Živinice // Tell My Imaginary Wife I Am Sorry

© John Bills

Aimless wandering was always going to be my way into the heart of Živinice, but I found myself at a monument to a cog and was immediately at a loss. It was aesthetically impressive. Cogs are eternally magnificent. What was I to make of it? My dad would be so disappointed. He wouldn’t be, he is magnificent, but feeling as though you can’t identify with your father on the basics of his understanding is a difficult realisation. A group of young girls in Gis with red belts were making their way into the sports hall standing near the monument.

Živinice is a relatively young town, urbanised in the 18th century, a municipality formed in June of 1959. Sure, life goes way back here, of course, it does, the Slavs and the 7th century and all that. The nearby Džebar Mosque is the oldest in this part of the country. A traditional house stands in a village called Barica. Živinice has an interesting minamalist church. It has a mosque with two minarets, an endearing green-to-white gradient. A street of busy cafes.

I was worried, albeit irrationally. Are all worries irrational? On a nuts and bolts level, no, they aren’t. Love, life, fulfilment, sustenance, finances, all legitimate reasons for stress, for grey hairs. But, seriously, John, why? The only things set in stone are the opening and closing stanzas. Everything that happens between the two is sleight of hand. Smoke and mirrors. A myth.

© John Bills

But still, I was worried. You see, my imaginary wife had made it clear to me that she doesn’t like Živinice. She hasn’t been sleeping well, yet here I was, wandering around a small town of 57,765 people 15km south of Tuzla. Živinice is best known as the location of Tuzla International Airport, but my imaginary wife doesn’t care about that. She wants to know why her imaginary husband is gallivanting around the north of Bosnia when their two imaginary children are causing havoc at home. John starts school next month. Niđar is teething. It is time to be a grown-up, John, not a globetrotter.

Does a visit to Živinice count as globetrotting? Truth be told, I could find no justification for my being here. I don’t mean any offence to Živinice. You can’t offend towns. They are abstract concepts.

Mate, what does that even mean? Your imaginary wife is angry because you are neglecting your duties as a parent. You are on your third lap of Živinice. Sure, the ćevapi was excellent (Ćevabdžinica Bulevar, for the record), but tell me where it isn’t? No, Bingo in Vrapčići does not count. I continued walking around Živinice.

I won’t insult your intelligence. I do that enough. I knew there was a bust of Tito here, it was just a case of finding it. It didn’t take long, Živinice being a small town and all that, but it still piqued some interest. For the record, I don’t really care about the remembrance of Tito outside of gawping curiously at the rare busts and statues you find. Why was there one in Živinice? You’ll find no answers here, but to expect such things is churlish.

© John Bills

Too much travel writing tries to pass off simple tourism as discovery. We discovered this darling little cafe in the centre of town. We discovered this monument of a famous old poet. We discovered this bridge. We, the intrepid explorers, discovered the very things we came here to see. There is no discovery in tourism.

And then, there was a park. A gorgeous park. Small but perfectly formed. In the centre of the park, a monument to those who died defending Živinice in the ‘90s. I read every single name on the monument. All too young, although even an elderly life lost in war is a life lost too young.

Will I have to write about the war at some point? No, I made a promise to my imaginary wife and our imaginary children. They are angry enough. When my imaginary wife is angry, she smiles. It is terrifying.

The mosque in the centre of Živinice has a serene mint green hue to its minarets, a gradient style that is easy on the eye without diminishing its own presence. The mint green blends into the white, although the use of the word ‘gradient’ in that previous sentence should have made that abundantly clear. Heck, I already mentioned the mosque. I was back at the mosque, which meant I was back in the central pedestrian area of the town, which meant I had completed another lap of Živinice, which meant I could stop for coffee.

Is that what it meant? What does this mean? We do love to search for meaning, us humans. Why? The question mark on my keyboard grows ever more blemished with every article. Life is pointless, point taken. I mean that most positively, I assure you. My imaginary wife hates it when I say things like that. I do, in truth.

© John Bills

So I stopped for coffee. The centre of Živinice was a little hive of activity, albeit with humans instead of bees. Children frolicked. Parents smoked. Živinice went about its day, oblivious to my confusion, oblivious to my imaginary fear. Time passed, the sun wound down, the light of the day was replaced by the dark of the night, and enough was enough. That word is fraught with danger, but it is enough.

I retired to the hotel, made plans to go home, and thought of ways to assuage the anger of my imaginary wife and the incertitude of my imaginary children. Tell them I am sorry, and I promise to anchor my sea legs sooner rather than later.