Love is the basis of life, and different levels of Sufism must be passed to reach the pinnacle. The first degree is when ownership of things is divided into: "This is mine and that is yours." If we do not agree, there is a judge, or it will be settled by conflict. The second level is better: "What's mine is yours," so we share things, something like in communism. I think that I am very close to the third degree: "The thread is mine, the thread is yours," and I wish to touch the fourth: "The thread has me and the thread has you." Therefore, we are not important at all, but the truth," says Prof. . Ph.D. Esad Boskailo, psychiatrist, deputy director for specialization, director of continuing education at the largest psychiatric hospital, and Associate Professor at The University of Arizona. Arizona is the homeland of the Apache Indians, where 10-year-old Esa was first brought by cousins Velija and Šaćir-Ćira Boškailo in gifted books by Karl Maja. The second time—banished by war. Arizona's beneficial owners are most numerous in the eternal hunting grounds. Natives from the Boskailo tribe at the harem, in Počitelje. I don't know what degree it is according to Sufism, but it is the absolute truth. And a complete injustice, because the son of honest people, Emina and Ibra, had to go through 10 camps on the way from his birthplace in the shadow of Gavran—the Captain's Tower—to the USA Cathedral. This record talks about that and how "life is not just a field trip." - My mother and grandmother would often talk about how for my first birthday Muta Alagić played the tambourine with the entire Počitelji orchestra. I remember the first days of school because of poverty and short periods of well-being around the "scale." By selling tobacco, we are happy with shoes, sweets, and sometimes new clothes. Poverty was in money, but we were rich in spirit, socializing games... There was no television, so we read a lot and listened to the wise stories of our grandparents. With the arrival of TV welfare, I was fascinated by basketball. I watched the unforgettable World Championship in the "Tivoli" hall in Ljubljana when Simonović, Ćosić, and others brought the first world gold to the South. We immediately made a kind of basket and began to insert day and night; two years later, I was already playing for the national team of Čapljina elementary school students at the BiH national team and at the age of 15 in the first team of KK Borac. We started in the regional, walked through the republic and then the second YU, and soon became a strong team in the First B League of the South. I played one match against the best players in the world at the time, Dalipagić and Kićanović. High school in Zapljina was spent studying and playing basketball. My best friend from those days, Capljina basketball legend Boro Ivković, was, unfortunately, killed in Čapljina in 1992... I enrolled in the Faculty of Medicine in Sarajevo. I studied a lot and finished on time. I spent my free hours near the "Bjelave" student dormitory, where I was the owner of the Disco Club and DJ, cafes Lisac, Hondo, and Skenderija. I watched Kinđet every game and played for the Faculty of Medicine and KK Jug from Bjelava. That period from 1978 to 1984 was also the time of preparation for the Olympics. ZOI is a special story; renovated and flashy Sarajevo is still spinning in my head... Started working in Hitna in Čapljina in '85, then JNA at VMA with my study roommate and wedding best man, Boro Vasiljević. The war found me in Počitelj, where I spent my days at "Deša" with Gar, Fika, Kap, Canet, and Ker; in the summer on the Neretva; in the evening near Muta, with the sevdah of Nedžad Imamović's orchestra. And Zaim would sit until some singer started a newly composed song. He would get up a little shakily and walk home with his wife. From his autobiographical notebook, Dr. Eso happily mentions his marriage to Aisha in 1988, the birth of Timur's sons in 1989, and Maca '91, and with sadness that 20 days before Mak would arrive, his brother Ibro left. "Babo was an unusually calm, just, strong, and hard-working man from whom I learned to respect humanity." And inhumanity was coming. - Morning, April '92. I was driving to Čapljina when three masked young men stopped me: "Go back; it's war; you can't go to Čapljina!" I said I was going to work and naively explained that I don't like to be late. One takes off his mask, familiar to me. "Doc, please come back right away or we'll have to kill you." I came back and was on guard with the Počiteljci the same evening. The destruction began; people from Dubrava, thousands, fled to Počitelj. We lost Počitelj in ten days and returned it two months later. I spent the following year on the front lines from Mostar to Višić, helping civilians and wounded soldiers. From minor injuries to a 20-year-old neighbor holding a severed leg in his hand; dozens of dead acquaintances and neighbors in one day... When an anti-tank shell flew through the infirmary in Duhanska in Čapljina, I was shaking like a cherry tree under a small wooden table. I was afraid every second, primarily for my family. Later, I was a little freed thanks to the classic war psychology "they don't want me." I was arrested on April 20, 1993. The first camp: Capljina Barracks. Mostly intellectuals, and later in turn. It was funny and sad when the new camp inmates still didn't know why they were there. Salko, an inmate, while we are playing rummy cards made of paper from "Jadro" biscuits, says, "Jelde, doctor, if our people catch a Croatian doctor in Konjic, they will replace you." I said, "It can be."" And then, Hivzo, if we are captives, what about some professor, and you will go on an exchange? Salko kept silent for a while and said, "Well, I guess some Ustasha in Konjic threw dynamite in Neretva, so they're going to exchange me too." Salko was arrested along with the rest of the people of Višić, but he thought that the reason was that he was "hunting" fish with dynamite that day in Krupa. He didn't know that he was with us because he was a "balija." In June I was transferred to Gabela, then to Rodoč, Mostar, and Dretelj on July 1. In the worst camp, I lost 40 kilos. For a while I couldn't raise my head; I don't have the strength... They shot through the thin tin wall of the hangar and wounded the skeletons. I took out shrapnel with a needle and a razor blade, which I disinfected with a lighter... He was also a Stočana inmate, with a long beard, and gray hair, thin, silent, isolated among 700 skeletons in a small space at 40 degrees; he was called Šera. "Can I help you?" I ask. He says, "Yes, I would like to join!" I said, "By God, you're not normal; listen, you'd buy it in Dretelje!" He said angrily, "Then what are you asking me?" I asked the fireman who was bringing the water tank; he even offered to run away. Would he help? He can hurry; he will bring the tank to the hangar; we can watch the guards. Shera took a bath and said to me, "Well, thanks to you, I don't need anything now." I recently read that Marko Vešović said at Šera's funeral in Sarajevo: "The greatest Bosnian poet, Šerif Krgo, has died." The one who left Dretelj alive will never be the same again. What happened there cannot be written down... I was transferred from Dretelje to an underground camp, Silos in Čapljina. They were freezing and outside about 40 plus... From Silos to Gabel, then Silos again, then 5-6 months to Ljubuški, then Rodoč again... I was released through the UN; they took me to Gašince, a camp in Croatia. Aiša, children, mother, and sister were exiled to Italy, and in Ljubuško I tried to get an Italian dictionary. The guard, a former patient, brought me English. A few of us memorized grammar and a lot of words, but we pronounced them wrong. While I was waiting for a visa for Italy in Gašinci, Aiša announced that she had no work and they were going to Chicago. When I came too, she took me to Truman College to test my English. I can't put together a sentence, but I take the test for 4, and the grades are from 1 to 5. They bring the translator, and the teacher says, "Something is wrong—you don't know how to speak, and you did the test for 4, repeat." I repeat in 5, and I can hardly convince them to put me in the beginner class... My cousin Šaban Torlo bought me a couple of books. I need to pass the nostrification exams. Two exams, God forbid, a dozen books, each 700-800 pages. I read the first page of internal medicine for two weeks and passed both exams after 1.5 years. When I learned a little English, Amer Smajkić found me a job at the Clinic for Mental Health of Exiles. Later, that clinic was called "Bosnian Mental Health." I translated during psychotherapy for Dr. Mary Fabri, one of the most famous psychologists in the world who primarily deals with trauma. We worked with camp inmates and civilian victims of war for four years. After that, I started teaching all over the USA and Canada, and at the same time, I was the editor-in-chief of the monthly magazine "Zambak," intended for exiles. He teamed up with Mugdo Karabeg and a lot of our people; we made good news. I specialize in Phoenix. At an international conference in Toronto, I meet author Julia Lieblich from Chicago. I suggested that she help me write a book modeled on "Man Search for Meaning" by Victor Frankl, who in the first part writes about his experiences from Auschwitz and in the second about therapy for psycho trauma. He refuses; he is working on a book about the suffering in Sierra Leone. But he agreed to listen to my lecture. When I finish, he says, "When do we start?" It was in '05. From that cooperation in April '12, the book "Wounded I am More Awake" was published by Vanderbilt University Press, one of the largest publishers of this type of literature: "The more wounded I am, the more alive I am," a paraphrase of Mako's verse, "They don't know that wounded like this, the more I am awake." Some experts claim that those who have gone through severe trauma cannot help others. I got the greatest satisfaction when, after a lecture I gave at Harvard, Dr. Robert J. Lifton said to me, "I hope you use your experience while helping others!" Robert J. Lifton is the biggest name in American psychiatry in the field of psychodrama, the first American psychiatrist who went to Hiroshima and helped the survivors. Last year, a documentary was shown at the Film Festival in Sarajevo. In which a ship sails on Lake Arizona. On the ship, inmates Prof. Dr. Eso and journalist Mugdim Karabeg, each from their profession, try to find out the unknown about human and inhuman behavior of man. The film is entitled "From Auschwitz to Dretelje." Director: Timur Boskailo. Aiša worked and raised children while I was studying, and on duty. Timur studied film and is now finishing anthropology at Arizona State University. Mak, 205 cm tall, is a sophomore playing basketball for Wyoming College and has a free education. Sister Biba lives in Italy with her husband and two children. Mama Emina lives with us. During the day, he plants peppers, kavades, lettuce, and onions in the garden behind the family house in the heart of the Wild West, and in the evening he watches "Hayat" TV. He tells me everything in order, from politics to sports. On Saturdays and Sundays, he gets up at five in the morning so as not to miss it by accident, and one minute when Dzeko shakes the nets on the island. On weekends, I'm in the psychiatric emergency department, and right in the middle of a conversation with a seriously ill patient, he calls out, "Džeko scored again!" Or: "What a rude Italian; he changed to Džeko in the 88th minute." We go to Bosnia every year, a little to Sarajevo, a little to Stolac, a little to Počitelj. I meet guys who mostly want to communicate on the principle of "nothing happened; there was a war, and I had to." I don't accept because I know that there were good people on the evil side who "didn't have to." I would not torture another person at the cost of my own life, and I do not admit that I "had to." So when I go down and I'm glad—and I'm not glad. There is no other life; there are not many people dear to me in Počitelji: Kape, Adze Bećir, cousins Kopa and Braca... Neighbors killed them. And I am most worried about politicians who offer future generations hatred instead of love, discord instead of unity, poverty instead of prosperity, and conflicts instead of peace. They will gossip now and then. The fate of the whole community depends only on whether there will be a stronger group of good or evil. Unfortunately, in the 90's, evil people ruled, and we got what we had... Here I am a member of the Bosnian-Herzegovinian American Academy of Science and Art. At the last meeting in St. A, a girl introduced herself to Louis: "I'm from Mostar, an exile; I got my doctorate at Harvard, and now I'm researching explosions on Mars." When a younger person, an exile from Bosnia, joins us, I would take off. In Phoenix, I mostly hang out with ours. We have a nice community—about 6 thousand Bosnians and Herzegovinans. I live, thank God, solidly. I work, I teach, and I enjoy it even though our neighbors didn't plan this for us. As I finish this text, I am not sure who interviewed whom. Gentleness and cheerfulness, wisdom and intimacy from Skype—sessions with Dr. Es made me feel better. I underwent excellent psychotherapy, for which I am eternally grateful. Article published on  bosanskaposta.no