Reminiscing a war-torn life:
The 'Hungarian' who fled Mostar
Sara Varga | written in 2019
Near Jászapáti | Hungary 2019
Mesmerised by the white winter landscape that seemed endless in this isolated part of Hungary, we were slowly driving towards our peculiar destination, where people on the streets were biking carelessly despite the snowy streets. Life is simple here. Passing by the snow-covered yellow houses, we were approaching Jászapáti, where Ilona Obradovič was born and eventually grew old. But what happened to her in between?
She invited me in quickly to warm up from the freezing cold weather outside, offering me a pair of pink slippers with ease, instantly making me feel comfortable. Even though she showed confidence at first, I noticed a spark of worry in her deep blue eyes as she was digging up her memories from 30 years ago. Once you invoke the shivering ghosts of your past into your present, it is hard to get rid of them again. Her story started with a sound.
Ilona moved to Bosnia-Herzegovina in her early 20s and married a Serbian man in 1971, with whom they had a decent life and raised two children in Mostar, a historically famous small town in the southern part of the country. As she was the only citizen from Hungary living there, everyone would call her “The Hungarian”. Serbians, Croatians, and Bosnian Muslims loved and appreciated her all the same, regardless of religion or ethnicity. It was without a doubt a closely-knit community where everyone would help each other out, whether someone got married, moved into a new house or had to bury a loved one.
The sound that shattered Ilona’s world came out of the blue. The year was 1992, and the date was the 3rd of April. She spent the afternoon at the local post office where she used to work. After counting the money in the till she was on her way to the back office when she heard the first explosion. Her colleague shouted at her immediately “Get down, Ilona” in an attempt to put her out of harm’s way. The money she so carefully counted was up in the air slowly falling on the floor, putting its light weight on them as they were laying, trembling with fear and confusion. Ironically, outside there were enormous metal pieces falling from the sky as a result of a blast in a nearby factory, putting their not-so light weight on family houses, ending the days of peace and harmony, but more importantly, signalling the beginning of a 3-year long conflict in Bosnia-Herzegovina.
The tension slowly grew among the nations of the newly formed Yugoslavia after World War II, but for a while, war seemed to be avoidable. What triggered years of violence and led to 100 000 people’s death, was the country’s declaration of independence from Yugoslavia on 29 February 1992. Many Serbian politicians boycotted the referendum, but as soon as it gained international recognition, clashes commenced over territories among the armed forces of the nations along with ruthless ethnic cleansing.
“There is no point in staying,” said Vaso Obradovič, Ilona’s husband “the kids need to leave the country first.” Natasha had to quit her studies after 6 months and Zoran, as he was about to turn 18, was at great risk of being recruited. “They would put a weapon in anyone’s hand, even if they had no clue how to fire” Ilona explained. Natasha and Zoran escaped from Sarajevo after four days of hopeless cueing for seats on the next plane to Hungary.
It was Ilona’s turn to flee. They were stranded in Mostar, without water, food or any means of communication towards their children for months on end. The war generated immense aggression, and anyone who was inclined to act out on their insecurities did so. Neighbours turned into snipers, friends into enemies, strangers into friends. A factory employing thousands of people shut down, leaving them extremely disappointed. Aimlessly wandering around the streets of Mostar, they destroyed public spaces, plundered shops and eventually joined the opposing forces. There was nowhere to be safe. The once harmonious little town was now clouded by flames, while people were overwhelmed with desperation.
“There is a bus leaving on the 6th of July” as Ilona was informed, she knew it was her chance to reunite with her family in Hungary. She was staring at the ceiling as if trying to collect every piece of memory she had from that day. “Even this immense success was paired with a bitter farewell” her voice chuckled as she reminisced. Ilona was forced to leave her husband behind as they would not let any men get escape. The moment she boarded the bus her heart was aching. As she rested her eyes on her husband waving goodbye, they were both shedding tears. Yet, her sorrow swiftly turned into fear, when bullets started to hit the vehicle, trying to prevent them from escaping. Everyone was praying in silence for those few minutes until they reached the end of the road, after which they were out of the soldiers’ sight. After a little while, the bus driver pulled over, for he needed to alleviate the tension. He took a deep breath, then turned to Ilona: “Thank you, I know you were praying, it might have been your prayer that saved us all” he smiled with tears in his eyes. “Everyone was crying,” she recalled “it was horrible” and she held on to her chest in an attempt to withhold her feelings.
When they arrived in Medjugorje, still in Bosnia, they were relieved to be warmly welcomed by kind strangers. They were invited for a meal in a local restaurant when a sudden realisation came to her: “It is my birthday.” The staff quickly pulled out a dessert resembling a cake, and for a moment, the whole group celebrated like there was nothing to worry about. Soon after they left for Split in Croatia, where she stayed at a relative’s house for a couple of days. After gathering some strength, she left for Rijeka and took the train towards Hungary.
The last obstacle emerged at the Hungarian border, where the Croatian border patrol was known for confiscating any valuables from people. She only carried a small handbag containing her identification documents, a few pieces of jewellery, some cash, and a bar of chocolate. It was all she owned. “Obradovič, that is a nice Serbian name,” they said with a mischievous smirk. It was at this point that a Hungarian soldier standing nearby interrupted the discussion: “Excuse me, but this is my aunt, so leave her alone. You have nothing to do with her.” He came up to kiss her on the cheek and whispered gently in her ears: “It is only a trick.” She nodded quietly and they walked away. “Don’t worry anymore, you are in a safe place now” the soldier reassured her. Ilona’s face lit up with a smile as she recalled these events, but she was still perplexed about why things turned out the way they did: “I was at the right place at the right time, it was a sort of divine intervention. I always knew God existed.”
Vaso could finally follow her in 1996. After reuniting, they spent a few years back in Mostar, even though they struggled for two years to reclaim their home. Apparently, a family of five moved in shortly after her husband left the keys with the neighbour. They ransacked the house, throwing out everything they deemed invaluable, stealing anything useful. “There was not a single kitchen towel left in the house. It was empty” she sighed. Their home was empty, yet filled with disturbing memories, so it seemed reasonable to sell it and move back to Hungary to spend the rest of their lives feeling safe.
The weather was still quite chilly when I left the house later that afternoon, returning the pink slippers to her. I was grateful for what she shared with me and the way she let me in. Gazing at the untouched snow leading my eyes to the clear whiteness was liberating. There is no war anymore. Even though Ilona was alone now as her husband passed away a year ago, she was able to glue her life back together, finding reconciliation in Jászapáti, her hometown.
