28/01/1993 | Voices from the Drina

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None of these differences have lessened the shock I feel hearing the news that Senad has been killed. What makes it even worse is the fact that yesterday, just yesterday, I was talking to him on the street.

I’ve been told that Senad perished as he tried to run away from airplane bombs. He was carrying a sack of flour on his back, a bag of white, finely ground, silky flour as big as his whole life. Rest in power, brother.

Serb forces are shelling besieged Srebrenica again. I’ll keep posting below this tweet, so this will probably become a 🧵

I’m at Ćamil’s house, hiding with him. We’re calculating the firing angle alpha and the projective velocity v needed to hit the street directly, running as it does between two hills.

Ok, we’ve calculated that it’s not possible for a piece of heavy artillery to achieve such a high-angle trajectory. Mortars can do it, but this is a 105-calibre cannon, maybe even a 155, as far as we can tell by the sound of the explosions.

Shelling is still going on. We can hear screams coming from the street.

Shelling has stopped. Shelling lasted for at least half an hour

I have just discovered that my childhood friend, Senad Mašić, has been killed.

🧵 I’d known Senad my whole life. He, his younger brother Sead, and I grew up together. We spent our summers on the banks of the Drina getting bruises running after a football, something for which I have no talent whatsoever in comparison with Sead.