The Scars of the Erasure_web

Erasure_4a 10.1.11 20:29 Page 222222THE SCARS OF THE ERASUREI don’t blame police officers and administrators for their unfriendly and insul -ting attitude and the lack of respect towards me and other erased people. They gotsuch instructions. Was it police officers who came to their workplace in the morningand said: “Are we going to fish for Bosnians today?” Of course not. There were policeraids four times a week! They came to the rooms. They’d hit you in your head, I mean,not literally. If it were literally it would be okay.I too had dealings with them several times. I didn’t have problems because mydocuments were in order; once I paid a fine because my work permit expired. Thepolice officers wanted to check my identification several times when I didn’t havedocu ments. Without your documents in order, nobody wants to employ you; withoutemployment you can’t get a work permit, and without a work permit you can’t get awork visa. I was lucky because many times I came across reasonable people. When Iexplained my situation to them, they told me to arrange my papers as soon as possible.I also remember how the police stopped me at a bus station in Ljubljana, but it wasafter I had arranged all the papers. Since I had forgotten my passport at home, thelaw enforcement men came with me to my home where I showed them the documentthat testified to my existence.You don’t exist, you’re here but you don’t exist. The state knew that we didn’thave status, but we ourselves didn’t know it. But when it came to taxes, they took itoff regularly. During the time I was erased I had to pay for health insurance, socialcontributions and so on. I also worked illegally – construction work; I found work,as is common today, under democracy – through acquaintances. In 1996 I met mycurrent wife, and that same year we started a household. I was not burdened by theerasure, but my wife lived in fear. In 1997 our son was born. When registering paternity,a registrar came to the maternity ward and talked to my wife. She told her, “Youcan give any name and surname to your child.” Fortunately, this was not meant seriously.But I know a family who had problems when their child was born. This childwas born in 1991 in Ljubljana to parents who had been born in other republics ofthe former Yugoslavia. When she was born, the registrar told them to come up withsome address in Bosnia, although the child was born in Slovenia. The girl was withoutcitizenship for two years; today everybody in that family has citizenship.Last year in October I was in Doboj, in Bosnia-Herzegovina. I visited mymother and brother. I’ve visited them several times since I put my life in order again.My contacts with them have increased since July 2000. Before that I hadn’t left Sloveniafor eight years. On 30 Mach 1992 I was probably one of the last persons who wentto the Serbian territory via Bosanski šamac and came back.I light a cigarette, lean back in my chair and think. At that time the problemwas serious, but how could I know that it was a problem? I didn’t do anything wrong,why were they persecuting me? And now, when I listen to others who really had ithard in that situation, I think to myself, what if I had it like them? But thank God, Ididn’t.