09/09/1992 | Voices from the Drina

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Serb forces are at my door again. I still haven’t seen Dad since they took him from me last month. I’m terrified.

They’re taking me back to ‘Karaman’s house’. I’m terrified.

🧵 Srebrenica seems empty today, as thousands of its starved refugees head out on an “action” to find food.

The vast majority of them are unarmed. They’re walking more than 20km to reach Serb-controlled Tegare village up over the mountain.

Before the war, both Serbs and Muslims used to live in the village, but the Muslims have been either deported or killed. Their houses have been torched at the beginning of the war.

I’ve been told that when the mass of starved Bosniaks arrive at any Serb village, they run towards the Serb houses. This creates pandemonium. Those few Bosniaks who have makeshift weapons start to shoot. The rest run and shout.

Meanwhile, artillery batteries open fire from Serbia, and the Bosniaks who have already reached the houses have a chance to take cover. The last of the convoy to arrive are often cut down by machine-gun fire or dismembered by shells.

Imagine the scene: a human being breaks into a house to fill a sack with packs of meat from the freezer while, outside, flesh is flying through the air and blood is gushing from severed limbs.

They’re keeping me here. Evil is being committed against me.