My name is Aida
My name is Aida. I have lived for almost thirteen years. I was born in a small place in western Bosnia, far from modern culture, educational institutions, libraries, and everything that children in larger cities had within reach.
I grew up among village folk, kind and uncorrupted at heart, but conservative in mind, full of prejudices and narrow views that condemn anything unfamiliar.
Life in such an environment is not dear to me. Not because of the untouched blue-green landscapes and gentle animals, but because of the strange and stubborn heads who strictly and relentlessly guard their customs and beliefs, even if they are wrong.
There are countless situations that are very unclear to me, like the one that happened just this morning.
It was early, dawn had just broken. My mom, sister, and I went to the spring to wash the laundry. My brother stayed home, because he usually sleeps longer than the rest. He came home late last night after hanging out in the village.
I asked mom why sometimes my brother doesn’t come with us to wash the laundry, and she just gave me an angry look and said: “Do you want a man to wash laundry for you? You’re supposed to get married, and you can’t even wash clothes, huh?”
That was the end of our conversation.
One evening, mom made soup, served it to everyone, and called us to eat.
Everyone started eating, and then suddenly, a plate flew across the table and food scattered everywhere.
Shouting, yelling, nothing new. That is my father’s way of saying the food is hot.
The last time something similar happened, grandma said: “Well really, she couldn’t wait for the soup to cool down so they could have dinner, she always has to… always has to cause some trouble. The man came home tired from work, and you put hot food in front of him.”
Although, I must admit, despite all of this, I try to always stay cheerful.
For example, when I hear my father yelling and screaming at my mother, I start singing so I don’t hear the ugly words and curses he says. Grandma always taught me it’s not nice to swear…
My name is Aida. I have lived for 27 years now. I survived the war. My father, brother, and older sister, unfortunately did not. My father and brother were executed, and later their bodies were dug through in mass graves. My sister died from shrapnel wounds. My mother and I survived, and we moved to Sarajevo, a city with libraries, educational institutions, reading rooms, a theatre—everything that young people in bigger cities had access to.
In Sarajevo, I finished high school, and afterwards enrolled in Architecture. I enrolled and then dropped out after two years. I married Eldin. We met in a café. He approached me and very charmingly asked for my number. I tore off a piece of the receipt, wrote 060 567… – Aida.
Very soon after that, we started going out. Eldin was a dream man, giving me a kind of love I had never had before.
He often bought me gifts, brought the best chocolates, and took me to expensive dinners. Couriers would rotate at the door delivering lavish bouquets of roses, tulips, carnations—day after day.
I thought that if I married Eldin, my life would be completely different from the one I grew up in.
Five years ago, he put a wedding ring on my finger. Very soon, within a month, instead of jewelry, he decorated my hands with bruises. Large purple marks.
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He would come home tired, nervous, every little thing had to be in its place. The food always had to be prepared exactly the way he liked it.
One day my friend from university, Selma, came to visit, right at the time Eldin was coming home from work. When he walked in and saw I had guests, he was pleased. He talked to my friend and acted like everything was fine. When Selma left, hell began for me. How dare I bring strangers into the house, would I start bringing male friends too, I had guests without his permission… and so his insults continued.
Blackmail, violence, physical and psychological, the manipulations he used every day, made me forget who I was. And then we had children. Two wonderful children, my only hope. My two flowers, my loves, my two worlds. I hoped he would stop because of them. But no, he abused them too. Brutally. Without a trace of mercy—if mercy can even exist in violence.
Every time I stood between him and them, I ended up with bruises on my back or the imprint of his hands on my neck.
And yes, I know what you’re thinking. I tried. A year after the wedding, I went back to my mother, but she didn’t accept me. She only said, cold and harsh: “You are a married woman, you have your husband and your home, you have nothing to look for here.”
And again, I know what you're thinking. I tried that too. I reported Eldin to the police. My children and I went to the doctor to document the physical violence. In the end, nothing happened. My children and I ended up as a “case” in the drawer of Eldin’s cousin, the inspector. I stayed in a safe house for 3 months.
But what after the safe house? Where to go with two children? And he kept assuring me he would change, that he would never again do what he did. In that moment, with no one and nowhere to go, it was enough to make me agree to return home.
I believed that from then on, I would live in peace.
My name is Aida. I lived for 34 years.
And yes, I was right. Now I live in peace.
My bed is the hard Bosnian earth, and my blanket, the green cover and flowers brought by officials to show they’re sorry.
To show they’re sorry they didn’t react to the dozens of times I went to the police.
To show they’re sorry they told me: “Madam, believe us, this happens all over Sarajevo. You’re not the only one. You’re even getting off lightly.”
I do not want your tears now. It’s too late for them. I don’t need them.
And stop counting victims. Numbers are cold. Those women had names.
They had wishes, dreams.
Lejla loved white coffee with whipped cream on Sunday mornings, with the book “A Thousand Splendid Suns.” Zehra loved planting flowers. Her favorite was jasmine. Now her daughters plant it on her grave every spring.
I loved peace. Now I have it. I loved freedom. Now it is mine.
Stop femicide.
Remember, it starts in early ages.
