Fildžan

Fildžan (regional) a very small, traditional coffee cup

My grandfather’s shelves and drawers are a museum of their own. Born in 1936, he saw value in everything – school certificates, sticky notes with handwritten group qualifications for the World Cup, address book with phone numbers…

So when I lost him, I noticed the value in all of it too. When I opened the cabinet doors pieces of his life fell right into my lap. His elementary school certificate, his recognitions for bravery in firefighting, medals and thank you’s for his part in the success and development of Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia.

How he loved her.

Yugoslavia had been gone over 30 years, and yet still there were so many days and nights I spent with him – sipping coffee from a fildžan, while he reminisced about Yugoslavia. Among the

papers I noticed a shiny one with orange details – a notice and a thank you for his contribution to the organization of the 1984 Winter Olympics. I remember watching documentaries about the

Olympic games and asking my grandpa ‘Is that really how it was?’ And he’d reply ‘Jašta nego jeste, i još ljepše’ and I’d whine about not being able to witness it. I catch the glimpse of the glory days when I walk the halls of the Olympic Museum in Sarajevo.

Time has passed and now it has been over 9 months since I’ve lost my grandfather. In the midst of my grief lies gratitude, for each time I sat down to listen to him and his stories.

Because now, these objects are storytellers – I hold them in my hands as they whisper history and memory to me. In my mind it all comes to life. My grandfather was a simple man, someone who saw value in all these small, ordinary things and who stood witness to the passage of time.

I carry the torch now, so his stories and lessons live on.