If a man is not a gun, then what is he?

My uncle had another episode, as my aunt calls it. He returned home after three days of drinking, his car lost, no memory of where his phone or wallet were, and no idea how he got home when he did. Two and a half days of his life - missing. Three decades of his life - gone in alcohol and cigarette smoke soaked haze. She is angry about the loss, the nightmares, the past that never frees the present, and all the untold stories that lived between them. He has some serious shit to deal with, I am telling you. It’s just that in this godforsaken place, none of them want to admit that being a man means being a human. Fuck them all, I am telling you!

She smoked her cigarette nervously, clinging to the wine glass in her right hand. We kneeled on the floor by the fire, hiding our smoking from my uncle and brother. They knew that we smoke, and I never quite understood why we were hiding, but at this point it became a part of the ritual. Fucking lost warriors that never really came home! I understand that they used to be a gun for the family before. You know, each man meant a rifle to defend you, so they had to be well cared for and protected. But what is their role now? Why the fuck do we still hold them on a pedestal?

I understand the anger. I understand the pain too. Yet, this made me cringe. It hurt. It offended. Is it that it reminded me of the injustice done to my own sex and my own body? Men are guns, and women are mothers? If women are not mothers - who are they? If men are not guns - who are they? She is right. Raised to be warriors, men were treated with special care, attention, appreciation, and shaped to be the leaders, the protectors of their homes and families, the defenders of their land, the fighters for their nation. Women became experts at anticipating their warrior’s needs, moods, and desires. Pleasing a man was the survival mode - make him a good meal, make him a comfortable home, raise “his” children, take care of the family name and image while the warrior protects you from afar. My aunt was a warrior’s wife. And she hated every minute of it.

Uncle Petar’s body returned home after the war, but he never truly came back. He rarely talked. During the day he worked, at night he would lose himself in alcohol, preventing his brain from truly dreaming. Once he told me that rakija helps him to forget to remember. I had no idea what he meant at the time, but I learned very soon after. It was a well choreographed routine. It seemed like he could go on like that for a while longer. They lived in a quiet village, working on their small farm. He sold pigs to the nearby butchers, and they made cheese and had their own milk and eggs which my aunt sold at the farmers’ market. They were poor by all standards, but as all Balkan families, somehow maintained appearances, dignity, and pride.

Anyway, I love them both all the same! They are assholes, but what can we do. That’s just how things are. - my aunt put out her cigarette and threw it in the fire. I haven’t seen her for a year, and the stories have been pouring for hours. They all ended like this. She needed to say all that frustrates her about Petar and my brother, but never failed to remind me that she still loves them and that that’s just how it is. She handed me another cigarette and we smoked this one in silence. I had nothing to say in response, and she didn’t want me to. This is our ritual. I sit, smoke, and listen, she smokes and talks.

Before another story was let off her chest, the phone rung. It’s sound spilled through the hallways and rooms and immediately brought chills down my spine. If a phone rings past ten at night, it must be something bad. My aunt and I looked at each other, our eyes locking as hands would if we held them. We threw the cigarettes into the fire and walked over to the living room. My brother and uncle returned from their usual Sunday hunting trip, and walked into the room. We gathered around the phone.

My aunt answered. Oh Dana, it’s you! She yelled so that we all hear. I must admit, a huge part of me was immediately relieved. I was worried it might be my mother or grandmother. They never have good news past ten. But these were not good news either. Dana said her brother in law, Mile, was missing. They did not want to alarm anyone, thinking that he just went somewhere to be alone for a little while and that he would come back. But it has been two days, and he did not return even for their Sunday dinner. She asked if my uncle Petar would join the search party. They cannot wait any longer.

Petar started putting on his old army uniform, even before she finished her first sentence. I realized just then how accustomed we became to the uniforms. It’s been over twenty years since the war, and everyone wears them when they “work around the house.” If you pay close attention, you will see dark green jackets moving around each day. Reminding. Remembering. And often even comforting. He put on the large rubber boots, and marched out of the house, slamming the door behind him. My brother joined us at the fireplace. I handed him a cigarette, he handed me a shot of homemade brandy.

The path to Mile’s house is narrow and dark. Petar decided to walk through the woods, down by the stream. It’s shorter. Over the road, he could see the lights of people gathering in front of Mile’s house. Just as he was about to skip over the stream and cross the field, his boot slid in the snow and he fell into the mud by the water. The initial shock of the fall made him instinctively check his legs first - nothing is broken, thank God! His arms are ok too! He can move! Everything is ok! It is more than the pain and inconvenience that a broken bone would cause for him - it would mean amounting debt that cannot wait. It would mean no work for months and loss of their house. But - disaster averted this time too! Can a man run out of luck and of no broken bones? Hopefully not! He slowly got up, calming down his shaky legs, still recovering from the horror which unfolded in his mind and pulled out his flashlight to look around. Why did he even fall and why is the snow so dark here? The mud under his feet - red. The snow under him yellowish-red. He saw that color before. It’s the color the snow gets after it’s been soaked in blood for a day or two. A couple of steps above, Mile was on the ground, leaning against the three, his head resting on his chest, both hands on the ground. His palms facing up, as if he’s praying, or giving up. His legs on the ground, feet falling away from each other. He looked like he was resting, finally. The red stains visible underneath the dark jacket.

Petar’s brain jumped through the scene. He counted seven stabs. There was no pulse. He did not try to shake or call him. He calmly got up, and watched him for a minute. The scene seemed so familiar. Only this time he did not know what direction to run in and whom to tell. This is not what you expect any more, yet it keeps happening. Whom to call? Whom to show this? A brother? A mother? They should never see such a painful departure. So much hope killed in seven stabs, left to slowly bleed between the trees, towards the stream, down by the house he spent his whole life in. Was Mile angry? Was he desperate? Was he tired? Why did he choose to bleed out on the ground he walked all his life?

Petar’s feet did not move. His heart sped up. Blood rushed to his head. Blood on his fingers. Again. He run over to the nearest three, his stomach violently rushing to his throat, staining the snow below. When his head stopped spinning, he washed his hands in the stream, and kept walking. Everyone was in front of Mile’s house, waiting for Petar to arrive so they can begin the search. He walked in silence while they watched him slowly approaching. Good evening Petar! We were waiting for you! We should head out as soon as possible, it’s getting cold! Mile’s brother, Goran, was yelling across the field as he was giving out flashlights. Petar didn’t respond.

Silence is a well known story in this village. Silence means everything. Only the sound of Petar’s boots breaking the icy top coat of the snow echoed across the field. Goran dropped the flashlights and paused. Petar, what is it?! No response. Goran turned around and looked at the gathered neighbors. They held their breath, staring at Petar. Where is he!? Where is he?! Goran yelled, running across the field and jumped at Petar, grabbing his collar and choking him as if he was the one who held Mile hostage. Petar said nothing. He let Goran shake and hit him, and the longer he stood there the more Goran yelled and the harder he hit. The neighbours walked over slowly, in silence, and pulled him away - Don’t Goran. Your children are in the house. Think of them, please. Goran fell to the ground.

Stay here. We will bring him home. Petar waved at the two neighbours and they walked away together. They were all in the same unit some twenty years ago. They rehearsed for this many times before. Goran wiped his tears and set in silence for a minute. He took a deep breath, straightened his back, got up, and slowly walked towards the house. He had to prepare the family for Mile’s arrival.

Mile was brought home that night, and the women’s screams tore the snow covered mountains once again. We heard the front door close behind Petar and threw our cigarettes into the fire instinctively. We heard the screams, there was no need for words. Petar took off his uniform and handed it over to my aunt - Mile always asked me: if a man is not a gun, then what is he? I guess he found his answer. He's dead.

My aunt put the uniform on the floor by the fireplace and walked over to the fridge. She took out a bottle of rakija and put it on the table. Four shot glasses and a pack of cigarettes between us.

I never saw her give rakija to a man without him asking for it first.