The Lives We Live and the Legacies We Leave Behind: Reflections on the Passing of Dolly Parton, Tim Curry, and Ratko Mladić
The news of Dolly Parton’s passing hit something in me that made me feel the sorrow of losing a beloved grandmother, the feeling of losing someone who held my hand, showed me the way, and guided me through life with endless wisdom and wit. There are so many stellar stories about Dolly: her bravery in being herself no matter what anyone said, her selfless dedication to reaching children without opportunities, and her gift of free books to ensure them a better tomorrow. I love how she sang about her life as a dirt-poor kid in rural America, carrying such humor and talent throughout her journey. One of my favorite stories is when she explained how she came up with the rhythm for "9 to 5." She didn't use an actual instrument; she rubbed her own big, red acrylic nails against one another, using them to create music, a rhythm for herself. It resulted in a song describing women diving into a man’s world, desperate for their share of independence, even if the daily grind felt like taking and no giving. It is the perfect description of a woman's state in any historical context. But that story, of using her own nails to create a rhythm, tells of a true artist. Nothing can stop talent, and no amount of deprivation can stop the music. Anything can be a melody and a rhythm. Dolly remains one of my favorite philosophers and musicians of all time.
Around that same time, we lost another legend of theater and film, Tim Curry. If his voice were a material, it would be velvet, deep red. His devotion and bravery in playing a "sweet transvestite" in The Rocky Horror Picture Show gave space for so many renegades in the 70s and 80s to be seen and to find a place where they belonged. He championed the HIV/AIDS community, LGBTQ+ civil rights, and theater relief funds. Both Dolly and Tim used their talent and power to make this world a better place. We measure a person’s impact by what they leave behind, and both Dolly and Tim left us a valuable lesson: use your talents not just to promote yourself, but to leave the world a little better than you found it.
Some people leave love behind; others leave a black, sticky tar of terror. Bosnia recently received news of Ratko Mladić’s passing in a Hague prison, a former military officer who led the Army of Republika Srpska during the Yugoslav war in the 90s. Found guilty in 2017 of war crimes and genocide in Srebrenica, he was responsible for the deaths of more than 8,000 men and boys. In addition, 25,000 to 30,000 Bosniaks, mainly women and children, were abused and forcibly removed from their homes. This massacre constitutes the first legally recognized genocide in Europe since the end of World War II. His nickname was "The Butcher."
Death is strange. It has no moral compass; it treats us all the same, eventually. Sometimes, death comes as a thief, stealing away those we grieve for, those who brought light into our world, and sometimes it comes as a liberator. Regardless of the legacy we leave behind, death acts as the great revealer, the final mirror that shows us who we really were on this earth, stripping away everything until only the truth of our existence remains.
But Mladić didn't just leave terror and horror behind; he left a generational trauma we are still navigating. He also left a heavy, unwanted inheritance for his own people. By committing such atrocities in the name of Serbs, he cast a shadow of shame and guilt over an entire ethnic group. Today, there are even debates in Republika Srpska and Serbia about holding honorable army parades for him, a notion so grotesque it is akin to imagining a public parade for Hitler. It serves as a stark reminder that the tar is still there; the ideology hasn't vanished just because he has.
When I heard the news, my mind raced back to 1995. I was standing in front of the TV, watching Mladić address the people of Srebrenica, making a show for the world, claiming, "Do not be afraid, no one will hurt you." The camera panned to a boy, no older than seven, standing alone, untethered from the world. He clutched his pet bunny, the most precious thing he owned, the only thing he knew how to save. That image of innocence standing before a man who personified evil will never leave my mind. If that scene were a painting, it would be entitled The Coward and the Hero - the boy, of course, being the hero. A feeling of sheer terror washed over me. What if he comes to our town? What if he kills us, too? What if he takes our neighborhood dog? I wanted to cry, but I couldn't. The fear was too great. That was the moment I truly met helplessness. How do you defend yourself against such a force of darkness?
I thought of all the families in Srebrenica who longed for justice. Locking someone like Mladić in a high-end prison with access to luxuries felt like another slap in the face. They watched for years as he received the best medical care after his stroke, as he enjoyed visits from his family, and, worst of all, as his hateful ideology continued to thrive. It lives on in murals of his face, labeled "hero," in towns all over Republika Srpska. You can even buy socks with his face in tourist areas, placed alongside figures like Nikola Tesla. No amount of punishment can bring loved ones back, nor can it erase the moment trauma entered our lives or restore my carefree childhood.
And then, I remembered something. I thought of the book The Choice by Edith Eger, a Holocaust survivor and former ballet dancer who was forced to dance for Mengele, an act that saved her life. She described how she and her husband, while visiting Germany, went to see the musical The Producers, a satirical black comedy film about Hitler. The most famous song sings about "Springtime for Hitler in Germany, Deutschland is happy and gay!" Edith describes walking out of the theater. She walked the streets where The Führer once walked, standing near his former home. She realized, "I am walking on the same steps Hitler once took, but he isn't here now. I am. It is Springtime, though not for Hitler, for me…I am alive… I made it."
That same feeling of life hit me. Mladić is gone. While the man himself is no longer a living source feeding that hateful ideology, his legacy remains like the aftermath of that black tar, sticky, difficult to scrub away, and ever-present. I do not say this to suggest that the struggle is over for those who lost everything; there is still so much work to be done to heal the scars of the genocide. But the man himself is gone. The curse he personally wielded over my life feels lifted. I am alive. And I choose to live, to watch my daughter grow in peace, to gather memories, to love and be loved, to eat good food, to travel, and to admire art. There might never be earthly justice, but I can still choose to live well. I look up to people like Dolly and Tim to learn how to channel my energy toward goodness. The pain will always be a part of me, but life and joy are here, too. So that one day when Death comes to take my hand, I can look behind me and see the trace of love.
Mirela is Peace Catalyst Program Director in Bosnia and Herzegovina (BiH). Born in Sarajevo in the 1980’s, she had a front row seat to the breakup of Yugoslavia and the siege of Sarajevo and is a licensed trauma therapist working to address the unengaged trauma in BiH. Learn more about Mirela here.
