’t you ashamed?” I was ashamed, but I couldn’t control it. Often, my sister didn’t want to sleep next me, she’d cry and say:

- I don’t want to sleep next to her, she’ll pee all over me. I was very sad. I just couldn’t understand why I kept doing that, and why I couldn’t control it. I didn’t know the reason, and no one was there to help me.

I spent my childhood with only two girls who were willing to play with me. They were Sanela and Alma (I am still in touch with them, we talk with each other occasionally, although each of us has a family and their own personal obligations these days. More than 20 years have passed since our hanging out and our goofing around).

I know I was a mischievous girl. My mother told me that I was very hyperactive, and that I often quarrelled with other children.

One day I found out that we would have to move to another place soon, that we had been evicted because someone had bought the flat we lived in. I was sad, because I spent some beautiful moments there. I don’t mean with the parents, but with the kids I liked. Just before leaving, I met a wonderful family who moved into the same building. There were two twin sisters in the family: Jasmina and Aldina. Their father was killed during the war and they were a martyr’s family. Sometimes I envied them and was jealous because they lived without a father, only with their mother. At the time, I thought almost every father was like mine. Yet from the stories they told me I realised that they had a wonderful father, whom dear God chose to take for himself. My father was alive, but I was miserable because of it.

Few nights before we moved out, some man and my father were sitting in the living room, drinking. My father was very drunk. There were various weapons, rifles, bullets, bombs and other firearms in front of them. He played with a bomb ring, saying he would kill us all. It was a game for him. Until then, I had never felt greater fear and panic. Mother was terrified, and that man told him not to play with such things, because it was life-threatening. Naturally, my father always hated when someone told him what to do or what not to do, so he got even angrier and cursed. He went out on the balcony and fired his rifle, and threw a bomb from the balcony in the middle of the night. The neighbourhood was terrified and fearful. The police did not come, not even to warn him for harassing the neighbourhood. When that hell was over, we were all still alive, thank God.

The day of our moving also came. Terrible feeling. It was very difficult feeling for me. What I regretted the most was what I was leaving behind. Although, in 1997, I was a little girl, barely nine years old, I had a crush. He was a little black-haired boy who, naturally, didn’t even notice me. Father and mother were packing our stuff in the flat, and we helped them with that. He took down everything that could possibly be removed from the flat. The flat we moved out of was left in very poor condition.

I thought the new address would be some new turning point in life, maybe a happy start or a change for the better. Unfortunately, our hell continued. We moved to the address ‘Ceravacka hills no. 12’, to a huge house with two floors, plus an attic belonging to a Serb. We lived on the first floor, actually, the ground floor. The Ogresevic family also lived in that house. They had three children, two boys and a little girl. On the one hand, I was happy because they were kids of my age. We often played behind the house with mud and cans that we found in the rubbish or secretly took from the house.

I always thought that I had a normal life and that everything that happened to me, the beatings and turmoil was normal and that everyone lived like that. It was something natural for me, because I didn’t know of a different kind of life. It was only then that I realised that I was wrong, because these children, my neighbours, received tenderness, love and attention from their parents every day, even without beatings, and I realised it was them who were truly happy. It was then that I realised that there are good and bad fathers. We, my sister, brother and I were not hungry. My father provided us with food, sometimes even bought toys, but I was not happy. I didn’t want toys, I didn’t want anything, just love and attention like the other kids had. Every time I saw a happy couple walking down the street, or children being hugged by their parents, who cuddled and looked after them, jealousy awoke in me. Mum was not allowed to kiss or hug us, her own children, in his presence, because his reaction would be violent. She would hug us when my father was not there.

One day, dad got a call to report for serving a prison sentence. They were preparing us for this news for days. Our father told us that he was drunk in a tavern and that a man, also a drunk, had insulted him. My father had a gun in his pocket. He said he pulled the trigger and fired a bullet, wounding the man. Earlier, my mother told me that my father had spent nine years in prison. He was also in the Correctional Facility in Zenica.

Mum’s sister lived in the USA. My parents planned for us to go there with her husband. We even received a letter of guarantee which we were supposed to go to Zagreb with. At the time, it was not difficult to go abroad. There was no end to my happiness. How ecstatic I was at that moment.

I thought to myself:

- My God, thank you for a new chance.

As always, my happiness was short-lived. Mother and father told us that it wasn’t possible for us to go to the US anymore, even though they prepared everything. They didn’t give a more detailed explanation. I was disappointed and very sad because I dreamed about the magical USA.

Father turned himself to the police the next day. He was taken to the nearest prison in Bihac in Luka. He was gone. There was peace and positive energy present in the house. I wasn’t even aware he was not there.

With him being gone, spring arrived. I felt as though the sun warmed my skin, and I also felt my mum’s peace in her soul. I asked her why she didn’t leave dad when he treated us like that.

- I can’t my dear. What if he found out? He would kill us once he was out of prison.

My mother explained to me that she had already had one marriage and that she had a son from that marriage, our half-brother N. She told me that she never wanted to leave us at any cost, and that she was forced to leave her first son with her ex-mother-in-law. She would always talk about what people would think and say if she left her children again. She said the grief would be the end of her.

On one occasion I asked her:

- Mom, why doesn’t our brother N. come and live with us?

- How could I do that honey when your father’s not your brother’s real father? Look how he destroys you mentally and physically, how he mistreats you, imagine what he’d do to him.

We often went to our granny’s. I loved going there because granny’s family brims with positive energy. I have the best grandmother and grandfather, and the best uncle. Staying with them, I felt, in a way, secure and loved by everybody.

The bus station in Cazin was about an hour away from their house. We cried while walking there because we couldn’t walk anymore, our legs hurt. Mum carried my brother since he was the youngest, and my sister and I followed her. At one point I sat on a concrete crying, I couldn’t walk, so my mother teased me, mentioning some swamp. She said that if we didn’t listen to her, some Alaga would come and throw us into the swamp.

Of all the visits, as I said before, I loved going to my grandparents the most. We all felt free there. Our half- brother, with whom we played all day, would often come. It was very nice for us. When the time came for him to leave, I would get very sad... Everyone had to go their separate ways. The mother was often in tears and we could see that she grieved for her son. At night she called to him in her dreams and cried in her sleep. My half-brother used to tell me that he was also a little jealous of us, because we grew up with our mother while he had to grow up without her love. I often imagined the three of us playing together and how we were all very happy. Unfortunately, I knew that was not possible, because I knew that my father would never accept it. He would surely beat and harass him, as he has all of us all these years!

At the time, we didn’t have a phone either, so it was very difficult to get in touch with our half-brother. Sometimes I would write a letter for him and leave it to my mother’s family to deliver it to him. And mum would also write a couple of sentences and secretly put some money so my father wouldn’t notice. My brother saw my father and often said that he didn’t like that man at all. He felt fearful just by meeting him once.

On one occasion, my half-brother happened to be with my grandmother in Cazin and I asked him to come with us to Bihac, to spend a few days together with us. However, every time I invited him, he refused. I wondered why he was like that and why he blamed mother for his misfortune. I also asked my mum why she left him before she married my father. She could take the child with her. My mother told me that it was not possible because she could not feed him, nor could her parents accept him as a family member in their own home. She told me that I would understand everything when I’m older and have my own children. There is no difference in the amount of love for your children. She repeated that she could not protect us from our father either, how could she protect him, who is nothing to him. Father does not pity or spare us, so why would he spare him even if there was a possibility to spare him. He often called our mother a whore because she was married once before. He punched her in the nose for having a child from the first marriage. We asked mum about her first marriage. My mother told us that her first husband died very young and that she had become a widow at the age of eighteen.

All that time while my father was in prison, his brother, our uncle, fed us, that is, he bought us food and he gave money to my mother to provide what we needed. I will never forget that. My uncle was a good man, different in every sense from my father, a police officer by profession. I can’t thank him enough, because such a gesture, especially in difficult moments of one’s life, can never be forgotten. He will forever remain in my fondest memory.

Since the father was absent, the mother fasted almost the whole of Ramadan. We wanted to know how to fast, and we wanted to know all about “sehur”, early portion of a day when people get up and start fasting. Ramadan, especially this one, is one of the most beautiful periods of my life.

The days I spent at school made me happy because I loved going there. I finished primary school with excellent marks. My mother would often say that she did not have any problems with me at school and that she didn’t have to make me study, because I fulfilled my obligations responsibly. I especially loved art and painting, which is still something I do nowadays.

Autumn is here. A wonderful autumn morning made us wish for a pleasant rest of the day. Mom woke up first, made breakfast and coffee with milk. When she had prepared everything, she came into the room and kissed us one by one. The morning began with my mother’s smile. We were sitting, eating out breakfast. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Mum got up and went to see who it was. Unfortunately, it was my father who was released from prison on probation. We also got up to welcome our father. Unexpectedly, our father was very calm and talked to us nicely, he even asked us kindly:

- Kids, how are you?

He talked nicely with our mum. He had breakfast with us, which our mother prepared with love and kindness. My God, how happy I was. Father is here, he doesn’t shout, he doesn’t swear and he talks to us in the most normal way. For about a month he was caring and was kind to us. He even found a job for mum, so the two of them talked about it nicely, which made me happy. I thought about how prison changed my father in a positive way and how we would have a father like every other child. Kindness, love and decency towards us lasted for a short time. Honestly, he was kind and humane to everyone, he helped people in need, and he also helped the poor. He was one splendid man, “a golden boy.” This is how some viewed him and for many he was considered a nice man.

Dad’s family was afraid of him, because he was a man who lost his temper easily, some situations made him angry quickly, so he would do something bad without thinking, and then soon he would always regret it.

He said he had given up alcohol and would not drink again. The next day he was not in the house all day, he went out in the morning and came home late in the evening.

We were all sleeping. I was awakened by strange voices and loud music from the living room. I got up to see what was going on. My father was sitting with some man. They were drinking. Mother was by the stove, cooking something. She prepared hors d’oeuvre and some food for my father and his friend. I sat down in the living room where it was cold, so I covered myself with a blanket. I watched them. Suddenly my father started a topic that I listened to carefully. He said that his childhood was difficult, that his father consumed a lot of alcohol, both his father and mother beat him. I often thought this was the rage he inflicted upon us. But how have we deserved it, and why was he punishing us for it? He grew up surrounded by violence that he himself began to inflict to others over time.

My father’s mother often used to say:

- As a boy, he was such trouble, not a day went by without him being beaten.

She told us that our father, when he was a boy, ran away from home and no one knew anything about him for three months, no one knew where he was or what he was doing. He was everywhere, from Bosnia all the way to Slovenia. She said that she beat him up once so hard that he got cuts on his skin, and she put salt on those cuts, as a warning not to make any more mistakes.

My father did not listen to anyone in the entire world and had always been his own man. He barely finished four years of primary school. Grandmother said he was a very bad student and that she had to force him to finish even those four years of primary school. He broke his father’s jaw with one punch. He also beat her, his brothers, relatives and sisters-in-law. On one occasion, he hit his sister in the head with an ashtray so hard that my aunt ended up in the intensive care unit. She recovered, thanks to God.

My father had a child from his first marriage (son), my second half-brother who was raised by his uncles rather than by his own father. While his first son was little, he would sometimes buy him something, but very rarely. He didn’t even call him father but used his real name. He abused his ex-wife, who was an Orthodox Christian, as well. When he went to serve his military service, he told her he didn’t want to see her there when he returned. Grandmother said his wife wanted to take her child with her who was only six months old at the time. They didn’t allow her to take him and thus she was forced to leave the house without her child. She went away in tears and said she would get in touch. She never did. She started a new family in Serbia, she has two children now, a son and a daughter, and her daughter’s name is the same as mine, Sandra. I don’t know why, but I had respect for that woman, even though I didn’t know her. I believe she suffered greatly.

Every day of my life was filled with fear and anxiety. I was afraid to do anything, because I would be punished for every single thing.

The days went by, but how I do not know.

Mum started working as a food service worker at a hospital on May 14, 2000. I remember she often brought bread and food leftovers from the hospital. To me, that food was delicious. Mum came back from work every other day at 5:30 p.m. She was never late, not even a minute. After finishing work, she immediately ran home, because if she didn’t arrive home on time, father would start shouting, posing a million questions and sub-questions as to why she was late and where she was, etc... Once the chaos ensued, because she was ten minutes late.

We could have an easier life thanks to my mother’s salary. To be truthful, we always had money for food, for everything we wanted to eat. Father would often take all the money from my mother, her salary she earned, and spent it on drinks.

Although he spent all the money on drinks, he often came home with even more money. I don’t know how he got the money and what he did, but we were never hungry. He didn’t buy us toys that often, so we took care of the “Nintendo” game we got as if our lives depended upon it.

My sister, brother and I loved to play. It’s sad to say, but even when playing together with them, I felt rejected. My sister and brother would always be alone, they always had secrets of their own, and some plans they shared. When I approached, they’d stop talking and say:

- Let’s go, Sandra’s coming, she’ll overhear what we’re talking about.

If I complained or cried to my mother, she would say that it was nothing and that one day, when we all grew up, we’d be eager to spend time with one another.

One day, father and mother went for a walk in the fields. They said they would be back soon, and that we should be in the house and behave ourselves. I, as the eldest daughter and sister, wanted to surprise my parents and I cleaned the house nicely. Regardless of his behaviour, my father was very clean and meticulous, the same as my mother.

As a child, I was always required to do some work around the house, mostly to clean and tidy up. Before their return, I started cleaning used coffee cups. As I was wiping the cups, two coffee cups fell to the floor and shattered. I panicked and was afraid what my father would say or do when he found out about the broken cups. I cried, and my siblings told me that was my own fault, and that I shouldn’t mentioned them when the whole situations came to the light. My parents came back from their walk and as I was collecting tiny pieces of glass from the broken cups, my father started yelling at me and insulting me. Since I wanted to explain to him how it happened, I started to stutter so much at that moment that I couldn’t produce a word. Mum tried to calm him down, but it was in vain. He started making fun of me for talking and mocked “STUTERRRERRRR”

I could hardly stand it. He started beating me, he grabbed a belt with a metal strap and started hitting me as hard as he could. Petrified, I urinated in my pants and I was shaking. The more I cried, the more he hit me. He hit both my sister and brother, and they said they didn’t do anything, that I broke the cups.

Mum tried to calm the situation:

- Please, don’t mind the cups, that’s not a reason for the child to be beaten. Let her go, you’ll kill her!

My mother’s words had no effect, anger seized him even more, so he lifted me and threw me on the bed. Then he took a chair and threw it at me. He hit mum so hard that she immediately fell down. He cursed her father, mother, brother, sister out, just because she tried to save me from him. Usually, in addition to the beatings, my father almost always punished me with work, which meant that whatever he ordered me to do I had to do it immediately. It was mostly cleaning.

Soon after that, my father bought some hens and made a place for them behind the house. During the day, he would let them out, so one of us had to keep an eye on them, so that they wouldn’t run to the garden and destroy the crop.

The next day, or rather the next night we went to sleep. The three of us were in the same room together, my mum put plastic film under me because I used to wet the bed almost every night. That was caused by fear I had been going through for years, as I found out much later.

The rustling of the plastic film was so funny to my brother and sister, because they could hear my every move that way. We all laughed uncontrollably. We heard someone banging for us to calm down. It was even funnier for us and we laughed out loud, which we were not allowed to do. Father came in with a belt in his hand and hit each of us with it. Naturally, we got scared and immediately fell silent. It no longer occurred to us to make a noise. That night passed also, somehow.

Morning came. It was as if nothing had happened in the house the night before. My father talked to us in a normal way, we had breakfast and then went for a walk in the nearby meadows. Mum went to work the next day.

Summer vacation was approaching. After school we hurried home to play with friends who lived upstairs.

The boy who was always playing with us became my crush, even though at the time I didn’t even know what that was. We were ten-year-old kids. Sister vomited a lot during that period. She often had stomach pain and nausea. Mum and sister had the same symptoms, they both had hernia on both sides of their bodies. My sister stayed in the hospital because they had to operate on her. They let us know when the operation was over. I wanted to visit my sister together with my parents. Mum and dad were very sad about my sister. While walking, I saw “some” emotions awoke in my father that had not been visible until then, and especially not tears. I missed my sister very much because we spent a lot of time together. She recovered and seven days later she came home. She had to rest at home until her sutures got removed. I helped her any way I could and I was happy she was with us.

Dad disappeared the next day, he went to get drunk, and in a way, we were happy, because we were left alone with mum.

When he was home, my father wouldn’t let us watch the TV, he would often shout and order us to turn it off. He prohibited mum from watching soap operas. We could watch the TV freely when he wasn’t there. We loved when he was not there. My sister and I were playing with Barbies we had brought from the old flat.

Our enjoyment didn’t last for long. Father, as always, came drunk and the first thing he saw when he came in were our scattered toys. It bothered him, he took the belt out of his pants and started beating us. He didn’t even pay attention that my sister had just recently came out of surgery, he hit us. We promised that we would never leave things on the floor again and that we would always make sure that everything was clean.

The next day, we were all sitting in the house, and the parents were talking about summer vacation which was coming soon and that the two of us were about to go to spend some time at granny’s house. They decided it would be my sister and brother. I was sad, I wanted to go. My parents said that my brother and sister would stay there for 20 days, and when they returned, I would go. When they left I remained alone in the house. I was very bored; I didn’t know where to go or what to do with myself.

Friends from the neighbourhood also went to their relatives over the holidays. Mum worked every day. By the father’s orders, I had to clean the house every day...

The bite of the black demon

A

beautiful and sunny day dawned. I had no idea that for me that day would be darker than a black night. I woke up, I was alone in the house. Nothing unusual in those days. Mom was at work, dad somewhere absent. Excited about being home alone that morning, I got up and made myself breakfast. I enjoyed my breakfast while watching the TV.

Although I was happy, or merely believing I was, still deep inside I felt some uneasiness. I could not describe that unrest. Perhaps, I thought, it was because I didn’t finish my breakfast and father might come back and find out that I still haven’t tidied up and cleaned everything. Unfortunately, my apparent peace and tranquillity didn’t last for long.

Father appeared at the door with a man whom I didn’t know. He was drunk, in fact, I had never seen him so drunk before. He looked at me in a strange way. I felt terrified, though I had no idea why I felt that way. Maybe I had a hunch, I don’t know. I just couldn’t get rid of the agitation I felt in my chest.

I said to myself:

- God, help me, don’t let him be mad at me!

I was scared by that look. In a commanding tone, he ordered me to find something to eat in the fridge and bring some alcohol from the pantry. I dutifully carried out the order. Father leaned back on the couch and turned the music volume up. He was hugging that stranger, and they were singing and laughing. Suddenly, the guest got up and decided to return to his own home. We were left alone, my father and I. Even in the darkest thoughts, I could not imagine what would happen in the next few hours. I sat down and he told me to get up and come sit closer to him. I thought he was going to hug me like his daughter... He was drunk. I don’t know why, but I felt fear, nervousness, and nausea inside me.

He put me in his lap. Although he almost never did, even though as his child, I longed for my father’s embrace, I didn’t feel well at the time. He started stroking me and saying I was his princess. His gaze was strange. I shuddered. Then he started touching my legs. I was confused. I didn’t know what such touches meant. He is my father. I am only ten and a half years old, I loved him. Although I was afraid of him, I loved my dad. And no matter how drunk and rude he was, I always tried to see the best in him, just like any little girl would.

He pressed me harder to his lap. I started shaking. He spoke words he only said to my mother, I remembered them:

- You are so good, pretty and I will never let anyone touch you except me. Even when you grow up, you will be mine.

Even though I was a child who didn’t understand any of it yet, I understood what he meant. I froze. Few minutes later, he started kissing me all over my body. I tried to pull away without success. I was terribly frightened when I felt his tongue in my mouth. Until then, I never dreamed that my father could kiss me like this. I could smell his foul breath and the smell of stinking alcohol all over me. I was shocked. Helpless to do anything. I couldn’t even scream. I only cried. I remember my words well:

- Dad, why are you kissing me like that? That’s not how kids should be kissed! Let me go, please! Let me go, I beg you!

To all my pleas and begging, he just said that I shouldn’t be afraid and that everything would be over quickly. I froze. I felt trapped in his arms... I knew, looking at his face, that I could no longer say a word, because that, as always, would only cause trouble, beatings, shouting.

I prayed for mum to come home. I prayed for anyone to appear, anything to happen just to save me from all of this. I said to myself:

- Mum, where are you? Why don’t you save me? Why did you leave me alone? Why did you have to go to work today?

He didn’t stop. He just kept going... He removed clothes from my body, piece by piece. I still didn’t know what that meant. He kept touching me where he wasn’t supposed to. He wasn’t supposed to do that! Yet he did. His hairy, big hands slid down my thighs, and my body. Restless fingers stroked all over my body. I was trying to get away, but I couldn’t. Out of fear, shock, uncertainty... He crossed every line with those fingers. It was clearly not enough for him. He carried my little body to the couch and lay down on me with all his weight. He captured me. He jumped on me like a scary black hound. I couldn’t understand what he wanted from me. Even though I wanted to scream, I lost my voice... He overpowered me. I couldn’t even look at him. My eyes were full of tears. I couldn’t move my arms or legs. All I could feel was the weight of his body and the putrid smell of alcohol. He forced himself inside of me! At that moment, I felt severe, unbearable pain. I screamed! I begged him to let me go. He covered my mouth with his hand and continued to defile my weak and small body. I knew, that was the bite of the black demon, my biggest nightmare. It went on for about ten minutes.

For me, those ten minutes were an eternity. It was the worst torture and the greatest pain I could remember. Not even all those beatings, harassment, nothing could compare to the pain I felt then. I wanted to die! Disappear! I wanted to be no more!

When he finished, he told me to get up and go to the toilet to wash myself, and then to come back. I barely got up and went outside. I hid behind the house and sat in the woodshed. I was broken both mentally and physically. I was afraid to go back inside because I wouldn’t be able to go through that horror again.

A few minutes later he came outside and called my name loudly:

- Sandra, Sandra, get over here right now you fucking bitch! You’ll rue this day if you don’t get over here.

Even though I didn’t want to, the fear spoke out of me. He found me and made me go back to the house. Standing there at the door, he slapped me, knocking me to the floor. I was lying in the foetal position, my stomach hurt terribly. I was wearing white tracksuit and blood started appearing on the fabric. Seeing the blood, I was even more scared. I was confused, lost. I didn’t know what to do. Completely petrified, I urinated. He forcibly lifted me, grabbed my hand and ordered me to take a bath. I went to the bathroom. The underwear I was wearing was covered in blood. I took the blood-covered clothes and packed them in one bag. I was terribly afraid that my mother or someone else would discover the clothes.

When I took a bath, I came to the living room. On his command, I sat down next to him. He said:

- What has just happened here you are not going to tell anyone, especially not to your mother, you will have to keep it for yourself until you die! You are going to forget about all of this right now!

There was nightmare in my head, buzzing in my ears, my gut was shaking. I stared at him with a look filled with hatred and fear. He said if I mentioned any of this to anyone that he was going to kill all of us, to commit a massacre, because he didn’t mind spending time in prison:

- I’ll kill you all, it’s nothing for me to kill someone, I will go to prison after that, I don’t mind, but you won’t be alive anymore, you motherfuckers.

I got really scared then. He made me scared by his threats, which he would surely fulfil. I shivered as he shouted:

- Why are you shaking? Why are you crying? Why are you sobbing?

I knew, from that moment on, my family’s life was in my hands, because if I said anything to anyone - everyone would be dead.

After about an hour, mum came home from work. I was sitting on the couch with my head down, my eyes swollen and red from all that crying. When she saw father angry and drunk, she knew something had happened. She had no idea that what had happened was the worst experience a girl, or anyone’s daughter could go through by her own father’s doing.

I was thinking about telling my mum what happened. How could I tell her? I couldn’t, because I knew that her heart, like mine, wouldn’t survive it. Additionally, there would be an utter massacre.

She asked father:

- What’s the matter, old man? Is everything all right? What did Sandra do that would bring her to tears?

I wanted to scream and say everything, but then I raised my head and saw my mum’s scared and questioning look. I told her:

- It’s nothing. I didn’t do anything.

Mum, as though she sensed something was wrong, began to cry. I got up to hug her, and my father noticed that the tracksuit I wore had blood on it. He reacted furiously:

- Fucking bitch. Take her out of here, take her to the bathroom, get her out of here and talk to her about a menstrual period.

He didn’t stop swearing:

- Fuck all of you, your father, your mother, your sister and brothers, fuck all of you; you didn’t teach her anything. Do you see her walking around me like that? Has she no shame?

Mum took me to the bathroom and looked at me in complete shock. She talked to me about sanitary pads, I didn’t even know what those were, let alone what they were used for. Mum bathed me again. I was crying. She saw the bruise on my arm and she knew he was beating me. She thought that was the reason I was crying. She helped me get dressed, put a pad in my panties and started crying along with me.

She hugged me and said:

- My God, how much longer? Oh God, have I sinned so much that you have to punish me like this?

I didn’t know if mum knew or if she noticed what actually happened.

She told me that all of this would pass one day, that I should study hard, be smart and that one day, God willing, I will get married and have a wonderful husband who won’t behave like this, like my father behaved towards us.

I asked:

- When exactly is this going to happen?

Our conversation was interrupted by my father’s yelling:

- You two, come here right now. He started shouting at my mother.

- You fucking whore, who are you crying for? Explain to me who you’re crying for, fuck your whole family and that crazy father of yours.

At that moment, the most important thing for me was just to protect my mother, so she wouldn’t get beaten.

We sat down. Mum tried, as always, to calm him down:

- Come on, old man, let’s calm down. Let’s turn on the music. Do you want something to eat?

He played the role of a “master,” while we were victims who had to obey him, or as the expression goes, “to dance to his tune.”

That wasn’t a problem for us, especially for my mother, who most of all wanted peace in the house, so that no one would touch or shout at anyone... He used to tell my mum that we all irritated him and that we would make him do the worst possible thing that is to kill all of us.

Thanks to my mother, father calmed down a bit. She always did and tried everything to calm him down.

Night fell. It was raining. We could hear thunder, and we could see lightning. He made me go to my room. Mum was right behind me and she put plastic film on the mattress because I’d wet the bed almost every night. The gloomy weather made me even more crushed and disheartened. Lightning illuminated my room. I lay down, covered my head and cried. Mum would always come and kiss me goodnight. Truthfully, after that day, I didn’t look at my mum the same way either. I was disgusted by everything. I could smell the abhorrent odour on myself. I couldn’t get rid of his odour, the smell of alcohol that left a deep mark on my brain.

I heard mum and dad having sexual intercourse in the next room. I heard my mother’s moans. I couldn’t understand how he could do something like that, after everything that happened, after the beatings, shouting, swearing, after what he did to me.

I didn’t fall asleep until the next morning. My mind was racing. I was sad at first. I wondered why I couldn’t be in the position of my sister and brother. They had fun and enjoyed the wonderful time spent together with grandparents. I knew they were having a nice time at the farm. Working at the farm brought nothing but happiness to me.

Sunrise. I didn’t want to leave the room, nor did I know how to get up, what to say, or how to behave. I heard my father got up. He opened the door and entered the room. He acted as if nothing had happened the day before.

I couldn’t look him in the eye. In those moments, I wished I didn’t even exist. I was trying to find a solution. I was trying to find a way to tell someone what happened. Even when I thought of something in my head, I quickly dismissed it. His words, that he would kill us all, which were etched deep in my consciousness, would always discourage me! Those words were enough for me to dismiss any intention I had to complain to anyone.

Mum was free from work that day and everything she did, no longer made any difference to me. She entered the room and asked me to take off my underwear to see if I was still bleeding. When I took my clothes off, there was no blood, there was no severe stomach pain from yesterday.

She told me I had to be careful now. The first thing she emphasized was that I had become a “more mature girl.” A ten-and-a-half-year-old girl?

I thought to myself:

- Oh, mum, can you not really understand what had happened? Don’t you suspect anything?

Not a day went by without me crying. As I cried then, so I cry to this day. The only emotions I had were sadness, pain, shame and betrayal.

I became disinterested about anything. I cared for no one. I didn’t even ask when my sister and brother would be back. I just lived my life because I had no other choice. I was never aware that there is a brighter side to life.

He, my father, ruined my childhood. He ruined my life. He marked me for the rest of my life, even though only he, I and dear God knew about it. The rest of the world could not understand the pain. I had to carry a heavy burden on my young and weak shoulders.

My childhood was monotonous, there was no one I could trust but myself. I didn’t want to spend time with anyone, I didn’t want to gain anyone’s trust. I was afraid of people! I was afraid of everyone! I was afraid I would go through the same hell I already went through. I didn’t want to feel “the bite of the black demon”. I was constantly trying to be alone, running away from everyday life and reality. I thought I didn’t belong to this world or this family.

I never realised that anyone could hurt a child. Every day, I posed questions over and over again. Is there someone who could hurt their own child? Is there anyone who could permanently scar, mentally and physically, their own child?

The days went by, somehow. I don’t even remember. They didn’t matter to me. Finally, sister and brother came back happy and full of wonderful experiences. I was especially struck by the fact that my father hugged and kissed them as a sign of welcome, and also said that he missed them a lot. They talked, I sat and listened to them. There was no happiness or sadness in my expression, only coldness, contempt, jealousy, envy. I wondered how a parent could make such a difference among their children. Every time I thought about it, tears would fill my eyes.

I don’t remember ever being happy again as a child. My sister and brother teased me about how they spent the whole holiday with our grandparents, and I didn’t spend even five days with them. To be honest, I didn’t feel like going anywhere, I didn’t wish to be crowded by people.

I started to lose my concentration. I had a hard time establishing normal communication with everyone. Although I loved them, I was afraid to show any emotion. I was afraid that if we got closer, I would tell them the whole truth. I chose to sacrifice myself; I carried that heavy burden by myself. I loved them and that was quite enough for me, even without getting too close to them.

I enjoyed solitude. I lost my trust in my family. I loved my mum, but I also blamed her for everything. I know her hands were tied. She could offer us nothing but her immense love.

After that terrible event, I was disgusted by my mother’s hands, mother’s kisses and caresses. Every time she’d pay attention to me, I refused the attention because I didn’t like it, but at the same time I missed her. My emotions were mixed and unclear.

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