27/02/1993 | Voices from the Drina

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The whiteness of the snow around us is dazzling. The sun is only just breaking through the clouds. Even the trees are almost entirely covered in snow. It’s the kind of scene you usually see in movies with Santa’s sleigh and his reindeer flying through the sky.

Woken up this morning in our little refuge in Šarena Bukva, and the blinding pain that made me collapse yesterday has now gone. Mashallah, we can continue towards Žepa.

Just as we’re approaching Žepa, we meet three women returning from having collected food, singing. They’ve told us we need papers proving that we are registered as refugees in Žepa. No paper no food.

Dad and I are continuing to Žepa regardless. Neither of us have said a word since meeting the group of women. I can feel Dad’s anger growing with every step. He’s angry at everything and everyone. He’s angry at himself, at the war, the Chetniks, the mountain…

…the snow, our fate. He’s angry with the officials in Žepa who required a piece of paper. And he’s angry with me.

We’ve reached Žepa! My heart is pounding with excitement.

Dad has spoken with Bekto Čavčić, an ex-colleague who’s standing by the door of the food distribution point. Bekto confirmed what the women told us. We can’t get any UNHCR food because we’re not registered as Žepa refugees.

Bekto, the humanitarian aid administrator for Žepa, has invited us into his home. Maybe all is not lost. Maybe our 50km trek hasn’t been in vain.

Oh my God, Bekto’s wife has made us bread with chicken pâté. I’m like a hungry animal, my eyes wandering around the room in search of food. We have half a huge round loaf of bread, steaming hot. White bread – real bread! We haven’t seen this in months.

Dad and I both feel conflicted. We’ve eaten the food, and we’re so grateful for it. But how can we enjoy it knowing Mum and Braco are back in Srebrenica with nothing?