05/08/1992 | Voices from the Drina

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Feeling a bit better today. Playing chess with Uncle Asim outside.

As we play chess the sound of Serb planes is rumbling above us. Several tiny points rapidly approach us from Serbia, from across the Drina, moving out of sight behind Mount Javor. The sound of explosions can be heard. (1/3)

The sound of an air strike is different from the sound of shells. It’s deeper and heftier. It triggers a visceral panic. I find myself uttering something shameful: “Good that they flew over us; they won’t bomb us.” (2/3)

What I said is a variation of the ‘good that it’s them and not us’ utterance that people are saying so often in this war. This shows the self-centred nature of humans: I come before everything and everybody else. (3/3)

🧵 There goes my selfish complacence. All hell has broken loose. The ground is trembling beneath our feet and the chess pieces are scattered across the grass.

We’ve run behind the house. People are scattered everywhere, seeking shelter.

Uncle Asim and I are inside the house now. He’s praying for salvation. I’ve opened the door to look up at the sky. Serb planes are circling above us, dropping the deadly 250-kg ‘krmače’ (‘pigs’).

Serb planes have now flown back to Serbia, I guess for a fresh load of bombs.

That Serb tank on the hill is still firing shells towards Luka village at regular intervals. This morning I actually shouted at it from my bed: “Just you fire, you son of a bitch!”

We’ve suffered three hours of intense bombing. During the breaks we had to run to the latrine. As soon as you entered someone would come banging impatiently at the door.