[Congressional Record Volume 140, Number 26 (Thursday, March 10, 1994)]
[Extensions of Remarks]
[Page E]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Printing Office [www.gpo.gov]


[Congressional Record: March 10, 1994]
From the Congressional Record Online via GPO Access [wais.access.gpo.gov]

 
             HONORING ZLATA FILIPOVIC--BOSNIA'S ANNE FRANK

                                 ______


                       HON. CHRISTOPHER H. SMITH

                             of new jersey

                    in the house of representatives

                        Thursday, March 10, 1994

  Mr. SMITH of New Jersey. Mr. Speaker, today the Helsinki Commission 
was privileged to have Zlata Filipovic, a 13-year-old girl from 
Sarajevo, testify about her experience as a child in that besieged and 
war-torn city. Her presence there today was nothing short of a miracle.
  The devastation and death which has been inflicted on the people of 
Sarajevo--indeed all of Bosnia--has ended the lives of thousands of 
people, young and old, whose contributions to the world will never be 
known. But perhaps in death, they call us to a task which might seem 
beyond our abilities--to seek a lasting peace where people of all 
ethnic backgrounds, cultures, and religions will live side by side, 
building a better world.
  Zlata and her parents are no longer threatened personally by the 
destruction in Bosnia--but it has forever changed their lives. I am 
sure it has also changed how they will forever view the world. The 
recently published ``Zlata's Diary''--her record of the war and her 
thoughts and perceptions--should certainly challenge us.
  From the first time portions of the diary became known, the world sat 
up and took notice of this young girl whose insights and passion belie 
her age. Quickly, she received world attention. She was being acclaimed 
as the Anne Frank of Sarajevo. Newsweek magazine said ``she compared 
herself to Anne Frank.'' But as I read her diary it was not Zlata, but 
others who gave her that name. Her response was simply, ``That 
frightens me. I don't want to suffer her fate.''
  Mr. Speaker, Anne Frank's diary became known to the world only after 
her death, only after the whole world knew of the atrocities of the 
Nazi extermination programs. It serves as a reminder of one of the 
darkest moments in human history. Yet at the same time, it serves as a 
message of hope--hope that it seems only a child can offer at times 
such as that.
  ``Zlata's Diary'' speaks to us now while the atrocities of the war in 
Bosnia continue. It is not a reminder of things past, but a call to 
respond now to the crisis. Her voice speaks for the thousands who are 
still besieged, who live with the fear that at any moment their world 
will be torn apart. She is the living spirit of the children who have 
died and of those who continue to suffer. She is a light of hope for 
those in Bosnia who each day lose hope. I am submitting for the Record 
excerpts from her diary published in Newsweek so that we all may be 
enlightened by her insight.
  Now that Zlata is safe, she hopefully no longer has to worry about 
suffering the fate of Anne Frank. But how many more will if something 
is not done? How tragic it would be if we only praise her for her 
literary achievement and fail to respond to the crisis which gave birth 
to it.
  Zlata speaks out forcefully and bravely for the Bosnians and for all 
children. She reminded me of the obligations which I have--which we all 
have--to seek peace, security, and justice.

               Child of War--The Diary of Zlata Filipovic

       In late 1991, Zlata Filipovic, 10, a Bosnian girl of mixed 
     ethnic heritage, started a diary of her life in Sarajevo. It 
     soon became a chronicle of horrors. Over the next two years, 
     as the city came under intensifying Serb attack, Zlata grew 
     from a girlish innocent into a precociously wise young 
     teenager. She compared herself to Anne Frank, the Dutch 
     Jewish girl who was killed by the Nazis and left behind a 
     poignant account of her life in hiding. Last summer a peace 
     group in Sarajevo published Zlata's diary. A French publisher 
     brought out a European edition and arranged for the family's 
     evacuation from Sarajevo. Now 13, Zlata lives with her 
     parents in Paris. The U.S. edition of her diary is published 
     this week. Exclusive excerpts:


                            thursday, 3/5/92

       Oh God, things are heating up in Sarajevo. On Sunday a 
     small group of armed civilians (as they say on TV) killed a 
     Serbian wedding guest and wounded the priest. On March 2 
     (Monday) the whole city was full of barricades. There were 
     ``1,000'' barricades. We didn't even have bread. At 6:00 
     people got fed up and went out into the streets. The 
     procession set out from the cathedral and made its way 
     through the entire city. Several people were wounded at the 
     Marshal Tito army barracks. People sang and cried ``Bosnia, 
     Bosnia.'' ``Sarajevo, Sarajevo.'' ``We'll live together'' and 
     ``Come Outside.''


                            monday, 3/30/92

       Hey diary! You know what I think? Since Anne Frank called 
     her diary Kitty, maybe I could give you a name too. What 
     about:
       Asfaltina, Pidzameta, Sefika, Hikmeta, Sevala, Mimmy or 
     something else???
       I'm thinking, thinking . . . I've decided. I'm going to 
     call you Mimmy.
       All right then, let's start.
       Dear Mimmy,
       It's almost half-term. We're all studying for our tests. 
     Tomorrow we're supposed to go to a classical music concert at 
     the Skenderija Hall. Our teacher says we shouldn't go because 
     there will be 10,000 people, pardon me, children, there, and 
     somebody might take us as hostages or plant a bomb in the 
     concert hall. Mommy says I shouldn't go. So I won't.


                       sunday, 4/5/92. dear mimmy

       I'm trying to concentrate so I can do my homework 
     (reading), but I simply can't. Something is going on in town. 
     You can hear gunfire from the hills. Columns of people are 
     spreading out from Dobrinja. They're trying to stop 
     something, but they themselves don't know what. You can 
     simply feel that something is coming, something very bad. On 
     TV I see people in front of the parliament building. The 
     radio keeps playing the same song: ``Sarejevo. My Love.'' 
     That's all very nice, but my stomach is still in knots.


                      tuesday, 4/28/92. dear mimmy

       Sniffle! Martina, sniffle, and Matea, sniffle, left 
     yesterdaaay! They left by bus for Krsko [a town in Slovenia]. 
     Oga has gone too, so has Dejan. Mirna will be leaving 
     tomorrow or the next day, and soon Marijana will be going 
     too.
       Sniffle.
       Everybody has gone. I'm left with no friends.


                      saturday, 5/2/92. dear mimmy

       Today was truly, absolutely the worst day ever in Sarajevo. 
     The shooting started around noon. Mommy and I moved into the 
     hall. Daddy was in his office, under our apartment, at the 
     time. We told him on the intercom to run quickly to the 
     downstairs lobby where we'd meet him. We brought Cicko [the 
     canary] with us. The gunfire was getting worse, and we 
     couldn't get over the wall to the Bobars', so we ran down to 
     our own cellar.
       The cellar is ugly, dark, smelly. Mommy, who's terrified of 
     mice, had two fears to cope with. The three of us were in the 
     same corner as the other day. We listened to the pounding 
     shells, the shooting, the thundering noise overhead. We even 
     heard planes. At one moment I realized that this awful cellar 
     was the only place that could save our lives. Suddenly, it 
     started to look almost warm and nice. It was the only way we 
     could defend ourselves against all this terrible shooting. We 
     heard glass shattering in our street. Horrible. I put my 
     fingers in my ears to block out the terrible sounds.


                      thursday, 5/7/92. dear mimmy

       I was almost positive the war would stop. But today . . . 
     Today a shell fell on the park in front of my house, the park 
     where I used to play and sit with my girlfriends. A lot of 
     people were hurt, and Nina is dead. A piece of shrapnel 
     lodged in her brain and she died. She was such a sweet, nice 
     little girl. We went to kindergarten together, and we used to 
     play together in the park. Is it possible I'll never see Nina 
     gain? Nina, an innocent 11-year-old little girl--the victim 
     of a stupid war. I feel sad. I cry and wonder why? She didn't 
     do anything. A disgusting war has destroyed a young child's 
     life. Nina. I'll always remember you as a wonderful little 
     girl.


                     wednesday, 5/27/92. dear mimmy

       Slaughter! Massacre! Horror! Crime! Blood! Screams! Tears! 
     Despair!
       That's what Vaso Miskin Street looks like today. Two shells 
     exploded in the street and one in the market. Mommy was 
     nearby at the time. She ran to Grandma and Granddad's. Daddy 
     and I were beside ourselves because she hadn't come home. I 
     saw some of it on TV but I still can't believe what I 
     actually saw. It's unbelievable. I've got a lump in my throat 
     and a knot in my tummy. Horrible. They're taking the wounded 
     to the hospital. It's a madhouse. We kept going to the window 
     hoping to see Mommy, but she wasn't back. Daddy and I were 
     tearing our hair out.
       I looked out the window one more time and . . . I saw mommy 
     running across the bridge. As she came into the house she 
     started shaking and crying. Through her tears she told us how 
     she had seen dismembered bodies.
       A horrible day, unforgettable.
       Horrible! Horrible!


                    friday, june 5, 1992, dear mimmy

       There's been no electricity for quite some time and we keep 
     thinking about the food in the freezer. There's not much left 
     as it is. It would be a pity for all of it to go bad. There's 
     meat, and vegetable and fruit. How can we save it?
       Daddy found an old wood-burning stove in the attic. It's so 
     old it looks funny. In the cellar we found some wood, put the 
     stove outside in the yard, lit it and are trying to save the 
     food from the refrigerator. We cooked everything and joining 
     forces with the Bobars, enjoyed ourselves. There was veal and 
     chicken, squid, cherry strudel, meat and potato pies. All 
     sorts of things. It's a pity, though, that we had to eat 
     everything so quickly. We even overate.


                  thursday, june 18, 1992, dear mimmy

       I keep asking why? What for? Who's to blame? I ask but 
     there's no answer. All I know is that we are living in 
     misery. Yes, I know, politics is to blame for it all. I said 
     I wasn't interested in politics, but in order to find out the 
     answer I have to know something about it. They tell me only a 
     few things. I'll probably find out and understand much more 
     one day. Mommy and Daddy don't discuss politics with me. They 
     probably think I'm too young or maybe they themselves don't 
     know anything. They just keep telling me: This will pass--
     ``it has to pass''?


                   monday, june 29, 1992, dear mimmy

       Boredom, shooting, shelling. People being killed. Despair, 
     hunger, misery; fear.
       That's my life. The life on an innocent 11-year-old 
     schoolgirl. A schoolgirl without a school, without the fun 
     and excitement of school. A child without games, without 
     friends, without the sun, without birds, without nature, 
     without fruit, without chocolate or sweets, with just a 
     little powdered milk. In short, a child without a childhood.


                   thursday, july 2, 1992, dear mimmy

       We gave ourselves a treat today, we picked the cherries off 
     the tree in the yard and ate them all up. We had watched it 
     blossom and its small green fruits slowly turn red and now 
     here we were eating them. Oh, you're a wonderful cherry tree.


                  tuesday, august 11, 1992, dear mimmy

       Shelling, killing, darkness, and hunger continue in 
     Sarajevo. Sad.
       I still don't go out. I play with Bojana and with my kitty 
     Cici, Cici has brightened up this misery of a life. How you 
     can come to love an animal. She doesn't talk, but she speaks 
     with her eyes, her paws, her meows, and I understand her, I 
     really love you, Cici.


                wednesday, october 21, 1992, dear mimmy

       As you know, I confide in you everyday (almost). Well, you 
     know the summer school in our community center? We had a 
     wonderful time together there, did some acting some reciting, 
     and best of all, some writing too. It was all so nice, until 
     that horrible shell killed our friend Eldin.
       Maja is still working with our teacher Irena Vidovic. And 
     the other day, Maja asks me: ``Do you keep a diary, Fipa?''
       I say: ``Yes.''
       And Maja says: ``Is it full of your own secrets, or is it 
     about the war?''
       And I say: ``Now, it's about the war.''
       And she says: ``Fipa, you're terrific.''
       She said that because they want to publish a child's diary 
     and it just might be mine, which means--you, mimmy. And so I 
     copied part of you into another notebook and you went to the 
     City Assembly to be looked at. And I've just heard that 
     you're going to be published! You're coming out for the 
     UNICEF Week! super!


                     thursday, 11/19/92. dear mimmy

       I keep wanting to explain these stupid politics to myself, 
     because it seems to me that politics caused this war, making 
     it our everyday reality. War has crossed out the day and 
     replaced it with horror, and now horrors are unfolding 
     instead of days. It looks to me as though these politics mean 
     Serbs, Croats and Muslims. But they are all people. They are 
     all the same. They all look like people, there's no 
     difference. They all have arms, legs and heads, they walk and 
     talk, but now there's ``something'' that wants to make them 
     different.
       Among my girlfriends, among our friends, in our family, 
     there are Serbs and Croats and Muslims. It's a mixed group 
     and I never knew who was a Serb, a Croat or a Muslim. Now 
     politics has started meddling around. It has put an ``S'' on 
     Serbs, and ``M'' on Muslims and a ``C'' on Croats, it wants 
     to separate them. And to do so it has chosen the worst, 
     blackest pencil of all--the pencil of war which spells only 
     misery and death.
       Why is politics making us unhappy, separating us, when we 
     ourselves know who is good and who isn't? We mix with the 
     good, not with the bad. And among the good there are Serbs 
     and Croats and Muslims, just as there are among the bad. I 
     simply don't understand it. Of course, I'm ``young,'' and 
     politics are conducted by ``grown-ups.'' But I think we 
     ``young'' would do it better. We certainly wouldn't have 
     chosen war.
       A bit of philosophizing on my part, but I was alone and 
     felt I could write this to you. Mimmy. You understand me. 
     Fortunately, I've got you to talk to.


                     thursday, 12/3/92. dear mimmy

       Today is my birthday, my first wartime birthday, 12 years 
     old. Congratulations. Happy Birthday to me!
       The day started off with kisses and congratulations. First 
     Mommy and Daddy, then everyone else. Mommy and Daddy gave me 
     three Chinese vanity cases--with flowers on them!
       As usual there was no electricity. Auntie Melica came with 
     her family (Kenan, Naida, Nihad) and gave me a book. The 
     whole neighborhood got together in the evening. I got 
     chocolate, vitamins, a heart-shaped soap (small, orange), a 
     key chain with a picture of my playmates Maja and Bojana, a 
     pendant made of a stone from Cyprus, a ring (silver) and 
     earrings (bingo!).
       It was nice, but something was missing.
       It's called peace!


                      thursday, 4/8/93. dear mimmy

       More terrible, sad news today. Our dear, beloved [canary] 
     Cicko has died. He just toppled over and that was it. He 
     wasn't sick. It happened suddenly.
       He was singing. Now he's not cold anymore. The poor thing 
     got through the winter, we found him food. And he left it 
     all. Maybe he had had enough of this war. Daddy buried him in 
     the yard. His case is empty. No more Cicko.


                      tuesday, 6/1/93. dear mimmy

       Yesterday I was a disaster: Today I'm supposedly better. 
     Let me tell me tell you that breakfast, lunch and dinner were 
     all uncooked because the gas went off yesterday. And as you 
     know, we have no electricity either, so we're all on the 
     verge of suicide. DISASTER! Oh, Mimmy. I can't take it 
     anymore. I'm so tired of all these Sssss! I'm sorry I'm 
     swearing but I really can't take it anymore. There's a 
     growing possibility of my killing myself, if all these morons 
     up there and down here don't kill me first. I'm losing it.


                     saturday, 7/17/93. dear mimmy

       Book promotion day.
       Since I didn't take you with me (just a part of you was 
     there) I have to tell you what it was like.
       It was wonderful. The presenter was a girl who looked 
     unbelievably like Linda Evangelista. She read parts of you, 
     Mimmy, and was even accompanied on the piano. Auntie Irena 
     was there. Warm and kind, as always, with warm words for 
     children and adults alike.
       At the end I read my message. This is what I said:
       ``Suddenly, unexpectedly, someone is using the ugly powers 
     of war, which horrify me, to try to pull and drag me away 
     from the shores of peace, from the happiness of wonderful 
     friendships, playing and love. I feel like a swimmer who was 
     made to enter the cold water, against her will. I feel 
     shocked, sad, unhappy and frightened and I wonder where they 
     are forcing me to go. I wonder why they have taken away [the] 
     peaceful and lovely shores of my childhood. I used to rejoice 
     at each new day, because each was beautiful in its own way. I 
     used to rejoice at the sun, at playing, at songs. In short, I 
     enjoyed my childhood. I had no need of a better one. I have 
     less and less strength to keep swimming in these cold waters. 
     So take me back to the shores of my childhood, where I was 
     warm, happy and content, like all the children whose 
     childhood and the right to enjoy it are now being destroyed.
       ``The only thing I want to say to everyone is: PEACE' ''


                      friday, 7/23/93. dear mimmy

       Ever since July 17. Various people have been coming 
     around--journalists. reporters, cameramen. From Spain, 
     France, the U.S. . . . England . . . and yesterday a crew 
     came from ABC News. They filmed me for American TV as the 
     ``person of the week.'' Hey, imagine, me a personality?
       Can that outside world see the darkness I see? Just as I 
     can't see myself on TV tonight, so the rest of the world 
     probably can't see the darkness I'm looking at. We're at two 
     ends of the world. Our lives are so different. Theirs is 
     bright light. Ours is darkness.


                       monday, 8/2/93. dear mimmy

       Some people compare me with Anne Frank. That frightens me. 
     Mimmy, I don't want to suffer her fate.


                     wednesday, 8/18/93. dear mimmy

       Yesterday I heard some optimistic news. The ``kids'' 
     [politicians] have signed an agreement in Geneva on the 
     demilitarization of Sarajevo. What can I say? That I hope, 
     that I believe it???? I don't know how I could. Whenever I 
     believed and hoped for something it didn't happen, and 
     whenever I didn't believe or expect anything it did happen.


                      sunday, 10/17/93. dear mimmy

       Yesterday our friends in the hills reminded us of their 
     presence and that they are now in control and can kill, 
     wound, destroy . . . yesterday was a truly horrible day.
       Five hundred and ninety shells. From 4:30 in the morning 
     on, throughout the day. Six dead and 56 wounded. That is 
     yesterday's toll. Souk-bunar fared the worst. I don't know 
     how Melica is. They say that half the houses up there are 
     gone.
       We went down into the cellar. Into the cold, dark, stupid 
     cellar which I hate. We were there for hours and hours. They 
     kept pounding away. All the neighbors were with us.
       Sometimes I think it would be better if they kept shooting, 
     so that we wouldn't find it so hard when it starts up again. 
     This way, just as you relax, it starts up AGAIN. I am 
     convinced now that it will never end. Because some people 
     don't want it to, some evil people who hate children and 
     ordinary folk. We haven't done anything. We're innocent. But 
     helpless!

                          ____________________