Priscilla Morris: "In the fire my great-uncle lost all his life's work"

BarcelonaPriscilla Morris (United Kingdom, 1973) lives between Ireland and Romanyà de la Selva, but spent all the summers of her childhood in Sarajevo, her mother's hometown. Morris was 19 years old when the Bosnian war broke out and her grandparents and other relatives were trapped in the capital, which remained under siege for 1,425 days in what is known as the longest siege in modern history. Now she recounts these experiences in Black butterflies (Periscope, 2024; translated into Catalan by Marc Rubió), a debut novel that she has spent thirteen years writing and which has earned her many accolades. Among them, a nomination for the Women's Prize 2023 and a place among the 10 best historical fiction books of 2024 seconds The New York Times.

The siege of Sarajevo left a deep mark on your family. At what point did you feel compelled to write this story?

— The war turned most of my relatives into refugees. When I was 26, I heard the story of my great-uncle, who was a landscape painter in Sarajevo and had his studio above the National Library. The National Library was bombed and burned down with more than two million books. In the fire, my great-uncle lost his studio and 300 paintings, his entire life's work. It was a tragedy for him. He then managed to escape from Sarajevo with the last Red Cross convoy and settled in England with his wife and daughter. And after a period of recovery, he began painting again. He continued painting for the next two decades, and I think this was his way of integrating back into society. When I heard his story at my grandfather's funeral, I felt a story of hope, of how art helped to overcome the tragedy of war. Because my grandfather, on the other hand, never got over the war.

The novel is based on the experiences of his great-uncle, Dobrivoje Beljkašić. But he chose Zora, a middle-aged female character, to embody it. Why?

— At first I had a male protagonist, but I realized that it didn’t work. It was too close to the real story, and I wanted to write fiction. Also, as part of the research I went to live in Sarajevo for five months in 2010 to interview many people about the experience of the siege, and many were women. The memories that stuck with me were through the eyes of a woman. But above all I had a moment of creative inspiration. The character of Zora appeared to me. I remember that I was reading and suddenly I saw this 55-year-old red-haired woman, and it was as if I already knew things about her: that she would be alone when the siege began, that she would separate from her husband, and that she would develop a friendship with someone very close to her.

What has changed in Sarajevo compared to the summers you spent there as a child?

— It was sad to come back, because my childhood memories in Sarajevo are very happy: of the beautiful landscape; of my relatives, who are of different ethnicities but who get along very well with each other... When I returned 22 years later to research the book, it was different. Sarajevo is a very beautiful city, but beneath the surface there is still a lot of tension, and it hurts me. Before the war, one in three marriages were of mixed nationality, now the ethnic composition of the city is different.

Identities are a complex issue in Bosnia. How did you decide to approach the topic?

— Zora is Bosnian Serb, but anti-nationalist, so she is against the Serbian aggressors attacking Sarajevo from the hills. I decided that she should be Bosnian Serb because my great-uncle and my mother are Bosnian Serbs. There is a simplified view of the siege: that it was Serbs attacking Muslims. But in reality there were more than just Muslims in Sarajevo: there were Bosnian Serbs and there were also Bosnian Croats. It was very important for me to show the Sarajevo I remember before the war, which was very multicultural. That is why Mirsad, a Muslim bookseller, lives in Zora’s block, and the couple opposite is a mixed couple: the woman is Bosnian Serb and the man is Bosnian Croat.

He recounts the experiences of his relatives, but not his own. It must have been difficult to live through the siege from the other side.

— Yes, it was a horrible four years. Turning on the television every night and seeing images of people being shot by snipers in the street, buildings exploding, people queuing for water, knowing that there was no food or electricity… And not being able to talk to my grandparents because the phone lines were cut. It was terrible, we didn't know if they were alive or dead. Especially for my mother, of course. On the other hand, I was 19 years old, you know? I was doing things that I do as a teenager: going to university, to parties… But I remember above all the lack of understanding. I didn't understand what was happening. That desire to understand the war led me to write the novel years later.

In the novel you praise art as a way of saving people. Do you think art is a form of resistance?

— Yes, but resistance can have a slightly wrong connotation. Art cannot stop war, of course, but art is resilience. It can give you strength and give you meaning. It can help you connect with people and give meaning to life, give you dignity. A siege is basically a long, slow assault with the purpose of undermining people's morale, of destroying them. Since you can die every time you go out on the street, it basically reduces you to an animal state. Art helps you get up again, it humanizes you, it gives you strength to continue. In this sense, yes, art is a form of resistance to the degradation of war.

Black butterflies It has moments of great difficulty but also of light, such as solidarity between neighbors.

— When I talked to people about their experiences of the war, they all told me about horrible things but also about moments of great joy. When you saw a friend you hadn't seen for a week and he was still alive, it was a moment of celebration. When you drank a glass of water after a long time, it tasted like champagne. I wanted to capture that vitality and intensity. Under siege, time was diluted, but at the same time you lived very much in the moment. When something good happened you grabbed it and enjoyed it, because you didn't know if you would be alive or dead the next day.

When you published the book, your grandparents and great-uncle were dead. Would they have liked you?

— I'm sorry that my great-uncle died in 2015, before I published it. But he read a draft and was satisfied. He also knew that I had turned the male artist into a female artist and he was fine with that. He was an amazing man, Dobri. I think he would have liked it very much. My grandparents? I don't know... My grandfather was quite a Serbian nationalist, actually. I didn't agree with his views. He wouldn't have liked it, honestly. But I wouldn't have felt bad about it. In fact, I would have felt bad if he had liked it.

You live half in Catalonia, half in Ireland. You are half Bosnian, half British. How do you combine these identities?

— Being a mixed race is part of my own identity. I am very proud to have a non-English mother and an English father. And that is probably why I am also very interested in this topic of multiculturalism. It is very enriching to have mixed identities. It makes you have a richer experience and broadens your outlook and understanding of life.