[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!
____________________