On 6th April we remember the victims of the war in Bosnia which is generally acknowledged to have started on that day in 1992. Over the next three years, Bosnian Serbs forces led a war of ‘ethnic cleansing’ targeted at Bosnia Muslims and Croats.
More than 2 million people were burned out of their homes in the villages over the 3 years of the war. 1,000 children were murdered during the Siege of Sarajevo. People were sent to concentration camps, including Omarska, where they were beaten, tortured, starved, raped and killed. Rape victims included young girls. Survivors were deported. More than 100,000 died. In July 1995, 8,000 Bosnian men and boys were murdered in Srebrenica. It was the largest massacre in Europe since the Holocaust. More information is available from the Holocaust Memorial Day Trust.
In the piece below local resident Damir’s mum describes her memories of the start of the war in Bosnia. She was 50 when the war broke out. A Croat married to a Bosnian in the secular and integrated county of Yugoslavia living in a small town in Bosnia similar to Stroud where she had worked as a primary school teacher most of her life. This is her account of her experience of being put under house arrest and eventually being made to made to leave her home.
Mama’s War
To help me make sense of the Bosnian war I recall a conversation with my father in 1987. He said: “Nasty things are going to happen in Bosnia. I cannot guarantee my predictions and I do not know how to help but…”
I was surprised with his words. I thought it the ravings of an 84 year old man and I couldn’t take it too seriously. He died shortly after in January 1988.
In 1991 the war starts, first in Slovenia, then Croatia. My Bosnian husband, my son and I are living in Bosnia. My daughter is in Zagreb studying.
In June 1991 my colleague visits us at home. Not only have we worked together, but we are friends and socialise regularly.
She delivers a document by which I am fired from work saying “Management sent me to deliver this to you. Don’t be angry as WE can lose our jobs too.”
I felt confused, dizzy, offended, degraded and bewildered. Who are WE? I had worked, as a teacher with her, in that school for thirty years.
That same day the military police visit. They interrogate us regarding weapons, and take my husband for further interrogation. He is a retired territorial army officer. After he returns, he doesn’t say anything. He lies on the sofa and just stares at the ceiling. He is taken to these interrogations three more times.
My son Damir has left this hell 11 days ago. I watched his departure hidden behind the curtain. Fear consumes me but at the same time my thoughts are: “Let him be safe, even if I don’t see him any more!”
A young colleague who lives in the same building notifies me that going out is forbidden. Life continues with constant peeping behind the curtain.
Uniformed groups are taking people (Catholics and Muslims) to interrogations. I am deliberately not calling them Croats and Bosniaks. They were all born here, they attended the same school, all supported the same local football teams, all attended weddings and funerals together. But now, religion makes them different, less human, a reason to be killed.
One day I am allowed to go to the bank. There is the ever-present young colleague, patrolling the apartment block corridors, observing who is talking to whom.
Outside at the cross- roads among a group of armed men is another colleague of mine. We worked together for 20 years. He is avoiding me, pretending to pay attention to something else, turning his back to me. As I pass I can hear steps behind me. I do not know what to expect. Maybe this is the end? Quietly he calls my name. I stop. Fear consumes me. He whispers “Sorry! Please remember I am ashamed. I am ashamed even to look you in the eye.”
Arrests continue. My life consists of peeping through the window behind the curtain. There are more and more armed men who do not belong to this town. However in these armed groups, there is always one local person pointing out who lives at a specific house and who should be arrested and in some cases killed.
Often I walk through the apartment building hallways as going out of the building is forbidden. I meet a woman I know, from a neighbouring building, with handfuls of bags, coats and jackets. Once, I cannot explain why, I ask her what she is carrying? Without shame she replies: “I am taking stuff from abandoned flats for the army!”
You wouldn’t believe how much you can see and learn peeping through the window or from quietly spoken words in the corridor. This way I manage to learn who has been killed, who is in prison and who has “left” the town.
By left I mean kicked out, possessions taken
We learn that my husband’s first cousin has died. He was taken to prison, beaten up, sent home and died in the morning. His mixed marriage didn’t save him, he was dead.
One night a neighbour from our building, a judge at the local court, scratches on our door about 3am. It is dangerous for him to visit us. He brought us a couple of apples, cried talking about the situation, paralysed with fear for his young children. His brothers are in charge of the political party that led to this madness. One of them is a highly placed army officer. None of that has stopped him from being human.
We have an opportunity to leave. This means leaving all our belongings, our flat, everything and to pay for the cost of transport.
The same evening someone knocked at the door. It was unwritten rule for women to open the door. If men did that they would, often, be beaten up on the spot or even killed. Three soldiers demanded the car keys: “For the army!” they said. All night they drive our car up and down the street, revving the engine, honking the horn. When they have had enough smashed the car into the wall.
One bag. That is all what we were allowed to take. Our whole life was to be squeezed into one bag. I leave my son’s trumpet with a friend hoping one day he will be able to retrieve it. No words can describe leaving my house, locking the door.
We are waiting for the buses behind the cordons in front of the town hall.
Former friends and colleagues are passing by pretending that we do not exist. We were taken across the mountain towards central Bosnia. The bus stops and my husband is taken off without explanation. The busses are ordered to continue. I run out of the bus after them. I don’t remember what I was saying but manage to pass him his medication.
We are dumped several kilometres before the front line and ordered to continue on foot to the border. We were placed in the former barracks in Travnik. For ten days I lie in the bed, staring into empty space, forcing myself to get up only to try and find information about my husband. Some of my former pupils are here who care for me and bring me food.
I visit the army headquarters to enquire again about my husband. An officer shows me some papers and asks “Excuse me, do you know how to read or shall I read this to you?”
I don’t have any tears left to cry. I hear myself reply “Yes, yes, I know how to read.” I can imagine how I must have appeared. A teacher with 30 years’ experience so down trodden I might be illiterate. Ironically I probably taught him or even his parents how to read.
One day one of my former pupils woke me up: “Miss, miss, he is here!”
We embraced, no words, no tears, dirty, tired, happy, humiliated … I swore.
With the next convoy of refugees we continued towards Croatia.
At the Croatian border myself and my husband are singled out and told we cannot go through. I lose my mind and my fear. I am so full of anger and hatred, I cannot describe my feelings.
I pull out my birth certificate shouting: “Who are you going to deny entry to Croatia? I was born there. My Mother, my brothers, my family are there. I am going home. Bastard!” My husband tries unsuccessfully to calm me down.
The official just turned and left. Without asking we boarded the bus and entered Croatia. Here we finally learned that our dear son had managed to reach my mother’s home and is safe.
After over 100 days of hell I am back in my mother’s house which I left in 1961 to start my new life and build my own family in Bosnia. I possess nothing, I am dirty, scared, exhausted but we were all alive.
We hear the news that our neighbour, the kindly judge, was eventually sent to a front by his brothers and was killed. Despite him being (against his will) a soldier on the side that had destroyed our lives both my husband and myself cry for him. He was a good man.
Community Solidarity Stroud District 