Orašje // Water from the Same Source

© John Bills

A chiller of ice cream stares back at me. I mean, it doesn’t stare, ice cream isn’t sentient, but building tension is sort of important in the early stages of any article. You need to set the scene. Create a universe, lay the table, spin the yarn. Why should the reader care? What are the stakes? Wouldn’t the reader care more about steaks? Who doesn’t love steaks?

Now, I don’t really subscribe to all of that, and neither should you. As a writer, I am under no obligation to do the work for you. This article is about Orašje, a town of 4,000 or so located quietly on Bosnia and Herzegovina’s northern border. Croatia is just over the Sava, although from where I am sitting, Croatia just looks like trees. What is it they don’t want me to see? What is he building in there?

Orašje is the capital of Posavina, although it hasn’t always held such a lofty position. It was first written about way back in the 12th century by our old buddy King Bela IV. True or not, I am convinced that the mixed martial arts promotion Bellator took its name from mispronouncing the name of this 13th-century Hungarian king. Orašje was originally referred to as Terra Tolys. The etymology of that? The Tolisa river, a nearby tributary of the Sava. No more explanation is required. Again, I’m under no obligation to do the work for you.

© John Bills

The small town at the centre of this article was urbanised in the late 19th century when Muslims from neighbouring Serbia moved west in search of, you know, not being persecuted. French experts were brought in to design the town, which explains its simplicity today. Every single one of the central streets in Orašje has an exit to the river, and the town is as grid-like as you’re going to get in Bosnia and Herzegovina. It isn’t New York, but I’m not looking for New York. I’m looking for peace.

Such a search can only end in failure, although you could argue that death brings a premature end to the search. Nobody gives up on the search for peace. Peace does exist. The problem is that it is fleeting. Much like happiness, it isn’t a perpetual state of being. You rarely notice it when you have it. Only once it dissipates do you stop to consider how delightful it was. Nobody arrives at peace. There are just moments when the fighting stops.

But here I am, a languid breeze taking the edge off the summer heat, the Sava lazily baking beside me. Orašje spreads out behind. Now, a town of this size doesn’t exactly spread, but semantics, whatever. I’m a hypocrite, and I’ve decided to paint at least the outline of a picture for you. I’m needy, what can I say?

And I think this is peace. If I shut out the voices for a second, the scene feels like how ‘Water From the Same Source’ sounds. Languid, there’s that word again. For the briefest moment, everything was okay.

It wasn’t, obviously. Mosquito season was underway, and I’d clearly been excitedly prepared as the opening night’s central dish. Romantic neurosis had laid waste to the chemicals of my brain. I like you, do you like me? You are 36 years old, John. My resting heart rate was at the wrong end of the 60s, it had been in the early 70s. I miss my sister.

© John Bills

But for the briefest moment, everything was okay. The relentless ubiquity of existence was lifted. Only slightly, but still, lifted. The foot on the throat softened, the hand on the neck eased. I’m mellowing in my old age. When I’m sitting on an aeroplane going through turbulence, I no longer worry. I’ve done okay. If it is my time, then so be it. Dramatic, sure, but the central theme is one of satisfaction. I can do no more. I can be no more. Sitting on the banks of the Sava in a small town called Orašje, the extent of my lot felt positively divine.

Okay, fine, divine is too strong a word. The extent of my lot felt enough. I might not grow old with my imaginary Bosnian wife and two imaginary Bosnian-Welsh children, but I can live with that. I’ve done my best, even when not actively doing my best. Heck, especially when not actively doing my best. If the river of my life has flowed in such a way to bring me to the banks of the Sava in a small town called Orašje, then I can put my hand on my heart and say that it has been worth it.

The first primary school in Bosnia and Herzegovina was established in Orašje. What’s more, the first agricultural co-operative was also formed here, way back in 1904. The details don’t matter on an individual level, but little moments of development happened here that started a wave of wonder that grew from a whisper to a scream. It all matters. Orašje got its first post office in 1884, its first telephone in 1913. In 2022, it got me. One of those things is not like the others, clearly, but this is my yarn, and I’ll spin it how I see fit. Set the scene, create the universe, lay the table. What are the stakes? There are no stakes, only endless seconds. The last syllable of recorded time is fluently silent. Water from the Same Source. And for the briefest moment, everything was okay.