Work Text
Posted by Zejneb Hasanovic on 24/5/22
I know this is not the usual stuff I post on my blog, but I cannot stay silent about this any longer. This may be upsetting to some readers, so I advise you go somewhere else if you think this will be upsetting to you.
A month ago, the invasion of Ukraine began. Tamara, a good friend of mine, is Ukrainian, and she fled Ukraine after the invasion began, as this was the last straw for her after everything that has been happening in her country for the past 8 years. She is now living here in Australia, in a house not too far away from mine. While her daughter and her three sons were able to flee with her, the government forced her husband Borys to stay behind, as he may be called to fight in the war, like they are doing with all men in Ukraine aged 18-60. Tamara is of the Eastern Orthodox faith like most Ukrainians are, she and her children did get to celebrate Easter in peace, but it was difficult for them to celebrate without Borys.
I 've been trying to help Tamara cope with the unspeakable things she had to witness, while at the same time trying to keep myself from being reliving the trauma I myself faced, as not so long ago, I was in a situation like the one she is facing. I may have not been 44 years old, and I wasn't even an adult at all. I was still just a kid. But even then, her situation still hit close to home.
Tamara's son Vadim, her youngest child, is the same age I was when the war in my country began. When he found out I had witnessed war at his age, he asked me to tell him about it. I was reluctant at first, but at the same time, I had a feeling it would help Vadim cope with his own trauma that had formed from the invasion of Ukraine. To let him know he was not alone. But I couldn't think of a way to tell it without breaking down myself. I decided I would dig up the old diary I kept in the 90s, the time when the war in my country was happening. It took a while to find it, but I eventually rediscovered it and dusted it off. I would also retype it on the computer and translate it to the Ukrainian language for Vadim with the help of Tamara, as the entire journal had been kept in my native language, Bosnian, and he wouldn't be able to understand its original form.
Eventually, I printed the translated form out and stapled it together for Vadim to read. After he was finished reading it, he had told me that it did hit close to home, but at the same time, it had helped him deal with his own trauma. I'm just glad that the home country of Tamara and family has been getting the support it needs to defend itself, as there is support pouring in all over the world for Ukraine. 30 years ago, my country didn't get enough support. If it had even half the public support Ukraine was getting, the war would've ended earlier, and many lost lives would've been saved. 30 years ago, there was no social media. There was internet 30 years ago, but it was unknown back then. Even then, there were newspapers and channels to inform the international community about what was happening on the other side of the world, but many people didn't seem to care when they saw the suffering in my country on the papers. A part of me wants to believe the world at large ignored the genocide against my people because my people were Muslims, and the people killing us were Christians. However, when I think about that, I also remember the Greek genocide was a genocide that was mostly forgotten by the world, and that was a conflict where the persecutors were Muslims while the targeted people were Christians.
To be fair, though, Putin has nuclear weapons, which could harm not only Ukraine, but everywhere else. Slobodan didn't have any of that. I just hope that with all the support Ukraine is getting, it won't end up like my country did. Many who don't live in the Balkans would like to think that we all just held hands and sang Kumbaya together once the Dayton Agreement passed and ended the war. As nice as that sounds, that was far from the truth. The war destroyed Bosnia, and it is still a dysfunctional state today. Where my childhood home was located in is now a part of Republika Srpska. I haven't gone back to my childhood home since 1997 as a result, as many people were hostile towards me, and non-Serbs aren't really welcome in Republika Srpska. I would be lying if I didn't say I really miss my childhood home, my true home. There will never be a place like my true home. When you can’t go home again for over two decades, and haven’t been there since you abandoned it 25 years ago, because its residents hate you, it really hurts. I haven't been a permanent resident of Bosnia for over 20 years. I have visited after that, but the country never healed from the war, from what I've seen there. I hope Tamara's country doesn't have to suffer the same fate.
I have even heard that there were even women being raped in the invasion of Ukraine. I was disgusted upon finding out about that. Only after the war in my country was when people began to recognize that rape was being used as a weapon of war, though it wasn't even the first time rape was weaponized. It was weaponized in the Armenian genocide, the Greek genocide, the Rape of Nanking, etc. and way before then. It would happen again, many more times. It was being used as a weapon in Rwanda, during a genocide that was happening there around the same time as the Bosnian War. Rape would be weaponized again in the Kosovo War. Even then, that wouldn't be the last time
. Hearing about rape being used as a weapon again and again showed that nobody learned anything from the war in my country. A lot of war rape survivors from my country have been giving advice to Ukrainian women on what to do if they are raped; to document everything.
I do know that like how there were Serbs against the injustice done to my people, there are Russian people who are very against the atrocities being done in Ukraine. One of my close friends, Svjetlana, is a Serb, she condemned the injustice against non-Serbs back then, and she condemns the horrible actions being done in the Ukraine war now. I've kept both the Ukrainians and Russians suffering from this war in my prayers.
May they all find somewhere safe from conflict, inshallah.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
(Zejneb)Entry: 15/04/92This all happened so fast... before I escaped from my house, I took the diary I got for my 12th birthday two years ago. I never used it... until now.I am Zejneb, I am a Muslim Bosnian, I am 14, and in just the blink of an eye, my entire life fell apart. Funny how months ago, we all got along no matter if you were Bosnian, Serbian, or Croatian. An Ottoman-era mosque and a medieval style- Orthodox Church could stand next to each other in the same village and it was no big deal. And then war struck. Tons of once-peaceful people turned against each other.It wasn't the typical "bad guys are coming to attack our country's people" stuff, it was your kind next-door neighbor suddenly doing a complete 180 and wanting to slit your throat because you were a different ethnicity than them. It's only been days since the war began and tons of innocent people, all Bosnian, Croat and Serb, are already dead. Many Bosnians, Serbs and Croats were also murdering innocent civilians as well.When the war began, Serb soldiers came to our neighborhood and if they found out a house belonged to a Bosnian or Croat family, they would search it without the permission of the people living there. Inevitably, they searched my family's house. My twin brother Ivan was taken out of the house. They rounded up the men and boys they found in the houses they searched.A Serb soldier demanded my mother to tell him where her husband, my father, was. She lied and told him that he was working at a job in America to support the family. My father's actually been dead for 3 years. After they were done rounding up the men and boys, they forced them to strip naked and humiliated them before shooting them dead, all while forcing us to watch. I tried not to vomit or cry when I saw them kill my brother. The Serb soldiers told us they'd be back to collect the women and girls, and that any Serbs attempting to hide Bosnians and Croats would be killed, and then left. Even though they spoke in the Serbian language, I could still understand them, because the Bosnian, Serbian and Croatian languages are all very similar.Hours later, when the Serb soldiers came back, a Serb neighbor, who was there when my father died in 1989, snitched on my mother. He lead some soldiers to the nearby cemetery and to my father's grave for proof. My mother was shot dead as a result. I knew they would collect the women and girls. Me and my older sister, Safija, were no exception. A few hours later, I could hear a song playing loudly from outside. It was so loud, I could hear it from inside the house. I could make out some of the lyrics... it was about a battle at Drina or something like that. I had a feeling this was a sign the Serb soldiers were coming again. I wasn't going to just sit there and let them do what they wanted to me.Before they got to our house, I went to hide. I grabbed a few water bottles in case I had to hide for days. I tried to persuade Safija to hide with me, but she laid in her room with a blanket wrapped around her, appearing crestfallen as if she had lost all hope. Safija told me that there was no use in hiding, because they would find us anyway. When I went to hide in the closet of my parents' room, I had turned on the flashlight I had with me, hoping to find an item I could defend myself with if a Serb soldier decided to open that closet, when I noticed something... interesting about one of the corners, seemingly hidden under some pillows and hanging clothes.I took a flashlight with me so I could get a better look of it, as it was hidden in darkness. The little door on the ground had a clothing trunk in front of it, blocking it off. I had to move the trunk, and then, when I was going down the ladder that lead to the shelter, had to move the trunk, pillows and hanging clothes back to where they were when I found it before I could close the little door. It seemed like it had lead to a bomb shelter. I've heard of people building bomb shelters to stay safe in previous wars, but I've never thought I'd live in a house with one of these. I guess one of the previous owners of the house must have built it. Even though it seemed to have enough room, there was only a toilet and a sink there.I waited in the secret bomb shelter. I lost count of how much times I prayed. I prayed that me and Safija would make it out alive. That they wouldn't find her. That they wouldn't find me. I also prayed that Svjetlana, a Serb girl I was friends with at school, wouldn't turn against me. I would eventually have to leave the secret bunker, because after spending about 3 days in there, I realized the water bottles I brought were only going to get me through around 2 weeks, not months, after I did some estimating. And I would have to eat something eventually if I didn't want to starve. I wanted to check to see if the coast was clear. It seemed quiet in the house. I checked to see if there was anything going on outside. There was nobody. It already felt like a ghost town. I checked Safija's room, but she was already gone. There was no blood, which made me feel as if they didn't kill her, but instead took her away. No objects were knocked over or damaged. It's as if she cooperated and didn't struggle when they took her away.I didn't know then what they were planning to do with the women and girls. But I felt like it would be something ugly. I feared what would possibly happen. I had remembered hearing about rape, and then thought... what if they were planning to do that to us!? This gave me an idea. I took some scissors from my parents' room. I loved my hair as it was long, curly and its colour was somewhere in between a dark brown/black shade, and I didn't want to do this. My hair was beautiful and I loved it. But at the time, I didn't care about what could happen to it, as all I cared about was making it through this with my body in one piece, and this was probably for my own safety anyway. To make myself seem less attractive to those Serb soldiers, I cut my hair until it was boy-short. After all, my hair would grow back eventually, so it's not like I was getting rid of it permanently. I took a backpack I found, took some essential items from the bathroom, such as a toothbrush and toothpaste, and stuffed them into my backpack. I went to my parents' room and took all the dinars I could find. I packed some of my own stuff, including clothes. I went to my father's office room, which was unused for 3 years. I took his unused walkman and some of his tapes. I went back to the bathroom, took the hair I cut off, which sat in a pile, and went outside, dug a hole, threw the hair in the hole and buried it. I packed a few more things, took my backpack and left.As I left, I saw something ugly. It was how I found out what they were going to do to the women. A part of me wished I had stayed in the bunker and let myself starve to death after I witnessed it. It was quite distant, but I could still make it out. Some Serb soldiers were taking turns sexually assaulting two women, a Muslim Bosnian and a Croat. After one of them finished raping, he shouted "THIS IS WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO EVERY MUSLIM AND CROAT WHORE!" This sight was disgusting. I felt myself about to dry heave, but kept it in and left before they could notice me.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
(Svjetlana)Entry: 27/04/92I wish this war would stop. I miss the days where nobody cared, where we were all united regardless of your ethnicity or religion.I haven't seen my best friend Zejneb since the war began. Even though she is a Muslim while I am a Serb, we were always the best of friends. In fact, I even visited the mosque her family went to one Friday, and one Sunday she visited the church my family went to. We both thought it was interesting to learn more about each others' religions. Every Christmas, she'd tell me "Happy Christmas" and in return when Eid came around, I'd tell her "Happy Eid".My parents were both killed by Serb soldiers for refusing to support the Serb army's actions. I ran away before they could find me. I didn't want this. I was disgusted by what people have been doing since the war began.A few days after the war began, I came across another friend I had at school. Her name is Danica, and she is a Croat. I was walking, trying to find someone I could stick together with, because I was all alone and afraid. When I found her, she got on her knees with her hands together, as if she was praying. But she was shaking as if she seemed... scared. Her face appeared fearful too.She began pleading for me to not hurt or kill her, saying that many of her non-Croat friends had had turned their backs on her ever since the war began. I told her that I meant no harm, and that nothing would turn me against non-Serbs. She seemed to calm down after that, and told me that an older Serb man had harassed her earlier that day. We decided that we would stick together, because neither of us wanted to be alone.Danica also told me that a Croat neighbor of hers had joined a neo-Ustasha group, started working in a camp where Serb and Muslim prisoners were held and mistreated, and that her neighbor killed her family and tried to kill her when she openly decried how the Croat forces were treating the Serbs and Muslims. She told me she only survived by playing dead when he opened fire. She knew this wouldn't be the last horrendous thing she'd see.I had many things to worry about in the war. Not only did I worry about being killed by Serb forces for being disgusted by their actions, or being raped/killed by Croat forces because I was a Serb, but I also worried about horrible things happening to Danica and Zejneb because of who they were.Danica was also a good friend of mine. We were also different in some ways, but we appreciated each others' differences. Danica was a Christian like me, but unlike me, she wasn't an Orthodox. She was a Catholic, like most Croats were. But like how my friendship with Zejneb lead to me learning more about Islam while Zejneb learned more about Orthodoxy, I also learned more about Catholicism because of Danica, and in return Danica learned more about Orthodoxy.Around a few minutes later, we saw a few Serb soldiers with a Muslim girl. I felt my blood turn to ice once I got a good look at the Muslim girl's face... she was Safija, Zejneb's older sister. I could recognize Safija because of the many times I had sleepovers with Zejneb at her house. She was almost always there.One of the Serb soldiers told Safija "you better not be lying about what happened to your sister." Safija retorted, saying something that nearly shocked me. "I already told you, Zejneb was afraid of what you would do to her. She threw herself in the river and drowned. She told me she'd rather die at her own hands than have you kill her or whatever you are planning to do to us."The Serb soldier replied to her with "Well, that's a shame. We had something better in store for her. We weren't going to kill her or anything." Deep down, I had a feeling that Zejneb wasn't dead. But who knew if she was dead? She hadn't been found in a while, so nobody knew if she was alive or dead. So, I prayed. I prayed that hopefully, Zejneb was still alive, and that if she was alive, she wouldn't turn against me or Danica. A couple hours later, we saw those same Serb soldiers with a Muslim woman, and a Croat woman. But they were doing something that made me cover my eyes in disgust. Danica seemed to cover her eyes upon seeing that horrible sight too.The Serb soldiers seemed to be taking turns raping those two women. Soon enough, I heard one of them shout "THIS IS WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO EVERY MUSLIM AND CROAT WHORE!"I felt my heart sink. I immediately realized what they were going to do with Safija. With all the other Muslim and Croat women/girls they got their hands on. I hoped they wouldn't find Zejneb, regardless of if she was alive or dead. And I knew that Croat forces were attacking non-Croats and setting up camps to torture them, like how Serb forces were doing the same to non-Serbs. Were Muslim forces doing the same to non-Muslims? We will have to find out about that ourselves.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
(Zejneb)Entry: 05/01/92Yesterday, I heard rumours that the Serb nationalist forces were planning to force all non-Serbs to wear a white armband and put a white flag in front of their house. It's probably just so they'll have an easier way to find who they can kill, kidnap, and rape... Then again, it's just a rumour, so who knows if they'll do that? Though, to be fair, it still seems like a possibility. They've been so desperate to kill all non-Serbs in Bosnia, that it sounds like something they'd actually do.Recently I've heard that Croats have been doing things just as bad. They've been abducting not only Bosnian women, but also Serb women, obviously to rape and torture them. I won't be surprised if Bosnian forces are doing the same thing. It doesn't matter what ethnic group you are, nobody deserves to get raped.I don't think I should speak at all. So much death and rape is happening all around me. I've even started having nightmares about it. I'm too afraid to call for help. I'm too afraid to scream. I'm too afraid to even yell, or cry. Something at the back of my mind seems to have been telling me I shouldn't speak, even if I wanted to. And even if I did speak, I'd probably blow my cover.Even if I wasn't wearing anything that made it obvious I was a Muslim, they would still be able to tell if I spoke, because of the accent I spoke with. Even though the Bosnian Muslims, Serbs and Croats each spoke their own language, all three languages were very similar, yet had differences to distinguish the three. They'd still be able to tell if I spoke. Even though cutting my hair has probably decreased my chances of being raped, it wouldn't save me from being shot dead, like Ivan was, if they knew I was a Muslim.I started learning sign language once my grandpa began going deaf so I would still be able to communicate with him when he came over, and he'd be able to understand without me having to do it audibly. Even though my grandpa died 6 years ago, my knowledge of sign language has stayed with me ever since. I had a mute classmate for a few years at school, and I would use my knowledge of sign language to communicate with him.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
(Dragan)Entry: 01/05/92I've known we were winning the war, obviously. Even before the war, I didn't understand why the people called the Croats and Muslims (also just called Bosnians) were desperate to have their own country. To me, they were just Catholic Serbs and Muslim Serbs respectively. They spoke what seemed to be the same language, as I just saw Croatian and Bosnian as accented Serbian. Their cultures were quite similar to Serb culture too. So I saw no point in them having their own country, and I believed that their territories belonged to Serbia. I kept those beliefs to myself, but the rising conflict would shape my views into something more... twisted.I had been skeptic of those Muslims for a while, as I kept hearing about Islamic terrorist incidents happening all over the world. I had believed the Muslims brought this all on themselves once the war began. The day a Muslim man killed the groom's father and injured a priest because he was apparently offended by Serbian flags at a Serb wedding, seemed to have confirmed my suspicions about them. I knew the Croat forces were also killing innocent Serb civilians, and even children weren't exempt from their wrath. I would find out that they were also holding Serb women in camps and raping them. One woman recently escaped one of those camps. Her captors had told her they would not let her go until she gave birth to an Ustasha. My hate for all Croats was fueled by this. I wanted to mercilessly slaughter every Croat I saw. I didn't want to spare children, or even babies, either.My father himself witnessed the atrocities done by the Ustasha back in World War 2 when he was a kid. He witnessed an Ustasha soldier rape his aunt, and he never saw or heard from her again. He witnessed two family friends get hacked into piles of gore by Ustasha soldiers. However... it was that one kid, that one damn kid...I had witnessed fellow Serbs raid a Croat village a few days ago. I broke into one house and into a random room. I was about ready to point my gun at a little boy, probably no older than around five to seven years old. But, I stopped before I could aim it at him. The boy hadn't even noticed me, he was kneeling at his bed, with a dimly lit candle at his nightstand being the only thing illuminating the dark room, as if he was saying a bedtime prayer. What he said brought a lump in my throat.He had said "If I die before I wake, I pray for the lord my soul to take."It took a lot for me to keep the waterworks from coming. I didn't see another enemy that needed to be killed, I saw a scared child praying for his life. Even though the child was a Croat, I started to think "is it fair to group innocent beings with those Ustasha monsters?" The Croat forces had been killing innocent Serb children, and now I think... would killing innocent Croat children make us any better than them? Before I could do anything else, some other Serb soldiers entered the room and began kicking, punching, and pistol-whipping the little boy as he wept while his tormentors roared with laughter, drowning out his cries. One of the soldiers shouted "come on Dragan, join in!" But I just couldn't. I stood there, hiding the shock that this sight had brought me.Eventually, the boy bit the hand of one of the soldiers, which caused him to curse in pain. One other soldier was angered by this and repeatedly bayoneted the poor kid until the kid went motionless. I wasn't "satisfied" by this horrible sight. If anything, it made me sick.That night, I shed tears for that poor kid. He would never get to grow up, and if any of his family or friends were still alive, they'd never get to see him again. It was all my fault, I did nothing to save him.Yesterday, I had heard some soldiers talking about how they raided a Muslim village the day before, and talked about killing and raping its residents like it was some fun game. Two bragged about chasing a young girl from that village, one stating she looked no older than twelve or thirteen. They boasted about beating the shit out of her, then killing her when she began fighting back once they tried to rape her. Even though I wasn't there to see it happen, I still felt sick. How they were talking about torturing human beings like they were ragdolls. Today, me and some other soldiers were searching to see if there were any bodies laying out in the open. Obviously, the other soldiers wanted to put those bodies into mass graves. I better stop writing in my journal, they're demanding me to help deal with this kid they've found. I just hope I can convince them to not kill this poor kid.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
(Zejneb)Entry: 02/05/92Well, yesterday was strange... I came across a few Serb soldiers, and they tried to interrogate me because they couldn't tell if I was a Serb or not. They held me at gunpoint. Even though I tried to reason with them with sign language, they kept shouting stuff like "stop with the gang signs or we'll shoot you!" and hit me, probably in hopes they'd get me to speak.But one interrupted them and surprisingly, he seemed to understand my sign language. He told me his name was Dragan. The other soldiers criticized him for "going too soft" when he asked them if they needed to kill every Croat or Muslim kid they saw.I still didn't speak at all, no matter how much they tried to force a word out of me. It felt like I lost my voice from all the fear, though that probably wasn't how it happened. But Dragan understood me, and he interpreted what I was trying to say to the other Serb soldiers who were with him. He did a pretty good job with interpreting it too. The other Serb soldiers still seemed skeptic, but they stopped pointing the guns and left. When me and Dragan were alone, he asked me if there was anything else I had to tell him, and that he'd keep it a secret.I told Dragan that I was a Muslim, but that I meant no harm. Thankfully, Dragan promised to keep it a secret to the point he even said he'd take it to his grave if he died. We then said our goodbyes and I looked for another place to hide if there was anyone else out to kill me.A while later, I saw Svjetlana again for the first time in like, a month or so. And to my relief, she didn't turn against me. Deep down, I knew she wouldn't betray me, even if she was a Serb. Even if Serb forces were killing and raping innocent people, I knew not all Serbs were like that. And Svjetlana was always the kind of person who would detest that kind of stuff. She didn't seem to recognize me at first, and even mistook me for Ivan, asking me if I was a ghost. Me and Ivan looked a lot like each other. The short hair, along with the baggy shirt and pants I was wearing at the time, probably made me look more like him. I still didn't speak though, even though it was safe to be around Svjetlana. This time, I wrote down what I wanted to say on a piece of paper. I let her know I was actually Zejneb. Svjetlana seemed to be happy that I was alive too, and hadn't turned against her.Svjetlana was with a friend, too. It was Danica, a Croat girl who went to the same school as me. I didn't know Danica that much, but I do know Svjetlana was good friends with her too. It turns out, from what they've told me, that Svjetlana and Danica had also faced a similar tragedy to the one I faced when the war began. Svjetlana and Danica had both lost their families to Serb and Croat forces respectively, for refusing to support their actions.Svjetlana told me she saw my sister. She told me that Safija was telling some Serb soldiers that I had drowned myself and died to avoid facing persecution from them. I was confused at first, but I realized Safija probably did that to protect me. I wouldn't blame her for that. But I realized that Safija was now most likely being constantly raped by Serb forces if she wasn't dead. The thought of that won't stop haunting me now.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
(Dragan)Entry: 15/5/92I still can't believe I managed to save an innocent child from having her life snuffed out. The kid looked to be around 13. She only spoke in sign language, nothing coming out of her mouth. She told me a secret when we were left alone. Because it's a secret, I will not disclose it. That includes writing it down here. A while ago, I was with some soldiers. They were seemingly looking for bodies to throw into mass graves, and were looting from them too (for example, they were taking rosary necklaces off of dead Croats, pulling the rings off the fingers of dead married women, etc.)I didn't participate in doing such. I noticed a piece of paper on the ground and I picked it up. It appeared to be a drawing done in crayon, obviously done by a younger child because of how crudely-done it was. I could still make it out regardless. It consisted of a house with one taller stick figure and a short stick figure with the labels "mama" and "me" above their heads, both with sad expressions, standing in front of the house, which was covered in orange crayon scribbles, indicating that it was on fire, and the house was also labeled "my home". Near the two stick figures was another stick figure, also with a sad expression, labeled "daddy" laying horizontally with red crayon scribbles, appearing to be blood. Next to "daddy" was a group of three stick figures wearing green caps and carrying crudely-drawn guns with angry expressions on their faces, labeled "bad men". There was a pile of stick figures laying lifeless behind the "bad men", with red scribbles (which was also probably just blood) covering them. The bloody stick figure pile was labeled "dead people".The drawing itself was heart-wrenching. Even more so when you remember it looked like it was done by a very young child. A child shouldn't have to witness such a horrible event. When I was a kid, I was collecting frogs, playing tag and hide and seek with my friends, playing the Magnavox Odyssey, and watching TV. I didn't have to worry about war and see everyone around me dying. I had heard of Serb soldiers running camps where Muslim female captives were tortured, but I had never visited one until recently. I wish I never visited it. I don't think I've ever seen anything this fucked up in my 26 years of life. Not even once. There were a ton of young women and girls in this camp. A lot of them were Muslims, but some of them were Croats. Most of the women and girls appeared to be bruised or malnourished. Almost all of them had anguished expressions. This sight broke me.Only one of the girls I came across looked remotely healthy. Even then, I saw what looked like bloodstains on her dress. She still looked miserable. Her long hair, which was light brown and somewhere in between curly and wavy, was hiding half of her face. There was a white headscarf loosely draped around her head as if she was too depressed to put it on, indicating that this girl was a Muslim. Her eyes had been reddened and puffy as if she had been crying.The girl seemed to notice me. She told me in an aggressive tone "if you're here to rape me then just get it over with". I told her that I was not here to rape her. She didn't seem to believe me, and asked me why I was here then. She also added that she didn't want any secondhand smoke. I guess she must have seen me exhale smoke from the cigarette I was smoking at the time. I put out the cigarette and tossed it away. I told her "you will find a way out of here. And hopefully the others will too." I left after that. I was so disgusted and heartbroken by what I saw in the camp that I didn't want to visit this camp, or any other camps, ever again. But I feel like I must in order to save a captive. If I ignore those camps, it won't stop the people running said camps from raping and torturing their captives. It won't stop them from abducting more people to rape and torture in those camps. I know I probably won't be able to save all of the people in those camps or stop all of those camps. But I want to save a few, regardless of if they are Serb, Croat, or Muslim.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
(Safija)Entry: Date unknown, approximately 25/05/92Will this nightmare ever end? I want to die. There's no point in living after what they have done to me. I am damaged goods now. Who would want to live the rest of their life as damaged goods? Even if I escape, everyone will hate me. I will be known as a slut, a whore, a harlot, a prostitute, or whatever. Even my own family will probably hate me because I will have brought dishonor to them. Even though I had no say in it. The scar they left on me will never be gone. It pains me to write this down, but I want the world to at least walk in my shoes so they know how painful it is to be defiled instead of jumping to conclusions and assuming I am a whore.I think I've been here for over a month. When I was taken to this place, I had henna on my hands, and I had applied this henna for Eid, which happened shortly before the war began. The henna has since faded. It usually takes around 2-3 weeks for henna to fade, so I must have been here for at least that long. I've lost count on the amount of days I spent here, and they don't have a calendar, but I think I may have been here for over a month.When they took me away, I assumed they were going to kill me like how they killed my little brother Ivan. I still wish they did. Death is better than what I went through. They were unable to find my little sister Zejneb. And I hope they never find her. I hope she never has to experience what they did to me.The scent of death, blood, and decomposing corpses hasn't left my nostrils ever since they forced me to step foot outside of my home. The scent hit me like a brick wall when I first caught it. It is not a pleasant smell at all. After a bit of walking, they took me to a Jeep. The driver of the Jeep would then drive me to the very place where I began experiencing this living hell.I was put inside a small room, with only a bed and a window. Around a few hours later, my suffering began. Someone entered the room I was kept in, and it was someone I NEVER wanted to see again: Bojan.Bojan was a Serb boy I knew in my first year of high school. He was a few years older than me, and was a jerk to almost everyone in the school. According to some older students, he was once expelled from another school for smoking cigarettes in a bathroom. Many people at school were forced to deal with Bojan's crap, and so was I. Bojan and his cronies once ganged up on me and pulled my hijab off while repeatedly shouting "LET ME SEE YOUR HAIR!" and I had to wrap the blazer (which came with my school uniform) I was wearing onto my head. They also tried to rip the blazer off, but I escaped before they could.I didn't see Bojan again when I started my second year. I assumed he either graduated or dropped out. I thought I'd never see him again, but unfortunately, I did that day.He appeared to have joined Serb forces. What he said next only fueled my hatred for him."Did you miss me, Safija?"When he said that, I rolled my eyes so hard I think I could've almost detached a retina. He kicked me to the walls. He then got all up into my face."Don't fight, and this will all be over soon."I saw Bojan undo his belt, unzip his fly, and I immediately knew what he was about to do. He pinned me to the walls and, I spit in his face. He began shouting and cursing in anger and this bought me some time. I opened the door, went down hallways, opened a few more doors, and began climbing the chain link fence nearby the cabin I was kept in. I didn't care that there were electric coils on top of the fence. I wish I had reached them in time to grab them. I wouldn't have to suffer anymore. I was close to reaching the top of the fence when suddenly, I felt the fence being shaken and heard gunshots. I tried to keep climbing, but it felt like more people were shaking the fence. I soon lost my grip and fell. If only the fall had killed me.(The writing gets more messy at this point. The ink is also smudged by what appears to be tears that had fallen on the paper.)I was in pain from the fall. I was powerless. Bojan got out some tape... wrapped some on my wrists... gagged me with a washcloth... dragged me back to that forsaken little room and he... I can't bring myself to write it down... I bled that night... and I knew it wasn't a period.Now ever since... that horrible day... I've been raped... again and again... at least more than 10 times... each day... Bojan is one of those people who comes to defile me.I miss Lazar so much... but he probably doesn't love me anymore. He probably won't want anything to do with me once he finds out I am damaged goods.(the writing looks neater again at this point, and there are no tear stains)I had to stop writing for a while after having to describe the pain Bojan brought to me. It hurts to even think about it. He's even worse than he was in high school. When he's not raping me, he's just being a nuisance, telling me the same "you will have Serbian babies who will become Christians" shit. To his dismay, I'm still not pregnant.I never thought I had to say this but... a while ago, I met a Serb soldier who was actually kind to me. Why is he so nice to me...? His name is Dragan, but he didn't tell me his name until the second time I saw him.When I first met him, he came into the little room I was kept in, with a cigarette in his mouth, which he then took out and then exhaled some smoke. I thought he was going to rape me at first... when I saw him, I wanted to strangle him... it was as if a vengeful jinn had entered my body. I told him to just get it over with, and that I didn't want any secondhand smoke. However, he said something different. He even put out his cigarette, opened the window in the room and tossed it out the window. He told me that I will find a way to get out. Even if I don't think I will. How will I find a way out, though? Even if I did find a way, I don't think I'll make it out of this war alive. I don't think I'll live to see the year 2000.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
(Dragan)Entry: 28/05/92I've had to visit that godforsaken camp, and that makeshift brothel inside the camp many times now... I was, and still am appalled by what goes on in there. I always will be. Even when I held more intolerant views towards Muslims and Croats, I still would've never done something as inhumane as rape. How depraved do you have to be to rape someone, violate them, and think you are doing good? There's no excuse, even if you don't agree with their views or religion.One woman in the camp is now pregnant from being raped multiple times. She wants an abortion, but they are forcing her to keep it. This is very unfair to both her and the child. Safija kept talking to herself about someone named "Lazar"... I didn't want to invade her privacy, so I didn't ask. However, when I had come to check on the captives again, I overheard a discussion between Safija and that bastard, Bojan... I learned that Lazar was a Serb boy Safija was dating and that when the war began, they were separated."I knew Lazar's family. They were good Serbs. Oh a-and I forgot to mention, they were all killed on a train to, um, Belgrade, when Islamic terrorists blew it up. Lazar's parents would be rolling in their graves if they knew he was into you." Bojan said in the conversation at some point.I had a feeling Bojan was full of shit. The way Safija responded to it made it sound as if she wasn't buying it either. Sure, because of how brutal this war has been, it is possible that Lazar, and maybe his family too, may be dead. Lazar dying in the hands of Muslims was likely too, as the aggressors and victims were of all ethnic groups, it wasn't a black-and-white situation. But Bojan sounded like he was making shit up, from the tone of his voice. Once Safija made it clear she wasn't falling for it, all Bojan said was "just trust me, I definitely know."What Bojan said next made things worse."How are you still not pregnant yet? You better be after what I do next."I knew what he was going to do next, so I left to check on another captive. When I opened the door to the next captive's room, I was met with a sight that was not pretty at all.The captive was unhealthily pale. Blood was splattered around her, and the window in her room was broken. I took a closer look at the body, and saw several glass shards, obviously from the window, stuffed in her stomach, chest, and throat. Most of the blood coming out of her was dry, but it looked as if some blood was still gushing out.Nearby, I noticed a piece of paper. I picked it up, and there was some writing on it. Some parts of the paper seemed like they were stained by blood. However, I could still read it. I'm still haunted by what was written on it. I'll probably be haunted by it for the rest of my days.
"Family, if you find this, I just want to say that I love you. However, you probably don't love me anymore because once you find out what happened to me, you will tell me I tarnished the family's honor. I would be a burden to you all. So this day, May 27, will be the end of me. It's the only way to save the family's honor. -Olga Arapović"
The sight of her body will probably stay with me forever. That poor girl... I left and was about to report to the captain about it, but was told by another soldier that enemy forces were raiding a Serb village and that I would need to help stop them. So I went. I saw HVO soldiers burning down houses, killing innocent villagers, and they didn't bother to spare children or pets. So I, and the other soldiers who were with me, ran towards those bastards and gunned them down, until the remaining aggressors surrendered. I saw mothers trying to comfort their children who were still terrified by the raid. People weeping over the bodies of the innocents that had already been killed. A dog trying to wake up her dead owner. I too wanted to cry for those who had perished in the raid. The people in the village were innocent and didn't deserve this. And while I was able to save some innocent Serbs from being unnecessarily killed, I wouldn't be able to do the same for Croats and Muslims who were also innocent. When I came back to that goddamn makeshift brothel, I saw Serb soldiers carelessly throwing Olga's body into a nearby mass grave...
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
(Svjetlana)Entry: 28/05/92We, without a doubt, have no choice but to leave Bosnia. Things are getting much worse. If I, Zejneb and/or Danica stay, we'll either be killed or raped. To make matters worse, Zejneb got her first period recently and we don't have feminine products with us. She has to hide even more now, the blood shows through her clothes and she is unable to hide it. She's worn the same pair of black pants so the blood stains will be less visible, but she knows it's not guaranteed to protect her. If the militiamen see the blood, they most likely WILL rape her. She may have tried to make herself look less attractive to them by cutting her hair, but it won't fully guarantee they won't rape her. Leaving Bosnia is the only way to ensure we will be safe from all that.We came across a nice elderly couple, a Serb man and his Croat wife, a few days ago. They too miss the unity that Muslims, Serbs, and Croats once had. They agree that this war is horrible. The wife told me that their son was killed for defending a non-Serb friend. They're planning to leave Bosnia soon, their destination being Croatia. I asked if they knew where the nearest upcoming transportation out of Bosnia would be. Well, now it looks like me, Zejneb and Danica will finally be getting out of here tomorrow. We haven't packed all our things, but for our safety we'll have to leave a lot behind.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
(Zejneb)Entry: 06/13/92It's been a while since I wrote in here. While it was sad that I had to leave my country to be safe, it was a relief that I finally got to find a safe place to be. But sadly, the sight of people around me dying, the sight of all those rotting corpses, the sight of my mother and brother dying, has never left me. I still see those sights in my nightmares. I don't think they'll ever leave me. I still worry about what happened to my poor sister, too. I'm still trying to look on the bright side, but it's hard to do so when all those horrible things stick with me even when I'm safe.Sadly, Svjetlana was unable to come with us to Croatia. They weren't allowing Serbs to move there. However, Svjetlana managed to board a train to Serbia and from what I've heard, she is now under the care of extended family in Belgrade. I already miss her. I hope I can regain contact with her again. I hope I can get her new address so we can still communicate by writing letters to each other. Danica misses her too. We were both close to her and to be separated from her hurt us both.On the bright side, even though my period came so unexpectedly, when we first arrived to Croatia I got some feminine products to keep the flow from staining my clothes again. I didn't have to keep wearing the same pair of black pants, though I had to work hard to get the blood stains out of the clothes I wore when I had no feminine products. My hair is still short, but I've been letting it grow to the point I don't look like a boy anymore. I received some nice new clothes after I found a place to stay in Croatia. I still keep the old clothes as a way to remember my family, though.I also got to go to school again, though I was shy as I would have to meet tons of new people, people that were complete strangers. Danica was the only person I knew, as she was also going to the same school I attend. I found out some of the kids in the class were kids that had also fled from Bosnia. Some said they were only a step away from being killed when they left the country. Some said that they had come here via bus, and that not everyone on the same bus got to make it to get here. I was grateful that I, Svjetlana and Danica had been spared from that, even if Svjetlana had to go a separate way. I told Allah about how thankful I was that I and the other kids that had fled from Bosnia had made it here.I made friends with one of the people who came here that way. Her name is Merjem, she is a year older than me, and she is also a Muslim. While we tried not to talk about the war, one of our conversations eventually went into the subject of into how horrible the war was. How we were traumatizated by it. I had told her about my family, how my mother and brother had been killed, and that I haven't seen my sister ever since that day. She told me about how her twin sister had been abducted by Serb militiamen and that her family couldn't find her before they had to leave. The conversation ended in us hugging each other as we cried.Yesterday, I went to a mosque for the first time since before the war. My menses had ended for the month, so I was able to pray there, too. Ever since the war began, I didn't go to any mosque at all. I had been hearing about mosques being destroyed. I didn't want to go to a mosque when there was violence happening all around me. Who knew if someone had planted a bomb in the mosque, and what if it was a situation where the bomb would go off before anyone could know or leave? What if a madman stormed into the mosque and shot us all? Those fears, along with the violence, kept me from going to a mosque.I wouldn't say I'm a devoted Muslim, but I still stay true to my religion in some ways, such as avoiding pork and alcohol, fasting during Ramadan, and praying at least 5 times a day. I don't wear a hijab much. I usually only wear one when I'm praying, at a mosque, or at any other Islamic occasion that require hair to be covered. A lot of Bosnian Muslim girls don't wear a hijab. But my sister, Safija, did wear a hijab more than I did.When I went to the mosque yesterday, it was weird, yet soothing at the same time. Hearing the imam's voice as we prayed together in the mosque was comforting to me. My whole life, whenever my family went to a mosque, it was usually the same one that was close to our house. I can count the amount of times I went to a different mosque on one hand. One person at the mosque recognized me. He was a neighbor of mine who was also Muslim. I didn't tell him anything about what happened to my family; I can't describe it without breaking down in tears. I wasn't in the mood to do so.School is fine and all, but it's got its own flaws too. I do know both Cyrillic and Latin, but it's currently forbidden to use Cyrillic right now. Some of the kids who had escaped Bosnia only knew Cyrillic, and were required to take an additional class as a result. One of those kids told me it was like learning how to talk all over again.Some people at school have been assholes, too. I've been called a balija, a Turk, or whatever. I've been made fun of for being an immigrant. However, I try not to let it get to me. After I had to witness all of those horrible sights during the war, being made fun of at school isn't the worst thing that could happen to me.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
(Dragan)Entry: 11/8/92Things in the war haven't gotten any better. Serbian soldiers have continued to break into Muslim househoulds, kill entire Muslim families, abduct Muslim civilians, and rape Muslim girls. Muslim soldiers have been retaliating by breaking into Serbian households, killing entire Serbian families, abducting Serbian civilians, and raping Serbian girls. Croatian soldiers have been doing the same to non-Croat people.Every day, I see corpses. The bodies were often in pieces. Some were burned beyond recognition. Some had their entrails exposed. There were days where it seemed like I couldn't go anywhere without stepping in scattered brain matter or exposed entrails. The air was filled with the scent of death, blood, and decomposing flesh. I'm used to the sight and smell of it now. It still doesn't make it any less disgusting or upsetting.In the makeshift brothel, they recently stopped allowing all Muslim captives to cover their hair. It is quite hypocritical, as covering hair isn't an exclusively Muslim thing. I've seen Serbian Orthodox women cover their hair too, and I don't just mean the nuns, I've also seen Serb Orthodox women cover their hair for religious events or even in everyday life.One day, when I went to check on the captives, I could hear Safija humming a familiar tune when I got to her room. I recognized it as a song from my new Guns N' Roses tape I'd listen to on my Walkman. November Rain, to be specific. When she noticed me, she stopped and said "don't mind me, this was one of the songs Lazar loved."I told Safija that I myself knew what the song was, and even told her the title of the song. She told me quite a lot after that, but I didn't mind. She told me that November Rain means a lot more to her now than it did before the war. She told me it reminded her of the life she had before the war. That Lazar liked Guns N' Roses and this was his favourite song from their newest album. That the last time they went on a date was November 30, 1991. It made sense to me.On the same day, I saw Bojan being an ass again, like usual... he was in a room with another Muslim girl, with a plate of what looked like pork. He said to her "Do you want to eat? Or do you want to die?" It seemed obvious he was taunting her... The girl then smacked the plate out of his hand. He just responded with "I'd kill you now, but you must contribute to birthing a new generation of Chetniks first." I knew what he was going to do to that girl next, so I left. When I saw Safija again, we talked for a while. She told me Bojan keeps telling her that Lazar is dead. However, she also told me she doesn't believe him at all. She even said she had a feeling Lazar was still alive. I never thought I'd say this but... after meeting Safija, I've considered quitting smoking. I began smoking last year, but it hasn't brought me any benefits. I only kept smoking because I felt like I had to. But now I'm beginning to think it would be better for me, and many others, if I quit.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
(Zejneb)Entry: 09/11/92It is now November and the war is still going on... funny how in the first few days of the war, some people thought it was just a minor conflict that would be over in just 2 weeks. Now, I'm actually paranoid that the war could end up lasting as long as 10 years. Sometimes I wish I could've been in the same car crash that killed my dad in 1989, so I would've died with him and therefore never have to witness the war. But then again, my grandparents had to witness war themselves. I just never thought I'd have to witness it, especially because life was easier for me (well, before the war) than it was for my grandparents when they were my age. I should've never taken the time before all those conflicts for granted.I still miss Safija so much. I still miss mom, dad and Ivan. The thought of Safija being raped, over and over, being forced into doing something against her will, and horrible stuff like that keeps me up at night. Who knows if she's even still alive? All I know is that now, multiple women and girls who are still in Bosnia (regardless of ethnicity) are being held in camps, buildings, etc. and being raped repeatedly there. Even worse, I heard some of the girls being held there were as young as 12. Disgusting.Another person I hadn't heard from ever since the beginning of the war was Lazar, Safija's boyfriend. I had worried about what could've possibly happened to him. There was a possibility he had fled the country and was now somewhere safe but there were other possibilities about what happened to him. He could've been killed. He could've refused to hate and have many people out for his blood as a result. He could've adopted a hateful ideology against non-Serbian people. But I didn't know what happened to him... until now.A few days ago, I saw Lazar again. To my relief, he was alive. However, he still wasn't himself, but I expected him to change in some way. When it comes to a war this horrible, it will inevitably affect everyone who witnesses it in some way. No one will be the same again after seeing something this horrible. Lazar was usually a larger-than-life, radiant guy. But now, he was a shell of his former self. He also now had a large, nasty burn scar on his left arm and shoulder. He had told me what he went through when the war began.Nearly everyone in his family immediately became xenophobic towards non-Serbian people. He, however, refused to turn against non-Serbs. Lazar was disowned by almost everyone in his family as a result. His cousin had also tortured him by burning his left arm with an iron and getting a friend to film it on a camcorder. While Lazar managed to flee to Serbia along with his parents and siblings, his parents eventually disowned him as well for refusing to adopt intolerant views. He was left to fend for himself. Lazar wanted to come to Croatia to see if Safija was there, and he got in touch with a Croatian man that was willing to get him there, but he had to obtain phony documents that claimed he was a Croat. He had to assume a new, Croat-like name instead of sticking with his actual name, becauce if he stuck with his actual name, it would've undoubtedly been a dead giveaway that he was a Serb. I noticed his Orthodox cross necklace that he always wears was gone. He probably stopped wearing it because Serbs were mostly associated with Orthodoxy and would've made it more obvious he was a Serb. Orthodox crosses aren't the same as the cross everyone knows. The cross everyone knew had only one vertical crossbeam, while the Orthodox cross had two additional crossbeams, one being shorter and above the typical crossbeam, and the other crossbeam at the bottom and tilted downward to the right-hand side.Man, he sure was crushed when he found out Safija was nowhere to be found. He wants to go back to Bosnia to find Safija, but at the same time he fears he'll be killed before he can even have a chance to find her. I just hope we can find her eventually. I hope she can find a way out of this mess.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
(Merjem)Entry: 01/01/93The new year came, but I don't know if I should celebrate. The war has no sign of stopping anytime soon. It will probably mean another year of war. I don't think I can stomach that. I turn 16 in the next few months. But I probably won't be celebrating on that day either, because my twin sister Mirzana is still missing, so we won't be able to celebrate our birthdays together. The time we had last year before the war wasn't perfect, but it was better than now.I still remember when me and my sister Mirzana celebrated our 15th birthday together, which was in the first few months of 1992 before the war began. It will probably be Mirzana's last birthday, because who knows if she is still alive? I remember some time before the war began, I and Mirzana were harassed by some Serb teens around our age. Some I recognized as my neighbors. Even though we both don't cover our hair outside of religious occasions, the Serb kids harassing us could still tell we were Muslims, because of our accents and the green scarves we both wore on our necks. They were threatening us, telling us we "won't make it back home alive", that we would be "dead tomorrow", that we should just go blow up a building and die, and such. They only left us alone when Mirzana snapped at them, telling them to back off and that they are not as tough as they think they are. They left us alone after that. What cowards.When the war began, my father left to join the Muslim army and fight against the Serbs. We haven't heard from him since. Our electricity was shut off because we weren't Serbs. We had to rely on my late grandmother's oil lamp, and some candles, for light. We could no longer use our game system, our VCR or our TV, so we had to rely on CDs and cassette tapes that had music or narrations of books on them for entertainment. Our boombox was battery-powered and didn't need to be plugged in to operate, luckily. Our boombox also had a radio, which allowed us to listen to music, or more importantly the news, so we could still hear about what was going on around us without having to use the TV. One news report had told us that the Serb soldiers have even been killing Serbs that are hiding Muslims. Surprisingly, even though the Serb soldiers have been out to kill Muslims, the muezzin at our local mosque still continued to recite the call to prayer when it was time to pray. I didn't always pray 5 times a day, but now, I think I've been praying even more than 5 times a day because of the horrible things happening around me. When me and Mirzana went to school, we would always hear other kids gossiping about the war. That they found the body of another student, a teacher, etc. My grades began to drop because I was too afraid of the war to learn anything. Then, when it seemed like things couldn't get any worse, Serb soldiers abducted Mirzana one day when we were walking home. I had stopped at a convenience store on the way home to buy some bubblegum, and she was outside waiting for me. When I left the store, she was gone, and a bystander told me she tried to save her, but was threatened with a gun. It's my fault they took her away, because I had left her alone unguarded. If I was out here in time, I would've given my life to save her. Mother tries to tell me it wasn't my fault, but that hasn't stopped me from believing it was. That same night, some Serb soldiers raided and ransacked the house of a Croat family in our neighborhood, and beat the father brutally with a beer bottle one of the soldiers had gotten drunk on. Their house was close to our house, so I could hear it. Then, when they were done beating the father, they raped his wife, forcing the father and their two children to watch them take turns raping her. Some of the other neighbors were in front of or even inside the house, begging the soldiers to stop. I could hear the commotion from my bedroom window. I could feel vomit rising in my throat, but I had to keep it down. Even though I didn't see it happen, I could still hear it happen. It felt like it was going on for hours. After they were done terrorizing the family, they left the parents for dead and the children traumatized. I didn't sleep at all that night, and I don't think my mother did either. That day must've been the last straw for my mother too, because the next day we decided we had it with the war and were going to go to Croatia. I cut my hair boy-short after my mother advised me to, as we had both heard about women and girls being raped by Serb soldiers. My mother had told me it would make me look less attractive to the Serb soldiers, so I decided I would do it and cut my hair short. The planning took days, but eventually my mother and I found a bus that would take us to Croatia. We had to leave a lot behind, and we couldn't take things like money or anything else valuable. The bus ride took hours. Every once in a while, the bus would be stopped by Serb soldiers. Everyone was forced to get off the bus. All of the adult women, obviously including mother, were forced to go into this shed, because the Serb soldiers supposedly had to "inspect" them to see if they were hiding weapons or anything else valuable. However, judging by the look on the faces of the women after they left, I feel like they instead humiliated the women, using the inspection bullshit as an excuse. Before we got back on the bus, the Serb soldiers would always choose who could get back on the bus and who wasn't. I was ready to kill myself as a last resort if I turned out to be one of the people who wasn't going to be allowed to get back on the bus. However, I didn't. I don't know if it was out of luck. The bus ride went on for hours. However, it felt more like 20 years. I spent the entire time worrying about if I and mother were ever going to make it. I even prayed multiple times, even though I had no prayer rug with me nor did I have anything to cover my hair with. I must've slept through the rest of the ride, because next thing I knew, my mother was shaking me awake in excitement. We eventually found a kind old woman offering to let us both stay at her house, and there was a mosque nearby where we were staying, so mother and I could still practice our religion without a long journey to the mosque. I went to school again too, and I met a lot of kids who were also refugees from Bosnia.I even made a friend, who is also a Bosnian refugee, and like me, she is also a Muslim. Her name is Zejneb, and I could tell she had clearly been through a lot too. She lost her brother and mother when the war began, and just like me, she had a sister who also was taken away by Serb soldiers... I still pray that Mirzana, and Zejneb's sister Safija will be returned to us in one piece. It scares me to think about how Mirzana is being treated in wherever she could've been taken. I worry about if she's even alive. I've had nightmares of Mirzana either dying, being tortured, and... I don't think I want to describe the rest.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
(Mirzana)Entry: date unknown, approximately 25/02/93I don't know how long I've been trapped here. I don't have anything to help me tell time. But I've accepted I'll probably never be able to get out of this hell. I've tried to kill myself, but they stopped me from doing so. I don't know how long the war will last, but I doubt I'll be alive by the time it ends. I'll be lucky if I don't end up being blown to smithereens. Though, I feel like I stopped living long ago. I feel like the real me died the day I was violated for the first time, at the beginning of the war, and that I've only been living as a shadow of my former self since then. If I resist, I'll always be overpowered. I still prayed that my twin sister Merjem and my mother have found a safe place away from the war. They would probably never see me again. Maybe it would've been for the better. I had no say in this bed being made for me, but I guess the only option available now is to lay in it. One other person I've met in the camp is Safija, who is also a Muslim, like I am. She had also been separated from her family when the war began. She still prays that she'll find a way out of this torture, that she'll reunite with her sister, as her sister was all she had left of her family.Yesterday, I recognized one of the Serb soldiers who visited me. He was Miroslav, and I knew him as one of my neighbors before the war. He didn't seem to show any hostility towards any of us, but when he came to me, I had a feeling I would be met with bad news. Miroslav handed me a folded piece of paper, telling me "Bojan told me to send you this. I don't know why, but he told me it was very important." As I unfolded the paper, I noticed a paperclip attaching another piece of paper behind the one facing me. I decided to read the first one before the second, obviously. I still remember what it said, and it will probably haunt me for the rest of my days:
"Mirzana,
Who I am isn't important at the moment. At the time I am writing this, it is February 21, 1993. It is with a heavy heart that I announce your mother Nevzeta and sister Merjem have been killed right at the beginning of the new year. They were fleeing to Croatia on foot with many other people, when one of those people stepped on a landmine. There were no survivors. The only remains of the people lost in the explosion were their charred remains. I'm so sorry I had to tell you this. If you can't believe it, I advise you read the paper on the back for proof."
Once I read it, I could feel my heart skipping more than one beat. I at first hesitated reading the paper on the back, but I needed an answer. The second one would be a list of identified bodies recovered from the explosion, and I carefully read through the list. I felt like I was ready to faint when I read two certain names on the list.
Merjem Novakovic, aged 15 (Date of birth: 11.02.1977)Nevzeta Novakovic, aged 39 (Date of birth: 28.01.1953)
Those names and ages... both matched that of my mother and sister. The second I found both of those names, I could feel my eyes tearing up. I folded the papers back up and held it to my chest. My sister and my mother were gone forever! I don't know if my father is still alive. He is fighting the war, so how would anyone know if he is alive. If he is, I hope he'll find out about my whereabouts and rescue me from this nightmare. I hope Safija's sister is still alive, she doesn't deserve to lose her sister like I did.It's only been a few days since I've received this letter, but ever since I read it, I've had the same nightmare every night since then. I would be trapped in a dark room, with no way out, and the only thing in the room was a television that I was unable to shut off. The television would only be playing a video of a a group of people running, then coming across a mine, and then the mine explodes, incinerating them all. Before the explosion occurred, I would see Merjem and my mother's faces in the crowd, staring at me in horror. The television would play that video over and over, seemingly with no end, until I woke up. I always wake up from it feeling worse about losing my mother and sister.INNA LILLAHI VE INNA ILEJHI RADŽI'UN
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
(Svjetlana)Date of entry: 15/03/93I can't believe it's been about a year since the beginning of the war. A year since I had to leave my home. A year since I had contact with my friends in Bosnia. I'm now living with extended family in Serbia, specifically in Belgrade. Some of my relatives had been killed in the war, and we haven't been able to have parastos done for any of them, as we still haven't received any of their remains. I've prayed more often than I used to. I've been spending more time in my room, just praying. Many of my extended family have come to the conclusion that my persistent praying was out of grief from the death of my parents and other relatives that had died in the war, and while that is true, it isn't the only reason why I've been praying more. I've noticed a lot of people had been praying for the Serb side to win the war. However, I've prayed for the war to end, for the raping, killing, torture, etc. of innocent people to cease regardless of what ethnicity or religion the victims were, for the safety of everyone in Bosnia that was suffering because of the war. I used to leave my prayer rope alone on my nightstand or put it in my pocket when it was not in use, but now I've instead started wearing my prayer rope on my left wrist when it's not in use, to remind me that I need to pray to God, to ask him to help the less fortunate more than ever. God, please help the unfortunate.Some of the relatives that were living with me and my extended family were also Bosnian Serbs, and they had also escaped from the war in Bosnia, such as my cousin Sava. He fled Bosnia after I did, and for a while, he cried almost every day because of the traumatic things he witnessed while still in Bosnia during the war. He was also separated from his best friend Adnan when he fled. Adnan was a Muslim, and even though the war did not affect the friendship of Sava and Adnan, Sava fears Adnan may be dead, as he did not hear anything about Adnan planning to escape either. Sava had told me that the last time he spoke to Adnan, Adnan was scared. Adnan had told Sava that his own mother was taken away. Sava refuses to talk about anything else he had to put up with before he escaped Bosnia, and I don't blame him. I've also been praying that Adnan and by extension, his family, were alive and somewhere safe. I could find myself relating to Sava because my best friend, Zejneb, was also a Muslim. Even though I know Zejneb is alive and safe, it still hurt to be separated from her.Another thing that also scares me is that there are members of my extended family who I either haven't heard from since the beginning of the war, or were unable to escape. One of those specific relatives is my aunt Natasa. While I do know the Bosnian Serb army probably wouldn't go after Natasa because she was a Serb, I knew Natasa wasn't safe from the Bosnian Croat army. Natasa's husband, my uncle Emanuel, was a Croat, and they had four children. In our society, children born to parents of different backgrounds are considered to be the same ethnicity as the father, so Natasa and Emanuel's children were also considered to be Croats, though their children seemed to embrace both their Croat and Serb heritage equally. For example, they would celebrate Christmas twice, first celebrating Catholic Christmas with their father's side of the family, then celebrating Orthodox Christmas with us. I knew Emanuel and the children he had with Natasa wouldn't be safe from the Serb army, as the Serb army targeted Croats. I prayed for them too, because even if they were of different backgrounds, ethnic conflict shouldn't tear their family apart.