Aside from the fact that we were absent for much of what Zagreb had, we in Kozara Boka and Puteva never got street names. We do not have a Ulicu jablana, a branch of Alek chestnut trees because there are not so many plants as we have separators, and no heroes are enough to have all the streets of my quaint names. That's why we just have to leave.
Actually, we have something else, and just now, when I mention divisions and heroes, I started to imagine a picture of a derrick from my branch that grew up in a real, righteous man whose name deserves to be on the board with the name of the street in Kozara Puteva.
For now, his name stands on only one panel. The one on Ovčara ...
Ohran Merić I remember in a few cadres. He lived in the house across my way, so I had the opportunity to watch how to train the clock by lifting some improvised weights and hitting the boxing bag. In a sleeveless t-shirt, black, fuzzy, muscled and muscled, the much younger girl looked great ... Biggest. Little older girls claimed that Ohran "spit Freddie Mercury", so they often walked through my street and threw their eyes around the courtyard of a muscular boxer. And he really could, of course, choose them. Because, besides being handsome, he was very spooky and wearing awe of him just so much that women became overwhelming. It became even more exciting when they heard that the whole enclosed village was crossed by a truck in the "rikverc", and this embarrassment is still being talked about today. However, only one won it and soon after they got another child, the sirens were ringing gloomily announcing a bloody war ...
The fate wanted Ohran Merić to have a house and a garage, but he did not have a basement, so at a time he took the children and his wife and led them to my father's basement. Our basement was not only Merić's refuge, but all those in our street who did not have where. So my basement was transformed into a place where security was sought by Croats, Serbs, and Muslims, and I remember it as the place where the most funny situations in my life occurred. The humor that was still the only one left us this dark place turned into a real, stand up club that smelled of a glass of glass and the desire in barrels. Thus, for example, two ladies were bursting around some political thing, one demonstratively left the cellar and lit a cigar on my terrace although it was a general danger and a complete darkening, and the balcony full of puffy fungus fired from Borongaja.
The harness, however, was the least ridiculous. He was angry with him, angry with his fear, angry with his own children who were about to get rid of the sandwich from the sandwich immediately after they were in the basement:
"What is this? Are we on a trip here, is this war? "He would mutter on them, but only from a pure tense. We could hardly understand what tortured him, until one night had risen, kissed the kids and the woman, explained that "he can not sit in the basement while Vukovar falls" he greeted us - and left.
We saw him last time. His mother was convinced he was alive until 2011. he did not bury his son's bones. As a HOS he was killed in a breakthrough, but Ohran as Ohran, he even went to death in his own way. As his comrades left the city, he fell into some ruins and, with his own stupid and obstinate gestures, set off on his own way. It was the path from which no return was ...
Still, I would like to walk today on his way. Some Merićeva street, Ohran's park or bandage. Each step would be grateful for leaving the cellar that evening, and he did not have to. On each of the tables on his street, he told a story about the hero of my childhood who died for us, and he did not have to. Each bander would remind of Ohran's size, and the lamp on the unbelieving light of the soul.
So, do not bother me with our unguarded street.
But I will not have the peace until there is a name on the street board that is similar to Freddy Mercury, the one that plucked into the boxing bag, the woman's heart, what she waged, and ultimately the honor to die for us.
Author: Snježana Vučković