Amra Sabic-El-Rayess - The Cat I Never Named: A True Story of Love, War, and Survival

To my family, Dinah, Jannah, and Tamer, who healed me with their love

CONTENTS

The war didnt spring on me all at once.

Instead, like a cat, it stalked me quietly.

There might have been a rustle of leaves, a glint of golden eye.

But like a mouse, I didnt believe it was there until it pounced.

CHAPTER 1

Math, puzzles, logic, ciphers my brain is still whirling from the battery of tests as I ride the train from Belgrade, Serbia, back home to Biha, Bosnia. The tracks push westward, the setting sun gilding the hillsides. Families, mothers, children patter and laugh, scold and squeal, in a comfortable cacophony that lets me almost doze off. Im sleepy from a long day of tests, and Ill be lucky to get home by one a.m.

A few stops later, the families get off, soldiers get on, and I realize with a sinking feeling that Ill be lucky to get home at all.

I lower my eyes at once as men stomp down the aisles. I dont have to look to know they are etniks, the most vehement Serbian nationalists. They are dressed in black with weird tall hats. The men have beards, wild hair, and hate in their eyes for anyone whos not Serb.

I saw them all over the streets of Belgrade, sneering and shouting at anyone they thought might be Muslim, quoting Slobodan Miloevis hateful speeches. Arent you afraid? Id asked my cousin ana. Its not a big deal , she replied with an indifferent shrug. People feel like they can just say anything these days.

But when these soldiers invade my train, I fear that theyll have far more than words for this lone teenage Muslim girl.

Within seconds the stench of them fills the train car. It is aggressively masculine and rank: sweat, liquor, grease, and gunpowder. They jangle like marchers in a macabre parade as their belts and bandoliers full of ammunition clang.

Did you hear the way he begged for his life? one barks.

The Croatians, they are not real men, their commander says.

But their women! the first one leers. Black-eyed angels

Nothing to compare with Balije women, though, a soldier says. Balije is an insulting word for Muslims. Ive heard they are like rabbits, eager and soft.

The commander cuffs him on the head, and he reels drunkenly. You dont fall in love with them, you idiot. You put Serb seed in their bellies. He grabs the soldier by the collar. You wipe them out, generation by generation. You dilute their unclean blood. You honor them with half-Serb babies, and one day they will be gone from this earth, and only Serbs will remain.

Another etnik chuckles menacingly. I dont think they realize theyre being honored. One I had screamed so loud

Their conversation is lost as they head to the back of the train.

I tuck up my knees, curling myself as small as possible as I fix my eyes out the window. I want to run off this train, but would that be any better? Im still in a Serb-controlled region. At least now Im heading home. I cant decide, and then it is too late. The train is moving again.

My parents are such fools, I rage inwardly. Anger feels better than the stark terror that is my only alternative. But I cant keep it up. My parents are naivegood, hopeful, innocent. They fervently believe that humankind is fundamentally good. To them, wars are mistakes, violence just a blip on the road to universal humanity. Sure, it has happened before, but they believe in their inmost hearts that any day now the world will come to its senses and be the peaceful, philosophical, intelligent place it was meant to be. They are sure the world can care for their children. They believe that education is the key to creating that utopia.

To that end, I recently took a bunch of tests in my hometownmath, logic, word puzzles, general knowledge. The results surprised even me. I have a friend whose mother works in the Bureau of Statistics. Who is this Amra girl? the mother asked her. She got one hundred percent on some of these tests. No one has done that in her generation!

I was proud, but my parents were giddy. You can do anything, Amra , they told me. Just follow through, never give up on your education, no matter what happens. It is the most important thing.

Thats why they put me on a train to Belgrade, in the heart of Serbia. It was the only place to take the next and highest level of tests.

It was also in a place where the majority of citizens would hate me if only they knew what I was.

Already the Serbs are in an outright war with the Croatians. Croatians want independence; Serbs want land and control. I dont know if the Serbs actually hate the Croatians. Soon the Serbs will be coming for Bosniaand there is no doubt at all how the Serbs feel about Bosnian Muslims, Bosniaks. They hate us, they think we are subhuman. Months ago, their leader, Radovan Karadi, already threatened we would be eradicated. In a speech in Parliament he said we were going to hell if Bosnia leaves Serb-dominated Yugoslavia. If these soldiers have done such horrific things in Croatia, what will they do in Bosnia?

Once, a dictator kept the country together. Now, Yugoslavia is falling apart.

My only protection today is that these etniks dont know Im Muslim. These men on the train are part of our army, the official Yugoslav National Army that was once supposed to protect all of our multi-ethnic nationMuslims, Serbs, and Croats alike. But these men are all Serbs. Some still wear the official YNA uniform, though most of them have switched to etnik dress and insignias. They have officially declared that they are the army of the Serbs, not the army of Yugoslavia. Henceforth, Yugoslavia will only be for their kind.

I stare too long, and one of them catches my eye. Instantly I spin frontward, looking hard at the seatback, hoping against hope that a train official or ticket taker will come into our car now. But even they dont want to deal with drunken soldiers. Im utterly alone as one of the men rises unsteadily to his feet, takes a swig from an amber bottle, and staggers my way.

When he leans over my seat I smell the alcoholic, unwashed stench of him. His long beard is matted and greasy.

Hello, young Srpkinjo, he says. Young Serb woman. A tiny part of me relaxes. He uses a friendly, familiar greeting. He thinks Im Serb, like him.

And how could he tell? Muslim women here dont wear hijabs. We dont speak Arabic or recite the Quran. We are Muslims of birth, of ethnicity, not religion, really. I have brown hair, fair skin, brown eyes. I probably do look like this etniks sister.

What if I pointed that out to him? If I said, if you cant tell the difference, maybe there is no difference. Maybe were all just people. Would he change? Would he go home and preach that change to his family?

Of course I dont dare. Of course he would just say I am a sneaky, lying Muslim out to trick him and steal his country. And once he knew I wasnt one of his own people, he would consider my body his to do with as he chose.