For the ones that follow this blog is not a surprise that this year we are celebrating the centenary of my father, Luka Brajnović
Recently his former students of the University of Navarre, organised a celebration in his honour in Madrid. Some famous Spanish journalists who had been his pupils came and payed him homage telling things like that my father had been the teacher who had teach them to be free (in times when in Spain that was not so easy) and work according with the ethics.
The organizadores had put in the paraninfo a giant picture of my dad surrounded by his students in the University’s bar, talking informal. With that scenery and in front of almost 300 people, I could talk about him.
A Known journalist asked me about my book. In it I have told the story of my parents during the II World War and the Cold War when they suffered a lot and had to spend twelve years separated forcefully, but their love increased in that time of harsh difficulties.
I began to write the book just after my mother’s death and for me was an intense emotional journey from which I have emerged loving my parents more than ever.
In the featured image I caress my dad’s face in the picture. With me are my sisters Elica and Ljerka. Elica Was born in Croatia during the war before my parents were forced to separate. She was a little baby 4 months. And she stayed with my mom in Yugoslavia. She met her dad when she was 12 years old and the family finally reunited in Munich.
In the picture above, there I am between two great Spanish Journalists José María Irujo (El País) and Iñaki Gabilondo (SER) talking about my dad.
After 28 years working as a journalist for a newspaper, glued to the strict facts and trying to be precise and truthful, I kind of burned my writing style. It’s very difficult for me to compose something creative. And it’s a shame, because I once upon a time had some talent, and lots of ideas for short stories and poetry. Even I published a poem with some success. But I was young and enthusiastic then, and didn’t have experienced the harsh life of a street reporter, with a daily deadline to deliver my news and the need to tell real stories as accurate as possible, with as few words as possible. No adjectives. No fancy descriptions. Just so: what, who, when, where, why. Everything else, had no space in my work.
Back in the 90s I went to Bosnia Herzegovina as a reporter during the Balkans war. I contacted with a local journalist hoping to obtain some good sources and information about what was going on in Mostar, taking advantage of my knowledge of the language. So I left the group of foreign correspondents who were working in the area with a translator, based in Medjugorje, where the Spanish troops had their headquarters.
