The River Is Life

The River Is Life.

One of the reasons Mima and I grew close long before we developed feelings for each other was our shared passion for series and films.

This mutual interest gives us more than just a moment of soothing distance from the world around us, or a quiet moment of closeness beneath a soft blanket.
Cultural content we experience and share never fails to inspire.

Its symbols and storylines, with themes like love, joy, or cruelty, become fertile ground for reflection, giving rise to meaningful conversations and vibrant debate. Because it is in conversation that the things which truly connect us gradually unfold.

Football is life

“Ted Lasso” is one of our favorite shows from our shared repertoire.

With so much serious content behind us, a welcome change: something that made us laugh and lifted the weight off our hearts.

In my teenage years, and even later on, I was deeply drawn to what is considered classic literature in our Western cultural world.

Looking back, I can say with certainty that this inclination led me into the dark world of Dostoevsky and other realists – and fundamentally shaped my rather pessimistic view of the world.

To such an extent that I became convinced that only what carried a “serious” and dramatic tone was truly worth seeing, reading, or listening to.

That kind of tone offered insight into the difficult, often painful lives of ordinary people struggling to survive in a cruel world ruled by the powerful – those who oppress others and enrich themselves at their expense.

What interested me, then, was only what revealed the harsh and sorrowful side of reality.

I hadn’t understood that joy, humor, and a bright outlook on the world around us are just as much a part of reality – and in fact, the more beautiful part. And that laughter can be a powerful way to address social issues and to mock precisely those who take themselves far too seriously.

One of the characters in Ted Lasso, a man from South America, made us laugh time and again by repeating a simple sentence in all kinds of situations: “Football is life.”

Whether football really is life or not probably depends on how – and to what extent – one engages with it.

For some, football is the most important of the unimportant things in life; for others, it’s simply a way to relax and take their mind off everyday worries.

Some see it as entertainment, others as a release valve for pent-up emotions through cheering and chanting. And for some, it’s nothing but nonsense – something in which they can’t find any meaning or value.

Football is life!

The River as Identity

“What is life for you?” Mima once asked me.

Immersed in the world of the show, the question caught me off guard at first. But the first thing that came to mind was:

“You and Sofia – you are my life.”

Family is life. As a child, I think you only sense that – without fully understanding it. At least, that’s how it truly was in my case.

But in my life, there is something else that means life to me. Something that gave life back to me.

And I only realized that by chance, a few months later, as we sat, content and tired, after a three-day bike tour at the confluence of three rivers in Passau: the Inn, the Danube, and the Ilz.

Looking at the clearly distinguishable colors of the Inn and the Danube, which only merge fully further down the bend, it suddenly became clear to me:
To someone who grew up by and on a river, the river itself becomes a living symbol of what life truly is.

It doesn’t just carry life within it – it gives life to everything around it. Its calming scent, at times mingled with the smell of silt, fish, trees, and grass, is forever etched into my memory.

Whether I’m sitting by the water or revising this text at my desk, I can vividly recall that scent and feel it rise into my nose.

In its upper stretches – those described by Ivo Andrić in his novel and where I spent the years of my early adolescence – the Drina flows fast, wild, and green as an eye.

And yet, despite all the beauty I’ve seen there, I still feel most deeply connected to its lower course – the part of the river where I spent my childhood. There, the river moves more slowly, is deeper, and less vividly green, mainly because of the human effort to tame it and harness its flow for much-needed electricity.

My grandfather often spoke with sadness in his voice:

“When they built the hydroelectric plant back in ’58, our two most fertile fields by the river were flooded. The state never compensated us. I used to graze the cattle there… Two large barns and all our sheds were completely submerged—because of that lake…”

It seemed to me that he never truly got over the fact that the river had been tamed—and that it was thanks to this taming that we had electricity in our part of the Drina Valley.

Only later did I come to understand that his sorrow was rooted in the loss of the family’s best piece of land—a heavy blow to our already poor household.

Treasure Hunt in the Mud of Childhood

For me, on the other hand, that vast reservoir was inseparable from life—it was my sea. And it still held countless secrets beneath its surface.

When the water would recede during dry summer months, my cousin Janko—who was also my best friend—and I would go treasure hunting in the slippery mud.

Alongside fishing gear—mostly floats, hooks, sinkers, and the occasional lure, which were our main goal—we would also find a surprising number of padlocks.

These leftover relics from the submerged barns, stables, and pens told the story of the flood. A flood that had brought sorrow to my grandfather — and joy to me.

The first time I brought home a full bag of those locks, my father said—his voice laced with anger that barely masked his fear:

“What do you want with those? Don’t you know they lock away people’s happiness? Go throw them all back into the river—right now!”

But back then, so much misfortune hovered over our region — a land already thick with the scent of an approaching war — it was as if everyone had pulled at least three locks from the Drina.

Reluctantly, I returned my haul to the water, grumbling about all the effort I’d put into collecting them.

Still, I secretly kept one—a very old lock, unlike anything I had ever seen before. It was massive, heavy, with a large keyhole and a beautiful shape that reminded me of a heart.

Whether it tried to seal away my happiness and my life— I still don’t know…

Struggling with the Depth and the Self

Wading through the shallows, poking around in the mud, fishing, walking, and herding goats along the Drina—that was part of my everyday life.

Swimming was not.

So many times I watched my friends with a hint of sadness as they swam freely and carefree, and I dreamed of the day when I too would be able to float on my back, defy the water, and gaze up at the blue sky above me.

Or to dive beneath the surface and see what lay in those depths—depths that even the summer droughts never fully revealed, and that vanished completely into the darkness of night.

That spiral of experience with swimming—or better said, with life in the water—came back to me one day as I swam with friends to a nearby buoy in the local lake near Regensburg. I was struggling to catch my breath while trying to keep my balance on a rope stretched between two buoys.

A friend, surprised by how exhausted I looked after such a short swim, asked:

“Is it really possible that you’re that out of shape?”

“Stamina has never been my strong suit,” I replied, “but I think this tiredness has a lot to do with my fear of water, because I almost drowned. Twice.”

And in that moment, I felt the truth finally speak through me.

For years, I had pushed that fear aside—refusing to admit that I had nearly drowned, that I hadn’t known how to swim, that even now I wasn’t a good swimmer, and that the depth still frightened me.

I only learned to swim after moving away from the Drina — in a municipal pool, not deep enough to pull me under or drag me to the bottom.

Convinced that I had finally mastered staying afloat and that the river of my childhood could no longer harm me, I looked forward to my first visit back to the village and to swimming again with my friends.

And on the very first day, when I saw our neighbor setting out in her boat toward the middle of the Drina lake — where my friends were already gathered on a sandbank — I jumped into the water without hesitation and began swimming toward her.

I had overestimated myself.

Had she not turned her boat toward me to shorten the distance, I probably wouldn’t have had the strength to reach her. With trembling arms, I hauled myself into the boat — and didn’t go back into the water for the rest of the day, claiming I was simply tired from the journey.

To this day, I still see the disbelief in people’s eyes when I tell them I nearly drowned twice — and that, altogether, I’ve had five close brushes with death.

“How are you even still alive?” is one of the questions I hear most often.

“I guess I’ve just been lucky,” I usually answer.

But that luck has a name, a body, saving hands — and a permanent place in my memory, for as long as my life lasts, however long that may be.

I remember clearly both times the water almost took me.

Especially the moment when our neighbor, in a casual conversation with my parents, said:

“A drowning person comes up three times before the water takes them.”

That sentence carved itself deep into my subconscious.

Three times—that was the first thought that crossed my mind both times I went under.

I counted each surfacing like in a duel, where the opponents slowly approach one another — step by step, toward death.

Even now, my legs grow weak when I think of those three moments of coming up for air.

The struggle to free myself from the pull of the water dragging me down, and the haunting question of how much strength I still had left — that’s what stayed with me.

Did it last long? Yes, a whole eternity!

Silence, the Paddle, and the Red Lifeline

The first time I nearly drowned was on the day we in the village used to call the “opening of the season.”

My sister and I were playing carelessly on a boat, tied up at the small village dock just below our neighbor’s house.

I don’t remember whether it was January or another winter month, but I do remember the cold — and that I was dressed warmly.

While I stood at the far end of the boat, leaning forward and staring into the water, my sister gently pulled the boat toward the shore. It shifted — and I made what was probably the best dive of my life, straight into the river.

Shock and fear surged through me. Instinctively, I opened my mouth to breathe — but water rushed into my lungs instead.

Frantic, uncoordinated flailing of arms and legs pushed me briefly to the surface—just long enough to do nothing at all, not even to call out for my sister. Then I sank again.

The second time I came up, one thought took hold of me: just one more time—and then it’s over. When I surfaced the third time, barely getting my nose above water, I knew I didn’t have the strength for a fourth. My winter clothes were now heavy with water, and even the last spark of hope was fading.

I remember the overwhelming despair at that moment.

Could this really be the end? Was this how life simply stops and goes dark?

And just as I began to surrender to the river, luck looked me in the eye—and the water let me go.

My sister had finally reacted and reached out to me with a paddle—really just a stick with a broken red traffic sign attached to it. If it hadn’t been for that bright red stripe on the remaining piece of the sign, I might not have even seen it in the murky water that was pulling me down.

I can still hear Jeca’s voice, muffled through the water:

“Grab the paddle!”

I was furious at her—for taking so long to act. But now I know that what felt like an eternity to me was probably only a few seconds for her.

I remember walking back to shore, going home, and taking off my soaked winter clothes as if from a third-person perspective. It felt like my spirit had separated from my body and accompanied it until it could finally return.

Both of us—my sister and I—tried to dry our clothes as quickly as possible so that our parents wouldn’t notice. We were afraid they might scold us or even hit us.

There was no time to show fear.

I was alive. That was all that mattered.

The second time I nearly drowned didn’t happen at the start of the season, but in the middle of it. I remember the sweltering heat and how all my friends were already out on the sandbank in the river, swimming and playing. Once I had finished my chores at home, my parents finally let me go join them.

I stood on the riverbank, separated from the sandbank by a man-made channel that had been dug long ago. I didn’t want to go back home—not now, when I was finally allowed to swim in the refreshingly cool water. I called out and asked someone to come pick me up by boat, but no one responded.

Determined not to give up, I came up with a plan in my head: since I couldn’t swim, I would just walk across the channel underwater to the other side, where the shallow part began. It sounded perfectly reasonable—at least to the mind of a boy who had read too many fantasy novels.

But my brilliant idea turned out to be a complete disaster after just the first step.

As soon as my foot touched the water, it slipped on the muddy bottom, and my whole body slid into the depth.

The same familiar pattern followed: once, twice, three times…

And once again, a saving hand reached out to me.

Suddenly, Vujo was there—an older man from the village who had been fishing nearby, though I hadn’t noticed him before. Every time we saw each other after that, he would tease me with a grin:

“Remember how you grabbed my arm back then? I thought you were going to tear it off, you little rascal!”

So I had to return home—earlier than I’d wanted, but thankfully still alive.

This time, my parents heard what had happened pretty quickly. Even today, I believe that neither they nor I fully realized how serious the situation had actually been—otherwise, they probably would have punished me harshly.

Sometimes you get in trouble when you least expect it. And sometimes, you’re spared when you probably deserve a scolding. That’s how my childlike mind made sense of things back then.

Today, I think: no child should ever have to fear being punished—especially not for nearly drowning.

Now that I know how to swim, I don’t particularly enjoy it.

Whether I tire quickly because I lack physical stamina or because fear still creeps in—I honestly don’t know.

When I think back to those two times the river nearly took me, what I remember most is the taste of water and the feeling of lungs filling with it.

And yet, I don’t feel any hostility toward the water, or toward the river. I’m not ready to let go of its presence in my life. I love it. And I love spending time along its banks.

In the end, even though I almost lost my life in the water—it has given it back to me twice and refused to take it.

Yes, the river is life to me—both literally and metaphorically.

And had it not returned my life to me, Mima and Sofia would never have become my life.

S-Dad