11/06/1992 | Voices from the Drina

Featured Authors

Featured Authors

🧵 Aunty Ramiza reminded me that it’s Kurban Bajram today. I don’t even know how to engage with what is usually a special day for us. Here are some thoughts. Maybe my fellow Muslims feel the same way.

We’re fleeing Mršić Hill. Mum, Dad, Muhamed, Aunty Ramiza, myself, and others. We’re heading for Mount Javor. A few minutes ago we crossed the forest and descended into the valley.

We’re walking in single file, in dewy grass. All that remains of our possessions is in our hands and on our backs – 20kg of flour, some salt, sugar a few tins, some pots and pans, some underwear and clothes.

Mama is struggling to walk. She won’t talk about her health problems but she’s clearly in pain. Dad has wrapped his head in a scarf, which he only does when he has a headache. He looks like a pirate.

Aunty Ramiza says that with any luck we’ll get some mutton to eat up on Mount Javor. She knows some people who are living up there. Maybe they’ll have a ram to sacrifice. I find it hard to believe that there could be any life in this region. Haven’t we all fled, people and sheep alike?

Once again I’m seized by this damn feeling of being surrounded by such beauty. Bosna is beautiful. I’m overwhelmed by the green pastures, the sweet smell of the grass. Despite it all, I can’t help but enjoy it.

I’ve been arrested by Serb police. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong.

Serb police are taking me to a detention camp in Sušica.

I’ve been beaten with axe handles, iron bars and rifle butts. Other detainees are being beaten too.

Today the detention centre was “visited” by the Serbian paramilitary unit, the Yellow Wasps (headed by the Vučković brothers). They killed several of our comrades.