This war of mine

Maja and I returned to Amsterdam, a city that had always held a special place in our hearts. We checked into a charming hotel, eager to reconnect with old friends and make new ones. As we sat in a cozy café, catching up with a dear friend, a waitress named Irina approached us. Our friend's curiosity was piqued by her name, and he inquired if she was from Ukraine. With a hesitant nod, Irina confirmed that she had arrived in Amsterdam a year ago, leaving her family behind in the war-torn country.

The following day, Maja and I decided to unwind with an afternoon beer. As we clinked glasses, a young waiter greeted us warmly. Memories of our conversation with Irina rushed back, and I couldn't help but glance at his name tag. It read: Nikolai. As I looked around, I realized that most of the waitstaff were from Ukraine. At first, I felt a sense of warmth, knowing these young individuals had found work in the Netherlands. But as the evening wore on, a heavy thought began to weigh on my mind.

We were dining, laughing, and enjoying ourselves, while refugees from a war-torn nation served us. It felt as if we were doing nothing to help them or their homeland. The West's support for Ukraine seemed superficial – we sent weapons, albeit slowly, but we didn't stand together against the oppressor.

My thoughts traveled back to my childhood in Croatia. I remembered the images and tv reports of tanks rolling through our streets. For five long years, war ravaged our land, and the world seemed to stand still, watching from a distance.

I couldn't help but think that, perhaps, refugees from my own country had once served foreigners in distant lands, while those people dined, oblivious to the suffering that had driven them away from home. The realization dawned on me that I was now one of those people, sitting idly by as history repeated itself.

The bitter taste of guilt and helplessness lingered as I looked around the bustling café. As people laughed and chatted, I wondered if we were all stuck in an endless cycle of war and displacement, unable or unwilling to break the chains that bound us. It was a sobering reminder that, despite the passage of time and the lessons we should have learned, we still found ourselves trapped in the same patterns of inaction and apathy.

As Maja and I walked the cobblestone streets of Amsterdam, the faces of Irina and Nikolai haunted my thoughts. Their bravery and resilience in the face of unimaginable hardship was humbling, and I couldn't shake the feeling that we needed to do more. But what could we do? How could we, as individuals, break free from the cycle of indifference that seemed to plague humanity?

A gentle snowfall began to blanket the city, casting a serene, almost magical atmosphere over the historic buildings. The crisp spring-winter air nipped at our cheeks as we wandered, lost in thought. A question began to form in my mind, one that demanded an answer not only from me but from every person who had ever turned a blind eye to the suffering of others: Are we destined to repeat the mistakes of our past, or can we find the courage to stand together, united in our quest for peace and justice in the face of adversity?