Awaiting the blue envelope amid the overlapping crises in Bosnia and Herzegovina

By Ivana Ljuština

Waiting for the Postman

There was a green plastic table with two fitting plastic chairs in front of Lejla's old house. Thin spongy pillows with floral designs covered the chairs. Lejla was sitting in one of the chairs. She was looking into the distance nervously, as if she was staring into a dark abyss. Her crossed legs were trembling. She was still wearing her sleeping gown, which was worn out from many years of use. She held a lit cigarette in her right hand that she occasionally shook over a pot with a tiny pink rose next to her chair. The coffee on the table was mostly untouched. The pile of smoked cigarettes in the ashtray was mounting, much like the palpable fear that was filling the air.

She told me to go and get myself a cup of coffee. I went to the kitchen, took a small white cup with light blue flowers on it and then joined her outside. We were here to wait for the postman; he was supposed to come that day. Our gaze was directed out over the old rusty porch towards the road where cars and people rushed past.

Before that summer of 2020, Lejla worked as a hairdresser in the salon she inherited from her late father, whose picture still hung on the wall. She occasionally gave work in the salon to some of the migrants living in the town. And this seemed to be the reason why someone reported her to the authorities. Shortly after Lejla was reported, the special police forces raided her salon and inspection closed it down. She had not been working for a couple of days since the raid. As the breadwinner of the family, she was not used to be without work. It was ten in the morning and normally by that time, she would be in her salon. On a regular busy day, she would sit in the corner of the shop at a small coffee table spending the day chatting with customers, cutting hair, or playing on her phone. The migrants working in her salon would groom beards for customers.

An unfolding crisis

Since the refugee corridor through the Balkan Route was closed in 2015, Hungary and Croatia started obstructing border-crossings from Serbia (more on the Balkan Route: Hameršak, Hess, Speer & Mitrović, 2020). Bosnia and Herzegovina (hereafter Bosnia) became the last porous border with Croatia, and thus, the EU. This meant that the Balkan route shifted, and many more migrants started using the newly established route through Bosnia. By the early winter of 2018, many migrants travelling through the Balkan Route started to inhabit small towns and larger cities in the northwestern part of Bosnia. One of these towns is home to Lejla.

Over the past five years, many migrants have concentrated in the Una-Sana canton, due to its proximity to the EU border (which, in January 2023, also became the Schengen border). Following the influx of migrants in Lejla's town, many locals faced new challenges, doubts, and problems, but also opportunities. Locals started encountering significantly more migrants on the streets and witnessed the creation of makeshift settlements in the woods or the occupation of old and abandoned buildings (see Hromadžić, 2020). Some locals responded by offering help, albeit some with repulsion, while others took advantage of the situation. Many of those who decided to help, have been facing harassment and state-imposed sanctions for their actions. Lejla is one of them.

With the redirection of the Balkan Route via Bosnia, the Croatian-Bosnian border became more militarized and violent, which was further exacerbated during the Covid-19 pandemic. Migrants speak of beatings, robberies, and sometimes torture or sexual abuse by the Croatian border police (see Augustova & Sapoch, 2020). During my fieldwork, I have met many migrants walking back from the border through the villages in Una-Sana Canton, being hurt and without their belongings. Yet, these violent pushbacks from the Croatian border do not prevent migrants from crossing the borders.

The impact of the migrant and the political situation in Bosnia only exacerbate the complex governance issues and complicated relations that Bosnia has with the EU. Bosnia is still dealing with the consequences of the 1992-1995 war, including a significant amount of internally displaced people. While the Dayton peace agreement keeps Bosnia divided, the Republic of Srpska (RS, one of the two entities within Bosnia) obstructs any state action in handling the migration crisis, which restricts any form of systematic response to it. The unwillingness of the RS to contribute to a solution creates even more division in an already divided country. Thus, it is hard to believe that Bosnia alone could accept, accommodate, and deal with the high numbers of migrants arriving in the country. And while many may perceive the global migration crisis as isolated or temporary, the reality in places like Bosnia reveals its intricate and enduring connections. We must recognise its connection to multiple overlapping crises to understand how people truly perceive and navigate these challenges. These overlapping crises form the larger context in which Lejla's story must be situated.

Sitting on the porch of Lejla's house, we were still waiting for the postman. She was expecting him to bring a blue envelope. Blue envelope is an ominous sign that the letter contains an invitation to court or a fine that she would have to pay to the authorities. Alongside the fine would also come the decision of how long her salon would be closed, for the second time that year. And as we were waiting, Lejla broke the uncomfortable silence, "since they [the migrants] started coming, they came here. No one wanted to accept them, except me". She continued: "and look how I am treated now!" She sighed in despair. Her eyes stared impatiently at the road, and her cigarette continued to fizzle loudly in her hand.

Perpetuating Crisis as a Living ‘Condition’ 

After five years, the constant state of mismanagement of the so-called ‘migration crisis’ has become an everyday reality for people in Bosnia. At the same time, it has been thirty years since the war shook the lives of every Bosnian. Furthermore, it has been more than two years since the COVID-19 pandemic changed the world. The most recent problems, such as the ‘migration crisis’ in the area, are just mounting on the top of many other difficulties that the locals have been enduring. These include ubiquitous poverty, high unemployment, an unusually high rate of cancer, an abysmal health care system, and many people leaving the country for a better future elsewhere. This leads me to consider the temporal beginnings and endings of this ‘crisis’.

How do people imagine their lives to unfold? How they imagine their futures? In my conversations with people in Bosnia, they only fear even bigger trouble. When it comes to the ‘migration crisis’, they fear that someone will take up arms to handle the situation. Amongst the multiple intersecting and prolonged crises, any illusion of a better future or continuity of life in such conditions is shattering. In Lejla’s words, “This is the last thing I needed”.

Whilst the ‘migration crisis’ in the region created a new challenge, the underlying crises in the lives of ordinary people were initiated long ago, with the war. These overlapping crises formed the condition that has been characterizing the everyday life in Bosnia for the last three decades. Instead of thinking about the recent events as a one-time occurrence that shakes normality, I see the value in unpacking and analysing the diverse histories, contexts, agencies, and forces that generated the conditions for a perpetual state of crisis.

The Blue Envelope

The blue envelope finally arrived. Lejla handed it to me, urging me to open it. I followed her command. I unfolded the papers and read to Lejla that her salon would stay closed until she paid the penalty of 1000 KM (approximately 500 euros, three-months of income for Lejla). Somewhere between the cigarette smoke and the rising anxiety lingered the unspoken answer to the question of how she would pay the fine.

With an unemployed husband who was a war veteran prone to drinking, and having no children, Lejla would have to lean on the help of some friends and connections in the municipality. This way she managed to reopen the salon quite quickly. However, since then the blue envelopes had continued to arrive.

In the end, Lejla was not able to pay off all her debts and fines. But despite all the odds, one year later, she again let migrants stay and work in her salon. The blue envelopes with the fines she was unable to pay kept piling up on her old TV.

Bio Ivana Ljuština

Ivana Ljuština is a PhD researcher in Cultural Anthropology. In order to read more about her research, please visit this link.