31/12/1992 | Voices from the Drina

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🧵 Dad is going on another trek for food, this time to Voljavica. I told him I’m coming with him, no ifs no buts. I went on and on while he was getting dressed. He’s lost almost 40 kilos and his eyes have sunk deep into their sockets.

His skin has darkened with worry and his hair has gone white – it used to be salt and pepper before the war.

‘You are not going anywhere,’ he said to me. ‘I’ll be back in two days.’ And off he went.

New Year’s in besieged Srebrenica. Like everyone else here, my family and I are sitting around an empty table, with no food to mark the occasion.

🧵 New Year’s Eve in besieged Srebrenica.

Am sat with the family around the table. We’re wondering what to eat once our supplies of rotten cornmeal, polenta and salt run out.

To make things worse, the Serbs have mined the water-supply system. Hundreds of people now have to queue to use the town’s wells every morning.

Outside it’s a true winter wonderland. Thirty centimetres of snow has fallen overnight and blankets the roofs and houses charred by shellfire. The whiteness seems to mask all our suffering.

The previous New Year’s Eve seems so unreal to me now. I celebrated it in Vlasenica with all my friends. We were at Hamon’s house, which was full of food, booze, music. How far away that world seems to me now.