Images of Babi

memories of my grandmother

It was night, I was 9 and we were leaving Sarajevo for Addis Ababa the next day (my dad got a job posting there). I lay in my bed in the room that I shared with my gran, overcome with the emotion of a goodbye to my hometown (not even knowing then that it was for good). I started wailing and beating the bed to get the attention of my parents and gran still packing in the room next door. I screamed that I couldn’t just leave all my favourite bedding behind (Donald Duck and his nephews/nieces wearing PJs and sleepwalking in a row surrounded by blue stars) nor my Garfield pillow (a very smug and comfy sleeping cat on a cushion). I yelled: “They are like living human beings to me!” My mother reassured me that there was no space for them in the suitcases and that they would be waiting for me when we returned in a year or so. I had exhausted myself with my tantrum and went to sleep.

The first night in Addis, I was ecstatic to discover that all of those living things were there as my new bed. The Donald Duck pillow case, the entire set, and even Garfield. My gran had somehow found a way to pack them without my mom knowing. It was a story that she would keep reminding me long into adulthood, how much I had been attached to the “living beings” of my bedding, and how delighted she was to see my face when I discovered they were still with me in our new home.

My gran passed away a week ago, at the age of 96, far from me. For the early part of my life she was like a third parent, a constant warm presence in my life - from feeding me, to taking me to school, being my first friend. As I had developed a habit of twirling my hair into knots, I would sometimes reach across the corner beds in our shared room so that I could twirl hers until she would slap my hand away for ruining her hair.

This one memory with the Donald Duck bedding (which would last into the mid-teenage years), and a few other of my memories of her I want to share, to keep her home in my heart.

I think the flight was Amsterdam - Johannesburg, and I was travelling with my gran. We were on our way to visit my parents and sister living in Pretoria. The Amsterdam stop is always fun because my gran’s sister and her family live there. My cousin there was always ambitious with my activities, keeping me on my feet, so much so I would tend to pass out on the flight. My gran, on the other hand, would stay up the whole journey. At one point I felt her shake me awake, asking in Bosnian “What is he saying?”. Through a daze, I saw the steward, and heard them ask “chicken or beef” as the dinner options. My gran did not speak English, so I had to translate. However, I was tired, half-asleep, my Bosnian stuck in third grade, and for the life of me I couldn’t remember the bosnian word for beef. So I turned back to my gran and said, in bosnian, “Hoces li “piletinu ili Mooo?” (Do you want chicken or Mooo?)”

This was another story that she remembered very well, tearing up with laughter every time she retold it. So many memories of her are intertwined with food. From being fed as a child, to enjoying her home cooked meals during breaks from undergrad life. I was never allowed to leave anything but an empty plate. How many times did I watch her make her own phyllo pastry, roll it out on the dining room table, and then twirl in the fillings to make pita or “bosnian pie”? How often would I ask for my favourite meals and desserts? How often would I make a gross face when some traditional bosnian dish with a base in broth would be made for lunch? How frustrated would I get when I tried to get recipes from her and instead of giving me precise ingredient measurements she would say “Oh a couple of handfuls… roughly.” And how often, on our outings to malls, would she ask that we stop at McDonalds for some chicken McNuggets.

Throughout her life, she also fed my soul.

I did my undergrad in the same Canadian province where my gran lived, a couple of hours drive from her. The first few months (until I figured out how to use coin-laundry), I would bus every two weeks with a suitcase of dirty clothes and come back with a suitcase of fresh and so clean late 90s-era geeky fashion...

But also every morning, I would call her to check up and see what is happening on her side and share a bit of what was happening on mine. The day couldn’t start without that. It was a ritual. Over the four years, I must have skipped some days, but I do remember a sinking feeling in a particular calculus class, when I realised that I had forgotten something that morning. I ran out of the lecture theatre and found the closest hallway pay phone to dial the familiar number. I did not want her to worry, and the thought of her standing alone, looking out the window in her flat waiting for me to call made me feel so guilty. I knew how much this meant to her. Hearing her voice brought instant relief to the tears that were creeping up, and I couldn’t apologise enough for forgetting our ritual.

I had a similar guilty feeling when I was small, bursting into her closed room and unknowingly intruding upon her reciting prayers from the Quran. I would quickly rush out, a bit spooked (living in socialism after all). My grandfather had passed away when I was one, I think they were prayers for him. I am not sure I ever asked, or maybe I did but then forgot the answer. It was a side of her I did not get access to. There are many things I did not ask, and I had so many opportunities to, so many rituals I could have used to find out more about who she was before me, before she was a grandma.

But, I am so grateful to have had her play that role so well in my life.