Bijeljina // We Are One in Everlasting Peace
© John Bills
The common misconception is that the life of a travel writer is an exotic one. You’ve probably seen them, on the Instagrams, impossibly beautiful people leading anonymous partners across golden sands into an astonishing unknown, a knowing glint in the eye that suggests an evening of gourmet food, exquisite wine and the sort of love-making that exists only on the internet and in the minds of teenage boys. That is what people think travel writers do. They think we criss-cross the globe chasing the dragon, having our cake and sharing it with glamour models.
In reality, travel writing is waking up early and drinking so many espressos that shitting yourself becomes a real worry. Travel writing is wondering if 3pm is too early to drink before convincing yourself that it is fine, because ‘research’. I’m not talking fun drinking either, I’m talking “Jesus Christ the days are long, I haven’t had a meaningful conversation in weeks, and I don’t think I want one.” Travel writing is interminable waits at bus stations. Travel writing is only glamorous if your idea of glamour is struggling to find the right change to use a depressingly dirty toilet after two hours on a shitty bus.
Travel writing is walking and walking in search of a dilapidated building for the sole purpose of ensuring it exists, so you can write 1,000 words about it. St Sava street shouldn’t have been that difficult to find. The Živanović family home was in front of me, my search had ended, and all I saw was neglect, a derelict building beyond salvation.
That is a little disrespectful to the term ‘derelict’. Derelict is defined as something ...in a very poor condition as a result of disuse and neglect, and while that was an accurate description of the building in front of me, it didn’t go far enough. What was once one of the most beautiful homes in Bijeljina was now a shell of a shell, only the ground floor remaining, windows gone, doors lost. History records that a fire had destroyed the upper floor and balcony, but the contribution of time should not be ignored. Two faces peer out from the crippled walls, neither showing any emotion but clearly aware of their reason for being here. You need to use your imagination there, I’m talking about two murals, so any emotions described are merely emotions that I have placed upon the two. Okay? Okay.
© John Bills
This obliterated shell of a house is where Bijeljina’s Romeo and Juliet story blossomed before having its legs cut out from underneath it by a disapproving family and the rigorous demands of society. On my left (stage right), we have Magdalena Živanović, playing the part of Juliet Capulet. Her Romeo? The man with the moustache, the Trebinje Titan, Jovan Dučić. Much like Shakespeare’s teenagers, Jovan and Magdalena met at a party, although they didn’t do so while gazing through a fish tank as The Cardigans blared away in the background. Jovan and Magdalena met at a ceremony in Bijeljina and started flirting immediately.
I don’t know that for sure, I wasn’t there. I’m only telling the story. Don’t shoot the messenger.
Jovan came to Bijeljina in 1893 with a reputation as a gifted poet but little in the way of material or commercial success. He moved into the house of a local merchant called Pero Živanović, the grandfather of a young lady called Magdalena. Magdalena’s father had the misfortune of being dead, so the girl was brought up by her grandfather. Jovan came into their lives, and nothing was ever the same again.
Again, I don’t know that for sure, but it helps with the story.
Before the year was out, Jovan and Magdalena were engaged. Hooray! Love!
You might think Bijeljina would rejoice at the news, but the opposite was true. You didn’t expect a Romeo and Juliet story to be simple, did you? Buddy, buddy. The town was aflame with rage, angered by the temerity of this impoverished poet. How dare he take the hand of the merchant’s pure daughter?! This cannot be! For his part, the merchant in question wasn’t particularly happy about it all. He had found a suitable husband for Magdalena, and by suitable, I mean ‘rich’. Alas, Magdalena didn’t love the wealthy merchant from Brčko. She loved the moustachioed poet from Trebinje.
© Silver Wings // Shutterstock.com
The story takes an anticlimactic turn from there. The government forced Jovan to leave Bijeljina for reasons that aren’t entirely clear, let’s go ahead and say it was a parking debt or something. Maybe the rich merchant used his resources to get the man banished? I’m not saying he did, I’m just saying. It isn’t impossible, is it? Look, I’m not pointing the finger of blame at Pero, I'm not. It does make sense though, right?
Jovan and Magdalena kept up their correspondence after his banishment, but it eventually flamed out. Bereft of her beau, Magdalena refused to leave the house, became a hermit and died surrounded only by faded memories. Jovan? He went on to become a literary superstar.
What weight does this story carry today? The building where their love flourished is now a monument to neglect, ignored by all. Love? Now, that can be eternal, I have to believe that. They may be known as Bijeljina’s Romeo and Juliet, but these star-crossed lovers were not meant to be. For that matter, neither were Romeo and Juliet. They were children, for a start. Can we stop using Romeo and Juliet as the prototypical tragic couple? My ambivalence towards Shakespeare is well-documented, but that has nothing to do with it. Is it not time to move past Verona’s most famous teenagers?
Maybe we should stop romanticising tragic love. We can be happy, you know. It is allowed.
If you allow the brutally awkward segue, the house where Jovan and Magdalena fell in love is far from happy. It doesn’t feel anything, because it is dead.
There was a love story in here. No, wait, there wasn’t, there was a comment about travel writing. That was it, right? Travel writing isn’t glamorous. Neither is love. Travel writing is walking in search of a sad story. Love is walking in search of the opposite.
