HOLLOW YEARS

Two children with much in common, gripped by a madman’s war. Both felt the separation from family as fathers, uncles and loved ones were drawn into fighting, while mother and child were left behind, sent away or renamed, refugee. For one, it would mean spending a week at a time in caves hiding from troops, but not without first escaping the execution of all of her childhood friends. As the military invaded her schools, the swastika replaced gold stars. For the other child, school was a distant memory, but still today, the swastika can be found on his city walls, reminders of the hatred and persecution still alive and well in his homeland. Several countries separate them. Decades divide them, but the synergy is undeniable. It is the stench of war and the hollow years that embody it, follow it and pervade those still caught in its stranglehold.

Commonalities such as separations of families either ripped apart or, worse, being faced with the impossible choice of choosing one over another existed. Then, even when the wars end, fathers sometimes don’t come back or, if they do, they may not be the same. They walk away. Unhealthy cycles begin, leaving families, communities, cities, countries in shambles. Hollow years and empty souls, witnesses of the worst of mankind leave them crushed under the heel of the goose-step march or deafening sounds of sniper fire blasts still ringing in their ears. These innocents have paid the price. They have watched the world come undone.

Is this just another war story, from a child’s perspective? No. The first of the two children is my mother, a child of Nazi Germany: the second is young Rados Jovanovic of Sarajevo, Bosnia. On weekends, Rados plays in the worship band of our partner church in Capljina. At 8 years old, Rados was old enough to remember the Bosnian war, a war, which continues to plague generations of people in BiH. A lyricist and musician, Rados began writing at a young age, journaling his thoughts about the unthinkable.

Always with a song in his head, he inspires me with the words from his youth, long stored away, a treasure. “Children of War,” the publication reads, with young Rados’ narrative among them. “I Hate War” he pens his words, the beginnings of lyrics one day?

There are many such stories in this region we have grown to love. The elders have seen both wars. Nazi occupation still looms where we stay, while addictions plague those who witnessed atrocities, found no mercy but knew desperation as their only friend. Economic, political and social tensions continue to riddle the classes.

But, glory is coming through our sisters and brothers who are moving into the streets. Our next team will come alongside the Evangelical church to mount park benches, adorned with scripture, to honor the departed and, hopefully, draw closer to the lost, the broken and unchurched. Please join us as we cry out to our Savior to fill these empty souls, forgive their hollow years, strengthen their weak, mend their hearts and the wounds of war, break down the walls of un-forgiveness and hatred and use our teams and partnership for His glory.

Merciful Jesus, Let your Word soon to be etched on benches around Capljina, hide in the hearts of all who will rest there, and dwell in them richly. Free them from the shackles of bondage, so they might come to know You and Your love. We know You had something else in mind when You created us in Your perfect image and entrusted us with Your creation. We’ve made a mess of things. But, we also believe Your plan is to be bring good, to be just, to love and to redeem the world you have created. Amen

"Hollow Years", by Rados Jovanovic ~ a Dream Theater rendition (click here)

I HATE WAR
By Rados Jovanovic
8 years old, Grade II

‘War means shooting, wounding, killing, theft, closed roads. During the war, there is not enough food, water electricity, gas and footwear. Families are separated; mothers and sons go away and leave their husbands and fathers. People are left without apartments and they become refugees.
I hate war. War prevents me from having a nice life – going to school on a regular basis, walking far away, going to the seaside, buying a bicycle . . . “

Excerpt taken from “The Corridor” magazine, Sarajevo Bosnia and Herzegovina, October 1994 II, no. 11, p. 11