-
Welcome to Religious Forums, a friendly forum to discuss all religions in a friendly surrounding.
Your voice is missing! You will need to register to get access to the following site features:- Reply to discussions and create your own threads.
- Our modern chat room. No add-ons or extensions required, just login and start chatting!
- Access to private conversations with other members.
We hope to see you as a part of our community soon!
Ask Djamila almost anything!
- Thread starter Djamila
- Start date
Djamila
Bosnjakinja
Zlata's Diary, Voices of Sarajevo, Kao Ana Frank (Like Anne Frank), and any of the collections of testimonies from the war crimes tribunal at The Hague.
They have them grouped together by gender and location. You can get, for example, the testimonies of women from Bihac who were raped in concentration camps. Or you can get the testimonies of men from Srebrenica who survived the massacre. Or you can get the testimonies of women from Zepa who were forced to orally castrate their children or both would be killed. Etc, etc, etc. Those are the most graphic, they're shorter of course - like collections of short stories.
Zlata's Diary is probably the best, though.
Here are some clips:
Monday, September 2, 1991
Behind me-a long, hot summer and the happy days of summer holidays; ahead of me-a new school year. I'm starting fifth grade. I'm looking forward to seeing my friends at school, to being together again. Some of them I haven't seen since the day the school bell rang, marking the end of term. I'm glad we'll be together again, and share all the worries and joys of going to school.
Mirna, Bojana, Marijana, Ivana, Masa, Azra, Minela, Nadza-we're all together again.
Tuesday, November 12, 1991
The situation in Dubrovnik is getting worse and worse. We managed to learn through the ham radio that Srdjan is alive and that he and his parents are all right. The pictures on TV are awful. People are starving. We're wondering about how to send a package to Srdjan. It can be done somehow through Caritas. Daddy is still going to the reserves, he comes home tired. When will it stop? Daddy says maybe next week. Thank God.
Thursday, May, 7, 1992
Dear Mimmy,
I was almost positive the war would stop, but today. . .a shell fell on the park in front of my house, the park where I used to play and sit with my girlfriends. A lot of people were hurt. Dado, Jaca and her mother have come home from the hospital, Selma lost a kidney but I don't know how she is, because she's still in the hospital. AND NINA IS DEAD. A piece of shrapnel lodged in her brain and she died. She was such a sweet, nice, little girl. We went to kindergarten together, and we used to play together in the park. It is possible I'll never see Nina again? Nina, an innocent eleven-year-old little girl-the victim of a stupid war. I feel sad. I cry and wonder why? She didn't do anything. A disgusting war has destroyed a young child's life. Nina, I'll always remember you as a wonderful little girl.
Love, Mimmy,
Zlata
They have them grouped together by gender and location. You can get, for example, the testimonies of women from Bihac who were raped in concentration camps. Or you can get the testimonies of men from Srebrenica who survived the massacre. Or you can get the testimonies of women from Zepa who were forced to orally castrate their children or both would be killed. Etc, etc, etc. Those are the most graphic, they're shorter of course - like collections of short stories.
Zlata's Diary is probably the best, though.
Here are some clips:
Monday, September 2, 1991
Behind me-a long, hot summer and the happy days of summer holidays; ahead of me-a new school year. I'm starting fifth grade. I'm looking forward to seeing my friends at school, to being together again. Some of them I haven't seen since the day the school bell rang, marking the end of term. I'm glad we'll be together again, and share all the worries and joys of going to school.
Mirna, Bojana, Marijana, Ivana, Masa, Azra, Minela, Nadza-we're all together again.
Tuesday, November 12, 1991
The situation in Dubrovnik is getting worse and worse. We managed to learn through the ham radio that Srdjan is alive and that he and his parents are all right. The pictures on TV are awful. People are starving. We're wondering about how to send a package to Srdjan. It can be done somehow through Caritas. Daddy is still going to the reserves, he comes home tired. When will it stop? Daddy says maybe next week. Thank God.
Thursday, May, 7, 1992
Dear Mimmy,
I was almost positive the war would stop, but today. . .a shell fell on the park in front of my house, the park where I used to play and sit with my girlfriends. A lot of people were hurt. Dado, Jaca and her mother have come home from the hospital, Selma lost a kidney but I don't know how she is, because she's still in the hospital. AND NINA IS DEAD. A piece of shrapnel lodged in her brain and she died. She was such a sweet, nice, little girl. We went to kindergarten together, and we used to play together in the park. It is possible I'll never see Nina again? Nina, an innocent eleven-year-old little girl-the victim of a stupid war. I feel sad. I cry and wonder why? She didn't do anything. A disgusting war has destroyed a young child's life. Nina, I'll always remember you as a wonderful little girl.
Love, Mimmy,
Zlata
Djamila
Bosnjakinja
Monday, December 28, 1992
Dear Mimmy,
. . . You know, Mimmy, we've had no water or electricity for ages. When I go out and when there's no shooting it's as if the war were over, but this business with the electricity and water, this darkness, this winter, the shortage of wood and food, brings me back to earth and then I realize that the war is still on. . .
As I sit writing to you, my dear Mimmy, I look over at Mommy and Daddy. They are reading. . Somehow they look even sadder to me in the light of the oil lamp. . .I look at Daddy. He really has lost a lot of weight. The scales say twenty-five kilos, but looking at him I think it must be more. I think even his glasses are too big for him. Mommy has lost weight too. She's shrunk somehow, the war has given her wrinkles. God, what is this war doing to my parents? They don't look like my old Mommy and Daddy anymore. Will this ever stop? Will our suffering stop so that my parents can be what they used to be-cheerful, smiling, nice-looking?
This stupid war is destroying my childhood, it's destroying my parents' lives. WHY? STOP THE WAR! PEACE! I NEED PEACE! I'm going to play a game of cards with them!
Love from your Zlata
Wednesday, September 29, 1993
We waited for September 27 and 28. The 27th was the Assembly of Bosnian Intellectuals, and the 28th was the session of the B-H Parliament. And the result is "conditional acceptance of the Geneva agreement." CONDITIONAL. What does that mean?
Once more the circle closes. The circle is closing, Mimmy, and it's strangling us.
Sometimes I wish I had wings so I could fly away from this hell. Like Icarus.
There's no other way.
But to do that I'd need wings for Mommy, wings for Daddy, for Grandma and Granddad and. . .for you, Mimmy.
And that's impossible, because humans are not birds.
That's why I have to try to get through all this, with your support, Mimmy, and to hope that it will pass and that I will not suffer the fate of Anne Frank. That I will be a child again, living my childhood in peace.
Love,
Zlata
Dear Mimmy,
. . . You know, Mimmy, we've had no water or electricity for ages. When I go out and when there's no shooting it's as if the war were over, but this business with the electricity and water, this darkness, this winter, the shortage of wood and food, brings me back to earth and then I realize that the war is still on. . .
As I sit writing to you, my dear Mimmy, I look over at Mommy and Daddy. They are reading. . Somehow they look even sadder to me in the light of the oil lamp. . .I look at Daddy. He really has lost a lot of weight. The scales say twenty-five kilos, but looking at him I think it must be more. I think even his glasses are too big for him. Mommy has lost weight too. She's shrunk somehow, the war has given her wrinkles. God, what is this war doing to my parents? They don't look like my old Mommy and Daddy anymore. Will this ever stop? Will our suffering stop so that my parents can be what they used to be-cheerful, smiling, nice-looking?
This stupid war is destroying my childhood, it's destroying my parents' lives. WHY? STOP THE WAR! PEACE! I NEED PEACE! I'm going to play a game of cards with them!
Love from your Zlata
Wednesday, September 29, 1993
We waited for September 27 and 28. The 27th was the Assembly of Bosnian Intellectuals, and the 28th was the session of the B-H Parliament. And the result is "conditional acceptance of the Geneva agreement." CONDITIONAL. What does that mean?
Once more the circle closes. The circle is closing, Mimmy, and it's strangling us.
Sometimes I wish I had wings so I could fly away from this hell. Like Icarus.
There's no other way.
But to do that I'd need wings for Mommy, wings for Daddy, for Grandma and Granddad and. . .for you, Mimmy.
And that's impossible, because humans are not birds.
That's why I have to try to get through all this, with your support, Mimmy, and to hope that it will pass and that I will not suffer the fate of Anne Frank. That I will be a child again, living my childhood in peace.
Love,
Zlata
Djamila
Bosnjakinja
There's also a book I can't recommend enough, Good People in Evil Times. It's by Svetlana Broz, the daughter of our communist leader Josip Broz Tito. She left her home in Belgrade during the war, and came to Bosnia to help the Serbs and offer them her abilities as a nurse.
When she came here, and saw with her own eyes what was happening, she came instead to Sarajevo and helped us. She now lives in Sarajevo, and has put together a book filled with stories of people of different religious backgrounds helping each other. They're absolutely amazing.
My favorite one is the Muslim woman in Bijeljina. That was the first city in Bosnia to fall to the Serbs, and they gathered together all the Muslims and Roman Catholics in town and executed them, 10 or 20 at a time, in local schools and sports fields. Many others were put on trains and taken elsewhere, either to death or Muslim-held territory.
This Muslim woman was a teacher at one of the local highschools and one of her students, a Serb, was a good man. He was forced into the paramilitary service like all young Serb men were, but he tried to make small differences when he could. She and her daughter survived the initial round-up and were hiding in the walls of their home. He came in one night and searched the house, tore up the floors, walls, and so on - desperate to find them. He did, and they were expecting to be killed but he snuck them out in the darkness and drove them to a village road that led all the way to Tuzla, a Muslim-held city. He told them there would be someone in the woods waiting for them, and that when they arrived, these other people would leave.
He asked them to wait in the forest until the same time tomorrow night, if he didn't bring more people, then they should leave and go on ahead. This continued for four days, she later found out, and saved 8 people, before he was discovered and executed.
And there are perhaps more than a hundred such stories, from all backgrounds. It's an amazing book.
When she came here, and saw with her own eyes what was happening, she came instead to Sarajevo and helped us. She now lives in Sarajevo, and has put together a book filled with stories of people of different religious backgrounds helping each other. They're absolutely amazing.
My favorite one is the Muslim woman in Bijeljina. That was the first city in Bosnia to fall to the Serbs, and they gathered together all the Muslims and Roman Catholics in town and executed them, 10 or 20 at a time, in local schools and sports fields. Many others were put on trains and taken elsewhere, either to death or Muslim-held territory.
This Muslim woman was a teacher at one of the local highschools and one of her students, a Serb, was a good man. He was forced into the paramilitary service like all young Serb men were, but he tried to make small differences when he could. She and her daughter survived the initial round-up and were hiding in the walls of their home. He came in one night and searched the house, tore up the floors, walls, and so on - desperate to find them. He did, and they were expecting to be killed but he snuck them out in the darkness and drove them to a village road that led all the way to Tuzla, a Muslim-held city. He told them there would be someone in the woods waiting for them, and that when they arrived, these other people would leave.
He asked them to wait in the forest until the same time tomorrow night, if he didn't bring more people, then they should leave and go on ahead. This continued for four days, she later found out, and saved 8 people, before he was discovered and executed.
And there are perhaps more than a hundred such stories, from all backgrounds. It's an amazing book.
Djamila
Bosnjakinja
And it has such an important effect.
These words are from a speech by Svetlana Broz that shows the power of this book:
"In August 1999, I was in Gorazde, a small town in B&H on the Drina River. This river is the borderline between B&H and Serbia. During the Second World War the population suffered heavy losses inflicted by armed nationalists on both sides, which is still remembered. It is true that there were many Bosniak victims in this war, and the town itself was terribly damaged by this war’s “Chetniks” – by Serb troops. During one of the sessions organized in Gorazde, which I myself attended, a man in his thirties approached me and said: “Excuse me, Mrs. Broz, I would like to tell you something that might be of some importance for you. You see, I fought in this war with the rifle in my hands, defending the city of Gorazde against Serb forces. We have had only one copy of you book and for six months the book went from one person to another until by now the majority in the town of 60,000 have read it. What makes the biggest impression on me is that the people of this city, after reading your book are thinking differently and they are talking about people of the two other groups. They have stopped generalizing guilt and are prepared to accept the return of all those Serbs who did nothing wrong. Nowadays, the people of Gorazde are much less subject to passionate hatred and are more ready to meet their former neighbors and to talk to them, than they before''.
These words are from a speech by Svetlana Broz that shows the power of this book:
"In August 1999, I was in Gorazde, a small town in B&H on the Drina River. This river is the borderline between B&H and Serbia. During the Second World War the population suffered heavy losses inflicted by armed nationalists on both sides, which is still remembered. It is true that there were many Bosniak victims in this war, and the town itself was terribly damaged by this war’s “Chetniks” – by Serb troops. During one of the sessions organized in Gorazde, which I myself attended, a man in his thirties approached me and said: “Excuse me, Mrs. Broz, I would like to tell you something that might be of some importance for you. You see, I fought in this war with the rifle in my hands, defending the city of Gorazde against Serb forces. We have had only one copy of you book and for six months the book went from one person to another until by now the majority in the town of 60,000 have read it. What makes the biggest impression on me is that the people of this city, after reading your book are thinking differently and they are talking about people of the two other groups. They have stopped generalizing guilt and are prepared to accept the return of all those Serbs who did nothing wrong. Nowadays, the people of Gorazde are much less subject to passionate hatred and are more ready to meet their former neighbors and to talk to them, than they before''.
Djamila
Bosnjakinja
One of the stories, word for word from the book.
Please, Mama, Don't Let Them Take Me
Told by: Senada Mehmedovic, Muslim refugee from Visegrad
I was born in Visoko, central Bosnia, married Esad in 1974 and moved down to Visegrad in eastern Bosnia on the border with Serbia.
Later we built our own home in Sase, a Visegrad outlying area, where we lived until the war with our son Edin and our daughter Azra. In May, 1992 when the war began, Esad came back from Sarajevo to bring home his pay. He was working in Sarajevo in the public transportation company as a field worker. He was supposed to go back the next day.
Panic erupted that evening: I noticed how my Serbian neighbors were turning the lights out in their houses, so I told my husband, "I'll turn out our lights to see what's going on."
After 15 minutes an unknown car drove into the yard, and then someone banged on the door and knocked three times. I didn't know what was happening and then I saw that the neighbors had turned their lights back on so I did, too. When I opened the door a flour sack fell into the front hall. Something inside it jangled. When we opened it we found an automatic weapon inside, two pistols and four bombs. We were mystified and scared. Esad was furious.
"Why did you open the door?!"
I called my neighbor and asked her what I should do.
"Hush, don't speak to a soul. Lock it up, we'll talk tomorrow."
I saw a lot of men in uniform the next morning through the window. When I stepped outside a soldier cursed my Bosniak mother, swung his gun and struck me to the ground with blows of the butt. When he got tired of hitting me he left the yard and I crept back to the house, black and blue.
Esad called our neighbor, a Serbian woman, to help.
She said, "I'll come over a little later."
Out of terror even she didn't dare to come by until dark. I figured that really serious trouble was headed our way and told Esad, "You'd better go off to the woods with the boy. I'll stay here with our daughter, come what may."
"I don't want to leave you," he said resolutely.
"You've got to! The Uzice Corps forces, troops here from Serbia, are already picking up men and taking them away."
At the entrance to the house they said, "Don't worry, we won't hurt you. We are protecting you. We are just searching for weapons. Do you have any ammunition?" The next night those soldiers left the village. I pulled the sack out of the house and took it to the woods.
The next day Murat Sabanovic took over the hydroelectric dam. There was a lot of shooting and the town imposed a curfew The people in charge wouldn't let me go anywhere because I wasn't from around there: I'd been born in Visoko in central Bosnia. They figured I meant trouble for them. Soldiers kept coming to our house, maltreating and beating me.
When Murat let the water out of the reservoir at the dam there was a flood. The soldiers fled but the local people stayed. Murat retreated and fled to Sarajevo, but we stayed there on the right bank of the Drina.
Our neighbor Zaga, a woman from Montenegro, told us, "Esad you must get out of here immediately. You'll be murdered!" I pleaded with him to go, but he refused.
"You have to take Edin away. He is 16, they'll murder him, too."
At 2:00 am I finally convinced him to leave. I stayed behind with Azra who was 14. I knew I had to hide her somewhere. I had no better idea than a storage pit dug into the ground.
The next day Lukic, one of the Serbian paramilitary leaders, showed up with four men I didn't know and wanted to know where my daughter was.
"She's gone," I answered.
"You're lying. I need her!"
"She's gone," I dug in my heels.
"Don't lie to me. Bring her out or we'll murder you!"
"So go ahead and kill me. She's not here."
"Who drove away that Serb's car?"
"The army took it, but I don't know who it was from the army."
"I bet you do, but you just won't tell us."
Lukic was the first to hit me. They beat me for a long time but he was the worst, with the butt of his gun. When I fell they kicked me, stomped on me, swore...At one point I fainted.
Please, Mama, Don't Let Them Take Me
Told by: Senada Mehmedovic, Muslim refugee from Visegrad
I was born in Visoko, central Bosnia, married Esad in 1974 and moved down to Visegrad in eastern Bosnia on the border with Serbia.
Later we built our own home in Sase, a Visegrad outlying area, where we lived until the war with our son Edin and our daughter Azra. In May, 1992 when the war began, Esad came back from Sarajevo to bring home his pay. He was working in Sarajevo in the public transportation company as a field worker. He was supposed to go back the next day.
Panic erupted that evening: I noticed how my Serbian neighbors were turning the lights out in their houses, so I told my husband, "I'll turn out our lights to see what's going on."
After 15 minutes an unknown car drove into the yard, and then someone banged on the door and knocked three times. I didn't know what was happening and then I saw that the neighbors had turned their lights back on so I did, too. When I opened the door a flour sack fell into the front hall. Something inside it jangled. When we opened it we found an automatic weapon inside, two pistols and four bombs. We were mystified and scared. Esad was furious.
"Why did you open the door?!"
I called my neighbor and asked her what I should do.
"Hush, don't speak to a soul. Lock it up, we'll talk tomorrow."
I saw a lot of men in uniform the next morning through the window. When I stepped outside a soldier cursed my Bosniak mother, swung his gun and struck me to the ground with blows of the butt. When he got tired of hitting me he left the yard and I crept back to the house, black and blue.
Esad called our neighbor, a Serbian woman, to help.
She said, "I'll come over a little later."
Out of terror even she didn't dare to come by until dark. I figured that really serious trouble was headed our way and told Esad, "You'd better go off to the woods with the boy. I'll stay here with our daughter, come what may."
"I don't want to leave you," he said resolutely.
"You've got to! The Uzice Corps forces, troops here from Serbia, are already picking up men and taking them away."
At the entrance to the house they said, "Don't worry, we won't hurt you. We are protecting you. We are just searching for weapons. Do you have any ammunition?" The next night those soldiers left the village. I pulled the sack out of the house and took it to the woods.
The next day Murat Sabanovic took over the hydroelectric dam. There was a lot of shooting and the town imposed a curfew The people in charge wouldn't let me go anywhere because I wasn't from around there: I'd been born in Visoko in central Bosnia. They figured I meant trouble for them. Soldiers kept coming to our house, maltreating and beating me.
When Murat let the water out of the reservoir at the dam there was a flood. The soldiers fled but the local people stayed. Murat retreated and fled to Sarajevo, but we stayed there on the right bank of the Drina.
Our neighbor Zaga, a woman from Montenegro, told us, "Esad you must get out of here immediately. You'll be murdered!" I pleaded with him to go, but he refused.
"You have to take Edin away. He is 16, they'll murder him, too."
At 2:00 am I finally convinced him to leave. I stayed behind with Azra who was 14. I knew I had to hide her somewhere. I had no better idea than a storage pit dug into the ground.
The next day Lukic, one of the Serbian paramilitary leaders, showed up with four men I didn't know and wanted to know where my daughter was.
"She's gone," I answered.
"You're lying. I need her!"
"She's gone," I dug in my heels.
"Don't lie to me. Bring her out or we'll murder you!"
"So go ahead and kill me. She's not here."
"Who drove away that Serb's car?"
"The army took it, but I don't know who it was from the army."
"I bet you do, but you just won't tell us."
Lukic was the first to hit me. They beat me for a long time but he was the worst, with the butt of his gun. When I fell they kicked me, stomped on me, swore...At one point I fainted.
Djamila
Bosnjakinja
When I came around I was in the woods and I was all bloody. I didn't know what had happened to me. I tried to crawl towards my house because I couldn't stand up from the pain. Stanko, a neighbor of mine, a Serb, came running over from where he'd been hiding in the woods because he was so horrified by what the paramilitary soldiers were doing. I could barely speak because my lower jaw was fractured.
"What did they do to me, Stanko?"
"Lukic and three other men raped you. Forgive me, I watched everything from the bushes but I couldn't help you. If I'd said anything they would have murdered me."
He helped me get half-way back to my house but he didn't dare go any further for fear they'd see him. He ran back even deeper into the woods.
Lukic was looking for him, too, as a traitor. That man made no distinctions: he tortured Serbs who wouldn't join him, too.
I kept on creeping towards my house from the woods on my hands and knees. At one moment I'd caught sight of Esad and Edin in the woods. I signaled to them that they must retreat further in. I had no idea where Lukic and his men were.
When I dragged myself home, Azra ran out of the storage pit but I told her, "Azra, stay in the pit so they don't see you. They'll murder you if they find you."
The next day Lukic was back at my house. He beat me again, cursed my Bosniak mother from Visoko and said, "Tell me where your daughter is!"
I moaned as they hit me. They shaved my head and carved a cross across my whole scalp with a knife.
For the next five days they beat and maltreated me every day. When I was able to go over to my sister-in-law's house I could see what they were doing down by the Drina river banks: they were slitting peoples' throats, gouging out their eyes, chopping off womens' fingers whenever they couldn't pull off their rings.
A soldier saw me and said, "Halt! Come with me. Lukic wants to see you."
I froze. Lukic came over and whacked me in the shoulder with his gun butt. "Now you are going to have your throat cut, but first tell us where your husband and your son are."
"They're gone."
"You're lying!"
He spun around, furious, that moment because they had just brought in the imam, the local Bosniak clergyman, and his son.
First, in front of all of us they slit his son's throat. Then they made the imam drink his own son's blood. Then they slaughtered three women. I stood and watched Lukic's assistant sharpening his knife.
"What are you waiting for," he asked me.
"I don't know. I'm waiting my turn," I answered.
Just then Tomic appeared. Tomic was the Visegrad chief of police, and he asked me, "Sena, why are you here?"
"I don't know."
Lukic's men turned around and saw Tomic. Clearly they were afraid of him because they all started running.
Tomic took out his pistol and without a word he shot Lukic's executioner dead. He put me in his car and drove me home.
He told me, "You can't stay here. Get out of here while you can!"
"Tomic, I've got nowhere to run to."
There was no way I could go anywhere with Azra. There were soldiers everywhere around us, and there were even women serving with them who were very cruel. One of them kicked me in the stomach in front of my house and knocked the air right out of me. Neighbors of mine, Bosniak women, were watching but they didn't dare come out of their houses to defend me.
After a few days Lukic came back to my house again.
"You're coming down to the river!"
He beat me on our way down to the Drina. When he stopped I looked up and saw Edin and Esad.
They shot Esad right in front of us with a pistol. Edin pulled free of the butcher who was holding him, flung himself on me and held me tight around the waist. He plunged his head into my breast and screamed, "Help me, mama! Please don't let them take me!"
I turned to Lukic, "Kill me. Let the boy live."
"I will not. This way we'll kill you with grief," he answered, yanked my son from my arms and slit his throat.
Azra came out of the storage pit. She couldn't bear to leave me alone. Together we buried Edin and Esad. After the funeral my neighbor Stana came over, "Sena, run while you can! You can't stay here any more." "Why should I? All my family's gone."
"Don't say that. You have Azra and you have got to protect her."
That same day Lukic showed up with his men at my house. They took Azra down to the school building where they'd locked up a lot of the people from the village. I ran down to Zaga.
"Lukic took Azra to the school! Save my girl!"
Zaga's husband Rajko and their son Steva raced off to the school and absconded with Azra at the last moment. The evildoers hadn't had time to do her any harm, but she came back completely beside herself with what she'd seen.
"Mama, the school is all bloody. They are raping little girls, gouging out their eyes, chopping off their hands, feet, breasts... They brought scissors and they are snipping off bits of people as if they were paper."
We stayed 20 more days in the house but nobody touched us any more. The people who had been doing the bestial things in our village were getting caught and some of them were escaping back to Uzice. The town was left under the administration of local Serbs who were given orders that they were not to slaughter, beat or abuse anyone.
At dawn the next day Steva came to tell me, "Sena, while the monsters are sleeping you have to go with Azra and report to the Red Cross. Then tell them you want to go to Visoko to stay with your mother."
I took Azra by the hand and we started out on our way to Visegrad. Zaga, Rajko and our other Serbian neighbors came out of their houses. They said good-bye to us and wept.
"What did they do to me, Stanko?"
"Lukic and three other men raped you. Forgive me, I watched everything from the bushes but I couldn't help you. If I'd said anything they would have murdered me."
He helped me get half-way back to my house but he didn't dare go any further for fear they'd see him. He ran back even deeper into the woods.
Lukic was looking for him, too, as a traitor. That man made no distinctions: he tortured Serbs who wouldn't join him, too.
I kept on creeping towards my house from the woods on my hands and knees. At one moment I'd caught sight of Esad and Edin in the woods. I signaled to them that they must retreat further in. I had no idea where Lukic and his men were.
When I dragged myself home, Azra ran out of the storage pit but I told her, "Azra, stay in the pit so they don't see you. They'll murder you if they find you."
The next day Lukic was back at my house. He beat me again, cursed my Bosniak mother from Visoko and said, "Tell me where your daughter is!"
I moaned as they hit me. They shaved my head and carved a cross across my whole scalp with a knife.
For the next five days they beat and maltreated me every day. When I was able to go over to my sister-in-law's house I could see what they were doing down by the Drina river banks: they were slitting peoples' throats, gouging out their eyes, chopping off womens' fingers whenever they couldn't pull off their rings.
A soldier saw me and said, "Halt! Come with me. Lukic wants to see you."
I froze. Lukic came over and whacked me in the shoulder with his gun butt. "Now you are going to have your throat cut, but first tell us where your husband and your son are."
"They're gone."
"You're lying!"
He spun around, furious, that moment because they had just brought in the imam, the local Bosniak clergyman, and his son.
First, in front of all of us they slit his son's throat. Then they made the imam drink his own son's blood. Then they slaughtered three women. I stood and watched Lukic's assistant sharpening his knife.
"What are you waiting for," he asked me.
"I don't know. I'm waiting my turn," I answered.
Just then Tomic appeared. Tomic was the Visegrad chief of police, and he asked me, "Sena, why are you here?"
"I don't know."
Lukic's men turned around and saw Tomic. Clearly they were afraid of him because they all started running.
Tomic took out his pistol and without a word he shot Lukic's executioner dead. He put me in his car and drove me home.
He told me, "You can't stay here. Get out of here while you can!"
"Tomic, I've got nowhere to run to."
There was no way I could go anywhere with Azra. There were soldiers everywhere around us, and there were even women serving with them who were very cruel. One of them kicked me in the stomach in front of my house and knocked the air right out of me. Neighbors of mine, Bosniak women, were watching but they didn't dare come out of their houses to defend me.
After a few days Lukic came back to my house again.
"You're coming down to the river!"
He beat me on our way down to the Drina. When he stopped I looked up and saw Edin and Esad.
They shot Esad right in front of us with a pistol. Edin pulled free of the butcher who was holding him, flung himself on me and held me tight around the waist. He plunged his head into my breast and screamed, "Help me, mama! Please don't let them take me!"
I turned to Lukic, "Kill me. Let the boy live."
"I will not. This way we'll kill you with grief," he answered, yanked my son from my arms and slit his throat.
Azra came out of the storage pit. She couldn't bear to leave me alone. Together we buried Edin and Esad. After the funeral my neighbor Stana came over, "Sena, run while you can! You can't stay here any more." "Why should I? All my family's gone."
"Don't say that. You have Azra and you have got to protect her."
That same day Lukic showed up with his men at my house. They took Azra down to the school building where they'd locked up a lot of the people from the village. I ran down to Zaga.
"Lukic took Azra to the school! Save my girl!"
Zaga's husband Rajko and their son Steva raced off to the school and absconded with Azra at the last moment. The evildoers hadn't had time to do her any harm, but she came back completely beside herself with what she'd seen.
"Mama, the school is all bloody. They are raping little girls, gouging out their eyes, chopping off their hands, feet, breasts... They brought scissors and they are snipping off bits of people as if they were paper."
We stayed 20 more days in the house but nobody touched us any more. The people who had been doing the bestial things in our village were getting caught and some of them were escaping back to Uzice. The town was left under the administration of local Serbs who were given orders that they were not to slaughter, beat or abuse anyone.
At dawn the next day Steva came to tell me, "Sena, while the monsters are sleeping you have to go with Azra and report to the Red Cross. Then tell them you want to go to Visoko to stay with your mother."
I took Azra by the hand and we started out on our way to Visegrad. Zaga, Rajko and our other Serbian neighbors came out of their houses. They said good-bye to us and wept.
Djamila
Bosnjakinja
On our way through the villages to Visegrad I wept, too. I couldn't shield Azra from seeing all the horrors we had to pass. From a distance we could see the old stone bridge in Visegrad. Frenzied murderers had 15-year-old boys and men on the bridge and they were stabbing them in the back and flinging them over the railing into the Drina and while they fell toward the water they were shooting at them.
We ran toward the new bridge below which hung 12 naked men, their eyes gouged out, their tongues dangling, their chests and guts flayed, their arms and legs mutilated...
There weren't any more butchers on that bridge but we barely made it across. We slipped on blood up to our ankles, human intestines tripped us, there was so much blood, and eyes and human hearts...
We reported to the Red Cross that we wanted to be taken by convoy out of Visegrad. They asked us there to give up our rights to our property. All of us wrote that on ordinary paper and signed it. At times like that property doesn't mean much. None of us even believed we'd survive.
There were seven trucks under a tarpaulin and three buses at the place where the convoy was supposed to start. Any young men who, who knows how, made it this far and got to the truck and were about to climb into it were taken off and slaughtered next to the truck right there in front of all of us. The people who did this wore bushy beards and fur hats with Chetnik insignia, with gun-belts slung over their grimy, bloody uniforms. Many of them were drunk...
The driver of one of the buses was a Serb from one of the villages near ours, Mladjo Pecikoza, and he recognized me.
I went over to him and asked, "Mladjo, please look after Azra, these men are going to want to pull her off the bus."
Without a word Mladjo took hold of Azra's hand, took her into the bus and sat her down next to him. The inflamed madmen were pulling little girls off the bus and they tried to take her, too, but Mladjo wouldn't let them.
"What is this Bosniak girl to you?" they hissed angrily.
He replied, "Don't insult her! She is a cousin of mine and she's going with me!"
I stood by the bus next to a woman who had a little girl, a baby, in her arms and held her three-and-a-half-year-old son by the hand. They were pulling little boys from their mothers. A soldier came over and grabbed the boy by the hand. The boy withdrew his hand into his sleeve, and, I don't know where the courage came from, I pulled the little boy to me so that the soldier ended up holding just his jacket. I clutched the child and held on to him and they shoved the mother onto a different bus. With this unknown little boy I managed to get on the bus.
In our bus, aside from Mladjo there was another Serbian man from Uzice and a policeman, someone Murat Sabanovic had held as a hostage down at the hydro-electric dam and had badly beaten. The man had been freed by my sister-in-law's son.
At Knjezina we were told that we would have to wait for the Duke to come. A heavy-set, tall man appeared wearing a uniform with a gun belt, a large beard, fur hat and shiny Chetnik insignia.
"God be with us," he said, raising three fingers in the Chetnik salute.
"May God help you," we all had to answer and raise three fingers, too.
In a sharp tone he called to the Serb from Uzice, "I told you to take all the young girls and boys off this bus!" "You've got it easy when I bring them to you. Go find yourself some out there in the woods, why don't you? Forget about these here," the man answered him firmly. He jumped onto the bus, cocked his gun and aimed it at the Duke. Mladjo and the other policeman cocked their guns as well.
"You'd better watch your step, you'll have to come back this way again," the Duke threatened, infuriated. "So I will, and then you and I will see, alone," the man from Uzice said while Mladjo started up the bus.
They stopped the next convoy in Knjezina, took off 56 people and murdered them. They murdered a 16-year-old boy and my younger brother-in-law who was 35. We went from there through the woods in the direction of Olovo. At Piklic we went out into a large meadow. Blue with the cold, thirsty and hungry we lit a fire. Quickly, we heard someone whistle. Someone cursed and shouted, "All of us will get killed! Get into the bus!"
Panic erupted as we all tried to get back on the bus. With the boy in my arms I saw an older Serbian man in front of me. Bullets were ricocheting off the rocks between us. Instinctively I pushed the man aside so that the ricocheting bullets wouldn't hit him. I knew that all of us would be in trouble if one of the Serbs was killed, because from their curses and shouts I figured it out that some people they were calling the Green Berets were firing at us. That was the first I'd heard of them. Later they explained to me that Bosniak Muslim units called the Green Berets from Olovo had had information that people would be taken off the convoy by that meadow and murdered, so they were shooting to stop the Serbs from massacring us. The Green Berets murdered one blind man from the convoy at that spot.
They took us back to a place under Romanija mountain where they counted us and made lists. We spent the night in the buses without windowpanes. It was cold and rainy. The other Serbian soldiers called Mladjo, the boy from Uzice and the policeman to come sleep in the hotel, but they refused, saying, "We brought these people here and we plan to deliver them alive."
They spent all night with us in the bus. When they fell asleep I felt bad for them and I took three blankets from an old woman and covered them.
The next morning troops came, and the man in charge of them was the man I'd pushed aside when the Green Berets were firing at us. They called our names. I could see two buses and a truck with Serbs on the other side, but we couldn't be sure this was the exchange.
We ran toward the new bridge below which hung 12 naked men, their eyes gouged out, their tongues dangling, their chests and guts flayed, their arms and legs mutilated...
There weren't any more butchers on that bridge but we barely made it across. We slipped on blood up to our ankles, human intestines tripped us, there was so much blood, and eyes and human hearts...
We reported to the Red Cross that we wanted to be taken by convoy out of Visegrad. They asked us there to give up our rights to our property. All of us wrote that on ordinary paper and signed it. At times like that property doesn't mean much. None of us even believed we'd survive.
There were seven trucks under a tarpaulin and three buses at the place where the convoy was supposed to start. Any young men who, who knows how, made it this far and got to the truck and were about to climb into it were taken off and slaughtered next to the truck right there in front of all of us. The people who did this wore bushy beards and fur hats with Chetnik insignia, with gun-belts slung over their grimy, bloody uniforms. Many of them were drunk...
The driver of one of the buses was a Serb from one of the villages near ours, Mladjo Pecikoza, and he recognized me.
I went over to him and asked, "Mladjo, please look after Azra, these men are going to want to pull her off the bus."
Without a word Mladjo took hold of Azra's hand, took her into the bus and sat her down next to him. The inflamed madmen were pulling little girls off the bus and they tried to take her, too, but Mladjo wouldn't let them.
"What is this Bosniak girl to you?" they hissed angrily.
He replied, "Don't insult her! She is a cousin of mine and she's going with me!"
I stood by the bus next to a woman who had a little girl, a baby, in her arms and held her three-and-a-half-year-old son by the hand. They were pulling little boys from their mothers. A soldier came over and grabbed the boy by the hand. The boy withdrew his hand into his sleeve, and, I don't know where the courage came from, I pulled the little boy to me so that the soldier ended up holding just his jacket. I clutched the child and held on to him and they shoved the mother onto a different bus. With this unknown little boy I managed to get on the bus.
In our bus, aside from Mladjo there was another Serbian man from Uzice and a policeman, someone Murat Sabanovic had held as a hostage down at the hydro-electric dam and had badly beaten. The man had been freed by my sister-in-law's son.
At Knjezina we were told that we would have to wait for the Duke to come. A heavy-set, tall man appeared wearing a uniform with a gun belt, a large beard, fur hat and shiny Chetnik insignia.
"God be with us," he said, raising three fingers in the Chetnik salute.
"May God help you," we all had to answer and raise three fingers, too.
In a sharp tone he called to the Serb from Uzice, "I told you to take all the young girls and boys off this bus!" "You've got it easy when I bring them to you. Go find yourself some out there in the woods, why don't you? Forget about these here," the man answered him firmly. He jumped onto the bus, cocked his gun and aimed it at the Duke. Mladjo and the other policeman cocked their guns as well.
"You'd better watch your step, you'll have to come back this way again," the Duke threatened, infuriated. "So I will, and then you and I will see, alone," the man from Uzice said while Mladjo started up the bus.
They stopped the next convoy in Knjezina, took off 56 people and murdered them. They murdered a 16-year-old boy and my younger brother-in-law who was 35. We went from there through the woods in the direction of Olovo. At Piklic we went out into a large meadow. Blue with the cold, thirsty and hungry we lit a fire. Quickly, we heard someone whistle. Someone cursed and shouted, "All of us will get killed! Get into the bus!"
Panic erupted as we all tried to get back on the bus. With the boy in my arms I saw an older Serbian man in front of me. Bullets were ricocheting off the rocks between us. Instinctively I pushed the man aside so that the ricocheting bullets wouldn't hit him. I knew that all of us would be in trouble if one of the Serbs was killed, because from their curses and shouts I figured it out that some people they were calling the Green Berets were firing at us. That was the first I'd heard of them. Later they explained to me that Bosniak Muslim units called the Green Berets from Olovo had had information that people would be taken off the convoy by that meadow and murdered, so they were shooting to stop the Serbs from massacring us. The Green Berets murdered one blind man from the convoy at that spot.
They took us back to a place under Romanija mountain where they counted us and made lists. We spent the night in the buses without windowpanes. It was cold and rainy. The other Serbian soldiers called Mladjo, the boy from Uzice and the policeman to come sleep in the hotel, but they refused, saying, "We brought these people here and we plan to deliver them alive."
They spent all night with us in the bus. When they fell asleep I felt bad for them and I took three blankets from an old woman and covered them.
The next morning troops came, and the man in charge of them was the man I'd pushed aside when the Green Berets were firing at us. They called our names. I could see two buses and a truck with Serbs on the other side, but we couldn't be sure this was the exchange.
Djamila
Bosnjakinja
"Lady, hey you, stop! Are you Mehmedovic?" the main Duke asked me.
"Yes I am," I said, scared.
"What's the boy's name?"
"Fudo," I said, using the first name that came to mind, because he had been quiet the whole time and hadn't even told me his name. Azra stood next to me and I held the boy in my arms.
"Please don't touch my children!" "I won't, don't you worry," he told me, and turned to the soldiers.
"See this woman? If it weren't for her yesterday I would have been killed."
He handed me two bills of 500 dinars each, I remember seeing Tito's face on them, and a carton of cigarettes.
" No, thank you," I said.
" You've got to take it," he ordered and shook my hand. We said good-by to the people who had brought us there. Mladjo started to cry, saying,
"Take good care of Azra for me!" When he got back to Visegrad, Mladjo and his three brothers were murdered by Lukic because they had protected and saved so many Bosniaks. The Pecikoza family was wealthy and well known. They had their own sawmills.
When we got to Olovo I started to scream when I saw how many soldiers there were. These were the Green Berets. They asked me, "What's wrong? We are your army!" "What do you mean, our army?! **** you and your green mother and Green Berets! It was Green Berets and Chetniks who slaughtered my 16-year-old boy!"
They took me to the police in Olovo where they forced me to tell them everything that had happened. Someone told them that Lukic had abused me the most. They wanted me to talk about that, too, but I didn't have the strength. They held me two days in prison where they beat me and wouldn't give me anything to eat. One soldier kicked me and another slapped me, saying, "You prefer those Chetniks to the Green Berets!"
"I don't like one or the other," I answered, grabbed a bottle from the table and smashed it over his head. "You are going to get more beatings from me," he said, holding his head.
"Leave the woman alone, can't you see what she's like?" the other soldier told him. My stomach was bloated from all the wounds Lukic had inflicted on me, so I thought I was pregnant. I'd weighed 190 pounds before the war. I had dropped to 90 pounds when I arrived in Olovo, and after those two days in jail I was down to 77.
Esad's uncle came to see me in jail. I asked him straight off, "Where is that little boy, Fudo?"
"Who?"
"I don't know what his first or last name are, I can only remember vaguely what his mother looked like, but please, look after my children."
Before they released me, they asked me to register Fudo, so that if his mother was looking for him she could find him.
They carried me out of the jail because I could no longer walk.
We spent four days after that in Olovo.
The second day a woman appeared at the door. She didn't look familiar. She told me that Fudo was her son.
I didn't believe her at first, but when I saw how the child flew into her arms I knew that she must really be his mother. She brought a big present. Her brother was in the Green Berets, but I didn't want to accept the gift because the Green Berets had beaten me. Fudo kissed me and went off with his mother. It was wrenching. I didn't even have the strength to ask what his real name was. For me he will always be Fudo.
I was evacuated to Visoko from there with Azra on our fifth day. First they took us to the stadium, and then they were supposed to transport us to a village. I wanted to go to my mother's house. She lived in the center of town. When I realized they wouldn't let me do that I slipped off from the bus. A soldier shot at me but by chance he didn't wound me. I had wide sleeves on which were hanging on me, and the bullet went right through the sleeve. At that moment my sister's son, my nephew happened to see me.
"Aunt Sena, where did you come from?"
"Azra is on the bus and this fools are shooting at me!"
He took Azra off the bus and the next day he took us to my mother's. Everyone came running out of the house: my mother, father, brothers and sister. They were shouting: "Where is Esad? Where is Edin?!" "They're gone, they're gone! What's done is done," I kept saying over and over again. They took me to the hospital in Zenica because of a nervous breakdown. There I had to undergo a very difficult gynecological operation because of injuries that Lukic had inflicted on me with a knife. For two months the doctors fought for my life.
If I were to find Murat today I would accuse him, and I wouldn't be afraid. It is his fault that our children and husbands were murdered! From up on the minaret, from the mosque, he sprayed the town with gunfire. Maybe all of us could have gotten away if he hadn't done that. He pulled his own family out before he let the water out from behind the dam, and he left us on the right banks of the Drina river. When I wanted, after all that happened, to take my own life and end the misery, Azra asked me, "Mama, what would I do without you?"
She is 19 years old now and she must never learn that my every night is wracked with my son's cries, "Help me, mama! Please don't let them take me, mama!"
"Yes I am," I said, scared.
"What's the boy's name?"
"Fudo," I said, using the first name that came to mind, because he had been quiet the whole time and hadn't even told me his name. Azra stood next to me and I held the boy in my arms.
"Please don't touch my children!" "I won't, don't you worry," he told me, and turned to the soldiers.
"See this woman? If it weren't for her yesterday I would have been killed."
He handed me two bills of 500 dinars each, I remember seeing Tito's face on them, and a carton of cigarettes.
" No, thank you," I said.
" You've got to take it," he ordered and shook my hand. We said good-by to the people who had brought us there. Mladjo started to cry, saying,
"Take good care of Azra for me!" When he got back to Visegrad, Mladjo and his three brothers were murdered by Lukic because they had protected and saved so many Bosniaks. The Pecikoza family was wealthy and well known. They had their own sawmills.
When we got to Olovo I started to scream when I saw how many soldiers there were. These were the Green Berets. They asked me, "What's wrong? We are your army!" "What do you mean, our army?! **** you and your green mother and Green Berets! It was Green Berets and Chetniks who slaughtered my 16-year-old boy!"
They took me to the police in Olovo where they forced me to tell them everything that had happened. Someone told them that Lukic had abused me the most. They wanted me to talk about that, too, but I didn't have the strength. They held me two days in prison where they beat me and wouldn't give me anything to eat. One soldier kicked me and another slapped me, saying, "You prefer those Chetniks to the Green Berets!"
"I don't like one or the other," I answered, grabbed a bottle from the table and smashed it over his head. "You are going to get more beatings from me," he said, holding his head.
"Leave the woman alone, can't you see what she's like?" the other soldier told him. My stomach was bloated from all the wounds Lukic had inflicted on me, so I thought I was pregnant. I'd weighed 190 pounds before the war. I had dropped to 90 pounds when I arrived in Olovo, and after those two days in jail I was down to 77.
Esad's uncle came to see me in jail. I asked him straight off, "Where is that little boy, Fudo?"
"Who?"
"I don't know what his first or last name are, I can only remember vaguely what his mother looked like, but please, look after my children."
Before they released me, they asked me to register Fudo, so that if his mother was looking for him she could find him.
They carried me out of the jail because I could no longer walk.
We spent four days after that in Olovo.
The second day a woman appeared at the door. She didn't look familiar. She told me that Fudo was her son.
I didn't believe her at first, but when I saw how the child flew into her arms I knew that she must really be his mother. She brought a big present. Her brother was in the Green Berets, but I didn't want to accept the gift because the Green Berets had beaten me. Fudo kissed me and went off with his mother. It was wrenching. I didn't even have the strength to ask what his real name was. For me he will always be Fudo.
I was evacuated to Visoko from there with Azra on our fifth day. First they took us to the stadium, and then they were supposed to transport us to a village. I wanted to go to my mother's house. She lived in the center of town. When I realized they wouldn't let me do that I slipped off from the bus. A soldier shot at me but by chance he didn't wound me. I had wide sleeves on which were hanging on me, and the bullet went right through the sleeve. At that moment my sister's son, my nephew happened to see me.
"Aunt Sena, where did you come from?"
"Azra is on the bus and this fools are shooting at me!"
He took Azra off the bus and the next day he took us to my mother's. Everyone came running out of the house: my mother, father, brothers and sister. They were shouting: "Where is Esad? Where is Edin?!" "They're gone, they're gone! What's done is done," I kept saying over and over again. They took me to the hospital in Zenica because of a nervous breakdown. There I had to undergo a very difficult gynecological operation because of injuries that Lukic had inflicted on me with a knife. For two months the doctors fought for my life.
If I were to find Murat today I would accuse him, and I wouldn't be afraid. It is his fault that our children and husbands were murdered! From up on the minaret, from the mosque, he sprayed the town with gunfire. Maybe all of us could have gotten away if he hadn't done that. He pulled his own family out before he let the water out from behind the dam, and he left us on the right banks of the Drina river. When I wanted, after all that happened, to take my own life and end the misery, Azra asked me, "Mama, what would I do without you?"
She is 19 years old now and she must never learn that my every night is wracked with my son's cries, "Help me, mama! Please don't let them take me, mama!"
Simon Gnosis
Active Member
How do you reconcile traditional Islam with your political beliefs...?
You said 'Swedish' when answering a question about your political leanings, thus I assume you approve of a progressive socialist democracy mode of government?
From what I know of Islam I would put it to you that Islam does not gel particularly well with libertine democracies and their secular principles....and so forth.
Whadda ya think?
You said 'Swedish' when answering a question about your political leanings, thus I assume you approve of a progressive socialist democracy mode of government?
From what I know of Islam I would put it to you that Islam does not gel particularly well with libertine democracies and their secular principles....and so forth.
Whadda ya think?
Simon Gnosis
Active Member
Djamila said:It's not an issue for me.It just works.
I see....
For me it would be an important issue..I seek to unify my religion with my political beliefs as a matter of course.
Dis-unity between my political beliefs and religion could not be tolerated.
Incompatible ideologies would be de stablising and confusing for my mind.
Thus I cannot understand your answer.:areyoucra
Hi, Djamila!
Reading the accounts of the massacre told from a mother's point of view was horrific. I have little doubt that anyone who survived carries a weight with them that others would never understand. I am very happy that you are here to tell your own story and to grace us with your presence.
I have a question here.........I promise *grins*............but before I ask, I must inform you that my husband works with two Bosnian women. His description of them reminds me of you - "Babe, they're absolute knockouts! But maaaaaan, they're feisty as hell."
Basically, my husband has told me that he'd never want to make a Bosniak angry. So my question for you is this: what do you do when you are angry? Do you pout and let your anger simmer, or do you shout, throw things, or in any way explode?
Just curious.
Peace,
Mystic
Reading the accounts of the massacre told from a mother's point of view was horrific. I have little doubt that anyone who survived carries a weight with them that others would never understand. I am very happy that you are here to tell your own story and to grace us with your presence.
I have a question here.........I promise *grins*............but before I ask, I must inform you that my husband works with two Bosnian women. His description of them reminds me of you - "Babe, they're absolute knockouts! But maaaaaan, they're feisty as hell."
Basically, my husband has told me that he'd never want to make a Bosniak angry. So my question for you is this: what do you do when you are angry? Do you pout and let your anger simmer, or do you shout, throw things, or in any way explode?
Just curious.
Peace,
Mystic
Simon Gnosis
Active Member
Djamila said:That's just it, they're not incompatible in my mind - it's not an issue.
Now I am confused..
I think I will withdraw my question.
Thankyou anyway.