Featured Authors

Featured Authors

Saliha Osmanović

We’ve fled Bratunac. I ran out of the house wearing a tracksuit and slippers. We’re fleeing across a forest right now. We’ll probably end up in Srebrenica. The shelling is coming from across the Serbian border. My Edin tells me its “MLRS firing 12 rockets at a time”. I’m in shock.

My son, Edin, has been killed by a Serb grenade. I can’t eat. My other son is next to me, begging me to eat. “Mama, I have also lost my brother and friend, yet I am eating.”

I’m thinking about all those parents’ meetings at school. Edin’s teacher Milena would always tell me, “you shouldn’t have come. In school he is great. He only gets As.” My baby is dead.

I’ve just said goodbye to my husband Ramo and my son, Nermin. They’re going to march through the woods. The last thing Nermin said to me, as he was crying, was, “Mum, go with the people. Don’t be anxious and we will see each other.” I’m on my way to the @unproforbih base in Potočari.