Pale // Happy Birthday, Trifko Grabež
© John Bills
Buses in BiH often make bizarrely elongated journeys between destinations, meandering off into the hills like a depressed penguin before coming to their senses and zeroing back in on the original destination. You get used to this after a while, and you eventually dismiss it.
What doesn’t get any more normal is the fact that every single one of these journeys will involve elderly men and women being dropped off in the middle of absolutely nowhere, waving goodbye to the driver before seemingly waddling off to the wilderness. Where are they going? Like the aforementioned depressed penguins, are they simply walking off to get lost and await the end? I’m always convinced at these moments that I will notice Werner Herzog sitting next to me on the bus. I often think I am imagining these people (I’m definitely imagining Herzog), even though they clearly exist. That happened three times on this journey before we passed a sign indicating our arrival in Pale.
Pale seemed to be in a subtle state of shock, not oppressed or vexed but still displaying signs that those emotions and feelings were an important part of its past. Whatever had happened to it, Pale hadn’t really recovered, but the history of the town was relatively calm. Well, except for economic stagnation and a stint as an international pariah town, I guess. It had indeed served as the administrative centre of the Republika Srpska command during the war, but it didn’t suffer any damage and never came under attack. You have to go back to World War II before you find any fighting in Pale itself.
© John Bills
But still, the town gave the impression of one that was fully aware that it had seen better days. The high street was pleasant enough, ringed by cafes and shops and plenty of life but little in the way of energy. It seemed as though only three types of people lived in Pale — groups of teenage girls, tired-looking families and disgruntled middle-aged men in camouflage, although I had no problem seeing them. I walked past a rather disturbing billboard featuring a kids kickboxing team and their coach, not a single one of them wearing a shirt. The street ended with an Orthodox Church, a typically harmonious structure that nonetheless looked like it had either been left unfinished or abandoned entirely. A working factory pumped out fumes nearby, a factory that looked as though its last legs had given up, making that fairly liberal use of the word ‘working’.
One street I strolled through was named after Trifko Grabež, one of the long-forgotten boys who travelled to Sarajevo to assassinate Franz Ferdinand on June 28, 1914, only one of whom achieved their goal. Born in Pale, Grabež joined the group of would-be assassins towards the end of the planning, and he was just as inexperienced and naive as the troupe of revolutionaries he had hitched his flag to. Grabež was stationed as the sixth assassin on that day in Sarajevo, two stations down from Nedeljko Čabrinović and one from Gavrilo Princip. Čabrinović threw his grenade but missed, the noise leading Princip and Grabež to believe that the job was done. Franz Ferdinand was still alive, however, but not for much longer. His route was changed, passing fortuitously by a shocked Princip, who unloaded his revolver into the all-too-accepting bodies of the Austrian Archduke and his much-hated wife, Sophia. Their aim was an independent Bosnia and Herzegovina, free of imperial rule. Grabež was willing to give his life for this, although his tuberculosis-ridden body wasn’t going to be around for much longer regardless.
The assassination took place on Trifko Grabež’s 19th birthday. He was soon arrested, and his youth saved him from the gallows but not the ghastly experience of a hopeless stint in prison. The boys suffered terribly at the hands of the Austrian police, being made to kneel on rolling barrels to ensure frequent tumbles onto the dusty floor, savage dogs being let into their cells at random opportunities to ensure a constant state of fear and anxiety. Trifko’s fragile body was sentenced to 20 years imprisonment, and it is utterly shocking that he managed to survive two of those before succumbing to the disease that had taken control of his body and the disquietude that infested his soul.
© John Bills
Is it fair to name streets after individuals who found fame through their intention to kill? I pondered the question, but what right did I have as a Welsh individual to judge who the people of the Balkans choose to revere? Trifko Grabež was the 19-year-old son of an Orthodox priest, he was expelled from school for hitting a teacher, he took it upon himself to do something big for the sake of his nation. He was a desperate youth who tried to do something with that desperation, to channel it in a useful way, no matter how violent. Did he deserve to be glorified in death? The logical answer is no, but the world does not heed the cries of logic. In a part of the world that has suffered so greatly because of the whims of Europe’s great powers, any attempt to spit in the eye of those powers is going to be celebrated.
I slid into a nearby pub and debated whether or not to engage in conversation with the barman about celebrating those who set out to commit major crimes, about the human tendency to glorify death, about how one deals with grief, a debate that came to a swift end when the fog was lifted. Why would this young man want to talk about Trifko Grabež, Srdjan Knežević, Milan Simović or my sister? What beer do I want, am I enjoying Pale and where am I going next, those are the real questions. You can’t accuse someone of being stuck in the past and then continue to ask them questions about years gone by. I ordered a beer that didn’t last long, moving on to a nearby restaurant before taking the long walk back to the motel.
