Grbavica was the last of the five Sarajevo suburbs to be given up by the occupying Serbs in the 1990s, and it saw some of the heaviest fighting and torture of civilians. Any way you look at it, the name fits, since the women who reside there could buckle under the sadness, buried fury and resignation of their lives.
At a women's center, which attracts patrons more for the dispensation of monthly grants than its group therapy, the reactions range from hysterical laughter to a recitation of haunted dreams. "My experience shows that there can be no healing without talking," the leader says.
She cannot coax any conversation from Esma (Mirjana Karanovic), a newly hired nightclub waitress who is the single mother of a 12-year-old daughter, Sara (Luna Mijovic). When the boss asked if she had children, she said no. "Only fools have children these days," he scoffed.
"Grbavica: The Land of My Dreams" uses the mother-daughter dynamic to explore the legacy of war. It threatens to blunt everything, from love of country to devotion to family.
Jobs and money are scarce. When a man and woman recognize each other, it's not from any of the normal channels. They both used to go to post-mortem identifications looking for relatives.
A school student whose parent was a martyr or disabled in the war will get a pass or discount for a much-anticipated class trip. The war changed life for everyone, from college students who once harbored grand dreams to retirees who thought they would enjoy their later years in some comfort.
This is the world where Esma and Sara find themselves, and the shadow of the truth looms large. As one character says, "If I remembered everything, I'd kill myself."
"Grbavica," featuring two actresses who make different but indelible impressions, presumes the audience has some passing knowledge of the war. Instead of turning the telescope on the big picture, it's as if Zbanic has flipped it around and shown us a representative mother and daughter. She invests their relationship with tension that leads to a predictable but explosive place.
For apparent reasons of practicality and storytelling, Zbanic gives us the "after" picture rather than the "before and after." When Esma finally opens up with her gut-wrenching story, you're thankful that you are simply listening to her account of the past rather than watching it.
Or living it.
Opens Friday at the Harris Theater, Downtown.