The Road To Samarkand 1

No sex here, only romance and emotions. At 15000 words it should end up at about 5 Lit pages.

Since much of the conversations in this story is supposed to be in languages some characters are less than fluent in, I have tried to butcher the English to show this. Yeah, the worst errors really isn't made by mistake (I hope I got that right though)!

The inspiration for this is a Swedish song from 1972: '

If you're ever going to reach your Samarkand

', by Thorstein Bergman. The English translation of the song below is done by me -- as close as I could make it to the original without screwing up the timing too much -- since I haven't found an English version. I can actually sing the English version, although the timing would be off beat at times...

It's about longing, and searching for something better elsewhere. Don't we all have a tendency for that, and as a consequence we forget what we already have?

I met severa children from Bosnia in the mid 90's, refugees from the war and ethnic cleansing. Some were very fragile, almost afraid of their own shadows as it seemed. I heard fragments of their tales, but those short episodes were more than enough. The worst part for me as a man working in daycare for school children, was the panic some girls showed when meeting me for the first time. Remember, they had never met me before, but I was a man, with a beard and kind of wild hair. Do I have to say more?

They would cry hysterically as soon as they saw me, holding on to the female staff for their lives. I never got an explanation for that -- and didn't dare to ask anyone -- but perhaps I could guess...

I told my boss -- a woman -- that it was cruel as well as abusive to put those girls through that experience -- not to mention how I felt about it -- but was told to do my job and shut up. I haven't either forgotten or forgiven to this day...

Halin24

* * * *

When I woke up, sun was shining down upon me

through the window that was open blew the wind

All the summer's lights and smells was there to reach me

In the pillow was the imprint of your chin

And I knew in just that moment when I woke up

it had happened what we talked about sometimes

and I wish for you to get what you were missing

If you ever going to reach your Samarkand

I walked outside and summer was all around me

Everything was living, life was just a loan

I didn't try to call for you my loved one

As I knew that you were very far away

And perhaps I cried, remembering nights so clearly

but I hope you find the place you dreamed about

That someone will become for you what I can't ever

If you ever going to reach your Samarkand

Birds are singing, bumblebees are buzzing around me

Morning dew glimmers so clear in the grass

Though I miss you there is nothing now that hurts me

All you gave me will always stay with me

You're still here with me, the things that ever touch you

like a butterfly, a flower in my hand

The most beautiful, as far your longing takes you

If you ever going to reach your Samarkand

* * * *

When you find that special someone it is an earthshaking moment, and it was for me too although I didn't realise it at the time. I was twelve and at summer camp with something like a hundred other kids, both girls and boys.

I'm sure you know how boys are at that age: hanging with other boys, acting self assured, playing soccer (this was in Sweden I might add, therefore we played soccer and not baseball or football), bathing, fishing and doing stupid things.

What boys

don't

do at that age is mixing with girls, at least not so that the other guys see it: that comes some years later. It was the last summer I was allowed to go to that camp since it was for seven to twelve year old kids, and being oldest gave us some responsibilities as well as more freedom.

We were expected to act as role-models for the younger kids, and were generally trusted and therefore had the chance to play some practical jokes on eachother.

We had privileges. Bedtime wasn't that strict for us as long as we kept the noise down, we were invited to go with the leaders to take late night baths in the lake, and so on.

Every Friday evening there was a 'dance', and you probably know how that works also. The younger kids ran around eating candy and chasing each others for fun, the older boys stood by the wall and watched the older girls who danced with each other or with the leaders, but there was not a chance that

we

would do such a stupid thing as

dance

.

Never, ever. Dancing with a girl? Ha! We were cool, we watched, but didn't participate. What we thought and felt was something else altogether, kept to ourselves with the thought that we were the only one's thinking it might actually be fun to dance.

- - - - - -

In the beginning of the second week we went on a hike, sleeping in wind-shelters in smaller mixed groups, ten to fifteen kids with two leaders out in the woods. After five summers I knew very well what to expect, and to be honest the hike was one of the main reasons for the longing to return year after year.

We started out with back-packs in the afternoon, travelling by foot to the camp-site, organized the sleeping-bags for the night, gathered wood for the campfire and so on. In my group I was the only twelve-year-old, and I got to teach the youngest kids how things were done. I also had a lot of experience from camping in the woods because my parents took me out quite often.

When the preparations were done we swam in the lake to cool off, the fire was started, dinner prepared and eaten, and as the sun was setting we sat around the fire telling ghost-stories.

It got darker, the smaller kids were put to bed with a leader as support while the rest of us continued with the story-telling, advancing to the scarier ones. I think it was close to midnight when shadows started to move around just within sight, but not close enough to be clearly seen.

Noise was heard from all around: dry twigs snapped, there were growls and whimpering, anything but voices talking. We moved closer together, waiting for what at least I knew was coming, and then it happened. At the same time as the girl to my left took my hand to hold, the shadows rushed in, howling and screaming like a wolf-pack out hunting.

There were other screams too, from us kids, and the girl holding my hand almost crushed it while she jumped into my lap and buried her face in my sweater. The 'attack' didn't last for long, the leaders responsible did that one rush and then revealed themselves, sat down among us to talk and joke to calm things down again.

For the girl on my lap that didn't help much though. She was scared stiff, clinging to me for her life, crying almost hysterically. I was... surprised you might say. I had never seen such a reaction before. I guessed she was ten or eleven, and by then I thought she should be aware what would happen.

Everyone got scared of course, even I, but that was the whole point, what we all wanted... Wasn't it?

When they noticed the state she was in, one of the leaders tried to take over from me and lift the girl over to her lap to free me. Not a chance! The girl's hold on me got tighter, fiercer, and the stream of tears increased even more.

What could I do? I put my arms around the girl and shook my head to the leader, meaning 'I've got this', and sat stroking her hair and whispering in her ear until she calmed enough to stop crying. I felt the responsibility of being the oldest among the kids, and did my best to live up to that. For a moment I almost felt like an adult...

When it was time for sleep a new attempt was made to free me, but with limited success. The girl let go of me alright, but stayed close all the time. She moved her sleeping bag beside mine and lay as close as possible with an arm over my chest. A blanket was put over us for extra comfort, but it seemed that I had become her security blanket.

When I woke up the sun shone down on us, bird-twitter filled the air together with the rustling of leaves in the slight breeze, and the clucking of waves against the shore. Hair was tickling my nose and an arm weighed on my chest. The girl was still there, with her head on my shoulder and an arm on my chest, closer than ever.

It was her hair that tickled me, and I moved it out of the way with my free hand. The other arm was under her sleeping-bag, loosely holding her. A click from somewhere close got my attention, and looking to the side I saw a leader with a camera snapping pictures of us. She was smiling and winked an eye at me as she lowered the camera and started with breakfast.

When the girl by my side woke up she looked confused, not understanding why she was so close to me, and I watched as a blush spread over her face.

"Hi." I said and smiled in an attempt to comfort her.

"Good... morning." she replied with a heavy accent "Why are I having my head on you sleeping?"

"You were scared last night, remember? When the leaders stormed the camp screaming? You sat on my lap, crying and holding me, and when we went to bed you moved over here."

"I did? I am much sorry... what your name is?"

"I'm Peter, Peter Paulsson. What's yours?"

"Dzenita Ivisevich. I come from Tuzla last year, flee from war. Not talk much Swedish. Not remember last night much. Understand?"

"Yes, I understand. It's not difficult to understand you at all. If you talk this good after a year you will speak fluently soon."

It was a lie of course, at least as far as I knew, but I had heard it somewhere, and used it to comfort her.

"Thank you. Thank you for understanding. Sorry for me laying like this Peter."

"That's okay Dzenita, no problem at all. I think we should get up now and eat breakfast however, okay?"

"Okay."

- - - - - -

That was our first contact, and after that... let's say that things changed a lot for me, and fast. It wasn't totally voluntarily on my part as others intervened and Dzenita sought me out whenever possible, and that was often enough.

The leader with the camera, Marie, took me aside as soon as we were back from the hike.

"Peter, I know that this is your camp, your fun-time, but can I have a word with you in private, just between you and me?"

"Sure."

She took me to the office and asked me to sit.

"Peter, to start with I want to thank you for taking care of Dzenita. We didn't expect a reaction like that from her, but I suppose we should have. I can't, and won't, tell you much, but I heard her mentioning to you that she came from a war a year ago. She has witnessed more than anyone should have to, and came here with her father and two older brothers as refugees. She is lonely, has almost no friends and don't talk a lot. Since you seem to have become close to her I hope that maybe you could try to be her friend? I don't mean that you should be with her all the time, not at all, but talk to her, you know? She needs to forget what she has seen before she came here. Her brothers are much older, and her dad... right now he has gone back to try to find other relatives. She will be alone on visiting day this Thursday, do you think you could take care of her then?"

"Sure I guess." I said, not knowing what else to say.

"Thank you Peter. If it gets to be a burden for you, if she takes too much of your time, tell me and I will do something about it."

She ruffled my hair smiling as we left the office, and to be honest I wondered what I had gotten myself into. I would find out soon enough.

That same evening Marie came to see me after bedtime, wanting to talk out in the corridor.

"Peter, Dzenita is crying out of control, speaking in her language only. I can't reach her, so I wondered if you could try?"

I nodded and followed her to a room with eight girls. There was dead silence except for the sobbing and mumbling from the bed where Dzenita lay shaking from crying, with her face in a pillow. The other girls stared, shocked, at that bed, at her, but when I entered with Marie their stares focused on me instead. I walked over and sat on the bed beside Dzenita, a hand on her head twirling her hair, just like my mum used to do with me when I was sad or angry.

"Dzenita, what's wrong? Tell me Dzenita, what is it?"

A copy of what mothers say in such a situation, I know, but what could I do? I was only twelve after all, so I tried to imitate the best comforter I knew, mum. It took a long time before Dzenita calmed down, and when she did she sat up and put her arms around me, face to my chest.

"I... miss mother." she said and continued in another language before returning to Swedish "She... die?... before we flee. Dad go back now... try to find his mother, make come here."

"I'm sorry. That is terrible Dzenita. How come you thought about that now?"

"Think always about it but felt lonely. Scared dad not returning."

Yeah, that was a scary thought, I could understand that: no mum and her dad going back to where she had been killed.

"Dzenita, what can we do to help?" Marie asked, taking the chance now that Dzenita was talking.

"Nothing." was the strangled answer, and the tears started flowing again.

"Shh, Dzenita, please don't cry. I am here, so please don't cry any more." I whispered in her ear, and to my surprise she actually wiped her wet cheeks with her hands and sobered up somewhat.

"Will you stay Peter? Sleep beside me, like yesterday?"

I looked at Marie who shrugged her shoulders and nodded, so I said that I would. It took some time to prepare: an inflatable mattress in a leader room, two sleeping bags on it and moving our things there. When it was done we fell asleep with her head on my arm again.

From then on she stayed within sight of me all the time except when in the bathroom (thank God). On visiting day mum, dad and my sister showed up as expected, but as I was told later, Marie had a talk with them before I even knew they had arrived, to prepare them.

Dzenita was very nervous and shy, almost hiding behind me as I took her hand in mine and walked to meet them.

"Dzenita, this is my mum Pernilla, dad Lars and sister Angelica. And this is my friend Dzenita Ivisevich." I introduced, feeling the responsibility to take good care of Dzenita.

Dzenita curtsied and blushed, but mum was far from shy. She took Dzenita in a bear hug that probably lasted a full minute while she whispered something in her ear that I couldn't hear. Dad took it a bit easier but hugged her too. My sister Angelica, who was 9 then, just waved a hand and said 'hi'.

They had a picnic-basket with them, and we sat in the grass together. Dzenita didn't say much except when spoken to, but mum kept her occupied most of the time. Dzenita seemed to relax little by little, and when it was time for them to leave hours later she smiled and hugged them back. When mum hugged me she whispered:

"I'm so proud of you Peter. She is lovely, and she needs your support. Just continue and be her friend."

They waved goodbye and we were alone again. Kind of anyway... well, not really alone...

I had to give up my position by the wall on the Friday dance, and although it would have killed me only a week earlier, I didn't mind at all by then. Dzenita and I entered hand in hand and never let go. She asked to dance and I had to admit that I didn't know how, so she tried to teach me. I felt utterly ridiculous, embarrassed and out of place, but she just smiled, a smile that was beginning to get to me.

- - - - - -

The camp ended like we knew it would after four weeks. We knew it, but weren't prepared for it, and Dzenita and I cried holding each other when the buses arrived to take us home. Separate homes in separate parts of town. We didn't even get to share the same bus.

Marie showed up when we stood there, and she joined our hug.

"I have two surprises for the two of you, I hope you will like them. Peter, your mum called and said that she has talked with Dzenita's dad Hasan who has returned home. They have agreed that you will go back together on Dzenita's bus to meet her family and spend the day together. Next year you are welcome back here as junior leader if you wish Peter. You are in fact too young for that, but I have a promise that an exception will be made."

That started a new flow of tears and a tighter hug that lasted until the driver honked the horn to tell us to hurry and get onboard.

- - - - - -

We didn't see each other every day after we returned home, but at least every weekend, alternating between our homes, and we talked on the phone in between. Marie's caution that I might be 'invaded' by Dzenita was probably very accurate, but I never noticed or cared.

I was a junior leader at the camp the next summer, her last year. Her initial need to always be close to me died away eventually, and was replaced by a close friendship of a more 'normal' kind that grew over the following years. I never had a closer friend.

At sixteen I started high-school and had to move to another school, and the year after she came there too. We both still lived in the same town, but after I graduated at eighteen that was about to change. I was going to university, and there wasn't one in our town. I had to decide on where to move, and of course Dzenita was part of that decision. She suggested -- jokingly I thought -- Sarajevo. I laughed and said:

"Right! Best idea ever: ethnic cleansing, hostilities and war still fresh in everyone's memory, and me in the middle of that, not knowing the language or anything. I don't think so!"

She looked hurt, and my laughter died away fast.

"Are you serious Dzenita?"

"I was Peter. When I graduate next year I will go there and I... I had hoped... that you would be with me. You have been my friend since we first met, my best friend ever, the best anyone will ever have, but this is not my country. I came here to get a safe haven, but I belong there, in what was Yugoslavia. Sarajevo isn't my home, far from it, but it has a good university and it is closer to my home, my people. The war is over and I want -- need -- to help rebuild it."

She turned away from me, and her shoulders shook as she cried. I stood behind her, hands on her shoulders, but she shook them off and took a step away.

"Don't Peter. Don't do that, please. I understand, believe me I do, it's just that I hoped, dreamed..."

She straightened up, dried her tears and took a deep breath before she turned around again to face me.

"So, let's continue. How about Stockholm?"

"Dzenita..." I tried, but she wouldn't let me return to the subject of Sarajevo.

"Gothenburg then, is that better? Isn't Chalmers good?"

I guess that in a way it was the beginning of the end. I wanted to go back to the other discussion, but when I tried she changed the subject at once. We continued to be together as often as possible that spring and summer, and I tried several times to get back to that conversation. It was always in vain:

"Peter, stop! I was stupid, I know that. This is your country, your

home

, but it isn't mine. My

country is Bosnia, my home is Tuzla. I will always be grateful for being allowed to come here, and I will always remember you, my best friend ever, but I won't stay here. You said it yourself, you don't know the language, you're not part of the heritage down there. Let us stop this now, we have until august to be together and then a year living in different cities. I hope we can meet now and then during that year, but then I will leave."