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My Homeland Isn’t Mine

These the fictional diary entries for January 15th to January 21st, 2024, of Bogomil Šukoijević, a Croatian-Slovenian poet-diplomat.

These the fictional diary entries for January 15th to January 21st, 2024, of Bogomil Šukoijević, a Croatian-Slovenian poet-diplomat, who chronicles a week of slow and arduous negotiations as a neutral intermediary in the ongoing territorial dispute between Morocco and Western Sahara.

Mon. Jan. 15th – Pula, Croatia

I MUST HAVE BEEN about thirteen when I first came to Pula. My grandparents had brought me to see the Adriatic. My father’s father had grown up near the coast, so he thought it was about time I left Ljubljana and experienced the wild waters. I don’t remember being more impressed than Mr. al-Fayti or Mr. Abdulahni were this morning. They both grew up beside the Atlantic, so the Croatian coastline must in their minds be nothing more than an oversized pond. My hopes that the scenery would impress these two gentlemen of the Sahara failed. The cool Adriatic couldn’t break the ice. Tomorrow morning talks start at 8 a.m. sharp. Hopeful as ever.

Tues. Jan. 16th

Last night, I tried to wrap my head around the situation once again. In 1975, Spain gave control over its colony to Morocco and Mauritania. The latter left after a while, while Morocco claimed the country as its Southern Provinces. Under King Hassan II a 1 600 kilometre long “wall” of rocks and barbed wire was built along its shared border. I read somewhere that it costs the occupying forces two million US dollars each day to maintain control, largely paid for by exploiting the oil deposits found in the so-called “Southern Provinces”. During breakfast, Ahmed Adbulahni, the representative from the Sahrawi Arab Democratic Republic, held a heartfelt speech in honour of his homeland. He called Western Sahara the “jewel that never was”. Beautiful I must say, but it didn’t help the negotiation any. Mahmut ibn Khaldi al-Fayti is his absolute counterpart in every way. Strict, silent – a Moroccan bureaucrat who probably sleeps in his suit and tie. We still have a long way to go, but I think now they have started to discover the chink in the other’s armour – I know I sure have.

Wed. Jan. 17th

Long talks today. Tired, but at least some little progress was made. They both recognized that they’re living on borrowed time – not only here at the negotiation table, but that things cannot continue as they have for a long time now between their two governments. The Sahel region to the south suffers badly from both armed civil conflicts and Islamic terrorism; the whole Arab world which both countries are part of is a powder keg of fury and frustration. The last thing anyone needs is another full-blown war between rivalling power interests.

Thur. Jan. 18th

I didn’t fall asleep until about four o’clock this morning. My mind was in overdrive; memories came creeping up from the cellars where I had almost forgotten they were stored. It isn’t the blood, the bullets or even the helpless eyes of the dead lying on the cold, rain-dampened streets that are the worst. The real horror is in the silence between the pattering of ricochets and the sharp sounds of shrapnel. I’ve learned that the more you try to forget the less you do. Since I seemed more alive than dead after lunch, I mentioned this to Abdulahni and al-Fayti. They were both very sympathetic and in fact shared their own memories of learning about the Yugoslav Wars. Not entirely sure though that they understood what had brought about the resurface.

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Fri. Jan. 19th

Today’s talks were cut short as Abdulahni and al-Fayti are deeply devout and attended something of an improvised Salah with a local imam, originally from Bosnia. Religion is one of the few things uniting them. That was not the case in Yugoslavia, atheists as we all officially were. My mother used to pray in secret and sometimes I’d catch her in the act of blessing herself with the sign of the cross. That’s all the religion I ever experienced for a long time. Then the wars began, and I saw what religion could do to people. Then I truly became an atheist. For the people of Morocco and Western Sahara, faith and piety might be the only thing preventing them from bloodshed.

Sat. Jan. 20th

We’re all noticeably tired. The two emissaries are fed up with telling their side of the story for deaf ears and forced to hear the other’s side take on the situation. I can’t blame them; they don’t only represent polar opposite views, they are themselves like cat and dog, day and night. If I can prevent them from starting a fist fight I’d say I have dealt with the task handed to me to perfection. In the end, the intermediary can only help as much as the two parts are willing to be helped.

Sun. Jan. 21st

Today Abdulahni and al-Fayti left in separate helicopters just after three in the afternoon. I can’t say this week was a success but it wasn’t a complete failure either. As long as none of the parties leave a negotiation ahead of time, that in itself is a partial success. That’s the diplomatic way of seeing it, not necessarily the personal view of the diplomat. By supper time I finished the poem I’ve been working on since Monday evening. I quite like it.

My homeland isn’t mine
It belongs to those who died,
Those who lived for the chance
To get killed in action serving their
Homeland. I never died or even tried to
For the homeland.

It does not belong to me
Living.
A coward’s death awaits me
In foreign soil no matter where
I finally rot.

↓ Image Attributions

Sand Dunes in the Desert” by raouf bedrani // Licensed under Pexels