Ceiling

A sudden, terrifying noise shatters my sleep. The two of us sit frozen, staring at each other—confused, frightened, and unsure of what’s happening. In hushed voices, we ask, “Is the baby okay?” Our eyes dart to the ceiling, where a gaping hole now looms, and then to the floor, blanketed with shattered plaster. How and why the ceiling gave way, no one can say. My mind races to the what ifs—what if it had fallen on us, on our child? In a place where accountability often feels like a foreign concept, I know we would have spent our lives grieving, raging, and futilely seeking justice from those who built this apartment. And then, quietly, fervently, I whisper in my heart: “Thank God.” A million times over, thank You. Grateful beyond measure.

This feeling isn’t new. It’s the same overwhelming gratitude I felt in 1999 when NATO bombed my country. Back then, the ceiling of the shelter began to crumble with the force of the detonations. I hid under a table, trembling, tears streaming as screams and cries echoed all around. I prayed desperately for everyone’s safety, my eyes scanning frantically for my parents and brother.

Today, as a parent myself, I finally understand what my mother must have felt back then. A crushing ache grips my heart as I think of the boundless love this tiny, three-month-old soul has awakened in me.

We take her into our arms, still peacefully asleep, and hold her tightly. It feels like we need the embrace more than she does—this brave little being who somehow seems stronger than I’ll ever be. It’s as if she came into this world to teach us lessons, and this moment is only the first of many.

“It’s okay, Mama. What matters is that we’re safe,” I imagine her whispering with the gentleness of an angel. I swallow hard, refusing to let the tear shimmering in my eye fall, holding onto her warmth as if it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.

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Plafon

Budi me iz sna strašna buka. Gledamo se nas dvoje, zbunjeni i uplašeni ne shvatajući šta se dešava. Šapatom proveravamo: “Da li je beba dobro?” Pogled nam leti ka plafonu, na kojem zjapi ogromna rupa, dok je pod prekriven smrvljenim malterom. Kako i zašto se deo plafona srušio, niko ne zna. Misao mi se vraća na ono što je moglo biti – da je palo na nas, a posebno na naše dete. Jer ovoj zemlji, gde odgovornost često ostaje nepoznata, jasno mi je da bismo do kraja života žalili, mrzeli, i uzaludno tužili one koji su gradili ovaj stan. Onda, iznova u sebi ponavljam: “Hvala Bogu.” Zahvalna.  Milion puta zahvalna.

Isti osećaj imala sam 1999. godine, kada je NATO bombardovao moju zemlju. Plafon je u skloništu počeo da otpada od detonacije. Sakrila sam se ispod stola, plačući dok su se oko mene čuli vrisci i jauci. Molila sam se da su svi dobro, očajnički tražeći pogledom roditelje i brata.

Danas, sada kada sam i sama roditelj, razumem šta je moja majka tada osećala. Razarajući bol prolazi mi kroz srce dok mislim o neizmernoj količini ljubavi koju je ova mala duša od svega tri meseca u meni probudila.

Uzimamo je u naručje, usnulu, čvrsto je grlimo. Čini se da taj zagrljaj više treba nama nego njoj – njoj, koja mi deluje hrabrija od mene same. Kao da je došla na svet da nas nauči lekcijama, a ovo je tek prva u nizu.

„Sve je u redu, mama, važno je da smo mi dobro,“ – zamišljam njen nežan glas, i ne dozvoljavam da trepenem i pustim suzu koja mi igra u oku.