An old issue of 'The Balkan'

[Mute]

In an old, derelict house, between two blocks of broken concrete lies an old paper. Damp and stained with a weird rust-like colour sits a copy of "The Balkan", an uttrely irrelevant, backwater piece of journalism from the past. Despite the condition of the house and the surrounding area the copy seems mostly intact.

It reads:

THE BALKAN
18TH MAY, 20- Oh look, theres the stain.​

It is filled with what you may expect from a sub-par newspaper from that era. It contained the local weather forecast for the upcoming fortnight (38° with temperatures rising through this week, and then falling the next)- The sports section, mostly local football matches with the odd tennis game inbetween (unfortunately the local team doesn't seem to be doing too well, losing 12-2 on one occasion), and on the final page sat three sets of crossword puzzles (solved).

Inbetween all of that you had the articles themselves, or rather what remains of them after all these years. One reads as follows:

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"PULA: ONE YEAR LATER"
By Nils Bühl

PULA - The 20th of May marks the one year anniversary of the tragic events that transpired in this beautiful coastal city, once a migrant hotspot and promising industrial center, Pula was a beacon of innovation and hope for the region, what happened to this town, or rather its residents?

I awoke that morning to the loud roar of old motorbikes zooming past my windows, manned by a specialized metropolice division. The city's tight streets provided a unique challenge for the local law enforcement, which they solved by introducing these vehicles. I exited my hostel room whereupon I met my host, Mr. Cerqueira, a Brazillian refugee whom arrived here in 2003, my roommate, Mr. Jankovic, a longtime patron of the hostel and Mrs. Webb, a fellow journalist from the British Isles. We sat together as we had breakfast, a moment of normalcy in this tumultous town, but alas our peace was quickly interrupted as shouting broke out in the green market across the street. Shortly after, shots began to echo throughout the city streets, yet my compatriots sat unphased, as this was a common occurance in the town of Pula.

After breakfast I accompanied Mr. Cerqueira to the market as he indulged me with tales regarding it, supposedly it was a hotspot for criminal activity and the host of an underground market, once a seat of the "Mladi Hrvati", a former nationalist terrorist cell responsible for the attacks the year prior. He told me stories of his personal encounters with the groups members as he raised his hand, showing me his ring finger, or rather the lack of one. This was a form of punishment issued by the cell, once it was a mark of disrespect, but now following their eradication it became a mark of honour and iron-will.

Soon after, I left Mr. Cerqueira to do his shopping as I went to investigate ground zero of the famous attacks. The twisting and turning city streets proved navigation difficult. The constant removal of old, and erection of new blockades did not help in this endeavour, as Mr. Jankovic had warned me the night prior. The old tram cars had been repurposed and reinforced, now exclusively used by the metropolice to haul supplies, prisoners and for general transport to quickly and efficiently move through the city. After speaking with an officer I was invited to join them on the tram, as they were moving to the Colosseum, a famous landmark of the city, now repurposed for Civi-Pro use.

The officer had been a veteran member of the force, one that had participated in the events that transpired a year prior, although you would be hard-pressed to find someone uninvolved nowadays. He had been captured by terrorist forces and held for nearly two months before making his escape, which involved him squeezing past a set of iron bars on the window that he could only fit through after losing much of his weight, and climbing down a five-story building. He rejoined the fight a week later.

We had arrived, unfortunately I could not accompany the officers any further as access to the Colosseum was restricted, but up the road lied the "Castello", my destination, a 17th century Venetian castle, and the epicenter of the attacks. While the outskirts of the town seemed untouched, the closer you got to this once beautiful fortress, the heavier was the weight upon your shoulders. A thick tension filled the air, and the sounds of bustling city streets and people going on with their day seemed to fade. Behind it lied the famous Pula Shipyard, which turned the city from a small, coastal town to the bustling metropolitan it was a year ago, and in its bay lied the remenants of the CS Popov, an iconic frigate ship that patrolled the Adriatic.

My journey was cut short by the infamous Pula sirens, ending the tension that filled the air, replacing it with dread. This marked an oncoming Xenian infestation, once a rarity but now a normalcy following the events of the previous year. Officers swarmed the district, preparing to engage in something the locals called "delousing", and I left with only a few minutes to spare. Gunfire erupted, explosions shook buildings, and larger armoured vehicles crawled through the city streets towards their destination, escorted by motorbikes and footsoldiers.

I arrived at my hostel by dusk, as I was advised to not stay out past sunset. We spent the evening playing cardgames and listening to the radio, and the gunshots continued past midnight. I barely slept, but morning finally had arrived, which meant it was time for me to go. I bid farewell to my new friends and caught the bus to Zagreb. At the station I took my one last look at this beautiful, but troubled city, and only hope that one day I may visit again under better circumstances.

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