detail from: KRK Art dizajn

EASTER

There are places where oblivion does not enter, and sorrows remain in a person as he breathes. No one is ready for this today and tomorrow; no one has returned from the same path to repeat it, and yet, some people and some events on that path are written in our blood. In that half-sleep, without looking at the clock, without a sense of time, we wander around carrying the scars we have healed by remembering memories, unaware that we are closer to the end than the beginning. Yet, the anticipation of Easter fills the air with excitement.

The meadows were washed out; it is unknown whether there was any snow left over from last winter or whether the hawthorn caught the eye with white clumps in the young leaves. Lent, the most important for Orthodox Christians, has begun. It is a time of prayer, silence, peace and great preparation in the soul and at home. For days we washed pans in lye, cleaned carpets, and whitewashed walls. Everything smelled of the innocent purity of the white colour of slaked lime, a symbol of the renewal that Lent brings.

Ten days later, the Ramadan fast began. I worked with Mustafa and Fatka until noon, they prepared iftar themselves. The Smal town came to life as if they were transported from a dream. Torn by long winter nights, stuffy rooms, and musty thoughts under blankets and scarves. Covered with quilts of serenity, they run to meet the holidays. From the courtyard of the Church of the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul, the sense of community during Ramadan was palpable, bringing us all closer together.

The priest calls the faithful to prayer with a clapper. Good Friday, the saddest day for Christianity. The day when prayer is the only food when man betrayed Christ. The silent pain of suffering is carried to the mantle. My gaze remains on the red fingers from the bulb in which the eggs were dyed, a symbol of the blood of Christ. The first painted egg has a special task during the year, the task of the guardian of the house, to protect us from illness and evil. It was kept in a special place on the sideboard next to the icon. Evening worship, the smell of incense and holy water soothes our thoughts, opening the hunger of a heart swollen with desire, longing and restlessness.

Imam Mustafa's call echoed from the minaret of the mosque, signalling the time for prayer and iftar. It was a moment pregnant with anticipation, like a fish during a drought in a river, desperately swimming to the surface for a breath of air. I have grappled with the signs on the road of life, gathered around the overgrown icicles of fate, spilled hours of waiting, unfulfilled dreams and the prophecy of the old gypsy woman when she saw me in the cradle. On that summer day, my mother did not wrap me, she covered me with a linen cloth and left me to sleep. When she went to get water, an old gypsy woman entered the house who had not seen her mother since she gave birth. She looked at the fire and then at me, she says, so that there would be no spell, and then she saw a brown mole on my left side under my breast.

- Hajera, where did you come from in this heat - asked the mother, a little surprised when she saw her next to the cradle.

- I see that you are fine, Bisera, and she is also beautiful, just...

- Just what, Hajera?

- God willing, it will be fine.

- Don't, Hajera, in God's name! Youth after youth, no one saw anyone's fate - she shouted, her voice trembling with the fear that only a mother can feel.

They didn't see Hajera again in the small town, and my mother told me more and more often about this awkward encounter. There was a belief that a woman with a mole under her left breast carries beauty without luck. Our days were filled with the rich tapestry of cultural celebrations and beliefs. The priest invited the faithful to the Easter Vigil at five in the morning. Sunday is Eid, which our neighbours celebrate. Kissing the cross, I crossed myself and left the church. Mother took my hand with long steps, we hurried home.

- God help you, Bisera, and you two from the evening prayer.

– Marhaba, Kareem! We were in church, these are great days and God is great, it is good to pray. Fasting and prayer heal everything.

- That's right, my Pearl, God is great. Me and Raheem were at the Mosque on Sunday. This year, the holidays are on the same day, God's providence. The coincidence of the holidays falling on the same day was seen as a sign of divine intervention, sparking a sense of wonder and awe in the community.

In a long white caftan that fell down the slender body of Raheem, highlighting his short black hair and regular facial features, he also arrived. I looked down at the ground to hide my longing. Raheem greeted his mother, and I thought it was over! He confidently asks mother for permission to talk to me, his eyes filled with a mix of determination and nervousness.

- You can, children, I wanted to ask Kareem to bring me apples tomorrow.

I stood a few steps behind my mother, looking at Raheem and not speaking. I don't know if I am the fish in the river during the drought, or if I am the heroine of Shiddat or if it is just the prophecy of the gypsy woman. I don't know if I'm shivering from the freshness of spring air intoxicated with buds, or if my blood is boiling in my body from Raheem's proximity. The uncertainty of my feelings was overwhelming, leaving me in a state of emotional turmoil.

Raheem's quiet words, "SaMoRa, I share your suffering, "pierced through me, as he placed an old piece of paper in my hand. I clutched it tightly, seeing him as a holy and pure being. Tears threatened to spill, but I held them back, feeling as if an executioner's noose was tightening around my innocent neck.

- My suffering, my pain, Raheem, was not meant to be.

- I prayed for thirty days of Ramadan, if necessary, I will pray for thirty years.

- Good night, Raheem.

Like a birch leaf in the wind, love trembled in me, which was broken by fear and pain at the same time. Me and Raheem, a couple in a small town, faced the judgmental eyes of the community. What will the small town say, mother? I don't remember if the night was cold, or if I was shivering with fever. I heard my mother who kept the fire burning all night, fighting insomnia that was held hand in hand by worry. The morning had long passed when my mother woke me up, there were apples for pie and a bouquet of lilacs in the basket. A pale blue with an intoxicating scent filled the room, lilac from Raheem's garden. The seedling was brought by Kareem from the Lilac Valley when he was passing by the Ibar river, a symbol of love, faith, and hope.

"You had a fever all night, I went alone to the market to get apples, Raheem sent you lilacs." I only have you and I don't care what the small town will say. I don't know what is the best or what is the worst, but I know that there is nothing worse than your sadness. Kareem doesn't mind either, Rahim is one for him too. Who are we at the end of life to stand in the way of your happiness..."

With these mother's words, a thousand keys unlocked a hundred padlocks in my heart. All my doubts are sucked up by the whirlpool in the river of life. It's Easter, it's Eid... Glory to God in heaven and peace among people!

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