Zvornik // The Drill Drills On
© John Bills
“It doesn't really matter whether you grip the arms of the dentist's chair or let your hands lie in your lap. The drill drills on.”
The drill drills on.
I don’t know why they were drilling. They obviously had legitimate reasons, nobody drills for the fun of it. Okay, I know plenty of people who probably would drill for fun, but these people do their drilling in the safety of their own workshops. Nobody heads out to a central hotel, drill in tow, eager to make some noise. I don’t profess to be an expert in the ways of people, but I am certain about this. I’m no qualified social theorist, but I got me a few ideas I picked up while I was trying to be a human being.
© John Bills
The bus to Zvornik had been relatively painless, although the level of that painlessness says more about me than anything else. A local bus, the scenery and the journey itself were delightful. The only problem was its function as a school bus, meaning frequent stops and a neverending cavalcade of young people. I was a young people once, I know, but once you pass 30, you earn the right to be annoyed at anyone under the age of 24. This is especially true when the people in question were born in this century. Who has been born in this century? Yes, nieces and nephews, but that isn’t the point. To the people of Newcastle, the south begins at Gateshead.
Still, a pleasant journey, and Zvornik had always been a city of intrigue to me. I had been through it approximately a zillion times, its position on the border with Serbia making it a frequent stop on all manner of bus routes in these parts. I knew that it was a long town. I knew it had a massive church in the middle, and that the Drina snaked alongside it, a shepherd for all eternity. I knew I wouldn’t be able to write about it without keeping one eye on perception.
The drill drilled on.
© John Bills
The Drina runs through the heart of Zvornik, so we can assume that people have set up shop here since forever. Where does the name come from? That depends on who you ask, and so much time has passed that the correct answer has been lost under centuries of legend and myth. Legends never die, but they do get crushed under the weight of the enormous bullshit. The prevailing theory is that Zvornik is named after the lonely tower of a ruined 7th-century church, and that is enough for me. ‘Zvornik’ loosely means ‘belfry’, and this place sure as shit isn’t named after a golf course.
Eager to escape the relentless pummeling of the drill, I ventured out into the town. I mean, that was the whole point of being there, obviously, but allow me to use a pulverised brain as a literary excuse. I had work to do! I wanted to nap! But the drill drilled on, and I was forced out of my room in search of silence. I found only the existential wrangling of a brain stuck in the mire.
That isn’t true. I found a town. A town with plenty of people wandering around. I sauntered up the main drag, passing a mural dedicated to the Blagojević brothers showcasing the first car in Zvornik. Simpler times, I can assure you. I didn’t make a note of the date. I was wasting time anyway, keenly aware that the walk was taking me to the river, the aesthetic headliner on a festival of neglect.
Zvornik prospered under the Ottomans, although there is a pinch of salt quality to the idea. It had a lot of things going for it. For one, it was a key stop on the roads that linked Bosnia to the east. More importantly, it was rich in commodities of value, things like gold, silver and lead. All three were mined here during the centuries, and wealth made its way to Zvornik for the first time. Zvornik got its own sandžak, and its economic and strategic importance allowed it to flourish. Silver was key, and Zvornik was a highlight on the silver route to Dubrovnik.
The walk along the river was pleasant enough, but disquiet is difficult to shake. I sat on a bench for a while and tried to take in the scene, but the whole thing proved futile. Was it the drilling? It felt like an easy out. The incessant pummeling of the drill had rendered my senses useless. See, there are always enough synonyms to drag fluidity out of distress.
© John Bills
It wasn’t the truth. What was? A loaded question, one with no answer, but being in Zvornik felt invasive. I could fill an article with as many words of history that I could muster, but the atrocities committed here a generation ago are never far from the surface. They are the surface. Zvornik (and many other towns in this part of the country) was violently abused during the war, and my naive attempts to write about Bosnia and Herzegovina without focusing on them revealed themselves to be just that; naive. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t know where I should be, but here was not it.
Besides, the bench was strangely sticky. Some dudes were working out, doing shoddy press-ups and videoing the whole thing. A man in a red shirt was ambling towards where I sat, and I managed to convince myself that his shirt had the word ‘GEORDIE’ emblazoned on its front. As he got closer, it became clear that the phrase was actually ‘LIVE OR DIE’. Love is exactly as advertised, a paralysing combination of crippling self-doubt and unbridled joy. I returned to the hotel.
The drill drilled on.
