The Story Behind The Zbog Tebe Collection

Cao svima!

My name’s Emina Pelja and for whatever reason that may have brought you here, thank you for being here. I started Balkan Bred in March 2018 with absolutely NO expectations in mind, and here we are. The purpose of this post is to tell you a little bit more about our new Zbog Tebe collection, which is something I’ve put my heart and soul into for the past few months.

Zbog Tebe has a very special meaning because it was inspired by my dad, Zlatan. He passed away unexpectedly in May and despite all of the pain and sadness my family experienced, I wanted to do something positive. Positive because my dad was probably one of the most positive people I knew. They say that everyone has a different way of grieving — this just happens to be my way.

So instead of focusing on the negative aspects of the situation, I’d like to focus on the positive; the absolute best memories I had with my dad. Before I begin, I want to say that this collection is not only dedicated to my dad, it’s dedicated to all of the people in our lives who have made us stronger and continue to do so every single day.

Okay, now we can get started.

For Babo:

One of my fondest memories of you is when I was in kindergarten. It was a Friday afternoon and I had just gotten home from school. Not only did you bring me home McDonald’s chicken nuggets, you bought me the newest Britney Spears cassette tape, which I had on repeat in our living room for the rest of the day. This began the start of my singing obsession, and I’m sure both you and mom are glad that never worked out.

When I was in the eighth grade, my middle school orchestra class took a trip to Disney World in Orlando, Florida. I brought you back this blue Mickey Mouse mug as a gift, not really thinking much of it. I never expected you to drink your coffee out of that mug every single morning thereafter for the next decade. The mug even survived a car accident in 2013 and I remember how proud you were about that. You literally refused to use any other cup, and I don’t think you could even name more than three Disney movies — one of them being “A Bug’s Life” because me and Keno insisted on watching it every day when we were younger — but the reason you loved that mug so much has nothing to do with Disney. It was because I gave it to you.

It’s still sitting in the kitchen cabinet. The only difference is that it’s next to a Balkan Bred mug.

I loved when you’d tell me stories about how you worked at the Marriott in Seattle when you and mom first came to the United States. You didn’t know a single word of English, which made your job as a waiter ten times harder. When two guests asked you for a straw and you had absolutely no idea what they were talking about, you went in the kitchen, said, “straw” and held up various utensils until the kitchen staff helped you learn the names for everything.

This past summer, less than a month after your funeral, I packed up my suitcase. You passed two days before I was supposed to leave. It took a miracle, but I changed my ticket. You were going to take me to the airport like you always did. You didn’t make it this time. 

I went to teach entrepreneurship in Mostar, where you and mom spent a lot of time together before the war. I will never forget the night I was roaming the streets with Leyla and Belma, our bellies full of palacinke, when I saw a building in the distance. The sign at the top said “Marriott,” it was going to be one of the newest hotels in Mostar. I couldn’t believe it. During that trip, I always knew you were right there with me, and that was just one of the confirmations.

Before I got to Bosna, I spent some time in England with mom’s side of the family. After an exhausting day of exploring London, I remember breathing a sigh of relief when I found an empty seat on the Tube. I almost dozed off until the Tube jolted to a sudden halt, as it often does, and it immediately woke me up. Right in front of me, there was a guy wearing a PSG Zlatan Ibrahimovic jersey. It was you.

While I was in Sarajevo, I stepped inside of Stadion Grbavica, a Zeljo scarf draped around my neck, clinging to my cousin, Irma, as we navigated our way through all the fans. As we made our way to the front, I flashed back to all the times you’d talked about how much you wanted to see another soccer game in your home country. You may have been a die-hard Velez fan, but I knew you would’ve given anything to have been there right next to me as we watched Vedran play.

Last week I went out on a date and of course, we landed on the topic of soccer — I am forever grateful for everything you taught me about it. I was re-telling the story of going to the game and as soon as I mentioned my cousin played for Zeljo, the guy I was with got so excited in the same way that you always did about the beautiful game. I had to blink twice just to make sure it wasn’t you sitting right there across from me.

When I was walking to my car, I almost called you to tell you how it went. One of the last text messages you sent me was, “How’s your day maco? I’m having a Zalad and just touching base with you.” I still have your number saved in my phone and I have no plans on deleting it.

I’d like to believe that your spirit and soul are always with me, no matter where I go. These are only a few of the times I’ve been reminded of you, but the truth is every single day no matter how big or how small, there is almost always something that reminds me of you.

There is no doubt in my mind that this is one of the absolute hardest things I’ve ever had to go through, but despite the circumstances, it’s actually going better than I thought it would. I still cry, but I cry because it matters. You matter, this story matters, every single soul reading this post has a story that matters, and I want to devote the rest of my life to telling those stories.

That’s what I was meant to do. I hope you understand that.

I wish you were here to see this but part of me knows that you’re already watching.

Love,

Emina