1

A SACRIFICE TO THE WOLF

Mirsad Sinanovic

ENGLISH TRANSLATION:
MUHAMED PASANBEGOVIC

I
The sun had just appeared over Ostiste when the beech-timber arrived in Celebice in
the trucks belonging to the Maglic Company. Since it was long before evening, the
inhabitants of Celebici were in no hurry, but they found it odd that there was so much beechtimber. There was so much of it that twenty homes could be floored they would no longer
have to look at a dirt floor. They felt something was up, but they didnt fret about it, nor did
they say anything. From time immemorial, it was their job to toil the land and herd the cattle.
They didnt concern themselves with much else.
The arrival of the wood troubled Jovan Radovic, the most respected inhabitant of
Celebici, renowned for his brandy and his integrity.
Let them go to Mile at the outskirts of Celebici, he thought. Hes got as much land
as all of us put together and hes also got six grown sons, so he doesnt need any help.
But he and his wife Stojanka had been invited go town, to St. Nicholas Church in
Cerezluk, where the priest Sekula had given them papers and drawings well, even a blind
person could see what was going to happen in his meadow. Jovan would obey the priest, of
course, but why did they have to pick him to be the host? It was the first time since his son
Stojan went to Germany, about twenty years ago that he was actually disquieted. All right, it
was an honor for a Serb to be chosen for a host out of so many Serbs inhabiting the villages in
this region. He would be praised by all the Serbs from Krnja Jela, Mestrevac, Vranovici,
Jecmiste, Zavaiti and Rijeka. Then Jovan remembered something else a well known
professor from Sarajevo, a native of this part of the country, had invited Jovans only son
Stojan to Celebici, and everyone said that Stojan became wealthy in Germany so it was his
sons fault that he had no peace, not the tables.
Still, Jovan didnt like it one bit that people might gather on his land. He knew every
one of his fruit-trees; he planted and grew every one of them himself, cared for them over the
years and was proud of them, happy when they bloomed, and once the plum, apple and pear
trees bore fruit, there was no end to his happiness. Jovans plum and pear brandy was
renowned in the region of Foca and there was not a single respectable landowner who didnt
buy brandy from Jovan. There were others in the villages surrounding Celebici who made
brandy, but it didnt come even close to Jovans. The word going around was that his brandy
gave a person strength and vitality.
The fame of Jovans brandy had reached as far as Sarajevo, so when the inhabitants of
Foca traveled to Sarajevo looking for something, they would take Jovans pear brandy. And a
certain Gagula from Belgrade came to Celebici specifically for hunting, and he and his
colleagues never went back without dropping by Jovans for some brandy. They used to say
that Jovans place had fresh air and good soil and, therefore, healthy pears, plums and apples,
the like of which no one else had in the region of Foca. And following each big gulp, Gagula
would say: This brandy would bring back a dead Serb back to his feet and make an old man
young again. All of us ought to be drinking it because it helps the Serbs stick together.
***
Jovans neighbors did not allow their children into his orchards, safeguarding his
source of happiness, and Jovan lived only for his happiness and his son Stojan, never thinking
of anything else.
Now, his happiness was going to be disrupted again, this time by the arrival of Serbs
from all the surrounding regions and from Serbia and Montenegro. What would he do with all
these guests and cars? What would happen to his orchards?
Why had they invited his son?

3
The beech-timber was two to three meters in length and extremely heavy, so that the
men could barely lift it. Following the instructions that had been given to Jovan, first they dug
holes and then they drove stakes into the ground with mallets. The timber would go across the
top to build a table. They were so thorough that it seemed that the tables would stay there for
years.
The inhabitants of Celebici had received the beech-timber, precut for the tables, from
the saw-mill Maglici in Brod, near Foca. Using the logging road, the Maglici drivers had
brought in the first of the roundwood from Mestrevac, where the prime roundwood was
found. It had been lowered onto the log carriage of the saw-mill in Brod, cut and transported
to the plant.
Even though one didnt have to be smart to set up the tables, the residents of Celebici
performed their task slowly, silently and in somewhat cautiously, as if afraid of making a
blunder. It wasnt everyday that they got to set up tables for such esteemed guests. Everything
had to be the way it had been agreed upon in the church of St. Nicholas in Cerezluk, where,
recently, other prominent Serbs had met with priest Sekula. Jovan Radovic went from group
to group of his fellow residents of Celebici, showing them the paper where everything was
written down and sketched out.
By noon, the Celebicians had set up twenty-eight long tables on the great meadow
fringed by Jovans fruit-trees. Seen from afar, the new tables sitting under the blossoming
trees looked nice, as if they had sprung up out of the earth and the blossoms around them were
hanging down from the heavens. Looking from his house, it appeared to Jovan that the
blossoms and the tables had merged. His meadow was a sight to behold.
Not long after, the women began to emerge from Jovans cellar carrying big white
tablecloths with blue stripes a gift Jovan and Stojanka had received in the St. Nicholas
Church and which the priest had ordered from a merchant in Sarajevo. The women were
silently covering the tables, as if afraid that by talking, they would drive away this beauty.
Jovan kept thinking that the arrival of guests in Celebici was never met with silence. But he
too was pleased at the sight of the blue stripes on the white tablecloths in the blossom-filled
glade, otherwise an eyesore to the rest of Celebici.
Inside Jovans cellar, the Celebicians were cutting up ox meat which they carried in
their hands to the tables. They threw the big pieces of meat on the tables, ensuring there
would be plenty for everyone. They wondered why there were so many pieces of meat, why
they werent cut up and served on plates, but there was no mention of plates, spoons or knives
on Jovans piece of paper. The meat was to be eaten using hands. Jovan just couldnt figure
out why such esteemed guests would be tearing the meat with their hands. Perhaps thats how
they thought people ate in Celebici, the outermost village in the region of Foca. Since the
instructions were so specific, Jovan thought to himself, there must be a reason, but he wasnt
going to ask. Just let this pass and he could get back to his orchards and cattle.
Still, Jovan couldnt escape the dark thoughts haunting him. They contained the
answers to what was troubling him, but the host wanted to deceive himself. He was fearful of
coming events.
Then Jovans cousins began bringing out the smaller, wooden casks filled with pear
and plum brandy from the back cellar, where it had been stored for years. No one in the local
villages had any idea how much brandy Jovan had. They had tried to trick him into telling
them, but Jovan hated being questioned about it after all, he never asked them about their
possessions therefore, he would respond sulkily, deliberately getting the numbers mixed up.
Now everyone could see how much brandy Jovan had. It was a simple matter of
calculating and adding it all up. Jovans cousins were carrying out the smaller casks, and it
appeared to the inhabitants of Celebici that there was no end to their task, so they conjectured
that for every year Jovan had been in the business of making brandy, there were about twenty

4
small casks. The brandy was the greatest treasure of this respected man. It made him so
wealthy that he had no equal here. Jovans cousins were pouring the brandy from the casks
into big jugs, careful not to spill any, placing an extra cask under every table.
Jovan was overseeing everything. Nothing else was to be on the tables except his
brandy and the meat. He saw the beech tables with white tablecloths decorated with blue
stripes and above them, his blossoms. All of this had also been sketched, and Jovan kept
asking himself how the Serbs from Foca were able to sketch all of it without ever having set
foot on his meadow. Its as if they had been sketching everything on the meadow itself, right
there in front of his house.
Something else gnawed at him. And he paced from his house to the orchard and back,
just so he wouldnt think about his son.
Although the teacher had objected, the youths brought the chairs for the main table
from the small school in Zavait. Teacher Janko came to Celebici and asked Jovan who would
make them take the chairs back to the school. He knew that the residents of Celebici would
carry off the chairs, and who would get them back?
Jovans cousins were preparing the cut-out beech-timber for the biggest table. The ten
men brought the timber to the top of the meadow. They dug the holes and hammered the
wooden stakes in with mallets, and placed the heavy beech-timber on them. Jovans cousins
performed the task carefully, as if they were afraid that head table would collapse. Jovan did
not know if the work was to be performed hurriedly or whether they were to take their time.
This filled them with apprehension and did not allow them to work at a leisurely pace.
After they had set up the head table, they covered it with tablecloths, except these were
blue and fringed with white lacework and embroidered with white eagles in the centre. And
then, ten meters behind the table, they dug big holes and drove wooden stakes in them. They
nailed planks across the wooden stakes so that it appeared as through there was a high
wooden wall behind the big table. At this point, they had used up all the beech-timber. Jovan
wondered what would happen to it when everyone left. If it had been brought to his property,
then it was only fitting that it remained there, so that it could be given to the inhabitants of
Celebici.
Jovans wife, Stojanka was bringing out icons she had been given in the St. Nicholas
Church by priest Sekula. Among the icons were two donated to the church by Radovan
Glodjaja, a merchant from Foca, who had used his money to help build the church.
As indicated on Jovans paper, the icons were to be hung on the wooden wall behind
the big table, so that those seated at the furthest tables could see them. Many of the icons,
Stojanka said, had been housed in the church in Kaursko polje; that church was no longer
around, but the icons remained. It was known that the icons were to be washed in the river
following a familys patron-saints day.
A stone statue of a wolf, only be found in some monestaries, was brought out of
Ristos house, adjacent to Jovans house, by eight inhabitants of Celebici. Watching
everything while seated on a three-legged stool in front of Jovans house, was old Radoje. Old
as he was and supporting himself on a cane, he got up and followed the statue. Up to that
point, he had been merely sitting there, smoking and watching the inhabitants of Celebici as
they worked.
When the inhabitants of Celebici raised the wolf statue on a small table in front of the
wooden wall facing Jovans house, the old man slowly approached it. Everyone was looking
at the old man, waiting for him to stop, face them and confirm what was on all their minds.
Radojes frail body didnt favour much movement. When this stoop-shouldered, bent
old man finally stood in front of the statue, he gently stroked its head with his bony hand, as if
the statue was alive. His back was turned to his fellow residents of Celebici and everyone was
silently watching what he was doing. Although he was over seventy years old, and it was for

5
this reason they kept him out of the spotlight, his word still carried much weight in Celebici
and the surrounding villages.
Now he spoke huskily, barely audible to the others:
Wolf, you have been blessed by Saint Savo so that you could always pick the best of
the sheep because that is your right. But do not hold it against us villagers of Celebici for
hunting you with a rifle, since we do not know that you should be honoured and not hunted.
You are our guest at this feast, so tomorrow we will slaughter a lamb for you. We will take
mutton into the forest so that the other wolves may satisfy their hunger.
Radoje faced his fellow villagers, clenched his bony jaw, straightened and continued:
Fellow residents of Celebici, do not be angry with the wolf when it slaughters your
sheep. Saint Savo has decreed that to the wolf belongs the sacrifice. A sheep should be offered
to it. When everyone arrives tomorrow, we should go to the forest and first invite the wolf to
lunch. Slaughter a sheep, dont be stingy, and leave it in the forest. You have forgotten that
sacrifices were made to the wolf on Kosovo and that on Christmas Eve the wolf is invited to
dinner. Every Christmas dish must be served. Know this well Serbs!
The Celebicians had hunting rifles, and they competed in hunting bears, wolves and
wild boar. The late Stanoje Jeftic had covered his room walls with bearskins and wolfskins,
and he had set the standard for the best hunters. The villagers of Celebici tilled the land and
tended to their cattle their whole lives, just to provide themselves with sustenance, and they
found it difficult to give anything away. Jovan remembered a woman from Krnja Jela who had
difficulty bearing children. But when she finally did have a child, she named him Wolf
because everyone in Krnja Jela was of the opinion that no illness could afflict a wolf and no
witch would dare eat a child with such a name.
But Jovan didnt understand how Wolf could be a Christian name. A Serbian has a
Christian name, and his household, his family, has a baptismal name. Among themselves, the
Serbs are cousins according to their last name and spiritual kin according to their baptismal
name. Thats why non-coreligionists cannot partake in a family patron-saints day and the one
who betrays his religion cannot be invited into a Serbian home.
The old man Radoje stroked the wolfs head one more time, turned around and slowly
headed towards Ristos house without looking at anyone. There was something solemn about
the way he touched the wolf; everyone marvelled while he was walking away from the table.
He took them back to the old days.
Everything was ready, the tables, the roasted meat, Jovans pear and plum brandy, the
wooden wall and the stone wolf statue all were there, on Jovans meadow, in front of
Jovans house and beneath Jovans blossoming fruit-trees.
And when their work was complete, just before evening, Jovans neighbours covered
the entire meadow with a plastic cover, so that from a distance everything looked like a huge
nylon tent which had landed from above.
It was already dark when Risto came out of his house carrying a cable and a big fan
from the church, and placed them in the middle of the meadow, inside the nylon cover. It
wasnt long before a cold current of air was blowing through. Everything had to be perfect for
the meat from Celebici; it couldnt go bad. Priest Danilo had thought of everything.
Everything was written down and sketched on the piece of paper in Jovans possession.
The darkness had just descended upon the great feasting tables on Jovans meadow
and the inhabitants of Celebici gathered in Ristos house. They had no idea what was to be
done next. The dead silence of anticipation was weighing heavily on them. It was easiest for
them to keep silent, and they welcomed the interruptions by Ristos wife who came in with
brandy. Sometimes the silence was broken by the uneven flickering of the candlelight when
the door opened. Everyone lifted their heads whenever someone entered the room.

6
Old Radoje was heaving a hard time with something. He was breathing with a rattle,
and his mumbling was taking form of barely intelligible words.
They listened to the old man in agonizing silence. He spoke as if he was listing things,
much like children who learn their homework by heart:
Even before his death, during the third summer, the Sun changed into darkness so that
even the stars and the moon appeared blood red, heralding the calamity which was to come
from the sons of Ishmael Hades and the sky in a terrifying clash. Roaring and rattling,
screaming and yelling, racket and clatter, shouting and death rattle that could be heard on this
earth from the throats and nostrils, from the hoofs, from metal, from trumpets, from wooden
sticks, from bones and teeth, from the taut skin on the drums, from the wind and rain. The
blazing of the swords and lances, glittering of busbies and silver reins, fluttering of Asian
standards and the red and white crusaders, the white faces of the European warriors, dark
yellow complexion of the Asians and coal black Africans, the snow-white turbans, Turkish
trousers, blue and red dolmans, yellow and orange boots, horses and dogs, grey camels and
falcons. Some fall from blows from a mace, others pull arrows out of their bodies, wrapping
their wounds tight to stop the bleeding.
Radoje would have carried on had Jovan not entered Ristos house and called out the
Celebicians. The wind had blown the nylon off the head table and the wooden wall. The men
reluctantly went outside for theyd rather be listening to old Radoje even though they did not
understand everything he was saying. But he touched something in their souls.
****
When he entered the house with his wife, Jovan asked her:
Stojanka, do you know whats about to happen?
Jovan, you ask whats about to happen? As if I didnt know you and your Radovics.
All of the inhabitants of Celebici pretend as if they didnt know what was about to happen.
You heard Radoje when he was talking about the wolf. We have forgotten Serbian customs,
Serbian songs and Serbian history. Weve spent our lives working, missing out on everything.
Did you hear how Radoje spoke of the wolf? You know about it too. You cannot go after the
wolf with a hunting rifle as you do with that Jojic. My father used to take mutton deep into the
forest and, we, the children, used to follow him. When we came to this clearing, we called out
to the wolf to come and have some mutton. There, thats the truth.
Looking directly into Stojankas eyes, Jovan spoke apprehensively:
Thats not what I was thinking about Stojanka. I know about the Serbian customs.
But what is this all about? Tomorrow, we are the hosts for all these Serbs. Four hundred of
them are coming. I just wonder why priest Sekula didnt arrange everything at St. Nicholas
Church and not at our place.
Hold your tongue, Jovan, Stojanka replied angrily. Youre questioning things again.
Its up to them to arrange things and our job is to listen. We should be honoured that so many
Serbs are going to be our guests. And we havent had any expenses other than the brandy. You
pretend not to know whats going to happen. You know full well that Muslims used to live in
Celebici before and now there arent any. Your father liberated Celebici in the last Serb
insurrection.
Dont talk about that Stojanka. I want to put all that behind me.
These ten hectares of land in the middle of Celebici, where we now live, used to
belong to the Fazlic family. Only the youngest member of the Fazilc family was saved by
Vojin Lecic, and his mother, brothers and sisters were slaughtered by the Serbs in the
household of Hamdija Hadzic. In that same house they slaughtered many women and
children. Then they set the house on fire.
Not another word Stojanka.

7
For the past fifty years the Fazlic familys been trying to get that land back through
the courts. After this uprising, the Muslims will have no one to complain to.
Stojanka, dont you tell me that we are living on somebody elses land. Ive been
tilling this land for the past forty years.
Why do you pretend not to know? The Radovic family is well known.
I dont want to talk about it. Brandy is our greatest wealth. Ive been creating perfect
conditions for it for years and its been profitable. Thats why we are the wealthiest family in
the village. I hope they dont damage our fruit trees the brandy is the least of my concerns.
But Stojanka, you havent said anything, and tomorrow our son is coming from Germany. He
is our only son. We just never have.
What is there to say? Stojanka responded angrily once again. Hes no different
from you. All he does is work. These past twenty years that hes been in Germany, he has
become wealthy.
Thats why priest Sekula and those from Sarajevo have asked him to come. If he
didnt have any money, they wouldnt have invited him.
Its good that hes not coming with his wife Savka and sons Savo and Dusan. What
would they do here? Tomorrow, dont ask him about his sons in front of the guests, or they
might call them too.
Why?
Dont ask him. Keep well away from that. Let Savo and Dusan remain where they
are. This is going to last for some time. Jovan, well do as the others are doing. You are the
son of a Serbian hero, Nedjo Radovic, who used to slaughter Muslims of Celebici and torch
their homes. Dont dwell on it too much.
II
***
Just as the sun dissipated the morning fog above Jecmiste, a long line of vehicles
stopped at Ristos house. The first guests were arriving. They were greeted by Jovan and his
fellow Celebicians, somewhat confused, since it was no small thing to receive guests from
Sarajevo and other places in Montenegro and Serbia. It would be no trouble if they were
coming only from Foca.
Jovan was surprised when he saw the guests wearing national costumes and Serbian
uniforms from Word War One, along with Serb peasant caps and wide belts.
The arrivals hugged the host, toasting, ululating, crossing themselves, and walking
towards Jovans house.
They stopped and stood there elated, not believing their eyes such a feast in Jovans
blossoming orchard, with conspicuously displayed icons and the statue of a wolf mounted on
a beech pedestal! How did this come to this village, far from Foca? Some guests were so
filled with enthusiasm when they entered Jovans orchard that they fired shots from their
handguns. Everyone else raised their arms skyward in celebration. In response, a burst of
gunfire was heard from the cars still approaching Celebici.
Once again Jovan started thinking about his orchard. What would happen once they
got their hands on his pear brandy? What use did he have of fame and praise if he didnt have
his orchard and his brandy?
Upon entering the orchard, a short, well-groomed Serb, in a suit and a wide blue tie,
approached Jovan, embraced him and kissed him three times. Then he raised his arms
skyward and shouted:
May God grant this home a close-knit family and worthy, hard-working people and
good hosts. May they not frequent bars and keel over into ditches and take each other to court.
May they forgive the fools. May they not plough somebody elses land. May they not wish
hardship upon others. That which they possess may they share in brotherly fashion and never

8
shield what they have from the destitute and the mendicant. May they bestow alms upon the
lame and the blind and may God bear witness to their actions and multiply their blessings.
God willing.
While he was talking, everyone in the orchard was toasting with Jovans brandy:
Right you are Raskovic, you clever man!
Others approached Jovan and kissed him three times.
At that moment, like a bolt from the blue, a burst of gunfire rattled near by. It seemed
there was a machine-gun in the orchard. Everyone was surprised by the gunfire, and many
guests didnt know what to do. Some reflexively ducked under the big tables, while others
silently looked towards Ristos house the apparent source of the rattle of gunfire. Jovan was
so frightened, he thought he was going to be sick. It lasted for about a minute. As the first of
the guests collected themselves, they rushed towards Ristos house to see who had frightened
them this way.
In front of the house, they ran into poor old Radisav from Jecmiste. Risto had given
him his cellar so that he could live there, and in return, he worked on his land. Radisav was
trying to wrap a cartridge-belt around his waist, running in circles around the long belt which
was dragging along the ground. A Russian machine-gun, with a flat pan magazine drum, was
lying on the front doorstep. Risto kept it in a trunk in his cellar Radisav had found it and
brought it out for the occasion.
The guests surrounded Radisav, lifting him up over their heads, throwing him into the
air, and kissing him every time he landed back in their arms. It had been a month since Risto
had taken the machine-gun into the cellar, but he never suspected that Radisav would take it
out of the trunk. While the guests were kissing Radisav, Risto picked up the cartridge-belt and
took the machine-gun back into the house.
The most prominent guests had arrived and were sitting at the head table. Jovan didnt
know any of them, nor did he know how to greet them.
Ostoja from Sarajevo was there. He was a native of these parts, from a village of
Orahovo, a short distance away from Celebici. Priest Sekula was there, as were professors
from many different colleges, priests from Serbia, professor Maksim from Sarajevo, a native
of Ustikolina, Rasko from Montenegro, and many other respected Serbs. All these Serb
notables in one place! Who could possibly know them all?
Everyone sat down and tasted the brandy and the meat. They shuddered after drinking
Jovans pear brandy, and competed making toasts. Jovan felt a sense of relief there was
nothing else to do, so he went back to the house. Stojanka was already inside.
He couldnt resist saying:
Did you see that machine-gun, and in the hands of that old fool, of all people? Who
would have thought he had a machine gun?
Jovan, you know everything, but you just want me to come out and say it because
youre afraid. Everyone in the surrounding villages is getting weapons, only you keep saying
that you are working in the orchard. The son of Nedjo Radovic is thinking about his orchard!
I have rifles!
I know that you have ten rifles and that youre keeping them in the cellar. And you
pretend to not know whats going on. Whatever the Serb nation decides to do, we will follow,
Jovan.
Theyre shooting again.
Just dont ask whats going to happen. Youll be slaughtering Muslims just like
Nedjo. All of the Radovics have been doing it. It is only you who are afraid, Go to Nedjo, let
him tell you how its done. You dont know anything. There wont be a Vojin Lecic around to
save them, so that the Fazlic family can ask for their land back. The Serbian people rose up in
arms in Croatia and now theyll do the same in Bosnia.

9
So...
Listen Jovan. The Serbs want to liberate Bosnia. Everyone knows that. You know it
too, but you just want me to say it.
Who will they liberate it from?
What do you mean who, Jovan, you fool? You want me to tell you what you want to
hear. Ask Nedjo Radovic.
Who will they liberate it from!?
From the black Arab, you idiot. Youve heard Radoje. The Muslims are Turks
turncoats. Eh, the Serbs will liberate Bosnia from them. Youre forcing me to tell you that
which was left behind as the legacy of Nedjo.
From the former war.
From all of the Serbian insurrections, Jovan.
When we slaughtered men, women and children and torched their homes. Muslims
used to live in Celebici; I know that well. We butchered all of them and took their land. We
burned down their homes. Its not like I dont know that. Now it has finally been pushed into
obscurity. Are we, the Serbs, sick? All the Serbs butcher Muslims. Now it has fallen to me and
my son Stojan! Jovan Radovic began to shout.
Whats the matter with you? Stojanka responded with astonishment. Go tell Nedjo
that we Serbs are sick. You keep forcing me to explain things to you as if you have changed
overnight. Ive told you a hundred times, Jovan. Well do as the rest of the Serb people. And
you know full well that this is Serb land, you just pretend not to know. I know that youre
going to be butchering Muslims on the Zeljezni Bridge in Foca, like Grujo did before you.
Once we liberate the land, well have our own state. We should to listen to Ostoje and
Maksim, and we will not go astray.
While they were talking, their son Stojan suddenly walked into the room. He stopped
at the door, looking at them nervously. He had evidently heard their conversation.
Stojan!
Stojan just stood there. Stojanka and Jovan ran to him and hugged him, but he
remained silent.
His parents stood back so they could take a look at him. Tall and well-built, with a
gentlemanly comportment and smooth black hair, wearing a new grey suit with a lightcoloured tie. Stojan appeared like someone from a world much different than the one in
Celebici. With his high forehead and cultivated countenance, he was more handsome than
Jovan had been, even in his best days.
Disturbed by what he had heard, he whispered:
My parents, Stojanka and Jovan. Ever since I was a child Ive been calling you by
your names. Now I know why theyve called me from Sarajevo to come to Celebici. And you,
Jovan, are the host. It all makes sense now.
Stojanka interrupted him: Stojan, the Serbs will sing your praises.
Theyll sing our praises today, but what of tomorrow Stojanka? Ive been working in
Germany for the past twenty years. I have accounts in German banks. Am to give all of that
back so that they can sing my praises? Doctor Rasko has asked me to transfer my entire
capital to the account of united Serbhood so that I can be a somebody in their political party.
Stojanka, I have been working sixteen hours a day, and I havent taken a single day of
vacation, and I am to give all of it for the united Serbhood. What is this united Serbhood, and
what world is uniting? Jovan, in a little while, the entire world will become a global village
where everyone will know everyone else, just like in Celebici. It is difficult for you to
understand that, but I am already living in that global village. My sons Savo and Dusan turn
on the computer and talk to their friends in New Zealand, and the Serbs want a state where
they will be alone.

10
I gave the name Savo to your older son and Dusan to the younger one.
In Germany, they call Dusan Miller. Hes good at football. A name means nothing to
him Stojanka.
First we need to have our own state and then well follow in your footsteps.
Jovan, the son turned to his father, at least youre intelligent. All of this is going to
pass and we need to save face. One should never be at the forefront. Think back to the time
you had an illness for which there seemed no cure and Rasims father Hamid kept coming
from Didjevo to treat you with his herbs. I used to go to school with Rasim. We got along well
and thats why Hamid was treating you.
I know that, Stojan. There were times when Hamid spent the entire night placing
herbs on my chest until the illness was gone, as if it had never afflicted me. Even Stojanka,
when she gets a headache, asks Hamid to bring her some tea.
Its better that Serbs have their state than all those herbs and different kinds of tea.
Well get along with Muslims again as long as they offer prayers at St. Nicholas Church,
said Stojanka.
Is that how things stand Stojanka? asked Stojan.
Its not up to me Stojan, she responded. Those who make the decisions are sitting
at the head table. Do you hear those speeches? They know about Serb politics and Serb
history. Its our job to listen.
On Jovans meadow, under the blossoming fruit-trees, the guests were tearing off
pieces of meat, eating them, and drinking Jovans brandy. And after having drunk Jovans
brandy, they felt they were in another world. This brandy was without equal. Their cheeks
were burning, the brandy burned in their chests, and they spoke passionately. Jovans brandy
lifted them and made them feel giddy, but it didnt affect their speech. They were as one; they
toasted each other and made merry. For this historic day and for such a feast, only Jovans
brandy would do and no other.
When priest Sekula rose, everyone looked at him; the group fell silent, waiting. The
priest gently kissed the cross on his chest, looked at every table and started speaking:
Glory be to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. We praise the Father and our
saviour Jesus Christ. Glory be to the holy Mother of God, the purest Virgin Mary, the sacred
mother of God. Glory be to the honourable and life-giving cross. The holy Archangel and all
the Angels of the mighty heaven. The holy prophets: Moses the seer, St. Elias the LigtningWielder, St. Nicholas the wonderworker, John the Baptist. Glory be to the four evangelists:
Mark, Matthew, Luke and John, the holy apostles Peter and Paul.
Priest Sekula stopped and looked at the last table. Everyone was listening silently,
deeply moved. Sekula knew they didnt understand everything he was saying, but he knew
they felt everything, and so he continued:
All the martyrs who, barefoot and naked, plodded through fire and water: Djurdje,
Dmitre, Mratindian,Todor Stratilata and Jovan Krilata, all the martyrs and woman martyrs: the
old man Simo-the peace-loving, Savo-the saint, Arsenije-the teacher, Maksim-the bishop,
Stevan the first king, Milutin, Stevan Decanski and prince Urosa Dusan the younger; prince
Lazar our knight and Milos the champion who perished at Kosovo and on St. Vitus Day
they lost their lives because of their Christian faith and Serb lineage. And also the holy Jovan
Despot, Mother Andjelija, and the Serb noble, Stevban Stiljan. They built the Jedusalimska
Church in Srijem in the lowlands of Srijem and the celebrated Krajina. Let Petrova Gora,
Velebit Mountain and the holy monastery of Komogovina rejoice.
The priest stopped again, exhausted from all the reciting and looked towards the
tables. Despite his failing eyesight, he thought everyone wanted him to continue. He felt that
they were touched by the flowery language, so he spoke even louder:

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And we shall pray again and dedicate this familys patron-saints day to this
honourable home, the host and the hostess, all the kids and the little ones, godfathers and
friends and even the enemies may either the Lord or St. Elias the Lightning-Wielder help
them come to their senses and enlighten them. May we reap such benefits from this christened
name and may this christening candle bring joy, may wheat and grapes be plentiful. May our
bees and sheep multiply. May our consecrated boiled and sweetened wheat with walnuts and
our Serbian liturgy be respected. Cheers to the living ones, salvation to the deceased ones.
Many summers and years to all. Amen!
Amen! Voices from every table responded.
Priest Sekula slowly sat down at the head table. The guests were eager to hear what
those from Sarajevo had to say. They wished to know why they were invited to Celebici and
get it over with so that they could turn their attention to Jovans brandy. Priest Sekulas words
didnt fan the flames within them the way Jovans brandy did. Theyd heard it all before in the
church, now they wanted to hear what renowned Serbs, leaders of the Serb people, had to say.
When Ostoja got up it was as if time continued its flow, as if theyd been waiting for
him, and as if their lives depended on what he was going to say. And he started by shouting:
My Serb brothers! Is there a bloodier history than that of the Serbian people?
No, there isnt! came the voices from the tables.
My Serb brothers! Is there a more glorious history than that of the Serbian people?
No, there isnt!
My Serb brothers! Is there a more generous spirit than that of a Serb?
No, there isnt!
Is there a single Serb who does not know about the famous Battle of Kosovo? That
battle sealed the fate of the Serbian people for five centuries. That battle consigned to the
grave the Serbian state and Serbian liberty. From the day of that battle and onward, every
Serbian began a life of servitude and sorrow. From the day of that battle and onward, the
Serbian people began singing sad songs and lamenting their fate. But they also began
eulogizing their champions and appreciating their bravery.
Kosovo! Kosovo! Kosovo! could be heard from all sides.
The Battle of Kosovo was and remains famous throughout Europe. At the time, it
served to open the eyes of popes and Hungarians, for it was only then that they realized the
real danger the Turks represented. Today, almost every European historian mentions the Battle
of Kosovo, but they do not think much of it, nor do they assign to it the importance and the
significance it deserves. At the Battle of Kosovo, Christianity clashed with Mohammedanism,
the cross confronted the crescent, and tame Europe fought against fanatical Asia. It wasnt
only the Serbs fighting the Ottomans.
Kosovo! Kosovo! Kosovo!
The Battle of Kosovo is unique in world military history, not only because of its
bloody and heroic struggle and its consequences, but also because both supreme military
commanders died in battle. It could offer only two outcomes: the continued presence of Turks
in Europe or the survival of the Serbian state.
Thats enough Ostoja!
One of the drunken men from the furthest table, a man with a thick neck and a big
head and wearing a wide red tie, got up and shouted:
Well deal with the Turkish presence, we dont need Europe. Bloated, with a big
head and stocky neck, the drunk was swaying like a lone tree on a windswept moor. The
shouting of others didnt deter him, and he began to yell:
Whatever the Serbs couldnt do in the past, we will do today! While he was still
shouting, others grabbed him and sat him down on his chair, so that he couldnt interrupt
professor Ostoja any more.

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Ostoja continued: Hear this; the Serbs must know their history.
He pulled a book out of his pocket and started to read:
The fate of the Serbian people has been stormy and ever-changing. We know that our
people came to these parts from their old native land and settled throughout the Balkan
Peninsula, from the Danube to Solun and the Balkan mountains in the south, and all the way
to the Adriatic Sea in the west. In those regions of their new land, the Serbian people came
across what remained of Tracans and Illirians, but mostly Greeks with whom they came into
conflict, and by means of war were able to seize the lands where they permanently settled and
began to develop and prosper.
Enough of that Ostoja! More voices were heard from the tables. Stop it! Weve had
enough of reading and reciting!
Clever and rational, industrious and ingenious, courageous and valiant, our people
attracted the attention of all their neighbours and those sharing the same lands with their
conquest of the Balkan lands. Our neighbours tried, with all their might, to stem the tide of
Serbian people which flooded and swept their lands, but the strength and the power, fortitude
and tenacity of the Serbs eclipsed the evil intentions of our enemies and continued to swallow
territories and establish new independent Serb states.
Quit it Ostoja! The drunk screamed at the top of his lungs, staggering as if he was
about to lose the ground from under his feet. Weve had enough of reading. If you wont say
it, then I will.
And he started to sing: Who is second? I am first, with Turkish blood to quench our
thirst!
We are first, a group of men shouted. Youre too drunk to go first. We are first!
We are first! could be heard from all sides. The guests from every table wanted to be
first.
Man, you aint going anywhere, let alone be the first! A shrill voice snapped at the
drunken man.
Everyone noticed old Radoje slowly making his way to the head table. But no one
tried to stop him, or even asked what he intended to do. They only cared that he was old and
he wanted to speak. He turned around so that everyone could see him. He lifted his head and
began to talk. His voice, husky and faltering, somehow reached his listeners:
Listen to this story from old books. A priest riding on his horse ran into an Albanian,
who stopped in front of him and malevolently watched the priest sing happily while he was
riding.
Oh, I remember the good old times, the Albanian thought to himself and
instinctively went for his weapon, but the weapon was not there.
You have surrendered that to the Serb army, the priest told him. But never mind
that, from now on whenever you walk past someone, remove your hat and greet them.
I dont take my hat off for a slave, the vain Albanian rejoined brusquely, and then,
like a wild animal, he ground his teeth.
And justifiably so, priest Stojans emotions were stirred, erupting into great wrath, so
that he lost control in all his fury and shouted: Take off your hat when a Serbian priest walks
by.
Take it off! the priest shouted angrily for the third time. He unsheathed his sword
and hit the Albanian over the head with the flat side of the blade. The Saracen fell
unconscious, and the priest rode towards his village.
After a short rest, the priest had a visit from Serb soldiers who informed him that he
had to accompany them to town, because the authorities demanded to see him for striking an
Albanian with the intention of killing him. Priest Stojan couldnt believe his ears and started
explaining that he was a Serbian priest. But it was all in vain.

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Who is the first, Im the second, was heard from the tables in the back, interrupting
the tale, but this time, there were no loud responses. Many wished to hear how the story
ended, because this wasnt history.
So when the drunk had subsided, Radoje resumed:
When he appeared before the judges, at first, the priest couldnt understand their
words. They were telling him: We have come to establish the rule of law and bring peace; to
make sure that no ones rights or religion are infringed upon. From now on, every religion and
every man in this country must be protected. They informed him that he was going to be
sentenced.
The priest responded, You judges are new here and you dont know our oppressors,
thats why you forgive them and judge in accordance with the law.
Everyone in the court fell silent. Priest Stojan wiped his tears and, before all the
judges, faced the Albanian and shouted: I forgive you; now kiss the hand that you once spit
upon.
The Albanian humbly approached and kissed the hand of the old Serbian priest, and
the Serbian judges themselves were moved to tears. In response, the priest let out a sigh: God
has sent you, and He has helped you as well. He shall also keep you since you are so just.
And he kissed all of them and set out to his village, singing along the way.
While he was talking, old Radoje sensed something happening in the back where the
drunk was sitting. But it was spreading from table to table at the speed of light. The old man
squinted with his green beady eyes. He couldnt see very well, so he looked towards the big
table on his right side.
At that moment, an inner voice told him what was taking place on Jovans meadow.
Others saw it too. All the guests at the head table got up and stood riveted to the spot, not able
to utter a word, as if they were spellbound by what was occurring before their eyes.
Priest Sekula kept repeating, God, help the Serbs.
Before everyones eyes, complete mayhem broke out. Tables were overturned,
branches in the orchard snapped, wooden casks flew past on all sides. With fervour, the Serbs
fought each other between the flipped tables. Everything was flying all over the place, Jovans
brandy and the meat. Wooden table legs were ripped off and used as weapons.
Such a sight had never been witnessed by any Serb from Celebici. There were cases
where two Serb clans or families fought and killed each other, but nothing like this. And why
the Serbs on the meadow started fighting, every single one of them, and where such fervour
came from it was likely Jovans brandy, if only it could talk.
The drunk with the thick neck and big head started it all. In a hurry to be first, he
went after the man next to him with such ardour that the poor fellow collapsed under the
table, unable to get up. Those close to them went after the fellow with the thick neck. They
kept striking him even when he was down, and more blows followed when he tried to get up,
cursing drunkenly. But all hell broke loose when others got involved, some in an attempt to
break other fights up, others seeking to join the fray. Then the drunk somehow got back on his
feet, pulled out a knife and thrust the blade into the nearest man, not even knowing who he
was. Blood gushed forth.
Even gunshots were heard. It was as if there had been a cloudburst. The meadow and
the orchard were engulfed by the flames of Jovans brandy.
God, help the Serbs, priest Sekula was whispering.
***
In the old part of town, near Pazariste, a call to prayer was heard from the Careva
Mosque:

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Allahu Akbar Allah is great! I bear witness that there is no God but Allah and that
Muhammad is Gods messenger. Come to prayer. Come to salvation. God is great! There is no
God but Allah.
The voice reverberated on all four sides of the world, even though the voice of Tahir, a
muezzin with a white turban, was no longer as fresh and penetrating as it once was. It had
faded out somewhat. At times, it took flight and was as clear as a familiar melody, and then it
shook inside Tahirs throat as if reluctant to come out. It was a bird with frail wings that did
not fly south and was now reluctant to take to the air. His voice was no longer deep and strong
dimmer now, it lacked its former charm and beauty.
Old Mustafa Kasmo was walking up the road towards the mosque of Sultan Bayezid
Velia, as he referred to the Careva Mosque, for thats what was written above its entrance. As
old as he was, he walked hurriedly along Pazariste. It was easy to see that he was disturbed by
the weakened voice from the minaret.
Hed been listening to this call to prayer for years, but it had never penetrated into the
depths of his soul as it did today. As the voice became weaker, Mustafas pace quickened. If
the voice became elevated, he stopped and listened and when the voice became shaky,
Mustafa felt something choking him. He wanted to walk up to the mosque without perspiring
in his white shirt so that he could walk through the mosque portico and into the muezzins
loge, with an unsullied body and soul. He felt that the voice would revive if more people
came. It would soar as it had done for years, and they would keep coming.
Barely able to make the climb, he finally disappeared behind the colonnade. Inside, he
saw Ragih Hosa from Musluk, Ramiz Pilav from Donje Polje, Ahmet Suvalija from Cohodor
neighbourhood, Nusret Hadzipiric from Granovski Street, and Hamza Kadric, Sabits only
son.
Mustafa Kasmo knew they surrendered to God with their bodies and souls because
God created both. Prayer comes from the body and the soul, and praying with imam Halil
Muftic couldnt be imagined any other way facing Kaba, a holy place in Mecca where all
Muslims turn in prayer, they were as one body and soul, with the prayer offered to the One
and Only. First, his words were on their lips, so that they would be honest and steadfast in
their lives. They said together: God is great!
They bowed deeply, exalting his mercy and power. They prostrated themselves on the
floor and then looked skyward, praying to him to forgive them their sins and grant them His
mercy. They once again prostrated themselves, touching the floor with their foreheads while
contemplating his power, and then sat, praying to him to bless Prophet Mohammad along with
them. They turned their heads, first to the right and then to the left, saying:
May God grant you peace and His blessings?
Now they were at peace with him and at peace with their fate.
Assalamu alaikum Peace be with you!
Alaikumusselam! And upon you be peace!
The seven men stood up, extended hearty handshakes to each other and, once again,
sat down in a circle on the rug. They remained silent, not looking at each other; instead they
lowered their heads, their gazes resting on the rug as if trying to hide the fear in their eyes.
Minutes passed and they kept silent, frozen. Halil, the young imam, was waiting for the oldest
member of the congregation, Mustafa, hoping that he would start because his wise words
always found a receptive ear.
But Mustafa, known as a composed and level-headed person, could find nothing to
cheer him up. He simply stared at eighteen-year old Hamza, a well-groomed but impish
young man with lively and bright eyes. The more he gazed into Hamzas eyes, comparing
them to Tahirs muffled voice, the more attuned he became to the real world. The word going

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around Foca was that Hamza had read more books than his teachers and professors and that
they were afraid of his knowledge.
He said, Hamza, its good that youve fully embraced Islam.
Ive been coming to the Careva Mosque since I was a little one, but there were a lot
more people then, so you never noticed me.
And do you know who Hamza was?
Of course. He was a great Muslim champion who fought in the Battle of Badr, where
the Muslims were triumphant. He was killed at the Battle of Uhud. I have read many books
about the history of Islam.
Good, you know everything. It is nice to be a Muslim, Hamza, pure in soul and of
pure body.
Thank Allah.
That which is in your heart, with Allahs help, will follow you throughout your life.
Allah wants that which is good for us. I pray to him to keep my father alive. Since
this morning, he cant even stand up.
Why is that?
Some men attacked him by surprise at the Zeljezni Bridge and beat him savagely.
Now he is sick and bedridden. Mustafa, did that come from Allah?
Hamza, Sabits torment comes from people; you know that better than me. However,
I will tell you something about illness, if you wish. Allah only wants good deeds but he has
also created death, drought, cold. Health is the most important thing. We spend our lives in
good health, but sometimes we are taken ill. We would never know what it is to be healthy if
it werent for illness. If it werent for trials and tribulations, there would be no difference
among people, and there would be no generosity. In this world death is the end, and in the
Hereafter it is the beginning. Can there be life without old age and pain? He is the only perfect
being. Our life is a test for us, and a test before God. Anyway, youve read more than me.
I know all that Mustafa but my father was severely beaten up.
That comes from people. The good comes from God and the evil from us. God gave
us a river, and we overload the boat. The intention rests with the man, good or evil. Allah only
assists.
I know that Mustafa.
While the two were talking, Ragib, Ramiz, Ahmet and Nusret were shaking their
heads and looking at each other with foreboding eyes. But theyd wanted listen to Mustafa
talk about the people who beat up Hamzas father, so they lowered their heads and remained
silent. Imam Halil was reciting the Quran.
Mustafa also lowered his head. Hamza quickly got up.
God be with you!
God be with you Hamza!
When Hamza walked out Mustafa lifted his head:
Listen, Hamza knows Serbian history better than our Serb neighbours. And he has
also read a great deal about Islam, because Sabit wants his son to know everything about
Muslims. That is why Hamza knows more about us than we do and more about our
neighbours than they know themselves. Last year he was gathering documents about the
Chetnik movement in Bosnia and Herzegovina and the massacre of Muslims. Only Allah
knows whats in his head.
The old merchant, Ahmet Suvalijas countenance changed suddenly. He nervously
played with his beads, pressing on each of them with his thumb as if afraid that someone
might try and wrest it from his hand. Then he set the beads aside and followed the patterns on
the rug with his fingers. A seventy-year old from a respected Muslim family, he was near his
end, he was nodding his head as if he had made his peace with what was about to happen and

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stared around the empty mosque. The man had aged over night, the cup of life drained out of
him suddenly. Thats what was left of Ahmet Suvalija now. His zest for life had evaporated.
Halil continued to recite the Quran.
Ragib Hoso from Musluka interrupted everything rudely, like when people decide to
deal with the most important tasks at hand when they cannot find agreement in more trivial
things. He looked around, making sure he got a good look at everyone:
What is it? Let us look into each others eyes. Why are you so quiet Mustafa?
Everything I have to say could fit into one sentence.
Which one?
Everything is repeating itself and there are fewer of us, until there are fewer of us
than them.
So youve accepted that, Mustafa?
I havent accepted anything. Im just saying it so you know that each history repeats
itself. We forget, everything remains the same its just that we are disappearing. Celebici,
where Serbs gather, used to be inhabited only by Muslims, and there havent been any
Muslims living there since the last war. Hasan Nazir, who built the Aladza Mosque, was born
in Celebici. They called him Celebi in accordance with his place of birth, which tells you what
kind of a Muslim region it was. Now only Serbs live there, and that place has become known
for its celebration of everything that is Serbian. They have been killing us for centuries
throughout Bosnia, and we are alone, surrounded, so that we cannot resist them. This area in
front of the mosque we call Pazariste, they have been referring to for the longest time as the
Milos Obilic Square. The upper Cehotinski Bridge, they refer to as the Prince Dusan Bridge,
and the lower one, built by Mustafa Pasha, is now the Jug Bogdan Bridge. Should we give
everything to our Serb neighbours, assist them when no one else is willing to do it? We are
apostates for them, renegades, heretics, and their holy mission is to control us. Its been like
that since Kosovo. In the year 1663, a brigand by the name of Bajo Pivljanin raided Muslim
villages of Godijevice and Kunovo, burned all the houses, and drove the cattle to
Montenegro.
What are we going to do Mustafa? Ragib interrupted him. Never mind the history.
Everything has to do with history. May God be with you. And the answer to what we
are going to do is to be found in history.
What are we going to do then?
What I was trying to say. Following the raid by Pivljanin, a brigand by the name of
Mijo Radovic raided these villages in 1711, in 1861 it was a brigand Novica Cerovic, and in
1918. the Muslims were dispossessed of their lands. During the liberation of Foca in 1942,
the Serbs slaughtered 3,500 Muslims on the Zeljezni Bridge. They raped, killed, slit throats
and decapitated. Everything was covered in blood. All day bodies fell from the bridge and into
the Drina River.
Is it going to happen again?
Yes, history repeats itself. Thats exactly what Im talking about. Everything is going
to happen again. This time they will try to do a real good job scaring us, so that we leave
forever. During the last war, Halid Muftic, the watchmaker, was boiled alive in a brandy still,
and then they hanged his skeleton in front of the mosque, and they cut imam Hasan Taranin
into pieces, in the order one makes ablutions: arms to the elbows, mouth and nose, then the
ears and finally, the head, They did the same to my father. They did it to frighten us. And they
will do it again now. They will rape our daughters and wives right in front of us, and they will
take people to the bridge and slaughter them.
Are we going to defend ourselves?
Our men have gathered in Donje Polje, but the Serbs are receiving help from Serbia
and Montenegro.

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How long can our men hold out?
Our people are like a sheaf of wheat that is untied, and there is no one to tie it
together, thats why we go through these things again and again. Everyone is defending whats
theirs, so will the residents of Foca defend Donje Polje, but we do not have a unified defence.
The Serbs will start with the villages, and the people from the town will move out once the
word gets out, We keep losing because we do not stick together.
Mustafa Kasmo fell silent with an expression of deep regret on his old face, and then
continued speaking:
It is true what they say; good comes from God and the evil from ourselves. For
example, why arent the Muslims in the mosque today? They heard what was being said
yesterday in Celebici, so they got scared. Instead of coming together, they are only concerned
about protecting their own families. At one time the Serbs dispossessed the Drece family from
Cviline of their land, so that the Maksimovic clan built their homes on Muslim land. Since
that time, the Drece family has been friends with the Maksimovic clan. Its all up to us, Ragib.
Remember Kunovo during the last war. The Serbs couldnt do anything to the Muslims
because the Muslims defended well. Only those who fight stay alive.
Mustafa, how will we defend ourselves? We dont have any weapons.
Theyve sent weapons from Sarajevo. Everything is in Donje Polje.
What do they say at the town district?
They say that everything is going to stop.
Maybe well make a deal with the Serbs.
There will be a deal and then, after the deal, theyll start slaughtering us. Everything
keeps repeating Ragib.
Mustafa grew tired from talking. He was breathing with difficulty, but they wished to
keep listening to him, so he continued in a faltering voice:
There will be a deal where well surrender our weapons and then they will rape our
children and burn down our homes. As early as the trouble in Focatrans, the Serbs started
receiving weapons and building a hospital in Celebici. During the night, they left candles
burning in their windows, and in the morning, they found weapons and ammunition on their
doorsteps. Ragib, Muslims have been asleep since Kosovo, while the Serbs awakened because
of it. And that hasnt changed to this day. Muslims are even afraid to secretly arm
themselves.
You know yourself that the secret police is in Serb hands and that they would find out
about every bullet.
They wouldnt find out everything. Those who are afraid and do not fight back,
disappear. You see how Serbs do things. Their main headquarters is in the St. Nicholas Church
where they get their daily dose of Serb nationalism. They talk about everything there: they
store weapons, ammunition and uniforms there. I have even seen our own men helping them
unload trucks as if the Serbs will remember them and later have mercy on them.
Listen to this as well, Mustafa spoke. The Serbs built that St. Nicholas Church in
Cerezluk in 1857 while the Ottomans still ruled. The money was sent by the vizier from
Travnik, and the church was built by Spasoje Vulic from Tetovo. The construction lasted for
ten years, and every time the money ran out, the Serbs would go to Travnik. One shouldnt
hide the fact that the money was also given by a Serb merchant by the name of Radovan
Glodjaj, but that didnt even come close to what the vizier was giving, The Turks built a great
church for the Serbs, and the Serbs are setting out from that church to liberate Foca,
Let me conclude, he said. Everything has kept repeating from as far back as
Kosovo. The Serbs are doing away with their neighbours, because as far as the Serbs are
concerned, they are apostates, and they cannot have their state with them. Extermination is
what they refer to as the war of liberation, and once theyre finished killing off Muslims, no

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one is allowed to talk about it. All the Serbs are, more or less, the same, but throughout the
centuries, the Muslims have remained unchanged, so nothing has changed.
Meanwhile, Imam Halid was still reciting the Quran:
Bless, O Allah, Muhammad and the people of Muhammad, as Thou didst bless
Abraham and the people of Abraham. Thou art indeed the Praiseworthy, the Glorious. Prosper,
O Allah, Muhammad and the people of Muhammad, as Thou didst prosper Abraham and the
people of Abraham. Thou art indeed the Praiseworthy, the Glorious.
***
Mustafa walked out of the Careva Mosque and Ragib, Ramiz, Ahmet, Nusret and Halil
remained inside.
What will they come up with? Mustafa asked himself.
Thats the way things are with Muslims, he thought. When the person people turn
to for advice walks out, the others remain and get their five cents worth in, and then the words
they listened to disappear, and everyone shows an inclination towards the agreements made
with the Serbs. And they begin to blunder.
But Mustafa understood them. They were grasping at straws to save their children.
And everything repeats itself. He remembered the aged Safeta and Almasa. They had no
children, so they adopted Miroslav Mustafa was always afraid of Safets and Almasas
happiness.
Mustafa walked slowly, at a pace that showed his age. He wasnt as distraught as he
had been when he heard the muezzins call from the Careva Mosque. Allahs mercy was
giving him strength, and he walked up another road with a clear mind. He climbed along the
Prijeka Carsija without running into anyone. He walked past the clockmakers shop belonging
to Nedzad Njuhovic who was married to a Serbian woman and who was a habitual drinker. He
made his way past Mandzos Barber Shop where all the young men stopped, and a store
belonging to a Slovenian fellow by the name of Josko Hudjeca, who had been killed by Serbs
who took him boar hunting and then disposed of him. Afterwards, those same Serbs went on a
binge at the fire station.
He walked past the shoe store belonging to Mujo Moce, a fan of the Dinamo football
club, and a store whose owner, Asim Mezbur never got on anybodys bad side. He continued
walking towards the clock tower, an endowment of Mehmed-Pasha Kukavica, and went on to
the Great Inn, without stopping to catch his breath. There was something striking about the
way he walked the streets of Foca; it was quite different from the way other people strolled
along the same streets. It was evocative of people who adjust their pace to that of their child.
At one time, Foca was the main stop on the great caravan route Via Hotcha that
stretched from Dubrovnik to Istanbul. Caravans crossed the Drina River by a means of a ferry
and made their way down Tabak to Prijeka Carsija. Men and horses rested at the Great Inn.
On the divans covered with coarse homespun cloth, enjoying their chibouk, coffee and
sherbet, the sound of zurle and the harp, the men spent their money with a great deal of
whooping. Sometimes this lasted for several days, and just before dawn, with the lantern light
growing dimmer, business deals were made. At sunset, the younger men went to the coffeehouse at the bank of the Drina River and sat on the divan next to the hearth, sipping coffee
and, as was their usual practice, playing pranks on the coffee-house keeper who scooped up
water from the river with a ladle to make more coffee. The merchants belonging to the Jaksic,
Hanjalic and Karahode families went as far as Vienna, Pest and Leipzig. One heard stories
about monetary assistance from under the mattress when a merchant went to other lands to
trade, and stories about the inhabitants of Foca and the Jews.
Mustafa was no longer disturbed, nor did he feel any apprehension. A Muslim must
show resilience in the face of an adversity of whose inevitability he is aware, regardless of
what it may bring. In his advanced years, that was the only weapon a man had left.

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The shops he was passing had been closed since their owners heard about elebii.
Everyone was at home taking care of their families.
The Muslims, Mustafa thought, are a spring that will never run dry. The Serbs
drink its water, sometimes more and sometimes less, until it is brought to a trickle, and once
the trickle turns into a stream, they almost drain it again but the spring never runs dry. And
once again it fills with fresh water, up to a certain point.
Old Mustafa was happy that Allah had endowed him with reason, and he felt the
Prijeka arija with his soul. Seventeen mosques had been built during Ottoman times, so that
only the cities of Sarajevo, Banja Luka and Mostar had more mosques than his town. They
were all built by master builders from the east and Dubrovnik. Today, from Orakol to Gornje
Polje, there were only twelve mosques. With its beauty and sturdy construction, Prijeka
arija surpassed all other mosques. Proud and standing tall like a beautiful woman, it put to
shame those who looked at it askance.
For the past five centuries, the Mehmed-Pasha Clock Tower had showed the store
owners and craftsmen that their life wasnt measured only with the money they made but also
by time. If they were to only concern themselves with money, their time would be filled with
work and, in the end, their life would be meaningless, and the clock tower reminded them of
this. Those who have time and not money are the rich ones. If a merchant stopped working
and had enough money to last three months, this meant he was be rich his wealth would
have the value of ninety days and would not be measured by the amount he had in his purse.
That is how Mustafa reasoned while passing the shops in Prijeka esma.
Mustafa was walking down the cobblestone road, below the clock tower, moving
slowly so that he could steady his steps. Then he stopped and looked: the town stood before
him.
He caught his breath. The flush was disappearing from his face, replaced with a look
of apprehension, as his soul was once again struggling with the sound of the muffled voice
from the Careva Mosque and what it meant. He was filled with a sense of foreboding.
His lips moved involuntarily: Our Lord! Grant us good in this world and good in the
hereafter, and save us from the chastisement of the fire.
The air above the city was assuming a yellow hue, as if a yellow cloud had dropped on
top of the town, and the air seemed to be exerting pressure on the deserted streets.
History keeps repeating itself. A fearful thought entered Mustafas mind.
The same thing happened when the Italians handed the town over to the Chetniks
during the last war. Exactly like this, the air was turning yellow in anticipation of what was to
come, and everyone saw it back then, but no one dared to think. They simply waited. Now, the
Muslims have more weapons, but they are disunited, there is no command. These are Allahs
signs.
He was tottering towards the fire station where he heard a song: Who says, who lies
that Serbia is small?
There was no one in the streets, but suddenly a car pulled up beside him. Someone
came from behind, twisted his arm, and shoved him into the back seat of the car. Everything
happened quickly, and Mustafa simply closed his eyes, not wanting to look at those who were
taking him away. Shutting his eyes in the dark, he wished to feel what was happening to him.
He rested his head on the back of the seat. He felt the car move.
God created love, beauty and everything that is good, but also hatred and evil, so let
people choose. He told Hamza that it was nice to be a Muslim, because Hamza was pure and
happy. He chose Islam and these taking him away had chosen the other thing.
In the silence that ensued, with his eyes closed, he heard a voice from a cassette
player. He was answering Hamzas questions and later Ragibs in the Careva Mosque.
Everything was recorded on a cassette, and they were playing it for him. He opened his eyes

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and looked around. Two people in front of him were looking at their feet, and the person
sitting next to him looked sidways at him. They were all wearing suits and appeared young, as
if they had just graduated from school.
The one sitting next to the driver spoke quietly:
You spoke well about Hasan Taranin. My father used to tell me about him when were
in Godijen. But he also told me something else. Ill tell you when we get to the river. My
father took your father to the Drina River.
They drove for a long time. It was getting dark when they got off the road and pulled
over. They were alone on Kopilove. Below them the Drina was flowing. The man next to the
driver ordered Mustafa:
Go make your ablutions at the river and pray the afternoon prayer there, and I will
wait for you here, just like my father did before me.
Mustafa slowly made his way to the river.
Once there, he recited In the name of God, most Gracious, most Compassionate, and
washed his hands three times, rinsed his mouth and nose, once again three times, then his
face, and right and left arm just above his elbows, also three times, then his ears, neck and in
the end, the right and left leg, just above his ankles, from the right toe to the left; everything
three times, While making his ablutions, Mustafa recited that there was no God but Allah and
that Muhammad was his messenger.
During this time they stood above him, leaning on the car, and watching him. Having
prayed the afternoon prayer, Mustafa stepped into the river briefly and then lifted his head:
Go ahead.
They took out big knives out of the car and walked down to Mustafa. And Mustafa
knew why they had ordered him to make ablutions.
History is repeating itself, he thought to himself.
They first cut his hands and then carved out his mouth and nose, then his arms up to
his elbows, and then his feet, without Mustafa letting out a cry. They were cutting and
Mustafa did not feel pain.
He asked himself for the first time: How does one escape from going through the
same thing over and over again?
Is it destiny that a father should slaughter a father and a son slaughter a son? In two
different times.
In his heart Mustafa offered a prayer for Hamza. Then they decapitated him.
***
That evening, Ragib Hoso, Ramiz Pilav, Ahmet Suvalija, and Nusret Hadzipiric didnt
come home. No one ever saw them again.
That same evening, two armed Serbs wearing traditional Serbian peasant caps barged
into the home of Sabit Kadric and killed him.
The year before, his wife Hadzira had died so he lived alone with his son Hamza. Ever
since his wife passed on, Sabit would go walking across the Zeljezni Bridge and look
pensively over the bridge railing at the Drina River.
Once Bekto Sosevic ran into him:
What is the matter with you, Sabit? Have you gone mad? All you do is walk along
this bridge and look at the Drina.
Whenever I walk across this bridge I remember my father. Now Ive reached the
stage in my life when I am haunted by memories. I have this bad feeling, Bekto.
Youve lost it Sabit.
Bekto, you look at things, but you dont see. Things couldnt be worse.

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What is life, Sabit? Were in a constant rush from the day were born to the day we
die. After you, your son Hamza will continue at the same pace.
Rushing, from Saffa to Madina, from a clearing to the spring and again back to the
clearing. I pray to Allah to enlighten my dear Hamza. Whoever blocks his own path to the
truth, for him only the fear remains.
On that tragic night, standing behind Bektos house, Hamza noticed two armed Serbs
walking into his house. He thought they were looking for him. He waited for them to leave.
He heard two short bursts of gunfire.
They shot Sabit.
They walked outside and poured gasoline on the house and set it on fire.
Hamza ran towards his house. He fired from his automatic rifle while still running. He
saw the two armed men, wearing traditional Serb peasant caps, fall to the ground in front of
the house. He took both bodies inside the house, which was now in flames. He recognised
them to be the two Radovic brothers.
He ran off.
That night the rain came down, accompanied by thunder and lightning. Turbid creeks
spilled over into the narrow streets of Donje Polje. Hamza felt the thunder to be the stomping
of Gods feet and the lightning the flashing of his blade.
IV
As far back as 1845, the Serbs from Foca petitioned to the Vizier in Travnik to allow
them to build a big church in the town, different from the one in Kaursko Polje, which had its
own monks and belonged to the Milesevska diocese. They wished to build a church which
would be surrounded by high walls on all sides with which they wished to separate
themselves from the Prijeka Carsija, the minaret, and Pazariste, so that they could pray in
their house of God uninterrupted, enjoying the frescoes and the icons, effectively shutting
themselves off from the outside world and everything they were exposed to in the town on
daily basis.
This is why they needed a church with high walls in the centre of Foca. They didnt
really believe that the Vizier would allow this, but he did. So when they had the drawings
ready, the most eminent Serbs went to Travnik.
Soon, the building of the biggest church in Podrinje began. In the end, the Vizier
didnt give the money to the Serbs he gave it to the merchants of Foca: Murat Karahodza,
Ibrahim Kasmi and Midin Hanjalic, who were men of great trust. The Serbs got money from
them, and they also received a large sum from Radovan Glodjaja. A Serb woman by the name
of Savka Vlaisavljevic, the wife of a merchant called Dimitrije Jovicic and a native of
Dubrovnik, donated the land for the church.
The construction of the biggest church in Podrinje lasted ten years, not three to five, as
the Serbs had told the Vizier. In fact, the Serbs went to the Vizier four more times and then
sought help from Karahodza, Kasmi and Hanjalic, but the Serb merchant Glodjaja stopped
giving his help he was only willing to assist them for three to five years, as they had
originally agreed.
The church was built by Spasoje Vulic, nicknamed Decanin, a Macedonian builder
from Tetovo. He was quiet, and so stoop-shouldered that he had to lift his head sideways to
see who he was talking to, and it was for this reason that he never talked much. Everything
had to be done in accordance with the drawings, and the builder kept pushing them under the
workers noses. Spasoje, with his broad and stooped shoulders and shaking his small head and
rapidly blinking, kept drawing the workers attention to the plans. But they pretended to be

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unskilled and gave the semblance of not knowing when they made a mistake such as when
they did not properly construct the domes covering the church.
Spasoje was most pleased with the great wall which enclosed the church courtyard,
and especially with the arched gate built into the wall where the following date was engraved:
20 September 1857. One could enter the church from three sides. The gate was located on the
west side where it made a great impression on the passers-by.
Within its walls, the church, with its high windows, was divided into the naos and the
altar not the practice in the older churches. On either side of the bishops chair were two lion
statues, like in the monastery in Studenica.
Builder Spasoje was right to scold the workers who were responsible for positioning
the domes, for they lasted less that twenty years. They cracked and were replaced by a doubleeaved roof.
Beginning in February 1992, all the more prominent Serbs from Foca came to St.
Nicholas Church. Sometimes they were invited by priest Sekula, and at other times, they were
invited by someone from the political party of Radovan Karadzic, so that some were brought
there by religion and others by politics. However, never since the time the church was built by
Spasoje Vulic had so many Serbs gathered in it as there were on this particular day, shortly
after the feast in Celebici not even on 20 January 1942, when the Serbs celebrated the
liberation of Foca.
Even Spasoje would have been surprised to see the Serbs in military uniforms carrying
boxes of ammunition and crates filled with weapons into the church courtyard. Officer Kovac
was issuing orders, and the older Serbs gathered around priest Sekula and professor Ostoja
and then walked together to the altar.
A multitude of people flowed in and out of the church. They were in a great hurry, like
travellers seeking refuge from a rainstorm.
The Muslims saw and guessed what was happening, but what could they do? They
couldnt think straight because everything was happening so quickly, from the great feast in
Celebici to the present meeting at St. Nicholas Church, where trucks were being unloaded,
and officers from Belgrade had appeared.
Those Muslims who were in contact with the capital of Sarajevo had weapons and had
hidden them in Donje Polje. They distributed the weapons throughout the neighbourhoods and
met in the mosque in Musluk.
Meanwhile, the Serbs had lists of the armed Muslims.
For the first time since they started gathering in the church, priest Sekula was
explaining to the Serbs what he had read in the Quran. He spoke softly but used strong
language, so that every word was listened to:
It is written in the Alkoran that there is only one God, Allah, who wants people to
respect him and to submit to his will. The obligations of the Muslims are as follows: pray
devoutly, be brave in their beliefs and be ready to sacrifice their lives for the faith. Whoever
does these things is a Muslim who will go to heaven. Heaven is imagined as a beautiful green
garden with gurgling streams, and is inhabited with heavenly women with amorous eyes.
Priest Sekula was in a hurry to explain everything:
Muhammad is a saint sent to purify what others had corrupted, and he is the best
among the prophets. Their mosque is simple, with no icons or frescoes. On the outside, they
are tall, with a slim tower with a pointed top. The religious ritual is difficult and arduous. One
has to pray five times a day. Where there is no water, Muslims have to make ablutions using
sand. Polygamy is part of their religious law. They believe that God has predetermined
everything that will happen to anyone.

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As if he just remembered something, Sekula stopped briefly, and then continued: At
one time, our neighbours were of Orthodox faith as it had been determined at the council of
Nicea.
My Serb brothers, the priest added, you will, in the name of Gods justice, liberate
us from the Alkoran! As you perform this task, may your every step be blessed and may you
be accompanied only by God. Accept the blessings of the church. Carry with you the glory of
the Serb weapons so that the homeland can be proud of you. Whatever you do, may your
every step be blessed.
Ostoja stood up:
My Serb brothers! Remember that the banner of the independent Serbia reads: For
the King and the Homeland, with faith in God. That is an oath and a solemn promise. Fulfil
your oath and Kosovo will be avenged, and Serb unity will be achieved. It is waiting for you.
Leaning on his crutches, standing to one side was old Grujo who, during the last Serb
insurrection, had slaughtered his neighbours on the Zeljezni Bridge. He shouted so that his
voice echoed in St. Nicholas Church:
Have no mercy, slaughter everything! Butcher even the smallest child. Slaughter the
baliye wherever you see them and throw them into the Drina River. Thats how theyll leave
because of fear. First go to the villages, because they cannot be defended, and then youll have
no trouble liberating the town. Let me hearten you a little. The Zelengora Hotel wasnt always
there. Instead, there used to be a bar belonging to my brothers, and behind the bar there was a
garden stretching all the way to the Cehotina Rivers. Thats were we made brandy and stewed
fruit for marmalade. Well, in those brandy-stills, we boiled Hamid Muftic alive and hanged
his skeleton on a tree near the Dzaferbeys Mosque. First, slaughter the Muslims who express
a desire to join the Serb army, he advised them. Who betrays their own will do the same to
us.
I want to hear the words of my commander Zaharije or major Pavlo Djurii who said
Three thousand Muslims have been butchered on the bridge!!! Thats what I want to hear!
he shouted. Tomorrow you will burn down the old market place Pazarite and all their shops
and property!
Everything has been forgotten, he cried. In the middle ages this town was called
Radovina, and then Hota. That mosque, which Muslims call the Careva Mosque, used to be a
church. Let priest Sekula bless you. You must trick the Muslims. Why am I telling you to
slaughter everything in sight? So that Kunovo does not repeat its disgrace!
The family of arii, Davidovi, and Radovi had asked the residents of Kunovo to
surrender their weapons but the Muslims didnt trust them. Before Kunovo, the Chetniks had
slaughtered all the Muslims, so why should the Muslims of Kunovo trust them? The next day
the Chetniks fell upon Kunovo. They locked the women, children, and the old inside the
house belonging to Smajo Zec, massacred all of them and they set the house on fire. Only a
few families saved themselves by hiding in the house of Alija Trako.
The residents of Kunovo had only two rifles, but Sulejman Deli and Alija Trako
managed to defend the women and children from massacre. After thirty-eight days, the
Municipality of elebii was liberated by the Partizans, but Sulejman and Alija even refused
to surrender to them.
Following negotiations, the Partizans realized the full extent of the Serb disgrace.
There were not forty-six rifles nor were their six machine-guns in the house, as the Serbs
had told everyone in Foca. There were only two rifles and only two men, Sulejman and Alija,
along with many women and children.
From an elevated position, the Chetniks had been firing at the roof where Alija and
Suljo were hiding, and the bullets riddled the shingles and came out the other side, hitting the
Chetnik positions. Thats how the Chetniks were led to believe that the house was full of

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Croat fighters the Serbs of Foca had said that even the units of the Royal Yugoslav Army
couldnt get near Kunovo.

V
The Serbs asked the Muslims from the village of Djidjevo to surrender their weapons
so that they wouldnt attack each other. The Serbs knew that in this village, a little beyond
the Brod near Foca, there were forty armed Muslims. This scared them and this was why
they wanted their weapons. They sent Sucro Culic, a Muslim, to tell them to give them up.
In the village of Kuta, the Serbs told Sucro what he was supposed to say the Serbs
from Djidjevo were also there.
So the Serbs from Foca and the surrounding villages started negotiating with the
Muslims from Djidjevo. In the negotiations, Enver Kurtic and Vaso Milovic, both from
Djidjevo, came to the village of Kuti. Pero Elez, born in the village of Miljevina and Gojko
Jankovic, born in the village of Trnovace, came from Foca.
Everyone asked Enver to convince the Muslims to surrender their weapons to that they
could live with the Serbs in peace. Enver couldnt understand how the Serbs and Muslims
were to live in peace if the armed Serbs seized the weapons from the Muslims.
If we are to live in peace, Enver thought, then let the police take away the weapons
from both, the Serbs and the Muslims. This way, the Serbs from the surrounding villages are
well armed, and they want to disarm the Muslims.
Enver asked this question in the village of Kuti, but only Vaso responded:
Enver, all the Serbs in Foca have weapons. Who can go now and ask the Serbs to
surrender their weapons? All the Serbs want is to rule Foca, and for that they need weapons.
How can you ask the Serbs to give up their weapons when they are fighting for Foca to be
Serbian? If you give up your weapons, the Muslims will live in Djidjevo and the Serbs will
protect them. If you dont give up your weapons, we will attack Djidjevo. But do whatever
you like.
Listen Vaso, were not going to attack anyone. We need the weapons to protect
ourselves. How are we going to defend ourselves if you decided to attack us?

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Im telling you again, the Serbs wont attack the Muslims if they give up their
weapons. If you dont give up your weapons, we will attack Djidjevo.
If we surrender our weapons, how can we trust you?
If you dont give up your weapons, than you dont trust us.
Back in Djidjevo, the Muslims didnt want to surrender their weapons. They were
confused by the messages coming from their neighbour Vaso about the Serb authorities in
Foca. Enver told them that if they didnt surrender their weapons, the Serbs would attack
them. But what if they gave up their weapons and the Serbs attacked anyway?
Eighty-year old Hamid spoke in a loud voice so that everyone could hear him:
If we give up our weapons the Serbs will attack and kill all of us. With the weapons
at least some of us will survive.
In the evening everyone gathered at the home of Safet Bostandzija and his son
Sabahudin, where they were met by Marinko and Zoran Pavlovic, Serbs from Djidjevo. All
the Muslims came armed. They sat on the rug in the biggest room of the house and waited to
hear what the Pavlovic brothers and Enver Kurtic had to say. They were supposed to surrender
their weapons by the following day.
They silently waited for Marinko Pavlovic, who was sitting at a table with Enver,
Zoran, and Safet, to start talking. When everyone had gathered, Marinko got up and started:
My Muslim brothers. We have lived in the same village for years and now the time
has come for everyone to be with their own people. Seven days ago I moved with my wife
and children from Djidjevo to the village of Kute so that I could be with my fellow Serbs. You
refuse to live in Yugoslavia with the Croats, where our Serb brothers have chosen to remain,
and we want to live with out people, wherever that may be. Thats why only Serbs can have
authority in Foca. And since Foca is Serbian than only the Serbs can carry weapons in the
Municipality of Foca. Everyone else must surrender their weapons to the Serbs. Those are the
orders. You will live in Djidjevo and we will protect you.
Marinko stopped talking. He lowered his head and waited.
The gathered Muslims also waited, not knowing what to say. They were confused by
what Marinko said about the Serb authority. How could Foca be only controlled by the Serbs,
if there were more Muslims than Serbs living there?
Ibro Colic, Marinkos next-door neighbour, was the first to break the silence:
What do you mean, Serb authority?
That means that the Serbs will have the authority?
What are we suppose to do in Djidjevo?
Whatever youve been doing so far. You just have to surrender your weapons.
You will kill all of us, neighbour.
Hamid, the oldest one there, also spoke:
I remember the last war. The Serbs confiscated the weapons from the Muslims and
took them to Zeljezni Bridge in Foca. Ten armed Serbs took away three hundred unarmed
Muslims and slaughtered all of them. Marinko, there was Serb authority then until the
Partizans showed up. If we give up our weapons you will be taking us to the bridge this time
around as well.
These are different times Hamid. Those days are long behind us. You Ibro What
kind of a neighbour have I been? Tell me.
I cant lie. We have always been helping each other, as if it was one household. Our
children went to school together.
There, you see. And how could I turn against you? Just surrender your weapons and
let us embrace. I am leaving now and you can let us know about your decision tomorrow.
Enver got up from the table, tall and dark. He spoke quietly, but everyone was able to
hear him:

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Listen Marinko, you can tell your guys in Kuti that were not going to give up our
weapons. Why would we attack the Serbs knowing how well armed they are? We can only
defend with our weapons, so why does it bother you so much if youre not planning on
attacking us? All the Serbs in the surrounding villages are well armed, and you are bothered
by our weapons. Let us be. Let the Serbs have the authority, but do not take our weapons right
away. For now, were not giving you our rifles.
Is that your final say, Enver?
Final.
Marinko and Zoran slowly made their way towards the door; as they went, the
Muslims stood up to let them pass.
When they left, the home of Safet Bostandzija was enveloped in silence for a long
time. Until a lean fellow by the name of Rahman spoke:
Listen Maybe its better if we give up the weapons. This wont last long. Let them
come to some sort of an agreement in Sarajevo, and things will settle down in the villages as
well. They said that they wont attack us if we give up our weapons.
Enver jumped to his feet: And what if they attack us and weve already surrendered
our weapons?
Hamid added his two cents worth: The Serbs will attack no matter what we decide.
***
It wasnt even dawn when the Serbs attacked Djidjevo. They hadnt waited for a
response about the surrender of weapons.
They surrounded the homes of Safet Bostandzija and Hasan Karovic, where the
Muslims had been talking things over, finally falling asleep without posting guards. Firing
from their semiautomatic weapons, the Serbs riddled the house with bullets and asked the
Muslims to surrender.
Marinkos voice was heard: Enver, youre surrounded! Surrender! If you dont
surrender will set the house on fire!
And then they started shooting again.
The inhabitants of Djidjevo were confused they hadnt expected their neighbours to
attack them so soon, not while they were still trying to come to an agreement with Marinko.
Some fired back through the broken window, not knowing where the Serbs were.
All this lasted several minutes. Then voices were heard:
We surrender!
Sabahudin and his father Safet walked out of the house unarmed. As soon as they
stepped out, the Serbs started shooting. Father and son fell to the ground at the same time.
Marinko Pavlovic shouted again:
Come out or well set the house on fire! We wont kill the rest of you! But first, throw
your weapons out the window.
Enver and those nearest to him didnt know what to do. They watched as rifles went
flying out the window.
Then, people started walking out with their hands up.
The Serbs didnt fire. They waited for everyone several metres from the house and
started tying them up with barbed-wire.
When Marinko walked into Safets house with another Serb, he saw Hamid sitting on
a divan and staring through the broken window. Marinkos friend called out to him:
Hamid
Recognizing the voice, Hamid turned around.
I am Stojan, the son of Jovan Radovic.
Stojan my son they just took away my Rasim.

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At that moment the Serbs set the house on fire. Marinko walked out while others had
to drag Stojan Radovic out of the house. Hamid sat in a house that was in flames.
The Serbs had captured thirty-seven armed Muslims. The first stream they came
across, they shot Enver Kurtic, Mujo Kurtovic, Ferid Krso, Suad Hadzimusic, Safet Softic,
Hasan Subasic and Hamza and Smajo Dzelila. They were carrying out the orders of Pero Elez,
Gojko Jankovic, Marinko and Zoran Pavlovic. They took Hamids son, Rasim, to a
concentration camp in Foca.
The following people were also taken to Foca: Mujo, Almir and Elveding Dzankovic,
along with Zulfo Duric, Ramiz Dedovic, Suad Borovina, Hajdar Korjenic, Avdo Hodzic, Zijo
Sosevic, Eso Kovacevic and Suad Klapuha. They forced Bajro Skender to set houses on fire
in Djidjevo.
The women and the children were taken to the elementary school in the
neighbourhood of Brod, near Foca, and the younger women were taken to the Zelengora
Hotel and the apartments near the Ribarski Restaurant in Foca, by two Serbs, Jagos and
Miletic.
VI
At two a.m. a fireman by the name of Dzoja Novakovic fell unconscious at one end of
the bridge in the neighbourhood of Brod, near Foca. When he came to, the sun had already
risen. He lifted his head and saw that he was lying on the bridge, next to the fire truck with a
long hose that reached as far as the middle of the bridge. The headlights were still on. He was
a thin fellow with a head that was disproportionate to the rest of his tall frame. He was
wearing a fire fighters uniform that was several sizes too small. He stared towards the middle
of the bridge. His thoughts were troubled.
For two full hours after midnight, Djoja had washed out puddles of blood with a big
hose, but he still hadnt managed to wash it all away. Its true that the puddles were no longer
there they flowed off the bridge along with the rest of the water but the blood residue
remained.
No matter how long Djoja washed, the blood stains remained like imprinted
silhouettes, so that it seemed to him that he hadnt done anything. He remembered that the
Serbs brought four women from a nearby school, whose husbands were killed in Djidjevo or
taken to Foca, and that those women had been made to scrub the bridge for full two hours,
and he was also washing it out. When the women went back to the school, and he took
another look at the bridge, it was quite a sight: wherever there were puddles of blood, dark
spots remained, as if some kind of solution that would hide all of it was spilled. If only it
would remain there.
He started the fire truck again and decided to spill all the remaining water on the
bridge, all over the dark stains and then go back to town.
He got inside the truck and waited. He didnt know what he was going to do if they
should order him to wash the bridge every night.
Radomans got it easy, Djoja thought, he killed Muslims from Govze with his men
until midnight and then he left.
Thats when his work started, and they called on him to clean up what Radoman left
behind. Tomorrow the Muslims from the other villages around Brod on Drina were going to
be slaughtered by Gojan or Pero Eley and then Janko, but only Djoja had to wash away the
blood. Who will wash out the blood on the great Zeljezni Bridge on the Drina?
***
Earlier that night, the bridge on the Drina in Brod, near Foca, had been illuminated by
passenger vehicles and the fire truck. Seventy-four Muslims had been captured in a tunnel
near Miljevina and transported to the bridge in trucks. Other Muslims were brought from the

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surrounding villages and the neighbourhood of Brod. The Serbs even brought them in their
own cars. A total of 118 Muslims were there. They formed a single line, stretching from the
old school all the way to the bridge. Twelve armed Serbs stood on one side, and Radoman and
Gojan waited in the middle.
A line eighty metres long. Every one of them with their heads bowed.
The Serbs asked:
Where are the baliye?
Do you want an independent Bosnia?
Where is your president Alija?
Radoman is waiting for you.
The first in line were Mehmed, Hamdija, Edhem, Alem, Eso, Mujo, Halim, Esad. They
were from Brod and Trnovace.
When Radoman waived his arm, the line started moving, with Mehmed Beckovic
leading the way. Gojko ordered all of them to remove their clothes to the waist and place their
hands behind their head. Radoman unsheathed a big knife with a wide blade and a long tip,
and waited. Gojan was shouting orders:
Cmon Mehmed.
Sixty-year old Mehmed approached them slowly, staring at Radoman. He lifted his
head, looking over the bridge railing at the Drina River. Below was the old bridge, destroyed
during the last war when the Partizans were retreating, now it was forcing the water into a
strong current. During the last war, the Chetniks also slaughtered members of the Beckovic
family.
Radoman reached out with his left arm and grabbed Mehmed by his hair, pulled his
head down to his waist and quickly slit Mehmeds throat, almost beheading him in the
process.
The blood sprayed over Radoman, but it didnt prevent him from thrusting the long tip
of his knife into his victims chest. Mehmeds body doubled over. No sound came from him,
there was only blood. Once Radoman let go of Mehmeds hair, his body fell on top of the
railing.
Everyone was staring as if this was a bad dream.
Only Gojan shouted:
What is it baliye?! You getting scared? Hamdija, push Mehmed over the railing.
Hamdija bent over Mehmeds body, grabing his legs behind the knees and pushing the
body over the railing. Everyone heard the splashing down below, at the spot where the old
bridge was.
Radoman was watching everything, waiting for Hamdija to move away from the
railing, and then he grabbed him by the hair and went for his knife. He didnt slit his throat
but shoved the knife through the neck so that the tip came out on the other side. Blood
sprayed over Radomans face but that didnt deter him. He pulled the knife out of his victims
neck and kept holding the body up. He placed his hand holding the knife to Hamdijas throat,
so that his hand filled with blood. Then, using the wide blade of his knife, he slit Hamdijas
throat and let his body hang over the bridge railing.
Meanwhile, Gojan was choosing the next victim. He let out a monstrous scream:
Cmon Mujanovic.
Mujanovic stepped out of the line, as if he wasnt afraid. He strode over to Hamdijas
body, grabbed it by the legs, lifted it up and pushed it over the bridge railing, but he never let
go of the legs, jumping instead after Hamdijas body. The splashing of two bodies was heard
below.
Four armed Serbs who were guarding the Muslims, rushed to the railing, leaned over
and took aim with their automatic rifles. But they didnt see Mujanovic. They only saw

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Hamdijas body spinning in the strong current of the Drina River. The current was so strong
that it would pull any swimmer to the bottom of the river. Some thirty metres from the bridge
they caught sight of Mujanovic who rose to the surface for air. He wasnt caught in the
current.
They started firing, but he dove again, and the rapids carried him quickly down the
river.
Gojans voice was heard again:
Run along the left and right banks of the river! He cant get away from you! And you,
Radoman, keep slitting their throats!
The armed Serbs forced the line of Muslims from both sides towards Radomans
blade, afraid that someone else might get away. Radoman was slitting throats, and two Serbs
were pushing the bodies over the railing. Everything was going much faster, and blood was
flowing all over the bridge.
Gojan was in such a hurry that he was rushing everyone, especially Radoman:
Radoman, you butcher them, and you men push. Radoman, you must kill every single
one of them by midnight. Let the blood flow over the bridge, well wash it away after
midnight.
Radoman was slitting throats expeditiously. With one motion of his hand he would cut
the throat and with the other, he would thrust the tip of his blade into the chest of the victim,
all of it done in an instant, as if he were working in a factory line, where one didnt have time
to stop.
During that time, the four armed Serbs ran along the banks of the Drina, but they
didnt see Mujanovic anywhere, even though they went as far as the Zeljezni Bridge in Foca.
They assumed that he drowned or that they shot him when he came up for air just below the
bridge in Brod.
In fact, when he came up for air the second time, Mujanovic bumped into Mehemeds
body. He hid under the body, covering his head with Mehmeds coat so that he could breathe
without being noticed by his pursuers who were running along the side of the river. When he
passed under the Zeljezni Bridge in Foca he saw many bodies floating in the river. Six of the
bodies were tied together so that they floated together.
VII
In February of 1942, seven Chetniks took eighty-four Muslims to the Zeljezni Bridge
in Foca. Once on the bridge, one of the Chetniks sat on his knees, holding a big knife in his
left hand. All the Muslims had to lie down under the blade, and if any refused, the rest of the
Chetniks hit him on the back of his head with their rifle butts until he fell to the ground. Once
on the ground, they held his legs and arms.
They searched the body of every dead Muslim in hope of finding some gold or money,
and then threw the body into the Drina. They slit the throats of Avdo Bacvic, Suljo Isanovic,
Edhem Isanovic, Mujo Aganovic, Murat Aganovic, Aziz Isanovic, Hasan Isanovic, Juso Cebo,
Smail Isanovic, Smail Bacvic.
All too soon, it was Dervis Bacvics turn. At that moment one of the soldiers looked at
the river below, and Dervis started to run. He wanted to be shot instead of having his throat
slit. While he was running towards the end of the bridge, the wire with which his hands were
bound snapped, making it easier for him to run. The Chetniks opened fire, but no bullet found
its mark. Dervis ran into another group of Chetniks who also fired but could not hit their
target. He ran down the hill towards the Drina and hid in a bush. Two Chetniks stumbled
across him, one of them jumping atop him. Dervis pushed away the Chetnik and rolled into
the river. The Chetniks kept shooting at him but had no luck this time either. Dervis swam
past the body of his brother but remained alive.

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***
Now, Radoman was slaughtering Muslims on a bridge in Brod, near Foca. Around
him, big crimson puddles of blood were coagulating. The thickened blood stuck to his rubber
boots. Around midnight, the blood resembled dark red clay crisscrossed by the imprints of the
soles of Radomans boots. Radoman himself was covered in blood, from his boots to his hair,
but he paid no heed. He just leaned over the bridge railing and looked down below at the flow
of the Drina.
All the Serbs had left, except Gojan who stayed behind. He stood at the end of the
bridge, impatient because he was in a hurry to go. He couldnt help saying:
By God, Radoman, the Drina will change colour.
So be it Gojan. As long as its done. But never mind that, let me tell you something.
Go ahead.
Some will ask me how I was able to kill so many Muslims. To tell you the truth, the
most difficult part was killing the first ten and after that the hands do the work on their own.
Its as if I wasnt butchering human beings! And anyhow, baliye are not people. Im coming
Drive me to Foca. Let the firemen come and wash away the blood. Well butcher them
tomorrow as well.
Gojan drove slowly in the direction of Foca.
There was a handful of us and a hundred baliye, he muttered. If they wanted, they
couldve rushed us and thrown us all into the Drina. They simply kept walking up to you to be
slaughtered. What do you think?
I dont think anything, Gojan. Thats the way things were in the last war as well.
During the last Serb insurrection, the mighty Grujo and your father were slaughtering
Muslims for days and nights, without any interruption. The Serbs kept driving them like sheep
towards the bridge. They would simply walk over and lie under the blade. Theyre like that! I
was surprised when that Mujanovic fellow jumped over the railing.
Theyve killed him. There is no way he couldve gotten away. And to tell you the
truth, I hope he got away.
Why Gojan?
Let him tell other baliye what happened on the bridge. You always need to leave
someone behind so that they tell others what happened.
VII
Djoja got out of the fire truck. He lost his composure when he saw all the thickened
blood on the bridge. It was as if someone had covered the bridge with a shroud.
He took the fire hose off the truck. But the thickened blood resisted the water. It was
only when he increased the water pressure to a maximum that the blood began to wash away
and flow into the Drina. But he couldnt wash away the dark stains. He became sick and lost
consciousness.
When he came to, he went to the old school, not far from the bridge, where the women
from Djidjevo were imprisoned. The guards brought out four women, who scrubbed the
bridge. But the dark colour remained.
When the women left, Djoja spoke to himself:
Its easy for Radoman to butcher, but let him try washing away the blood.
IX
At ten oclock at night there were twenty-three more Muslims on the bridge. Eight
guards stood at the side. Gojan was waiting for them in the middle of the bridge. The bridge
was illuminated by the headlights of a passenger vehicle. And then Radoman showed up. This

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time he was wearing the Maglic company overalls and big fishermans boots. With his big
head and small short frame, he was as quick as they came. When he walked to the middle of
the bridge, he looked to his left and right and then spoke to Gojan angrily:
That Djoja never washed the bridge properly. There is blood all over the place. I
dont know why you gave him the fire truck in the first place.
Thats enough, Radoman. If we are killing people every night, thats a lot of
washing.
We cannot neglect the bridge, Gojan. It has to be cleaned so well that it should appear
that its the first time we are butchering them. Last night the baliye killed my brother. Now,
its payback time.
Gojko interrupted him, Come, Smajo.
Tonight, Radoman was avenging his brother. He was slaughtering them more
expeditiously than the previous night. Blood sprayed all over the bridge and the corpses were
falling into the Drina.
Before the clock struck eleven, Radoman and Gojan were alone, just like the previous
night.
Whats with you tonight, Radoman?
Youve seen it. My brother is worth a hundred baliye. Lets just leave. Someone
needs to call Djoja.
They made their way towards Foca again, to the fire station. Gojan drove slowly. He
wanted to talk to Radoman.
Your brothers been killed?
Someone shot him in Donje Polje.
Who?
Someone from inside the mosque in Musluk.
You see Thats where theyre gathering. If only they would give the go ahead in
the church to attack Donje Polje. But they wont. They say, first the villages and then,
everyone will flee towards Ustikolina. What do you think?
There can be no resistance Gojan.
I know, there mustnt be a single house that would, like Kunovo did, defend itself for
thirty-eight days. We need to kill the baliye until they leave.
The Partizans are no longer around to save them from the knife. The knife and the
Drina, thats all baliye deserve.
The streets in Foca were deserted. Above the town, bursts of fire from automatic
weapons were heard. Several houses in the village of Zubovici and on the left bank of the
Drina, above the concrete bridge, were ablaze. A song was reverberating from the fire station:
All around, the sentries of commander Drazo
Gojan couldnt resist saying, It has started. Radoman.
I just want to be able to avenge my brother, Gojan.
X
Leave the weapons in front of the house, Jovan told the Chetniks entering his house
in Celebici. As they came in, Stojanka led them into the biggest room where they sat down on
the dirt floor. Stojanka poured brandy for them. They werent talking aloud, they were
whispering, wearing camouflage uniforms, military boots, and traditional Serb peasant caps.
They had received everything in St. Nicholas Church. Nenad Davidovic had the kind of
uniform that the Serb soldiers wore during World War One and an officers cap of that time.
He didnt do any talking, nor did he take off his military belt with magnum hanging on it, or
his bulletproof vest which caught the eye of every other Serb soldier. Lieutenant Davidovic

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had graduated from the military academy in Belgrade, but was born in Celebici and thats why
they had sent him here. The last to appear was old Radoje.
They split into groups and talked in undertones, so that no one disturbed anyone else
This would have lasted for some time had Lieutenant Davidovic not spoken:
All right, let me hear it. What have we done from Trnovaca to Ustikolina? Dont go
into great detail. Just tell me enough to know where we stand so that we may decide whats to
be done next. Marinko, what happened in Djidjevo?
The baliye refused to surrender their weapons, so we attacked them the night after we
negotiated their surrender. We knew where they would spend the night and what kind of
weapons they had. I went to Kute, and at four a.m. we made our way towards the house of
Safet Bostandzija where the Muslims who refused to surrender their weapons were. Once we
started firing, Safet and his son walked out of the house to surrender themselves, but we killed
them. The rest surrendered. Those who were armed, we shot, and the rest were taken to the
correctional centre in Foca. We made old Hamid, who wouldnt allow the Muslims to give up
their weapons, remain inside the house while it was in flames, We torched all the houses in
Djidjevo.
What did you with the women and children?
We left them at the school in Brod. We took the nice looking women, the young
women and girls, to the Zelengora Hotel, and some of them we took to the Lepa Brena
building. They will service the Serb heroes. I forgot to mention that we have also liberated the
village of Trnovace, just above Brod. There is no longer a Dzinovic family in Trnovace.
What about you Radoman?
Ive been killing on Brod. I dont know any more many baliye Ive done in. I killed
everyone standing in line. Gojan can vouch for me, he was helping me. And Djoja knows
about it too, he was washing away the blood. Weve done a huge job. Its easier to slaughter a
baliya than a pig. The pig struggles and you have to go through a lot of trouble to turn it on its
side, and two more people have to hold the pig, and once you stick your blade into it, its still
kicking so that its difficult to keep it down, but a baliya places himself under the knife on his
own. Everything went so smoothly. I just couldnt get it - how fourteen of our soldiers could
bring in seventy Muslims. If they had any brains they wouldve attacked us on the bridge with
their bare hands. Our guys wouldve fired, but we wouldve been able to shoot only the first
few. Half of them wouldve survived. This way, they stand in line while I cut their throats. It
was as if they were in line for lunch at the cafeteria in Maglic Company.
Do you know why that is Radoman? Let me tell you why. Whenever a war breaks out
we slaughter Muslims on bridges, we pillage and burn their homes. Its their fault because
they chose to convert to Islam. And they are well aware of that. It is the Serbs lot in life to
kill Muslims, the traitors. The Muslims have made their peace with that. A time will come
when the Muslims will come to the bridge on their own, we wont even have to bring them.
Let me tell you something, he said. The soldiers of the Serbian guard and the White
Eagles from Belgrade are coming to help us. They will cross over from Montenegro. In a
months time the Muslims will be fleeing from these parts. It is up to us to kill as many of
them as we can without them offering any resistance. As soon as the armed Muslims pull
back from Donje Polje, Foca will be liberated.
In one of the rooms, Jovan, Stojanka and Stojan were talking. As tall as he was, with
his head held high, Stojan wore the camouflage uniform well, and Stojanka didnt take her
eyes off him for a long time. Stojan was dejected, pacing up and down the room. Jovan was
angry with the Serbs for having destroyed his orchard, smashing his casks filled with brandy,
and turning his home into a stable where all decisions were made. But Stojanka felt important.
She would see the Serbs off when they set out for their missions and would greet them in the
morning. She was glad to hear that they burned Djidjovo to the ground.

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They met in the small room where eighty-year old Nedjo Radovic, Jovans father, was
lying in bed. He was all skin and bones, and could no longer see anything.
Stojan spoke first: In Djidjevo we set the house on fire with Hamid, Rasims father,
still inside. Do you remember? The doctors couldnt cure Jovan, and Hamid brought him back
to health with his herbs. Rasim used to help me in school. Jovan and Stojanka, you know
this.
You shouldnt feel sorry for the baliye.
Grandfather, they wont let me go back to Germany. I have to be in the Serb army.
Your place is among the Serb fighters.
If I gave them the money, theyd let me go.
Theyll let you go anyway in a month. Foca is going to be liberated then.
How do you know?
Lieutenant Davidovic told me. Whatever we couldnt take care of, lieutenant
Davidovic will finish for us Jovan, why are you so quiet?
I dont know I just am
Stojanka was telling me I know that you bought rifles, and that everything is being
arranged in this house, but youre too concerned about your orchard. Dont be a coward.
Listen, during the last war I used to kill Muslims on the Zeljezni Bridge with old Grujo. Every
Serb knows that, and every one of them kisses my hand. Now the time has come for you and
Stojan, your son, and then Savo and Dusan, to do the same. Even their sons will have to
liberate the land, if we fail to do it now. This has been going on since the Battle of Kosovo
and will end with a Serb state. And were going to have a Serb state once we drive the
Muslims out. Thats the way things are. The Serbs must liberate their land. Stojan, you must
remain here until Foca is liberated and then you can go. Youll get back to Germany
eventually.
Grandfather, my company has just gotten on its feet, and here I am, liberating a town
from those who are not Serbs. In Germany, the most numerous people after the German
nationals are the Turks.
Stojan, Serbian history stood still after Kosovo, and without Dusans kingdom, there
are no Serbs.
I didnt fire a single shot in Djidjevo, but Ive seen others kill women and children.
That was a crime. Rasims father was burned alive in his house.
Listen Stojan, let Nedjo explain some things to you. Serbs do not commit crimes,
they are liberating that which used to belong to them in the first place and was taken from
them a long time ago. This is the fourth Serb insurrection against the Turks. Let the Muslims
either leave Foca or start praying in the church, and there wont be any crimes. Otherwise, we
wont have Dusans kingdom with them around. The Serbs do everything with the blessing of
the church. Dont talk about crimes, the people of Celebici might hear you, and then theyll
have to take you to St. Nicholas Church. Dont you go telling anyone that you havent done
any shooting in Djidjevo. Once you kill your first Muslim, Kosovo will resurrect within your
soul. Take after Radoman; his countenance has become enlightened. He has entered into
Serbian history.
What are we supposed to do, Jovan?
You heard what Nedjo said.
***
That night, explosions rocked Pazariste, and flames illuminated Prijeka Carsija. The
Serbs had set the Careva Mosque on fire, just above Pazariste, not too far from the Prijeka
Carsija. Prior to setting it on fire they placed explosives inside, close to the floor of the
mosque, but they used so much explosive, it was as if they were trying to demolish the

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concrete bridge on the Drina. As the mosque was engulfed by flames, one explosion after
another was heard throughout the night,
The next day, in St. Nicholas, many people gathered. Present were the Serb soldiers,
officers, politicians, veterans wearing World War One uniforms and civilians with the Chetnik
cockades on their traditional Serb hats. They stood in groups and chatted. Only the soldiers
stood in a circle, embracing and kissing each other three times on the cheek and whispering
together. For a few minutes, there was a lively atmosphere, until Ostoja and priest Sekula
walked in and stood in the front of the great church hall facing everyone.
Everyone became quiet so that they could hear Ostoja:
My Serb brothers! We have lived to see a great day. Last night, the Careva Mosque
burned to the ground. You know that during the Middle Ages, a church stood in that very spot,
until the Turks came. Imagine, the Turks converted the church into a mosque by simply
adding that pointy thing to it, thinking that a mosque would remain there for the rest of time.
Last night, our Serb heroes demolished that mosque and we are going to build a church in its
place. Earlier we burned Prijeka Carsija to the ground, where Muslim shops were located, and
many other mosques in Foca have been blown up.
Why hasnt the Aladza Mosque been blown up?
Well blow it up too. Foca is going to be a Serb town with no mosques in it. Nothing
Turkish is allowed to remain in Foca. From this day onward, our town is going to be called
Srbinje. In the Middle Ages, it was Radovina, during Ottoman times, it was Hotcha, and from
this day its Srbinje.
Silence ensued and then voices thundered out, Srbinje! Srbinje! Srbinje!
Ostoja continued:
Brothers, the biggest Turkish village in these parts is Jelec. Several days ago we were
in Jelec. Ljubo Nikic and Vojka Cicovic, a member of the Ravnogorski Movement, have been
so friendly with the people of Jelec that they will never think of being attacked. They were
even roasting lambs to seal the friendship. But Ljubo noticed that they have no weapons to
defend themselves. Everything is ready. We attack on May 1.
We will be assisted by the soldiers of the Yugoslav National Army from Kalinovik,
he said. Everything has been arranged with Lieutenant-Colonel Pavlovic from Kalinovik and
Milenko Vukovic, Chief of Police in Miljevina. The order is as follows: Burn the village of
Jelec and kill all its inhabitants! Our artillery and machine guns are in the village of Budanj,
near the church and in the village of Vodjica. We will look under every stone. The baliye can
only run in the direction of Husad above Jelec, or they can hide in the canyon of Bistrica
where their log cabins are located, or in their cottages near the Krupica Rivers. Well capture
all of them.
XII
For two days the Serbs from the Serb villages of Budanja and Vodjica showered
mortars on the village of Jelec. Before that, while the inhabitants of Jelec were entertaining
Ljubo Nikic and Vojka Cicovic by roasting a lamb, the Serbs were positioning their artillery
and howitzers and searching for suitable spots for their sub-machine guns. From their villages
of Budanja and Vodjica, the Serbs had Jelec in plain view. Lieutenant Colonel Pavlovic was
watching Ljubo Nikic embracing the inhabitants of Jelec through his binoculars.
They must be telling them that they have no intention of fighting since they are far
from Foca and theyre counting on the war not reaching them, the Lieutenant Colonel said.
I know every Muslim village. They dont care that the neighbouring Muslim village is in
flames. Its as if theyre thinking that the flames will never reach them. I just cant understand
that kind of thinking. Every village is only concerned about its own affairs, just like Foca.
Everyone is only concerned about themselves and defending their own home, and we pluck

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the villages, one by one. If all the Muslim villages were to unite, no one could come close to
causing them any harm.
Thats right, Lieutenant Colonel. While we are digging ourselves in, the people of
Jelec are roasting a lamb for Ljubo Nikic. They know that we have burned almost every
village to the ground, and they still think that we will let them be.
Operation Jelec has been planned in the barracks of Kalinovik by Lieutenant
Colonel Pavlovic and Ljubo Nikic. They spent days determining the coordinates of the
village. Then they carried the artillery and howitzers to Budanja and Vodjica, bringing the best
gunners with them.
Before the first mortars were fired, Ostoja came to Vodjica. Ljubo Nikic followed.
This could not start without the two of them.
Lieutenant Colonel Pavlovic handed the binoculars to Ljubo: We received these
binoculars from the headquarters in Belgrade. Youll be able to see everything as if it was
right in front of you. So Ljubo, how are things down there?
They are as meek as lambs. They have those old rifles, but no one will fire a single
shot. That Bajrovic who gave us the list of armed Muslims was right. They think that they will
soften us up because they wont fight. They have only made our jobs easier.
Pavlovic and Ostojic sat at one of the tables in the glade where they had everything in
plain view.
Fire!
The shells showered Jelec, and detonations were heard throughout Zelengora. It was
as if the earth had turned upside down. The houses and the stables where the shells landed
immediately caught fire. Confused and frightened, Jeleceans didnt know what to do. They
knew that the Serbs were bringing artillery to Vodjica, but it had never occurred to them that
the Serbs would shell them. Panic-stricken, they ran in the direction of Husada and then back
to their homes. Once they noticed that their homes were being destroyed, they fled towards
Husada once again, hiding inside shepherds log cabins.
Many chose to remain inside their houses, thinking that all this would pass. The older
and the feeble ones hid in the cellars, even while the flames were rising above them. Not a
single house remained unscathed, if the Serbs had it in their sights from their positions in
Vodjica. Thats how accurate the gunners from Kalinovik were.
Lieutenant Colonel Pavlovic and Ljubo raised their glasses in a toast.
Way to go Lieutenant Colonel!
To Greater Serbia!
The stables filled with hay quickly became infernos, and the fire spread to the houses
and fences nearby. The women and the children ran towards the forests of Zelengora, while
the men tried to sneak back into the village. They were watching their homes going up in
flames. As if by some prior arrangement, many families ran towards the big brick stable
belonging to Mustafa Tuzlak, located at the end of the village, the only building not consumed
by flames. Other villagers fled in groups towards cottages near the Krupica River which had
not been shelled by the Serbs. In what could only be described as total chaos, the villagers of
Jelec were fleeing their village to save themselves, to only come back again a short while
later, thinking, for the umpteenth time that everything was going to pass soon enough.
But the Serbs did not stop. They were razing Jelec to the ground, exactly as Lieutenant
Colonel Pavlovic had ordered. They hadnt done this much shelling in any other village.
They stopped shelling at noon, and Pavlovic issued his orders on his Motorolla:
My artillery has done its bit, now its your turn. Kill everything in sight!
The Chetniks converged upon Jelec, led by Pero Elez, Risto Trifkovic, Rajko Cicmil,
Luka and Predrag Elez, Dragan Janjic, and Dragan Kunarac. All were wearing camouflage
uniforms with a Chetnik cockade pinned on traditional Serbian hats. They burst into the

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village from three sides, so that no one could get away. All those villagers who had come back
and were now rushing out of their burning homes, were killed on their doorsteps, or butchered
right in front of their houses.
They even killed the small children. The younger women, wherever they were at the
time, were raped by Pero Elez, Nedjo Samardzic, Mirko Savic, and Dusko Przulj. Then they
killed them too.
At the end of the village the Chetniks surrounded the stable belonging to Mustafa
Tuzlak, which had not yet caught on fire. When they opened the doors, they saw that the
stable was full of women and children. When they closed the doors again, crying and
screaming was heard from inside.
They doused the stable with gasoline and set it on fire. They threw hand grenades
through the windows and fired from automatic rifles into the door. No one dared to come out.
Lieutenant Colonel, Jelec and its inhabitants are in flames!
The oldest Muslim village is no more!
Warlord Pero Elez and teacher Risto Trifkovic set out with their groups towards the
Krupica River. They were certain that many of the villagers had hidden inside the cottages,
unless they had fled towards Husada. They had nowhere else to run.
Those were the cottages of Focas wealthy residents who sought solitude near the
Krupica River. The Serbs reached the cottage belonging to Hamdo Hadzic, the closest to the
river. When they opened the door, they saw the Srnja, Sljivo, Tuzlak and Zametica families.
All were inside one cottage. Nearby was the house belonging to Zulfo Srnja, where other
villagers had sought refuge.
Pero and Risto took out the Srnjo family from the cottage and Zulfos house. When the
Chetniks ordered them to stop, the oldest member of the family, Zulfo, turned to Pero:
Listen Pero. You can kill us, the older ones, but leave our sons Elvedin, Ekrem, Abid,
and Nedzad. Kill the older ones, but let them go.
Shut up baliya!
As if on command, the Chetniks attacked with their long knives. With one motion of
his arm, Pero knocked Zulfo to the ground. He grabbed him by his hair, twisted his head to
the side and cut his throat. Blood sprayed over Zulfo and Pero.
The others looked away so they didnt have to watch. Someone started weeping
quietly. The quiet sobbing of someone losing everything who stops in disbelief, afraid to
turn around and look.
Sosa and Luka were slitting the throats of Asim Srnjo, and his sons Elvedin and
Nedzad were slaughtered by their teachers Drago Krunic and Risto Trifkovic. The blood of
the two young man flowed into the Krupica River. All the members of the Srnja family were
killed in a matter of few minutes.
Near Hamdo Hadzics cottage, the Serbs butchered Jusuf Dzinic and his wife, Mustafa
Tuzlak, Edhem Hodzic and his wife Fata, Huso Hadzic, Uzeir Hadzic, Enver and his Serbian
wife Jelena. Pero told Jelena to come with them but she told him:
I am staying with Enver and my family.
Jelena, you are a Serbian and the knives are for the baliye.
Kill me too!
The Chetniks brought out the Barlov brothers who were then bound, and the boys Edin
and Elvedin. The brothers were approached by their teacher Risto Trifkovic. Edin and
Elvedins hands were tied. They looked at their teacher. They didnt know what to say to him.
Risto was quiet at first, and then he spoke:
Take them down to the river. Tie them to a tree.
Four Chetniks took the boys away. When they returned, they just muttered: There
over there, Risto. Theyre waiting for you.

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Risto walked up to his students. He knew that they couldnt get away.
The younger of the two, Elvedin, was the best student in his class. Risto always used
to praise Elveding in front of the other teachers.
Teacher, dont kill us.
Dont be afraid. Elvedin, I heard that the two of you were bringing ammunition to
your village.
We were listening to the older people. We did bring in the ammunition. We went to
Foca and whatever they gave us there, we brought back to the village.
We know everything. Every time you went for the ammunition, we knew about it. We
even know who you got it from.
Will you let us go?
Why would I let you go?
Its not our fault.
Yes, it is your fault.
Risto lowered his rifle onto the ground and unsheathed a knife. In a frenzy, he kept
thrusting his knife into the bodies of the two bound brothers as hard as he could. They
screamed in pain, their cries reverberating throughout Zelengora. Seemingly mad, Risto
continued to thrust the knife in and pull it out of his students bodies.
When the first cries came from the two boys Pero Elez, Dragan Janjic, Pero Krunic,
Milenko Vukovic, and others walked towards Risto. They stood thirty feet from him and
watched everything.
The bodies of the two brothers were tied to a tree. Even then, Risto didnt stop
stabbing them. Pero Elez and Milenko Vukovic had never witnessed such a slaughter, even on
the bridge in Brod, after the Muslims had killed Radomans brother. The bodies of the Barlov
brothers were covered in blood, and so was their teacher Risto, but he kept on thrusting his
knife into what now were the corpses of his students.
In a partially burnt house, Pero Elez, Zivko Miletic, and Pero Krunic found sick
eighty-year old Camil Tuzlak, an imam, in his bed. Chetnik Zivko Miletic cut his throat in his
bed. In the adjoining room, Risto Trifkovic slit the throats of eighty-year old Zejna Suljevic
and an old blind woman, Ajsa Zametica.
For three days, trucks rolled into Jelec from Miljevina, Foca, and Kalinovik. The Serbs
took everything they could find, even carrying televisions over the massacred bodies of the
residents of Jelec.
As soon as the pillaging started, Ljubo Nikic and Vojka Cicovic showed up. Ljubo
took out the weavers frames used by the young women of Jelec, as well as their rugs, known
everywhere for their unique patterns. Vojka rifled through the old ornamented trunks in search
of gold. Everyone was looking for something. Some went into the forest searching for the
sheep and the cows.
Ten days after the massacre in Jelec, Lieutenant Colonel Pavlovic ordered units of the
Yugoslav National Army to search for the surviving Jeleceans so that they could ask them to
return to the village. He gave them guarantees that his army would protect them. Many of
the soldiers wandered over Zelengora, running into the villagers from Jelec who were
sleeping in the forest. The villagers, exhausted and in desperate need of sleep, didnt run away
when they saw the soldiers. They gathered around the soldiers and asked about their village.
In one glade, they all gathered around Lieutenant Stratimirovic, who spoke so loudly
that he could be heard even by those who were afraid to come any closer.
We were not able to assist you because there were over two hundred Chetniks.
However, our reinforcements have arrived so they wouldnt dare attack your village again. Go
back to your homes, even though your houses have been destroyed, we will help you rebuild.
And if they should attack again we will know how to respond. Our army will enter Jelec.

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Old Zejnil asked, Where did the Chetniks get the heavy artillery and the howitzers?
Only you couldve given it to them. Ljubo Nikic gave us guarantees that we wouldnt be
attacked. We trusted him and then we were attacked.
The howitzers and the heavy artillery didnt come from us. They brought it in from
Montenegro. Ljubo didnt know that the Serbs wouldnt listen to him, but now he does.
The villagers believed Lieutenant Stratimirovic. They went back to their burnt and
pillaged homes. As soon as they arrived, the soldiers of the Yugoslav National Army ordered
them to bury the dead. They buried their dead in the village and around the Krupica and
Bistrica rivers. They counted 128 dead. When night came, they slept in their burnt-out homes,
guarded by the soldier of the Yugoslav National Army.
In the morning, they were roused from sleep by the bursts of gunfire from a submachine gun. They ran out of their homes and saw that they were surrounded by a group of
Chetniks led by warlord Pero Elez. The soldiers of the Yugoslav National Army were nowhere
in sight.
Those who were outside were cut down by machine gun fire. Once again, the Chetniks
entered the burnt homes, killing and raping.
Eighteen girls and women were taken to Miljevina, to Karamanovs house where there
were already many women and girls from Djidjevo, Zubovici, and Foca. They took them
outside for the Serb soldiers. Some were taken from Karmanovs house and driven to Foca by
Vojka Cicovic.
At Karamanovs house the men left in charge were Pero Elez and Janko Janjic, also
known as Tuta. In time, all the members of the Elez family who were responsible for
liberating Jelec came to the house: Zeljko, Pavle, Luka, Nenad, and Rajko Milutinovic,
Radmilo Vukovic, Zoran Ivanovic, Nenad Jankovic, Gojko Jojic, Zdravko Mastilovic, Risto
Ostojic, and Dragan Roncevic.
Lieutenant Colonel, the baliye trusted you again.
The baliye have no choice. They have no room for manoeuvring, so they have to trust
us.
XIII
Stojan Radovic slipped into the house just before morning. He went to the bathroom,
took off his camouflage uniform and slipped into the tub. The water flowed over his body, and
with it, flowed the dirt and somebody elses blood.
Only when Jovan and Stojanka knocked on the door did he get out of the tub. He put
on a clean pair of pajamas. His parents were waiting for him in the room where the candles
were burning. They hadnt slept the entire night. They were waiting for their son Stojan.
As soon as Stojan entered, his father and the mother embraced him. Stojan sat on a
wooden chair without saying a word. Jovan was also quiet.
Stojanka was the first to speak: Have you liberated Jelac?
Yes we have.
It is no longer Muslim?
It isnt.
Who is in Jelac now?
No one.
Why?
Weve butchered the residents of Jelac and robbed and burned down their homes.
Youve killed everyone in Jelac?
We were cutting their throats more than killing them.
Are the baliye roaming the Zelengora?
Only those who didnt trust the Serbs are still there.

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I dont understand...
Many women and children fled to Zelengora at first. Those we caught up to, we killed,
usually by cutting their throats. And then the soldiers of the Yugoslav National Army went to
the mountain and convinced the others to return to their torched homes. We needed them to
bury the dead in the village and around Bistrica and Krupica. They believed that the soldiers
in the Yugoslav National Army would protect them, so they returned.
They came back to Jelec?
Theyre our neighbours. They trusted us again. And as soon as they had buried their
dead, we massacred them as well. If I were to tell anyone in Germany about this, no one
would believe me.
What was the Elez family like?
They were killing everything in sight. The teachers from Miljevina and Jelec were
butchering their students. That Trifkovic fellow goes mad when he starts slitting throats.
His father was the same in the last war. As soon as he starts butchering them with his
knife, he doesnt know how to stop. But Trifkovic is like that only when it comes to Muslims.
There were times during St. Elijahs Day when the Serbs started fighting and blood was
spilled, but the Trifkovic family would never pull out their knives. Its only if they get into a
scuffle with the Muslims that their hand goes for the knife.
Thats the way it is with the Trifunovic clan, Jovan jumped in. Your grandfather
Nedjo knows that better than anyone. Our ancestors have left us the legacy of resurrecting
Dusans kingdom. This must be your path Stojan. Sometimes I ask myself: Why are our
neighbours such a nuisance? But Stojanka is right, centuries have passed and everything is
repeating itself, so why should we fight it? Such is our history, ours and that of the Muslims.
It is our lot to listen to Karadzic today those Serbs who are just born will listen to someone
else tomorrow. It is the Muslims lot to trust us, so that there will be fewer of them left. Thats
the way things are. I am surprised at this, but Stojanka is right; kuda drugi Srbi, tamo cemo i
mi. In Celebici everyone is praising the Radovic family as heroes. We must remain heroes.
Jovan, what happened in Jelec was a crime. We killed women and children. Even the
elderly in their beds. We burned down a stable where women and children sought refuge.
Serbs do not commit crimes, they liberate their land. Remember that, Stojan. This is
Serb land, where Muslims are not allowed to live. I sometimes think otherwise, but then I go
and see Nedjo. Go on, get some rest, sleep a little. And go see Nedjo tomorrow.
How am I suppose to sleep, Jovan? Jelec wont give me any rest. Are others getting
any sleep, I wonder? Risto was cutting his students into pieces, and Pero butchered the Srnja
family: the grandfather, the son, the grandson. The Bistrica and Krupica rivers flowed red
with blood.
***
During the night, young and old alike set off on a road of fear. They hurried across the
Zeljezni Bridge in Donje Polje. They had to make it to Ustikolina.
After midnight, the Serbs of Foca burned down the home of two elderly people, Safet
and Almasa Djuderij, located in the town itself. When the house caught fire, Safet and Almasa
ran out, but they were cut down by gunfire. Safet fell to the ground immediately. Almasa was
wounded and held on to the stairway railing, watching those who fired the shots. The fire
illuminated everything around it, so the old woman saw the arsonists. She recognized
Miroslav.
Barely able to speak, she said, Miroslav, let me see you.
And she rolled down the stairs and onto the cobblestones.
Miroslavs parents had come to Foca from Montenegro. They found employment in
Maglic. When they learned that Almasa and Safet had no children and were living in a big
old house above Pazariste, they became their tenants. Mirjana and Ostoja liked Almasas and

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Safets mild nature. Whenever Mirjana and Ostoja mentioned the rent, Safet would respond
kindly:
Wait until you get used to living here.
Almasa and Safet gave them the entire upstairs, and they remained on the ground
floor. All the rooms were spacious in this big old house. It was pleasant to sit in the
cobblestone courtyard encircled by a wall. In a corner of the courtyard, towards the great
wooden gate, a stone water fountain was built into the wall. In the centre of the courtyard,
there was a wooden table with a wooden bench on either side. An old mulberry tree towered
over the table, covering the house and the courtyard with its branches. The courtyard and the
traditional Bosnian home made an indelible impression on all who saw it, with its cleanness,
peace, and tranquillity.
Mirjana and Ostoja would see Almasa and Safet late in the afternoon because they
woke up early for work. Before six a.m. they had to be at the bus station to catch the bus for
Maglic, in Brod, near Foca, where they worked. They arrived home in the afternoon. During
the summer, they drank coffee in the courtyard with Almasa and Safet. In the winter, Ostoja
and Safet cleared the snow from the gate and all the way to the house. And so life went on in
this great Bosnian house. Neither fast nor slow.
Two years later, Mirjana and Ostoja had a son. While Mirjana was in labour upstairs,
with the doctor, Ostoja, Almasa and Safet were filled with worry. And when the crying of the
baby was heard, the three wept with joy. Mirjana and Ostoja named the baby Miroslav. From
that time, the house became livelier. Everyones thoughts and actions were directed towards
Miroslav. Miroslav lacked for anything. Safet scolded Almasa if Miroslav wasnt in her arms.
He made Mirjana sleep after a sleepless night. Ostoja was amazed that such good people, the
likes of Almasa and Safet, existed.
Then one day, in Brezine, between Brod and Foca the Maglic bus skid off the road
and into the Drina River. There were more than eighty workers on the bus. Once the bus sank
into the Drina River, it toppled on its side, the workers screaming, breaking the windows, and
scrambling over each other in an attempt to escape. This only lasted for a few minutes, but six
workers lost their lives, and many more were injured. Mirjana and Ostoja died in hospital.
Miroslav was only two years old when his parents died. Almasa and Safet signed
paperwork at the town hall, agreeing to look after Miroslav. With this, Almasas and Safets
lives changed. The days passed more quickly. Everything they did revolved around Miroslav.
Almasa was never separated from the child. Safet saw to his every wish. In their old age, they
were caring for a two-year-old! And thus, life in the old house completely changed. Neither
coffee nor conversation could be enjoyed in peace. Almasa jumped when Miroslav started
walking down the stairs. With the arrival of spring, Safet hung a swing on the mulberry tree.
In due course, the name of Miroslav Djuderija was entered into the grade book of the
first grade. At home in their courtyard, Almasa and Safet learned about every A he received.
When he came home, Miroslav would first rap on the gate and then shout from the courtyard.
He would place his school bag on the wooden bench and search through it for his notebook.
He called Almasa first.
When he finished grade five, Safet bought him an accordion. At school everyone liked
Miroslav, his peers and teachers alike. He studied diligently and sang in the choir. He took his
accordion to school picnics, and one could not imagine singing without Miro playing the
accompaniment. He and his classmates often got together in his courtyard. His friends brought
their guitars and Miro would bring out his accordion, and songs would reverberate down the
streets of Pazariste. Almasa would serve juice to the youth.
Miros voice filled Safet with enthusiasm. No one could sing the traditional Bosnian
folk songs better than Miro. Even the music teacher confirmed it. There was an endless
yearning in his voice. Everyone was moved by the love songs and their beauty.

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As far as Miro was concerned, there were only Almasa, Safet, school, the accordion
and his friends. Everything had its time and place: he studied, practiced the accordion and
singing, went to picnics with the class, sat with his friends in the courtyard.
He had many friends, boys and girls, in his high school. But everything revolved
around him and his courtyard. When he was older, Almasa and Safet didnt come into the
courtyard when the youth gathered. At their age, they welcomed solitude, interrupted only by
the odd word. In the morning, Miro would leave for school and come back in the evening.
Now, in their old age, Almasa and Safet were spending more time in bed and seeing less of
Miro. Sometimes, from the corner of a window, they watched him enter the courtyard with his
friends. He was now a grown young man. Tall, dark, with thick hair, he was the spitting image
of his father. He was serious just like his father and weighed his words before speaking.
Days could pass without Almasa and Safet seeing Miroslav. He was now a high-school
senior, and they knew he was with his friends. But in the second semester, following the
winter break, he no longer came home. And if he did, he would come after midnight. His
friends no longer entered the courtyard. All this troubled Almasa and Safet. Miroslav also
stopped playing the accordion. He kept silent and paced up and down in his room.
Weeks went by without the elderly couple seeing their Miroslav. On one occasion,
their neighbour Ibrahim whispered to Safet that Miroslav was bringing trunks filled with
weapons into St. Nicholas Church. Safet never revealed this information to Almasa, but she
heard it from the other women. They were concerned but remained silent. They didnt know
what to say to Miroslav, and they never meddled. Thats how things always were.
One night, Safet took a long time to fall asleep. He was staring into the courtyard
where the darkness was engulfing the light given off by a light bulb which his neighbour
Ibrahim had hooked up to the roof of his house. Other neighbours had followed suit and put
up light bulbs outside their homes. Safet went down into the courtyard, and as soon as he sat
down on the bench, Ibrahim appeared.
Assalamu alaikum neighbour.
Alaikumusselam, Ibrahim.
You cant sleep, I see. I havent been able to sleep for days.
Well, I am glad you put that light bulb up. Now we can sit in the courtyard at night as
well.
I wouldnt have put it up had I not been afraid, Safet.
Why afraid?
The Serbs are burning down homes, and Im afraid they may do the same to ours.
Thats why you installed the light bulb.
Thats why.
So that you could see them?
To see them.
And?
And theyre burning down homes in Donje Polje. They have razed Djidjevo and
Jelec to the ground. They have blown up the Careva Mosque. They are taking Muslims to a
concentration camp in Donje Polje.
It will all pass, Ibrahim.
You dont know anything.
What do you mean?
Miroslav enters your home armed, and they come and get him before dawn while you
and Almasa are asleep.
Ibrahim, leave Miroslav alone. He must be with his people too. You know yourself
that the other youngsters look up to him.
Maybe he was in Djidjevo too.

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Hes too young for that, Ibrahim.
You dont know anything, Safet.
Later that night, Safet sat in his room for a long time, looking out the window, waiting
for Miroslav. Sometime after three a.m., the door to the courtyard opened. Miroslav entered,
wearing a camouflage uniform with a Serbian peasant cap on his head. An automatic rifle was
hanging on his shoulder. As soon as he entered, he looked towards the light bulb on Ibrahims
roof which was illuminating their courtyard as well. That look disturbed Safet. This wasnt the
Miroslav Almasa and Safet knew.
Only an hour after midnight, two homes were burned down in a street above Pazariste
by the youth of Young Bosnia. They were led by Miroslav Djudjerija, who received the
orders in St. Nicholas Church.
Miroslav took along his friends who used spend their high school days in the
courtyard. Miroslav and his groups entered Ibrahims illuminated courtyard, kicked in the
door, and threw bottles filled with gasoline on top of the roof. It took only one incendiary
bullet for the roof to burst into flames. Ibrahim ran outside with his family, and Miroslav and
his friends began firing with their automatic rifles. While Ibrahims house was ablaze, burst of
gunfire were heard from the neighbouring courtyard. As if his life depended on it, Miroslav
ran into his courtyard. He saw Almasa holding on to the stairway railing. She was staring at
him. Below her, sprawled on the stairs, was Safet.
Everyone heard when Almasa, with great effort, uttered:
Miroslav, let me see you.
And then they saw her tumble down the stairs.
The next evening Miroslave entered the courtyard alone. He heard that the bodies of
Almasa and Safet were taken to Velecevo and buried there.
He looked at the half burned walls of the house he grew up in. He lay down on the
cobblestones. He breathed in the smell of charred wood. He pulled out a battle of brandy from
his pocket and gulped it down like water. He emptied the bottle and threw it away. The bottle
broke into a thousand pieces.
He fell asleep breathing in the smell of burnt wood. When he woke up after midnight,
his head felt like it was going to explode and his body was burning up. He barely managed to
get up and walk down the street.
He made his way down Prijeka Carsija, next to the produce market, in the direction of
the Vojvoda Restaurant where the Serbs met after their nightly missions. He had a headache,
so he leaned against the wall of the produce market, just above the restaurant. When he
collected himself, he stood up straight and again started walking down the street. He was
bothered by the automatic rifle hanging on his shoulder. The images of former get-togethers in
the courtyard under the old mulberry tree danced before his eyes; his friends and him playing
and singing and old Almasa serving them juice. He was burning up inside.
In a trance, just like he used to do in the courtyard, he began to sing, the song rolling
off his tongue on its own volition:
Sejdefa, roused by her
mother
Sejdefa roused by her
mother
Awaken
my lass Sejdefa
Awaken,
my lass Sejdefa
Miroslav was captivated by the song. His soul was filled with love and beauty, just
like when he used to sing in the courtyard.

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He didnt even notice when he arrived at the restaurant. Everyone inside was silent,
waiting for him to get there.
Mother, you think
Im asleep
Mother, you think
Im asleep
But I am struggling
my soul to keep
I, so young, struggling
my soul to keep.
Miroslav opened the door and stood in the entrance. Everyone waited to see who
would speak first. Miroslav looked at them. He would carry on with the song, but
At that moment a voice was heard from the corner:
Will you get a load of the young Djuderija?
Miroslav stood stock-still at the door. He eyes searched the room to see who was
speaking to him. He was sobering down from the rapture and the beauty of the traditional
Bosnian song. He recognized Jovan Stojanovic sitting in the corner. He referred to him as
Djuderija.
As if trying to wrest it from someone, he frantically tried to get the rifle off his
shoulder. However, there wasnt enough time. The Serbs at the tables sprayed him with
bullets.
Later, even though the Muslim homes had burned down, the Serbs from the
neighbourhood rummaged through them, plundering what they could.
Although Almasas and Safets house had burned down, a Serb family that used to be
tenants in a Muslim home in a street above Pazariste, moved into the basement. They figured
that if they just moved in, they would end up getting the house since there was no one who
could inherit it. Miroslav could have inherited it, but the Serbs killed him. This particular Serb
family had many small children who spent the entire day playing in the courtyard. The highest
branches of the old mulberry tree had burned, but on one of the lower healthy boughs,
someone hung a swing so that the children could swing from morning to night.
Even an accordion could be heard. When the children became bored, they pulled at
Miroslavs accordion as if they were trying to rip it apart these were not musical notes but
the wailing of the ripped bellow.
After the Serb family moved in, Miroslavs friends, who used to spend their evenings
there, but ended up by setting it on fire, entered the courtyard. They looked wistfully at the
burned roof and watched the children sitting on the benches around the table. They said
nothing.
When they were about to leave, the eldest spoke out:
We agreed with Miroslav that we would set the house on fire and save Almasa and
Safet. But Old Grujo ordered us to have them killed. He cant get Kunovo out of his head.
By the evening of the following day, the Serbs had set every Muslim house above
Pazariste on fire. The men were taken to the concentration camps, and the women and
children were taken to a prison on Velecevo or the Serb sports hall Partizan. The girls over
the age of twelve were taken to the Buk Bijela Restaurant, in the direction of Tjentiste, or
Koromans house. The orders of warlords Pero Elez and Janko Jankovic Tuta had to be
carried out.

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XV
The Serbs were no longer looking for Muslims in the woods above the burned down
villages nor did they launch new operations or line up in ranks at the St. Nicholas Church.
There was a meeting between the leaders Maksim, Ostoja and Mrs. Plavisic, and everyone
knew they reached an agreement, but no one knew what they agreed on. Following their
meeting, the units of the Serb army met at the Aladza neighbourhood.
The city waited in suspense. The Serbs were waiting for this new event, whatever it
was, hoping they could drive the Muslims from Foca or Srbinje, as they now called it.

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The old man, Mustafa Kasmi, as he descended from the clock tower, couldn't get a
moment's peace. He could remember his father's words: When the time stops and
expectation is felt in the air, know that the Serbs are up to something.
While he was coming down, he had a sneaking suspicion of the fate that was awaiting
the Muslims of Foca, when he saw the light yellow hue in the air.
Isnt that his sign? Mustafa asked himself.
It was as if someone shook yellow clouds above the very town. The yellowish air
spread above the houses and the apartment building entrances at the town square in Foca.
Everything was of that same yellowish colour.
Even the souls of the Serbs of Foca were turning yellow. They were afraid. One could
feel it in the air that they were waiting for something, but that they were afraid of it at the
same time. They were afraid of that which they wanted to happen. No one had been trying
to frighten them with that event. Fear was creeping into their souls and the conversations
among families were filled with fear. They were afraid of the yellowish air and what it
meant. Because of that air, they withdrew into their shells, became silent and moved
laboriously, their legs becoming heavier with every step.
At midnight, on the eve of St. Elijah's Day a terrifying explosion was heard. It was so
powerful that all the windows in the town shattered. The detonation also caused the walls on
some homes to crack. Inside the apartments, furniture was overturned, men, women and
children were knocked off their feet. That night no one slept. Everyone was waiting for
another explosion.
Immediately following the explosion the bells at the St. Nicholas Church were heard.
Exactly at midnight, the lights were turned on in every house and building. From the
centre of the town, the answer to everybodys anticipation was heard over a megaphone:
My Serbian brothers, the Aladza Mosque has been blown up!
In all the excitement the Serbs came outside, but they weren't sure how to go about
celebrating this event, whether they should embrace each other or toss their caps into the air.
They were running towards Ada, along the right bank of the Cehotina River. People came
from every part of the town, dashing towards the mosque. Hundreds of them, enveloped in
silence, entered Aladza Park. They rushed to see that wonder. Mad Vojo was always
amusing the townspeople, and even now was repeating the words:
Hoiy, hoiy, Milutin.
This was the joyous expectation, the answer to all the Serb questions. The venerable
mosque which Muslims called the exalted masjid. Left without their religious history, they
had no business in Srbinje.
That night the Serbs, the young and the old alike, converged on Aladza Park. At a
distance, a floodlight turned on following the explosion was now illuminating the Aladza
Park, on the right bank of the Cehotina River where, until tonight, a mosque stood. For the
Serbs this was a sight from a distant dream.
The most beautiful mosque in the Balkans was no more. What remained was a huge
pile of cracked stone blocks and parts of the mosque that were shaken to their foundation
but were still standing. It was like someone had mixed up the mosques stone blocks and
placed them on a huge pile. Perhaps someone would come just before dawn, and using
magic words, would assemble the stone blocks and piece the Aladza Mosque together.
Thats what it seemed like to the gathered Serbs.
The members of the Serb army were standing around the mosque. They were
commanded by Officer Davidovic. As if he were mad, he was yelling out orders to his
soldiers from horseback to not allow the town people to approach the heap of stone blocks.
No one was allowed to come near the damaged and the levelled parts of the mosque.
Everyone was waiting for priest Sekula to arrive.

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Priest Sekula and Maksim finally arrived, accompanied by Serb officers and soldiers.
But even they stood back in surprise once they saw what was left of the famous mosque.
And while the others kept silent, the priest raised his arms skywards and spoke in a gruff
voice:
All the martyrs who, barefoot and naked, plodded through fire and water: Djurdje,
Dmitre, Mratindian,Todor Stratilata and Jovan Krilata, all the martyrs and woman martyrs: the
old man Simo-the peace-loving, Savo-the saint, Arsenije-the teacher, Maksim-the bishop,
Stevan the first king, Milutin, Stevan Decanski and prince Urosa Dusan the younger; prince
Lazar our knight and Milos the champion who perished at Kosovo and on St. Vitus Day
they lost their lives because of their Christian faith and Serb lineage. And also the holy Jovan
Despot, Mother Andjelija, and the Serb noble, Stevban Stiljan. They built the Jedusalimska
Church in Srijem in the lowlands of Srijem and the celebrated Krajina. Let Petrova Gora,
Velebit Mountain and the holy monastery of Komogovina rejoice.
Amen! was heard from all sides.
Visibly shaken, Maksim turned and faced the gathered Serbs:
Prijeka carsija is no more. There are no more mosques in Srbinje. There are no more
neighbourhoods with Turkish names: Ortakolo, Sultan-Fatima, Careva, Ali-Atik, Mustafapasina. There is no more Aladza Mosque. There is nothing Turkish left. We have lived to see
that day.
Amen, everyone responded in unison.
Aladza Mosque had been a pious endowment of Hasan Nazir Focak, son of Yusuf.
Engraved in stone above the main entrance to the mosque were the following words:
This venerable mosque and exalted masjid was built in the name of glorious God by
the benefactor Hasan, son of Yusuf, for the love of God and seeking to gain Gods pleasure.
O Eternal One, accept his deed.
And how the mosque came to be built is told by a legend passed from one Muslim to
the next. The legend has changed over time, but has always remained somewhere between the
real and the imaginary. Perhaps everyone loves listening to a fairy tale for it takes them back
to the world of dragons and princely sons and the eternal struggle between good and evil.
Anyway, when the children, on their way back from school, gathered around Aladza, they
ignored the story of the masterly skills of the builder whom Hasan Nazir had brought all the
way from Asia, and they forgot about the artistic beauty of the ornaments, but they did
remember how a mother recognized her son Hasan, whom she hadnt seen for ten years since
he left for Istanbul, by a birthmark. The exact place where that occurred, Aladza Mosque was
built.
According to legend, Hasan Nazir was the son of impoverished parents from Vakuf, a
village near Celebici. When he was fully grown, he wished to go out into the world, but his
parents opposed the idea. Following a quarrel with his father and mother, Hasan decided to
leave anyway. He went to the city of Sultans, presented himself to the Sultan and acquired all
the learning in Istanbul with great success and became the Sultans most trusted and reliable
servant. Trusting in his erudition and honesty, Sultan would take him along on his military
expeditions so that Hasan, while campaigning with the Sultan, acquired great wealth. When
ten years had gone by, Hasan begged the Sultan to allow him to return home so that he could
see his parents. The Sultan gave his permission and granted him an edict to build a mosque in
Foca. Hasan embarked on the journey, bringing along three bags of gold. While on the road,
he was captured by forty miscreants who fettered him, seized all three bags of gold, and took
him to an inn where they spent the night. When the thieves became drunk and fell asleep,
Hasan offered a prayer. At that instant, the shackles on his arms and legs opened. Once free,
he gathered his gold, jumped on his horse and arrived happily in Foca.

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When he came to a field on the right bank of the Cehotina River, he found his old
mother drying laundry in the sun. He asked her who she was, and she began to tell him how
she had an only son Hasan, with whom she once quarrelledand he ran off to a foreign country,
so that she never saw or heard from him again.
Hasan asked her: Would you be able to recognize your son?
She responded: I could recognize him by the birthmark he has on his arm.
Hasan Nazir rolled up his sleeve, showed her the birthmark, and asked her whether she
could recognize her son now. His mother was so overwhelmed with joy that she surrendered
her soul.
At that very spot Hasan started building a mosque.
He brought builders from Asia and went with them to the village of Vikoc to look for a
quarry for stone. When they arrived in Vranglove, they spent the night near Vranjaca, below
the Sokolica cliff. In the middle of the night, about a half an hours walk from where they
lodged for the night, a great rock broke off. They were roused from sleep and became very
frightened. The chief builder calmed them down by saying:
Do not be afraid, a mosque is going to be built. Over there, where the cliff broke off
God has given us a quarry.
When it dawned, they went to the spot where the cliff had broken off and there they
found broken rocks the size of a house. Thats where the builders started to carve the stone
into the great pillars that stood at the entrance of Aladza Mosque.
The building of the mosque had progressed so quickly that Hasan Nazir called upon
the chief builder and asked him to start building the dome. The chief builder measured the
length of the walls and gave one set of measurements to Hasan Nazir, and the other one he
took for himself and ran off right before Nazirs eyes. He hid from Hasan Nazir for an entire
year. Hasan Nazir was so furious with his chief builder for hiding from him, for he could not
complete the building of the mosque without him.
When the chief builder finally came back, Hasan wanted to have him executed. But his
chief builder asked him to wait long enough so that he look at the measurements he had given
to Hasan the year before, while taking out the measurements he had kept for himself. Then he
measured the walls of the mosque. Once he measured them, it became clear that the walls
were shorter by six hand-breadths because the stone blocks had settled that much in a year. So
the chief builder explained to Hasan:
Had I placed the dome on the walls, as you had ordered, the mosque would have
collapsed in a few short years. Now, once the dome is placed atop of the walls, I can swear
that the mosque will stand until Judgement Day and that nothing will happen to it.
Hasan Nazir realized that the chief builder was right, and he forgave him for having
hidden for an entire year. He thanked him and rewarded him amply. And so the building of the
mosque was complete.
When the construction of this most beautiful mosque was concluded, Hasan Nazir's
son Ibrahim was killed. Hasan was so overcome with grief that he buried his son in the
mausoleum he had originally intended for himself.
On the tombstone, an epitaph engraved in sixteen rectangular planes read:
Passed into the Hereafter and forgiven, a happy martyr, Ibrahim-bey, son of Hasan
elebi Nazi. May God forgive his sins and those of his parents. At the beginning of Jumada
Al-Akhir, in the year nine hundred according to Hijra of the Prophet. Ibrahim died in battle, in
a military campaign. A happy martyr.
In 1664, a famous travel writer, Evli elebi, wrote upon his entrance into the Aladza
Mosque: Upon my travels I have come across many cities, but the likes of this one I have not
seen.

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The Serbs blew up the beautiful Aladza and all the other mosques in Foca. They
thought that by doing so, they would push into oblivion five centuries of Turkish rule.
Professor Maksim wished to obliterate the Ottoman times from the Serb history. He wished to
bridge the gap between Middle Ages when the Serb medieval state was conceived and the
time of Austro-Hungarian rule. Following the demolition of the mosques in Foca, he
reasoned, they could return to the Middle Ages the time of Dusan's rule.
Petko Cancar, President of the Municipality of Srbinje, said the following in St.
Nicholas Church:
The Serbs, as Christian Turkish subjects without rights, have been building mosques
for hundreds of years, and the Turks never paid them for their work. This is why the Serbs are
now demolishing them.
Amen.
Aladza is no more. They say that it was more beautiful and more precious than the
Old Bridge in Mostar and the Sokolovic Bridge on the Drina River. Aladza Mosque no longer
exists and the same fate awaits the Old Bridge in Mostar and the Bridge in Visegrad.
Aladza Mosque stood witness to all the armies that went by throughout ages. During
the last war, the Chetniks were warned by the Serb warlord Zaharija Ostojic not to pillage the
mosque. The warning issued by Zaharija was not heeded by the Serbs ,who took everything
from the mosque that could be carried. The rug that was given to the mosque by the Austrian
heir to the throne Rudolf, the Serbs cut into pieces and distributed among the Italian generals
so that they would permit them to butcher the Muslims of Foca. The graves of Hasan Nazir
and his son Ibrahim-bey were stripped of their tombstones.
But the Mosque was not demolished.
This time, the Serbs were given orders by Ostoja from the village of Orahovo and
Maksim, originally from Cviline. And so they demolished the Aladza Mosque.
Towering above the massive dome of the Mosque was the fourteen-sided minaret,
slender and thirty-six meters high. The upper portion of its base was level with the arch of the
mosque portico and was enclosed with carved stone. The minaret balcony consisted of
fourteen stone figures.
Two arcades led to the stone stairway of the minaret; the stairway spiralled up the
minaret all the way to the balcony. The stairs rested on the inner walls of the minaret and on
the pivot stone.
The interior of the mosque was ornamented with garden motifs. It was said about a
painter in the Ottoman Empire by the name of Manija, that when he painted the Sun, it would
become hot, and when he painted a garden, one could smell roses. Thats how people spoke of
the painted ornaments inside the mosque. It was said that the greatest artistic work in the
Ottoman Empire was created in Foca, far from Istanbul. All this was because of Hasan Nazir,
son of Yusuf, Ramadan-aga, a builder of Sultan Suleiman, and Kodza Mimar-Sinan, son of
Abdul-Mennanaga, who dedicated his entire being to the building of beautiful Aladza
Mosque, unsurpassed in all of the Ottoman Empire.
The Serbs brought the explosive for this jewel from Serbia, via Montenegro. They
brought it on two trucks parked in front of St. Nicholas Church the first night. The following
day, all the boxes were unloaded in front of the mosque. The explosive was placed into drilled
holes in the wall this took three nights. The Serbs never talked about it.
The stone pulpit had the following inscription:
There is only one God and Muhammad is his Messenger.
XVI

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Although the night had long passed, a light was still on in the home of the Radovic
family. The residents of Celebici were meeting in Jovans home after their excursions into the
Muslim villages. In the last few days, much brandy had been consumed in Jovan Radovics
home, most of it being drunk in the late afternoon before they headed out on a mission.
Jovans brandy went straight to the heads of the young men of Celebici, flowing through their
veins and not allowing them to remain in one spot. Muslim blood was soaking up the
meadows behind the derelict homes, the gardens in front of the old homes in the
neighbourhood of Foca, the steep banks of the rivers of Bistrica and Cehotina, the orchards
and forests. The blood flowed together with Jovans brandy. The more the Serbs drove their
neighbours from their homes and killed them, the less they slept. Sleep would never come to
them again. They were once again in need of Jovans brandy. And the brandy, as tired and
sleep deprived as they were, impelled them to commit more evil.
Gagula from Belgrade used to say, and rightly so: Jovans brandy would bring a dead
man back.
Even Jovan Radovic was drinking a lot. He could no longer distinguish between day
and night. He would get drunk at night, and then they would come and get him. He would
come back home at dawn, with dark stains on his camouflage uniform. This wasnt the same
Jovan Radovic who took care of his orchard and his brandy. This was Jovan who waited for
the night so that they could come and get him. He felt that, along with his brandy, the blood of
Nedjo Radovic was flowing through his veins, and this made him stronger. Whenever he
dropped by Nedjos place, Nedjo would speak to him from his bed:
Jovan, they will remember you in Celebici. Get it through your head that the Serbs
will accuse every other Serb of either being a filthy bastard and a traitor or a hero. They wish
to see another Nedjo Radovic in you. Whenever they set out on a mission, I send them to get
you. Once they told me how you set the house on fire with the Hasanbegovic family trapped
inside. I also set them on fire during the last insurrection.
Nedjo, dont talk about that.
Whats got into you, that you cant talk? When Radoje comes to my place, we talk
about everything, that which occurred before and that which is taking place today. Radoje is
saying that everything has come full circle. In his own time, he killed the Muslic family in
Zavait, and his sons handed over the Muslic family of today to the warlords from the White
Eagles. Thats why Radoje is saying that everything has come full circle.
Nedjo, we shouldnt be talking about that. Wherever I go there is blood. In all those
villages there is blood, in everyones story there is blood, its on my uniform and in my home.
If I fall asleep I am awakened by blood.
You just take hold of the brandy, Jovan, and everything will come to pass. But never
be alone. When a man secludes himself, all kinds of thoughts enter his mind, and he can
easily become ill. Therefore, drink with others and sing. Whenever you find yourself in the
company of others, sing Serb songs and the strength will never abandon you. As long as there
are songs, a Serb cannot surrender. Tonight, the men are off to another mission, so I'll tell
them to come and get you.
How come they are listening to you?
They listen to my word.
Why?
What do you mean why? I was the one who liberated Celebici from the Muslims.
Serb songs celebrate that event.
Ive heard, but you are
Yes, I am old. But the Serb songs are keeping me alive, and the Serb heroes who tell
me everything. Only you and Stojan do not tell me anything. What is Stojan like? The ones
who come to my place cannot help but praise him. They say that at first he just stared around

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him, but once the blood of the Radovic family started to boil in him, everything in him turned
upside down. It is enough to kill once to release yourself. Then there is no end in sight. The
Muslims are abandoning the villages and the cities. Its good that we started with the villages
first. When there arent any in the villages, then they will leave the cities on their own. But I
hear that a group of armed Muslims have been making their presence known from the forest.
They surround our boys on their return from their missions. Our men tell me this when they
come to my place.
Nedjo, but they do not tell you.
What?
If our men don't surrender then they fire on them, but if they do, then they take their
weapons and let them go.
There you go, even that is repeating itself. The Serbs remain alive, and then they
gather again. They will search the entire forest in order to find the Turks. What else have you
heard?
They are lead by some. They call him Hamza.
That could be Sabits son. Sabits father used to live in Celebici. He was killed in the
last insurrection by our Radovic. Who said that they are led by Hamza?
The ones that surrendered.
The Serb police have been following Hamza for the past two years.
Why?
He has read many books about us Serbs.
Well,thats good
Even in the museum, in the library, he has come across Serb national documents from
the Nacertanija to present day.
What Nacertanija are you talking about?
Jovan, take hold of yourself?! When it comes to books, that Hamza is smarter than
even the oldest Muslims. As soon as the imam starts giving the adhan, he is on his way to the
mosque. Dont you see that he has fled into the forest, so that he doesnt end up on the bridge.
The way he is, we will end up fearing him.
Our boys are afraid of going off to missions because they fear they might get
ambushed.
You see, they are afraid of Kosovo.
How so?
Serbs cannot lose a battle, that is why they are afraid of those who defend
themselves.
All of us afraid that Hamza might ambush us.
That is why Kunovo cannot be allowed to happen again.
And what about Hamza?
The Serbs will surround him. They will flay him alive.
A Serb unit is training in Foca that will hunt Hamza and his men down. In St.
Nicholas Church, they wish to have Stojan lead them.
Stojan?
The church wants him to do this. The one in charge would be Officer Davidovic and
Stojan would be his second in charge.
If, if when you capture Hamza, let Stojan take him to the concentration camp at
Buris place, in Donje Polje.
Who is Buri?
The Turks who are at the prison know who Buri is. When Arkans men come to
Celebici for some brandy all they talk about is Buri. They go to the prison to watch Buri beat
up on the Turks.

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But Stojan wont lead the Serbs against Hamza.
Why?
He won't. I don't know what's going to happen. He thinks they are sending him into
sure death. He hasn't signed a document for Ostoja that would allow Ostoja to send his man to
Germany to get Stojan's money for the Serb army. He hasn't signed it yet. Now he doesn't
want to lead the Serbs. If Ostoja gets angry, he'll send him to jail. That'll be a disgrace for the
Radovic family.
Jovan, get Stojan to come and see me.
XVII
Radoman and Gojan no longer asked Dzoja to wash away the blood on the bridge in
Brod. They heard that he fainted and fell into a puddle of blood in the middle of the bridge,
where he was found in the morning by Serb fighters who were on their way back from
torching Trnjovace. As Dzoja didnt wash away the blood, it congealed, and the Serb fighters
thought that they were walking over soaked clay whose surface had a dark hue, but the
footprints left behind by the soldiers combat boots revealed the crimson colour of blood.
When the soldiers brought Dzoja inside the cabin of the fire cistern, he woke up. When
he collected himself, looking at the soldiers, he mumbled to himself the words he had
repeated hundreds of times:
Its easy for Radoman and Gojan to slit throats, but to wash the bridge
Everyone looked at him, thinking that Dzoja had gone mad. The next thing you know
Dzoja would tell them that it was more difficult for him to wash the bridge than it was for
them to go out on missions at night, and presumably it was easier to sleep on the bridge than
shoot at Turks and torch their homes.
If Dzoja really means what he says, they thought, then he should switch places
with Radoman and Gojan. Let him slit throats and they can wash away the blood on the
bridge.
The soldiers were certain that Dzoja had gone mad, so they said nothing. It was
obvious that Dzoja was going to fall asleep again, so they left him in the cabin of the fire
cistern. Dzoja fell asleep.
It was only at noon that he felt someone moving him. When he opened his eyes he saw
Radoman and Gojan, who were shaking him by his shoulders and shouting:
Hey, you, get up!
Radomans face was distorted in anger, his eyes wide open and bloodshot, and his
short arms were relentless and rough.
Get up Dzoja! Youre sleeping like a log instead of washing. Have you gone mad?
Im coming, Im coming
Well be waiting for you at the school.
The lanky and long-legged Dzoja staggered towards the school, half asleep. As drowsy
as he was, he didnt understand why they had woken him up. He couldve washed the bridge
later, dinner was a long time away He didnt even notice that his fire fighter uniform had
the colour of congealed blood. He was waiting for all of this to pass and to hear what those
asked him to come and wash the bridge had to say.
Behind the school he ran into Radoman and Gojan. Inside the school were the families
who had survived the massacres in the surrounding villages.
You listen here, Dzoja.
I'm listening.
This morning you said that it was easier for the two of us to slaughter Muslims than it
was for you to wash away the blood.
Is that what I said?

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We heard it this morning from our guys.
I remember the soldiers. They brought me inside the cabin. I fell asleep on the
bridge.
Did you say that it was more difficult to wash the bridge?
I don't remember saying that. But it is more difficult to wash the bridge.
There you go, you've said it.
It is more difficult to wash the bridge than to butcher people.
So it's true, so you did say it this morning.
Well, I'm saying it to you now.
Why is it more difficult to wash the bridge?
You get to go home and wash yourselves, while I'm left with the blood. And no one
can wash away the blood, not even Dzoja. Even if I were to use up five cisterns of water, it
would be in vain. There is no water that can wash the blood away.
What is so difficult for you? Tell us.
Well, for one thing, this uniform. It's covered in blood. This blood on my leg belongs
to that Mehmed from Trnovace.
Dzoja, you've lost your mind.
You will lose your minds too.
How?
Radoman, if Mujanovic has escaped
Yeah?
He'll know that you were butchering people.
So what? I want people to know.
And what about the blood?
What about the blood!?
What do you mean what about the blood the blood!?
Now you listen here, Dzoja, there is no way you're washing the bridge any more, as
long as I'm alive. Go home and sleep. Do not come to work to the firehouse anymore. You're
sick, you have to get some rest. A little while longer and Srbinje will be a Serb town. And if
you go on wondering who's got it easier, us or you, you better watch out.
Are you threatening me, Radoman?
I'll kill you, you got it.
Kill me or slit my throat! God help the person who has to wash away my blood.
I'll kill you Dzoja. Now go! We don't want to see your face anymore. Screw you. Go
get some help!
Dzoja walked to the cistern and clambered up into the cabin. But he did not fall asleep
right away. He thought about what Radoman had told him. If he continued to come to work,
he was certain that they would kill him. He just couldn't get it through his head that killing
people on the bridge could be classified as a job. Radoman performed the work just like he
did with his job in Maglic.
Even before the Serbian insurrection, Dzoja worked at the fire station, where he used
to drive the cistern when he was called to put out a fire. And these guys were making him
wash the bridge. He couldn't even have imagined that one day he'd be using water to wash
away blood while everything around him was going up in flames.
He felt an overwhelming drowsiness coming over him, as if he was going to faint
again. He wanted to fall asleep, and when he woke up, he wanted the person on duty to call
the fire fighting brigade to form ranks for inspection. Just like times when he was given
awards on Foca's Municipality Day.
He mumbled: Screw Radoman. It's easier for him to slit throats than for me to wash
away the blood.

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And he fainted.
XVIII
From this time on, Dzoja didnt go to work at the fire station. Everything was spinning
in his head. This was taking too long, much longer than seven days. His wife went to Serbia to
be with her family, so he lived alone, waiting for all of this to pass. But after talking to
Radoman, he was sure that the war in Bosnia was going to last for years, and that scared him.
When would his wife and his children get back? And once the Serb got used to not working,
no one would be able to get them back to work. How would they change that?
The way Radoman saw it, things would never change. He killed people so that
everyone would know, so that the Serbs would praise him as their hero. Before this
insurrection, Radoman was known as a big loafer. The time of loafers had come.
Dzoja was afraid. He sensed that Serbs would be dying too and not just the Muslim
neighbours, He heard that the Muslims in Papratno ambushed a convoy accompanied by Serb
soldiers. They asked the Serbs to surrender but the Serbs started firing. Forty Serb fighters
were killed in action because they fell into an ambush. The way Dzoja heard it, everything
was over in a few minutes. The Muslims were well-armed, and they took cover before firing
at the convoy. The Serbs were killed while trying to get away.
The news about the killed fighters enraged the Serbs in Foca. They used to say that
they had to kill one hundred Turks for every killed Serb. Groups of drunk Serbs searched the
destroyed villages for women and children who had come back to the charred remnants of
their villages, while, out of precaution, the men remained in the forests. Everyone they found
was massacred so that the killed Serbs in Papratno would be avenged. The Serbs searched for
Muslims even in Serb homes, if the word got out that Serb families were hiding them, since
these things did occur. The men from those families who hid Muslims in their homes were
taken to the prison in Donje Polje, where the concentration camp for Muslims of the region
was located.
Near the village of Jabuka, the Muslims surrounded the Jovanovic, Elez, Djorem and
Mirjanovic family and killed all the men.
The Serbs from Foca were now afraid when they were coming back from their
missions every morning. They never knew where the Muslims were going to ambush them.
They no longer sought vengeance after Serb soldiers were killed. They only thought about
making it home without falling into an ambush,
Being in such fear, they were not so willing to obey orders of their commanding
officers, On one occasion, the Stankovic brothers threatened one of the commanders at gun
point, so that other soldiers received orders to shoot them. The Stankovic brothers did not
want to return home with the other soldiers. They figured that Muslims would not stop other
Muslims if they were on their own.
Djoja knew all of this. And he knew that the war would continue for some time, if
some Muslims managed to make it to the forest. Dzoja considered all these things. And
whenever he saw Radoman and Gojan, he became ill.
The images from the bridge on the Drina River in Brod would come back to him he
saw himself lying down on the bridge in a pool of blood in his fire fighters uniform. He
would faint immediately.
He could not recover, and he got worse every day. As long as he was doing something,
he didnt have to think
He lived alone, so it was difficult for him. There were days when he slept on his
couch, and when he woke up he thought he was sleeping on the bridge in a pool of blood,
Whenever he saw Radoman, he turned his head away to avoid his gaze.

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At night, he saw that Serb soldiers, mostly the volunteers from Serbia, were driving
Muslim women in their cars. He knew that they were imprisoning them and raping them in
different houses, at the building site Buk Bijela, in different hotels in Foca, in the
Gymnasium, the sports hall Partizan
Dragan Gagovic, the chief of police was also aware of this. Some guys named Zelja,
Raso and Tuta did not fight, but took Muslim women into the apartments in Lepa Brena.
All of this was seen by Dzoja, a solitary person. But despite all these things, whenever
he didnt think about the bridge in Brod, he felt better.
XIX
But, in a single day everything was thrown into disarray. Just as Dzoja got out of bed,
Radoman opened the door. When he saw Radoman, Dzoja was overcome by fear and stood
stock-still between the bed and the table. Standing at the door, Radoman asked him:
Whats the matter Dzoja? You dont do anything except walking around the town all
day.
You told me not to come to the fire station anymore.
Why do you turn your head away from me?
I remember the bridge and the blood.
What about our young men being killed? You dont remember that, do you? In
Papratno, the Turks killed forty Serb soldiers.
So ours are starting to get killed too.
And youre feeling sorry for the baliye.
Dzoja was confused, and Radoman continued:
Listen, Dzoja. I am leaving Foca, so that you no longer have to look at me. But if I
hear youre running your mouth off about the deaths of Turks on the bridge, I will come back
from the ends of the world to kill you. Remember this well, not a word to anyone!
Mujanovic got away. Hell talk
What do you mean he got away? The Serb soldiers searched for him all the way to
the Zeljezni Bridge in Foca. Dont you go saying anything to anyone. You say a word to
anyone, and Ill find out.
Like an apparition Radoman was gone, just as he had appeared.
Dzoja was afraid of Radoman, but thats not what he was suffering from, it was the
image of seeing himself in a pool of blood, day in and day out. In the morning, he would
shower with cold water. He felt that with every drop of water, Mehmeds blood was slowly
flowing away. He couldnt sit around. His thoughts didnt give him a moments peace. He got
dressed quickly, as if he was running late. He had to walk so that he would feel fatigued. As
long as he wasnt standing around! Because when he got tired, the thoughts would leave him.
He kept doing this, wandering aimlessly.
He didnt run into anyone. The Serbs were getting ready to attack Gorazde.
He needed to get as far from this place as possible, just so he wouldnt see the
Cehotina River bridges. Then he would be tired. Thats where salvation lay
One morning, in front of his house, Danilo was waiting for him. He hadnt seen Danilo
since the Serbs started liberating Foca. Danilo went to every village with his sons, so Dzoja
hadnt seen him.
Before greeting him, Danilo raised his hand:
Stay where you are, Dzoja.
Dzoja stopped and looked at Danilo askance, a man much shorter than he, with short
legs, a large belly and a thick neck. Danilo raised his hand again:

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What is it, why are you running away? Give it some time, and youll be running
around your house. Listen, all kinds of things are being said about you. You dont have to run
into anyone, but people see things, and they are saying things.
What do they say neighbour?
That youve gone mad.
How?
You walk alone but youre talking to someone. They say you run a lot and when you
grow tired, you sit down. And as soon as you sit down, you get up again. Its as if someone is
chasing you.
They have relieved me of my duty in the fire brigade.
Ive heard that too. But wait a little, I know what you need. Ill be right back.
Dzoja wanted to run, but he waited. He wanted to see what it was that he needed.
Danilo came back quickly, since his home was just behind Dzojos. While still walking
towards him he extended a big bottle:
Here, there are two litres of pear brandy here. Its better than a wood-burning stove.
Thats what you need. Drink, the brandy will knock you off your feet. Youll sleep for two
days and youll get up as fit as a fiddle. Its better than running. Rest for three days, and then
drink again. Itll knock you off your feet again. Whenever you wake up, youll feel healthier. I
know what you need. Anguish can only be chased away with good brandy. Come on, leave the
bottle and run. When you return, take two Serb shots of brandy.
XX
Inside Jovan Radovics home, Stojanka, Jovan, Stojan and old Radoje stood around
Nedjo Radovics bed. Nedjo had a presentiment that he would soon die, and he wanted them
to come. Everyone rushed over; they knew that Nedjo hadnt been able to get out of bed for
weeks. All he did was talk to old Radoje who never left his house. Everyone gathered around
Nedjo who watched them as they were coming in. Then he started talking:
I wish to tell you a true story about Celebici. How weve come to inhabit Celebici.
Muslims used to live here before. All this was theirs. The best land, where Jovans orchard
stands today, belonged to the Fazlic family. On Christmas Day, we burst into Celebici. The
Musims hadnt the faintest idea of what was about to happen to them. Before our arrival, the
Serb police came into the village and took away the men into the police station. This we
found out later. A traitor by the name of Vojin Lecic was entering Muslim homes and telling
them to run. The women refused to run, but the children allowed Lecic to take them with him.
Not too far from the pit on Gora, we waited for the men from the Muslim villages they were
leading into the police station. We surrounded them, and our guys who led them to us made
themselves scarce. We rushed them with knives. We butchered all of them and threw them
into the pit. Then we made our way into the village and massacred the women and children.
We drove around fifty women and children into one house and set it on fire. It was eerie
listening to them. And that traitor Vojin Lecic took the children with him and handed them
over to the Partizans. One of the boys saved by Lecic was Himzo Fazlic. We slit his fathers
throat and set his mother on fire in that house. Well, Himzo, once he grew up, kept asking us
to return the land that had belonged to his parents. You see what that traitor had done to us.
And let me say this too. During the last Serb insurrection, the first person we killed was Uzeir
Ramovic. A member of the Fundup family from Celebicka Rijeka shot him with a rifle. Thats
why all the Serbs in these parts sing praises of the Fundups. During this Serb insurrection, the
first person to lose his head on the Zeljeznicki Bridge was Abid Ramovic. Stojan, Ive heard
that you have received the best group of fighters so that you could defeat the Turks in the
forest. Be careful. If you surround them, start shooting. You dont need them alive. Kill that

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Hamza that everyones talking about. Ive heard that the Radovic men have killed his father
Sabit Kadric. The Serbs say that Hamza killed the Radovic men. Once you kill Hamza, the
Kadric family will no longer exist in these parts. Fazlic was saved by Lecic, but the younger
Kadric must not be saved by anyone, So there, Stojan. Watch yourself, With you rests the
lineage of the Radovic family, and then your sons Savo and Dusan will carry on,
Nedjo, I wont lead the Serbs against Hamza.
Stojan, you must!
I wont, Nedjo. First, they asked for my money, and when I refused to give it to them,
they sent me into the forests to hunt Hamza down, with all Arkans men, the White Eagles,
Seseljs men and the soldiers of the Uzicki Corps. They want me to lead the special unit.
Well, dont try to stand out, but you must go. If you dont go theyll lock you up.
Maybe theyll order someone to shoot me while the battle rages on. Let them lock me
up. All of this is making me sick to my stomach. Ive had enough of blood. We Serbs are
insane! No one can cure us.
If youve had enough, ask Savo and Dusan to come to Srbinje. They are over
eighteen and it looks like this may last a while. They have no business over there. All this is
theirs.
On the following day, old Nedjo, a hero of the Serb songs sung in Celebici, died.
XXI
If I keep drinking, I dont run, Dzoja thought to himself. Danilo is right.
After two shots, the brandy hit him so hard that in no time, he found himself drunk. He
slept day and night. As soon as he downed one drink, he poured himself another. He ate less
and less. Even though everyone at the fire station used to get drunk, Dzoja never drank, so
that now even one shot of brandy made him tipsy. And after the second or third, he fell asleep.
From that time on, he slept through the night.
Before he fell asleep, he felt a fire burning through his body. With time, it flared up
more and more. It seemed that live embers were burning within his body, and someone was
fanning the flames engulfing his entire body.
All this is like the summer heat waves when the forest fires start, fire fighter Dzoja
thought. Whatever is in nature, also resides within a man.
His time was divided between the brandy, sleep and running. And this went on for
days. However, the brandy was about to run out.
One day, before nightfall, he came to the front of Danilos house. Jela, Danilos wife,
opened the door for him:
How are you neighbour? Are you back on your feet again?
I don't know.
You've lost weight.
I have?
I'll call Danilo right away.
Danilo arrived carrying a bottle:
Here it is neighbour. Two litres.
Thanks Danilo.
They say that you're not talking to yourself anymore. I knew it. It's just that you
mustn't be alone. The best medicine for the Serbs is to drink and then sing Serb songs. There
is no better medicine in the world for them. And you are alone. Don't just drink the brandy,
you must eat as well. Do you know who's been asking me about you?
Who?
Radoman.

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At the mention of Radoman's, name the old thoughts rushed back into Dzoja's head.
The first and the second shot of brandy no longer put him to sleep.
The third one will, Dzoja thought to himself.
The burning made him feel good. His body was asking for the brandy. Every glass
gave his soul and his body comfort. He drained the first glass at a gulp, but it didnt knock
him off his feet. He drank to drown the Radoman within him to flood all the bridges
within to wash away all the blood within him Thats when he fell asleep. He could not
get himself drunk, until he got everyone else drunk.
When the army left, the first person to rummage through the blocks of stone in Aladza
Park was Dragica from Ljubovici. During the night she removed the rugs.
One night, after midnight, Dzoja woke up. He got up and walked out of his house,
taking a sub-machine gun with him. Thoughts were whirling through his head.
He walked down the road, falling and getting up by leaning on the walls of homes
alongside the road. He tottered down the hill, but he wanted to run. If he stopped, the thoughts
swarmed in his head.
Sleep was overpowering him, but he could not fall asleep.
Staggering in the dark, he made his way down the road. He was already in the Aladza
park.
Come Dzoja! He heard a voice from the dark.
Come Dzoja! He heard the second voice.
Come Dzoja! He heard many voices.
He started walking towards the voices. Someone grabbed him by the sleeve.
But no one was there. Only he and the voices.
Come Dzoja! He heard a voice in front of him.
He lifted his head and saw the broken pillars and the ruins of Aladza Mosque. And a
heap of white stones.
He stopped dead in his tracks. The whiteness of the stones was emitting light all
around.
Do you see us Dzoja? He heard many voices.
Where? he responded fearfully.
You have eyes yet you do not see us. Here we are, Mehmed, Hamdija, Edhem, Mujo
and Halim. Radoman slit our throats first. And you washed away the blood.
It was easy for Radoman to slit throats.
I am Edin. A boys voice was heard. My teacher Trifkovic slit my throat.
It is easy to slit throats
I am Aisa Zametica. Trifkovic slit my throat too.
Its easy to slit throats
I am Almasa, and this is Safet. What has happened to our son, Miroslav?
I dont know.
I am Hamid from Djidjevo, the herbalist.
Is that you Hamid?
Why are we gone, Dzoja.
Youre here, but Im gone.
There you are
And there you are. Now I see you.
And how come youre gone?
Sickness is worse than death
I am Mustafa Kasmo. They slit my throat too, and they did the same to my father.
Its easier to slit throats than wash away the blood! Dzoja was screaming.

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Its easier to slit throats than wash away the blood! Dzoja was screaming at the top
of his lungs.
Radoman, Mujanovic is going to save me! Dzoja was shouting. He is alive! He is
not at the mosque! Talk, Mujanovic, about what happened at the bridge.
Talk! Dzoja screamed.
Dzoja turned back. He wanted to run but he sensed that someone behind the stone
pillar. He recognized Radoman, As if in a dream, he remembered that he had a sub-machine
gun with him.
But a burst of gunfire lit up from behind the pillar,
He fell to the ground in front of Aladza Mosques portico. He fell asleep in his blood.
When he woke up, he found himself in bed with Jela and Danilo beside him. He was
no longer seeing things, like he was last night at Aladza Park.
He felt pain in his stomach. He couldnt turn to his side.
He heard Danilo:
Youve gone mad. In the park, you shot yourself in the stomach. The doctor has
removed two bullets from your body. Youve slept for two days. You must rest. Do not drink. I
told you, only two glasses.
Danilo made his way down to the Aladza Mosque. Not far from the portico he saw a
coagulated puddle of blood. Dzoyas sub-machine gun was there. There were no bullet
casings.
A little further ahead, behind the stone pillar, he found bullet casings from a submachine gun on the ground.
Can it be that someone fired at Dzoja!? Danilo wondered.
Suddenly, something moved behind him. He turned around in fear. The stone pillar
from the Mosques portico had collapsed.
Danilo became frightened and started to run. The next day he was still running through
the woods.
Someone had fired at Dzoja in Aladza park. The forensic expert from Belgrade
determined that no shots were fired from Dzojas sub-machine gun. Someone else in the
Aladza Park had fired those shots. From that time on, a soldier by the name of Milovanovic
patrolled the park, day and night.
On the seventh night, gunshots were heard again in the park. They found Milovanovic
unconscious. His sub-machine gun was still hot. He had fired an entire round, so no one had
to check where the shots came from. As soon as he revived, he explained:
Four of them were walking towards me. I fired but they didnt stop. I dont know
where they are now.
Milovanovic was relieved of his duty. From that time on, no one kept watch in Aladza
Park. Everyone was waiting for things to pass so that all of this could be forgotten,
However, that wasnt the end. Many Serbs would come to e Aladza Park during the
night without ever telling anyone about it. Some stood before the toppled walls. They
wouldnt talk. They just silently stared at the ruins. Waiting
Nothing happened until old Milun fired from his sub-machine gun into the Mosque
ruins. The rest froze and looked at him. Milun said quietly:
lmasa and Safet were sitting there.
A short while later shots were fired again in Aladza Park at night. Some men coming
to the park were startled by men coming from the other side. They fired out of fear. The next
day, two soldiers belonging to the White Eagles were found dead.
An order was issued that no one was allowed to go the park during the night. Anyone
doing so would be punished, But no orders were necessary. On their way back from their

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missions, the soldiers would just look at the ruins of the Mosque from a distance. They would
stop, look and then run off.
When will all of this come to an end? Dzoja asked himself in his home.
Danilo wasnt putting the brandy glasses down.
But Radoman was no longer in Foca.
XXII
Stojan woke up to find himself in the concentration camp for Muslims in Donje Polje.
He remembered that they had brought him the night before. He was in solitary confinement, a
small square room with cement floor and a high ceiling. As soon as he woke, he felt the cold.
The dampness had made the white walls turn yellow, and the cold was rushing from the
cement floor. There was a mat on the cement floor with a folded, old, thin blanket placed on
top of it. The iron door was so big that it almost took up the whole wall.
All this was for the camp inmates: the dampness permeating the walls and the
pervading cold between them. The camp inmate could fall asleep on the cement floor, on top
of a mat, covered with only a thin blanket only if he was knocked out by the smell of the
dampness or if he was fooled by the heat from his feverish bones. When the camp guards
caused an inmate to lose consciousness by repeatedly kicking him in the head, they threw him
on the cement floor of the solitary cell. There was no worse punishment.
In the motionless body of the camp inmate lying on the cement floor, the dampness
would overwhelm the heat produced by the body and sneak into his bones. Dampness would
replace the natural body heat. The health of the beaten and unconscious man lying on the
cement floor would be damaged by the damp walls it was easy for the body to be conquered
in this small cold room. Even the youngest and the healthiest of inmates lost their health in the
solitary cell, let alone the old and the sick.
Light was coming in through a small barred window located just below the eaves.
Lying on the mat, at first, Stojan could not fall asleep because of the cold. Then, late into the
night, he listened to the screams of the camp inmates. He didnt manage to fall asleep until the
morning.
Everything that was said about this concentration camp for Muslims was true, he
thought. But what would happen to him?
He remembered that armed soldiers came at night. Jovan and Stojanka were asleep. He
was resting in his camouflage uniform, after the mission in Kozija Luka. They set all the
houses on fire in that village. During the previous nights, they had torched all the homes in
Paonce, Pilipovici, Borovici, Donje and Gorje Lijesce. And they killed people in every
village.
Even this time he refused to sign a declaration in the church.
I am killing and massacring for Dusans Kingdom, he said. That belongs to you,
and my money belongs to me.
When he was about to go home, Officer Davidovic told him in front of Ostoja:
Report to me tomorrow. Ill assign soldiers to you. Youll search the entire forest until
you find Hamza.
This is punishment, Stojan thought to himself. If it werent punishment, they would
send a more experienced man and not me. Its easy for them to surround Muslims who had
given up their weapons, but let them surround Hamza. Let them kill me, but I wont give them
the money.
Stojan never reported to Officer Davidovic. And now he was in prison.
The next day, the creaking iron door of the solitary cell opened, and a man so huge that
he almost filled the doorway, stood on the doorstep.

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Stojan was surprised and did not get up from his mat, but was instead looking at the
tall and broad guard with a big head which emerged from his shoulders as if the man didnt
have a neck. This colossus of a man was wearing a uniform that was two sizes too large for
him, as if someone was having their fun with the guard.
In his hands he was holding a tray with a piece of bread and some tea. They were
looking at each other, the man at the doorstep and the one on the mat. Then the guard spoke:
I know that youre not one of those that refuses to fight the Turks. I know everything,
but you should know that its not just the Turks who are in this concentration camp but also
those Serbs who refuse to fight. But youre not like that. The wardens say that youre good on
the battlefield but theyre not saying why they brought you here. It must be politics. Whats
your name?
Stojan.
They call me Buri.
So thats Buri, Stojan thought. So, standing in front of him was that great Buri
whom Arkans men admired so much that they came to the concentration camp Donje Polje
just because of him. Nedjo also talked about him.
Even the White Eagles were crazy about Buri. There, so that was Buri with the head of
an ox and no neck, with a great big belly and giant hands. That was Buri whom God hadnt
graced with intelligence but did give strength. Thats the Buri people had talked about for
years and the things he did to the prisoners.
The warden thinks, and he has the brains for it, but Buri has the strength, and his job
is to whatever comes to the wardens mind. And Buri is so proud of whatever he did using his
strength. He knows that everyone fears him, and he is self important. Thats why stories were
born in which his strength was praised. So thats Buri about whom all those stories are told.
Stojan used to laugh in Celebici when they told him how Buri butchered two oxen
using a chainsaw. They said he tied the ox to a walnut tree and forced his head into the tree
groove and tied it with thick rope. Then he started the chainsaw, walked over to the ox and
said:
Now youll find out how Buri butchers.
Blood was spraying all over Buri, and the ox was struggling, but Buri didnt stop until
he noticed that he was cutting the walnut tree. He was covered in blood and sawdust. The
bloody carcass of the ox fell next to the walnut tree, but its head remained in the groove of the
tree.
When he walked into his house, his clothes covered in blood and sawdust, he told
children: Go and take a look children.
Even before the war, Buri worked in the present concentration camp, but then it was a
prison for all those who committed crimes, and he guarded them. All the stories started in
those days when everyone was more or less content. Hearing the stories, Buri would walk
around with his head held high, the warden was satisfied with the discipline and the prisoners
would laugh whenever someone talked about Buri. At that time, a rascal from Visegrad would
imitate Buri; he would even talk like him so that the prison hallways rang with laughter. Buri
didnt mind, because everyone fell silent when he walked the prison hallways, and that made
him feel good.
Buri didnt talk much but a prisoner would remember every word he said and relate
them to that fellow from Visegrad who used to write them on crumpled up paper.
It was common knowledge that Buri was attending night school for his elementary
school diploma, while many of the prisoners were university educated; however, they didnt
mind calling Buri, who used to take them out to the construction site, boss. While they were
working, Buri would reproach them:
Work you fool when you got no school.

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The prisoners would laugh at this and the fellow from Visegrad would write this on his
crumpled paper as well, At the end, Buri would line them up and escort them back to the
prison, and while they passed through town, he would proudly walk alongside them with his
head held high. He wanted the more respected residents of Foca to see him and see how the
prisoners listened to Buri.
Once, when they were on their way back to prison, a prisoner got away and climbed a
tall mulberry tree not far from the prison. While on top of the tree, he kept saying he would
jump unless the warden came. He demanded to be allowed to go home for a few days. Even
the residents of Foca gathered around to see what would happen. Everyone waited for Buri to
do something or for the warden to show up. But Buri did not want to talk to the prisoner,
instead he continued walking across the Zeljeznicki Bridge and went home. A little later Buri
came back carrying a chainsaw. Everyone went silent as if they were stricken dumb.
What would happen?
Buri stood under the mulberry tree, took a deep breath, lifted the chainsaw, looked
skywards towards the prisoner and broke the silence:
Get down or I will cut you down!
Everyone knew that there was no kidding around with Buri. As soon as he started the
chainsaw, the prisoner quickly and without breathing climbed down the tree. Everyone was
satisfied: the warden, prisoners, townspeople and Buri.
On another occasion, the prisoners cut a large number of bricks and somehow put
them back together and then, imitating karate experts, they broke the bricks. But on another
pile were uncut bricks. Behind all of this was the prankster from Visegrad who never settled
down during all the years he spent in prison. And so everyone was breaking two bricks at
once while the fellow from Visegrad broke three at once.
The prisoners knew that Buri was watching them and they were breaking the bricks
with karate chops as if they were breaking styrofoam. They shouted so much whenever
someone took a swing, that their shouting was heard in the administrative building, but no one
was disturbed by the noise. Buri loved to seize every opportunity to test his strength against
them. When Buri saw that the fellow from Visegrad had broken three bricks at once, his blood
boiled and he turned crimson from fury. He lifted his arms skyward and screamed from the
other end of the prison yard:
Stop! Stop!
The prisoners stopped, but they also became scared because they hadnt heard such a
threatening voice from Buri, and were expecting anything. They were afraid that Buri had
found them out which meant that some of them would have to go to solitary confinement for a
little straightening out as Buri liked to call it, which usually involved Buri knocking an
inmate to the ground and walking all over him.
Buri ran over to them and pointing at the man from Visegrad he screamed in fury:
Make some space everyone! The sight of this makes me sick. Listen, if this scrawny
fellow can break three bricks, give me four. Let everyone see how Buri crushes bricks.
Such silence ensued that one could hear a pin drop. Everyone waited to see what
would happen next.
The first to gather his wits was the man from Visegrad who started walking towards
the pile of uncut bricks. The rest of the prisoners were frozen with fear. They left everything
to him. Even if they wanted to do something, they were too scared to do it.
After all Buris shouting, even the prison staff in their offices sensed something was
happening in the prison yard and came outside.
Everyone saw the fellow from Visegrad bring four bricks and set them up. Then, the
joker moved aside and mixed in with the rest of the prisoners.

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The prisoners and the staff were frozen in anticipation. Everyone had their eyes glued
on Buri their hero. Some prisoners were trying to prevent Buri, in their thoughts at least,
from walking towards the bricks.
But this was Buris world, and how does one go about changing it? If there was
anything important in his life, it was the happiness he showed whenever he had an
opportunity to show his strength. Buri wouldnt miss this for anything in the world. All he
could ever remember in his life were the times when he displayed his strength and people
talked about it.
His face red with rage, he approached the bricks. He took a deep breath so that his
chest expanded and made him look even bigger. Without saying a single word, he raised his
right arm and took another deep breath. He resembled a gladiator in an arena.
Then, with a scream, he moved his hand towards the bricks with great force. Every
single brick broke, and Buri let out a deep yelping sound, grabbed his right hand and rushed
towards the gates.
Every member of the prison staff froze at first and then ran after him, while the
prisoners ran to their cells.
Buri was rushed to a hospital in van for prisoners. The doctors x-rayed his arm and
determined that both bones in his arm were broken. Buri remained in the hospital for four
days, his arm in a cast.
When the guards paid him a visit at the hospital, he couldnt resist asking:
Did I smash all the bricks?
Yes you did, they responded.
When Buri showed up in the prison yard with his arm in a cast, all the prisoners came
out to congratulate him on his feat. Buri haughtily sized up each one while accepting their
congratulations with his left hand. When the man from Visegrad approached him, Buri told
him:
Youre not a scrawny little fellow after all, you smashed three bricks.
No one discovered the prank nor did the prisoners ever discuss it amongst themselves.
The prisoners took all the bricks next to the wall being built near the administrative building.
It was only a month later that everyone found out about the prank. Now, no one could
stop Buri. While the prisoners were lying in their beds, he trampled them with a vengeance.
First, he kicked some sense into the fellow from Visegrad and all his cellmates. No one knew
which one of them had broken bones. But for months, they were in too much pain to go
outside in the prison yard.
When he gathered enough strength, the man from Visegrad was the first to show his
face in the prison yard. All the prisoners gathered around him to hear what he was about to
say, but he remained silent.
But the prisoners didnt giving up. As soon as they came out into the prison yard, they
shuffled around him. Then once, while the prisoners were furtively strolling around him and
he was inhaling cloud of smoke, the fellow from Visegrad took a deep breath so as to appear
broader, lifted his head and, in the manner of Buri, shouted in a hoarse voice:
If that scrawny little fellow can do three, give me four.
Everyone burst into laughter, as if someone had turned back time and brought
everyone back to a moment theyd been anticipating for days with bated breath. The yard
echoed with laughter and the prison staff hung out their office windows. This was the first
time since that brutal trampling that the prisoners had laughed. There were not bothered by
the pain in their bodies, that served as a reminder of the room with the steel door. The words
said by the fellow from Visegrad were what their souls, imprisoned within their sick and
battered bodies, had been waiting for, while silently moping around the yard. Thats why
theyd been hanging around him for days.

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As soon as he showed up in the prison yard, their spirits would rise since their
imprisoned souls would now be set free. That was the only way for them to make it in this
prison. The prisoners needed him, and he needed them.
Two prisoners were rolling on the ground from laughter like a couple of kids, while
others were getting back up on their feet, taking a deep breath and collapsing from laughter
once again. Some of them pulled the fellow from Visegrad by his sleeves and said to him:
One more time, we beg you.
Cmon, one more time, well all give you a cigarette each.
Ok, start collecting, the fellow from Visegrad responded solemnly.
While everyone was sticking their hands in their pockets searching for cigarettes, the
manfrom Visegrad straightened up, took a deep breath, lifted his head and spoke hoarsely:
If that scrawny fellow can break three, give me four!
With the cast still on his right arm, Buri looked at them sulkily from a distance.
***
Arkans men were now making Buri, with his 150 kilograms of weight, trample on the
Turks inside the solitary cells. Thats why they came to the concentration camp. As soon as
they brought him another Turk, Buri would say to him:
Lie down to see how Buri crushes bones.
While Buri was breaking the inmates bones, Arkans men cracked up with laughter:
Way to go Buri.
Thats it Buri.
Let baliye see how Buri breaks bones.
Arkans men were crazy about Buri. They didnt notice the inmates nor did they hear
their screams, they only saw Buri. And Buri only obeyed orders responsibly and seriously.
Whenever he received an order to attack an inmate ,even with a chainsaw, he didnt hesitate;
just like the time he went after an ox.
Arkans men had a blast with the guard and the energy he put in into his job. They
were always on his side because they were watching someone who really loved his job. They
ran to the solitary cells whenever they heard that Buri was there and on those occasions there
was no such thing as an order from their superiors. They had to see Buri no matter what.
The Turks would be in the biggest solitary cell, lying on the cement floor on their
bellies, while Buri would take a run at them from the hallway and jump on top of them with
all his might. He would jump into the air from the doorstep and land on the inmates with his
feet. Every jump was followed by a blood-curdling scream, and that gave him wings. He
wanted to show everyone what Buri could do. Bones were being crushed, and the camp
inmates couldnt lift their heads. They groaned in pain, unable to move.
There, thats how Buri crushes bones.
Sometimes, Buri would go into the room for the guards, trying to get away from
Arkans men, because whatever he was doing, was his and his alone. At other times, he would
go into a small office where there was no one around. There, he would sit silently and suffer.
He was becoming increasingly annoyed by the yelling and screaming while he was trying to
do his job, but no one could stop Arkans men from coming into the solitary cell. He did his
job well, and they took pleasure in watching him do it.
***
So thats Buri, Stojan thought to himself.
Buri, how long am I going to stay in solitary confinement?
Not long.
What do you mean?

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Serbs don't keep a fellow in the solitary cell for too long, just a day or two. Other
Serbs who refuse to fight the Turks are not kept in solitary cells; they are in nice prison cells.
They can stroll around the prison. They even go and visit the prison warden, Mico.
And what about me?
With you it's about politics. You know that better than me.
During the day, I am inside this solitary cell, and during the night I hear the screams.
How does one sleep?
You shouldn't be sleeping anyway.
What do you mean?
In this concentration camp, everyone waits for the darkness. We live during the
night.
During the night?
Just like in those movies. During the night, the vampires within us awake to let them
bleed.
Buri had brought cabbage soup.
Stojan, don't complain about the food. This is how things are when you're in the
hole.
I'm not complaining.
This kind of food will make you thin.
It takes care of my skin and bones.
That's what I say to the Turks. In a month they become skin and bones. You heard
about that Batak fellow.
Is he Muslim?
Yes, a Turk.
What about him?
He used to be as big as me, and now he doesn't even weight forty kilograms.
Well, you give them a slice of bread and cabbage soup without cabbage. But what's
going to happen to me, Buri?
They have to let you out of the hole. You fought against the Turks, that's the most
important thing. What is it that you did anyway?
Nothing.
Nothing?
Nothing.
Then it's all about politics. Once they decide, they'll tell us what to do with you. But
listen, Stojan, they sent you these cotton balls. Your cell is next to the bridge, and tonight the
vampire will be awakened. If you intend to sleep, then stuff your ears with these cotton balls.
Buri took enough cotton balls from his pocket for Stojan to cover his head.
However, Stojan could not get Buri's vampire out of his head, so he asked:
Buri, how come you don't get sick of this?
Listen, Stojan, I like doing this. This is what I did before the insurrection. I mean,
can't you see that everyone is in need of my services? Everyone is talking about me. Stojan, I
live my life; I don't care about anything else. And I've never had it better. Listen, my job is to
break Turks' bones and that isn't so hard. But listen, don't ask these kind of questions. I can
see that you're here because of politics. You better be careful.
During the night Stojan was awakened by the shouting and bursts of gunfire from
automatic rifles. He felt like placing the cotton balls in his ears, but he threw them behind the
door. He quickly got to his feet, lifted the mat and placed it against the wall, just under the
window. While he was doing this, he heard splashing in the Drina River and the bursts of
gunfire. Then, splashing, then, gunfire again.

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It was difficult for him to climb up on the matt because it kept folding, but he managed
to grab hold of the bars on the window. He stood on the folded mat, but kept himself up by
holding on to the bars.
Below was the Zeljezni Bridge.
He saw the concentration camp inmates in single file, stretching from the main gate of
the concentration camp all the way to the bridge. Everyone had their hands tied. The guards
were standing next to the column of inmates. They were firing into the air with their
automatic weapons.
It was the same as on the bridge in Brod, near Foca. Two Serbs were standing on the
middle of the bridge, one with a big knife and the other with an automatic rifle. The one with
a knife was covered in blood.
Taso, don't, the camp inmates were begging him.
Shut up baliye, the guards screamed, firing above their heads.
Zoka, please don't.
Shut up baliya!
The column of camp inmates started moving.
Come on Midhat. Let your brother come too, Zoka was shouting orders, pointing his
rifle at him.
Zoka, buddy, don't.
Come on, come on.
Suddenly, Zoka hit Midhat over the head with the butt of his rifle. Midhat fell to the
ground towards the bridge railing. Taso quickly grabbed him by his hair, raised his head and
thrust the big knife into his neck.
Taso was sprayed with blood but he pulled out his knife, holding the larynx on the tip
of the knife. Then he knelt down and lifted Midhat who was letting out a death rattle.
Zoka fired several bullets into Midhat's body. One of the guards walked over to the
corpse and pushed it over the railing.
While this was taking place, the camp inmates were crying and turning their heads
away. Their terrified weeping could not be heard because the guards were constantly firing
into the air. Stojan noticed several cars that were running so that the blood-curdling screaming
could not be heard.
This is how Radman was slitting their throats in Brod, near Foca, when we set
Djidjevo on fire, Stojan thought to himself.
Down below, it was another inmates turn.
Zoka, youve killed my brother Dont, buddy
You too are going to screech, Husko. I know what you baliye are all about. Come
here!
We'll slit the throats of every one of the Rikala brothers. Husko, you've got nothing to
worry about. Get on your knees.
When Husko got down on his knees, Taso stooped down and thrust the knife into his
throat. Husko gasped. The rest of the inmates started screaming. The guards were firing from
their weapons. The engine noise was heard from the cars. Zoka pushed his rifle against Huso's
back and fired. He waved at the guard who lifted Husko's corpse and threw it over the railing.
Once again Stojan heard a splash in the Drina River.
He climbed down from the window and took the mat to the other side of the cell. He
stuffed his ears with cotton and lay down, but he couldn't fall asleep. He, Stojan, a successful
manager in his company was now in Srbinje this was how the Serbs were referring to Foca
now.
God, Stojan asked himself, have we Serbs, lost our minds? Throughout the world
people are uniting, they long for economic prosperity, and the Serbs want Dusans kingdom.

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Theyre going back to the Middle Ages. Instead of heading into the age of information, the
Serbs want to go into the age of Dusans kingdom. At that time, those who had land were
wealthy. What are they going to do with Muslim land now? In order for them to go back to
Dusans kingdom, they have to kill their neighbours, just because they belong to another
religion, God, have the Serbs lost their minds? How will they live in Dusans kingdom, alone?
How will they live from that which they have stolen from their neighbours? Where are the
factories? Where are the successful managers?
He had been building his company for the past twenty years. He was using a system he
had been developing for years, so that he could relax for months and still earn money. And in
order to reach that stage he had to work sixteen-hour days for years. Now he had achieved
prosperity in time and money, because the company could function without his involvement.
How do the Serbs intend to live? By plundering and pillaging?
If they caught him trying to escape, they would kill him on the Zeljeznicki Bridge.
What was he to do? He remembered that fellow Hamza who fled into the forest with his
friends. Either the bridge or fighting. Hamza chose to fight.
Stojan woke up at dawn. He looked towards the window. Quickly, he got up and
placed the mat against the wall. He climbed up and grabbed hold of the window bars.
He saw six guards washing the wooden planks on the bridge with water and brushes.
They were pouring detergent and scrubbing.
Buri came in the morning.
Get up Stojan. Youve got a hotel room.
What?
No more solitary confinement. Now you're free.
Free?
- Yeah, you can walk around the prison yard and different prison cells; nothing is out
of bounds, except going to the main gait without permission. Just like the other Serb in this
prison.
So, when can I leave this cell?
Immediately.
Stojan got up and started walking behind Buri. At the end of the hallway waiting for
him was a clean prison cell with two beds, a table and a wardrobe.
Here, that bed over there is yours. You have everything. This is not a prison cell. No
one locks the door. That bed belongs to Dragan. He won't go to the front lines. The kitchen is
over there. You'll have to help yourself. And Buri started back.
Buri, what's the hurry?
The new shift is coming. I'm going to bed.
How was it last night?
You don't ask about such things.
That night Juso Dzamalija from Tabak hanged himself in one of the solitary cells. He
pulled out his belt and tied it to the radiator pipe on the ceiling. His solitary cell faced the
Zeljezni Bridge.
Esad Hodzic died. His ulcer burst and the guards refused to bring him a doctor.
A guard by the name of Keli came into the big dormitory to get Zulfo. Then screams
and a burst of gunfire were heard. Zulfo never came back to the dormitory.
He's been taken to another camp, Keli told the inmates the next day.
Ace went mad. In dormitory Number16 he went on shouting:
In the name of the people! According to Article 12 of the Statute on crimes, sentenced
to life imprisonment without the possibility of parole are: Radovan Karadzic, Vojislav
Maksimovic, Velibor Ostojic and Biljana Plavisic. This ruling becomes effective two weeks
from this day with the threat of the enforcement of the ruling.

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Ace spoke as if he was a judge, because he had been sentenced several times.
Keli took him into solitary confinement.
During those days, the Serb soldiers brought in a group of Muslims. The Montenegro
police captured them in Ulcinj, Bar, Herceg Novi and Podgorica. They tried to run. The
guards took them into the dormitories.
The camp inmates recognized Ismet, Nedzib, Sait, Rasim, Mesa. There were others
from Gorazde, Srebrenica and Cajnice. The Montenegro police transported them as far as
Pluzina and placed them on the buses belonging to Focatrans. The Montenegrans captured
Rasim in Podgorica. They beat Mesa because he belonged to a Muslim party.
They killed Muhamed on their way to the concentration camp because of his name.
In Montenegro, there was a fellow from Foca also known as Sumar. He would
recognize his former neighbours on the street and would report them to the Montenegro
police.
The Serbs buried Stevanovic, Sumars brother and Golubovic, a Serb officer, was
killed on Preljuce. The Serbs were avenging their deaths.
They killed women and children in the neighbourhoods of Cohodor Mahala and
Krivaja, the villages of Sube and Suljci. At night they brought the Muslims caught in
Montenegro to the Zeljezni Bridge. No one in the dormitories could sleep.
The guards were also taking the camp inmates to the paved bridge near Fishermans
Restaurant. The next morning they would spray the asphalt with gasoline and set it ablaze.
The blood would burn and the asphalt would turn black.
Sometimes the camp inmates were awakened by an explosion. The drunk Serb soldiers
were blowing up the remaining mosques. They were cleaning up Srbinje.
If there were any casualties on the Gorazde front, the Serb soldiers would come from
the frontlines to the concentration camp and look for Buri. Arkans men would take the
Muslims from the dormitories and take them to the Zeljezni Bridge. They started at six
oclock in the evening and didnt stop until after midnight.
Cursing, beating, screaming, shouting, pleading and then eerie stillness.
And fear.
In the dormitories they talked about Tuta. He made arrangements with Muslims to take
transport them to Niksic. Many believed him. He would have killed them on Scepan-Polje, on
the bridge. He butchered the Klapuha family, Hasan and Ferida nd their daughter Sena. He
also killed Zineta Avdagic and her sons, Ismet and Muamer.
Juso Avdagic, the tailor, and his wife Razia were killed by Dragan Nikolic.
The camp inmates used to say that Ostoja and Makism played with the head of Fehim
Sahovic. Maksim kicked the decapitated head towards Ostoja:
Make the save!
Osman Kunovac was a deaf mute. He was brought in from Grebak. He set out from
Gorazde to Grebak in search of food. When the Serbs captured him, they beat him for two
hours and Osman didnt let out a sound. They asked him how many Turks were defending
Gorazde. Osman looked at them without saying a word. Two Serbs beat him with their riflebutts for two more houses, but Osman remained silent. Then, all black and blue from the
beating he received, they took him to the concentration camp in Foca.
Someone was thinking out loud:
Hell start talking in the camp. Buri is there.
Osman was lying on the mat when Buri and Stojan walked in. Buri screamed from the
doorstep:
On your feet!
So, you dont want to talk?!
Now youre in Buris hands!

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Get up, why are you gawking at me?!
On your feet!
On your feet!
You Turkish motherfucker, youre going to get up all right!
Osman remained lying on the mat looking at Buri. Buri looked at Stojan and took a
few steps back. Then he ran back into the cell and jumped on top of Osman. While in the air,
he kicked Osman in the head and fell next to wall of the cell. Blood was gushing from
Osmans mouth and nose. He covered his head with his hands.
Buri stooped over him:
Oh, youll get up Osman. Youll get up. You see how Buri does it.
Then he faced Stojan:
They all refused to say anything, but they started talking with Buri. Youll see how
hell start singing. As soon as he comes to.
Get up Osman! You wont?!
Buri became enraged. He ran and threw his entire weight on Osman. With every jump
he broke Osmans ribs. Osman was rattling and then lost consciousness.
Buri was jumping and repeating:
Youll get up Osman, youll get up all right.
Even if he were able to hear him, Osman was no longer able to get up. He was dead.
He never talked, even with Buri. Buri kept jumping on Osman, until he collapsed on the floor
of the cell, next to the wall. After midnight, the guards wrapped Osman in a blanket. They
threw him into the Drina River from the Zeljeznicki Bridge. Stojan found out from other
guards that Osman was a deaf mute. They found this out from the Muslims in the dormitories.
In the evening, in the prison yard, Stojan noticed Buri who tried to walk past him
without greeting him.
Buri, that Osman was a deaf mute.
Who knew that?
Do you feel sorry for him?
There you go with your politics, Stojan. If he wasnt a deaf mute he wouldve talked.
And even if he did, I still wouldve crushed him. Stojan, stay away from politics.
Arkans men were not there when Buri was jumping on Osman. But they did hear that
he was jumping on top of a deaf mute.
Even if he was as deaf mute as they come, he shouldve started talking once Buri got
hold of him, Arkans men laughed in unison.
If he had lived a little longer, perhaps he wouldve started talking, they would
comfort Buri.

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XXIV
The concentration camp for Muslims was in Donje Polje, on the right bank of the
Drina River. While the town was known as Foca, it was a famous prison that was talked about
far and wide. During the Austro-Hungarian rule and the time of the former Yugoslavia, it was
an army barracks and later it became a prison. When the politicians entered it, they would
think that they were going into a factory, because furniture was manufactured in one of the big
buildings, while tradesmen were at work in the others. All prisoners belonged to a work
platoon, so they didnt have any free time as in other prisons.
Only those prisoners with good connections on the outside were able to escape, while
others used to return on their own. On one occasion, two prisoners escaped while they were
working but the prison police found them in civilian clothes in one of the bars near Ustikolina.
The men were so drunk that they had no trouble capturing them, especially since the prisoners
had no intention of really escaping. They just had a sudden urge to get drunk with the
residents of Ustikolina who were famous for drinking binges in the bars on the Drina River.
They wanted to get drunk even if it meant spending years in solitary confinement. The owner
of the bar brought them clothes, and once they got drunk and spent their money, the owner
phoned the jail. As soon as the prison police arrived pointing guns at them, the prisoners got
up raised their hands above their heads and walked outside where the prison vehicle was
waiting. The owner of the bar saw them out as if they were his regulars.
The prison police caught two other prisoners in the forest above Celovina. The prison
hounds tracked them easily because the prisoners didnt know their way around the forest.
They used to be famous for theft in numerous countries and had ended up in the prison of
Foca. But criminals of such calibre could not be kept in this type of prison. The warden got
word from Sarajevo about their escape, so that everything was worked out in detail between
the warden and some people in the town district.
Now it was no longer a prison but a concentration camp for Muslims.
The concentration camp was surrounded by fifteen-foot walls and three-foot barbed
wire fence on top of the wall. Climbing the wall wasnt such a feat and getting over the
barbed-wire fence wasnt that dangerous if it hadnt been for the watchtowers which rose
eighteen feet above the wall in five different locations around the prison. Each watchtower
had glass walls which afforded the guards a view of the area from the prison to the forest in
Celovina and the Zeljezni Bridge stretching over the Drina River. Each accommodated four
guards, each watching from one side. During the night, the guards would turn on large
movable searchlights with which they could illuminate not only the concentration camp but
also all the access roads, from Celovina, the town of Foca, the hospital and the Zeljezni
Bridge.
This reminded Stojan of the prisons he saw in American movies.
Who would even dare consider escaping?! Stojan asked himself. This concentration
camp had inherited everything that was available in the old famous prison, from the walls and
searchlights to Buri and the guards. If there anything was different, it was the fact that the
prison used to house Serbs, Croats and Muslims, and now it only housed Muslims, and the
Serbs were guarding them. Also different was that before, there had been no massacres on the
Zeljezni Bridge nor was there any cabbage soup without cabbage. And now, instead of office
staff, the prison offices housed armed guards. Everything else was prison-like.
The guards slept in the new part of the administration building but they still patrolled
all the solitary cells and watched over every camp inmate. They took away the inmates

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transistor radios, notepads and anything they tried to hide. The camp inmates could relax only
when the guards rotated, since that was their break. While the new shift was coming on, the
watchtower guards would watch the main entrance to the concentration camp, the Zeljezni
Bridge and the left bank of the Drina River. Nothing could take them by surprise, not to
mention someone taking over the camp, even if an army was to attack from all sides.
Above the concentration camp, behind the house belonging to the Ivanovic family, the
Serb sentries controlled the access to the bridge and the main gate, and one Serb army unit
was stationed on the Celovina Hill and on the Dub, just above the concentration camp. Before
the insurrection, the Serbs worked all night to widen the road from the concentration camp to
Celovina and Duba, so they could set up the artillery. The Muslims helped the Serbs widen the
road. Why did the Serbs need artillery pieces at this location? Using heavy guns, they could
hit the Zeljezni Bridge and all the houses on the left bank of the Drina River. Once they used
them, it didnt take long to destroy the bridge. Thats why the Serb cared so much aboutr
Celovina. They could attack and defend from there.
The Serbs were getting ready for this even while they were stirring up trouble in
Focatrans. That was during the spring in the early nineties. First they rebelled, and then they
went to Serbia to get arms. In Orahovo, they built a makeshift hospital where they brought
medical supplies from Serbia and the hospital in Foca. Every Saturday and Sunday, the Serbs
went to the shooting range in Orahovo.
Even then they were waiting for the go ahead from Sarajevo. They were receiving
signals from Belgrade on a daily basis, but they were waiting for the final signal from
Sarajevo. In the meantime, a propaganda expert from Belgrade came to Foca he knew
exactly what he had to say to the Serbs. For example, he spread a story that Muslim doctors
were working at the hospital in Foca, and that the Serbs must not trust them. Even some of the
names of Muslim doctors were mentioned from whom the Serbs were not allowed to seek
treatment. Furthermore, Muslim managers who worked in certain companies were not to be
trusted, especially if they worked in Maglic. The idea was to get all of them to leave the
town so that they would not interfere with the Serb plans. In every company, the Muslim
directors were removed and replaced by Serbs. The more respected Serbs were meeting in the
Maglic when they received orders from Belgrade, but they still had to wait for a signal from
Sarajevo.
Stojan couldve butchered Muslims just like Radoman and everyone wouldve talked
about him. He would have entered the Serb folklore just like Nedjo Radovic. But the Serbs
were more interested in his money. Had he given them the money, they would have told him
that he was a great Serb.
And what is a great Serb? Stojan asked himself. The one who fights for Dusans
kingdom or the one who gives money? I refuse to hand over my money therefore Im not a
great Serb. Thats why I even found myself in jail.
Borders between states were disappearing, and Serbs wanted a medieval state.
Stojanka had said that the Serbs had to liberate the land first and then enter Europe. So first
they needed to massacre their neighbours, take their land and then came Europe. Thats what
Stojanka thought. As far as Nedjo was concerned the massacres on the bridge did not qualify
as a crime. According to him the Serbs were not committing crimes, but simply getting rid of
their neighbours. Miralem from Papratno was burned alive, and even that was not considered
a crime. First they hung him by his feet, while his head was just above the flames. The Serbs
circled around the fire, firing from their rifles and singing insurrection songs. Miralems
agonized screams gave them strength, and they never ceased singing. Drunk as they were,
they forgot about Miralem and the fire. Eventually, they all collapsed on the ground from
drunkenness.

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Stojan couldnt fathom this that so much evil had to be done for Dusans kingdom. Is
that how one became a great Serb?
If the Muslims were to attack the concentration camp, the Serb army would come
running from the hills above the camp and from the Zelengora Hotel. A large number of Serb
soldiers were stationed in Pilipovici and Ustikolina. In a former womens prison, Velecevo,
the garrison headquarters were stationed, and just above the town, on Siset, Sukovac and
Grac, the Serb army units were guarding the army supplies.
Are the Muslims in any position to defend themselves? Stojan asked himself.
Most of the surrounding villages were inhabited by Muslims. Were they a little more
clever and and a bit braver, they could have secretly organized the defense of their villages
even during the Focatrans days, since the villages surrounded the town of Foca. There
wasnt a single man in Arkans units, nor any soldiers from the Uzicki corps who would fight
in the hills if the Muslims were armed. Wasnt the Kunovo from the previous war a lesson for
them? Only two armed Muslims resisted an entire Chetnik unit. And what wouldve happened
if every village, then and now, had been Kunovo?
The concentration camp inmates were housed in six dormitories which consisted of
two to four rooms and a dining hall. Up to seventy inmates slept in one dormitory, and the big
dormitories accommodated as many as one hundred and fifty Muslims. The Serbs were
bringing them in from the surrounding villages so that the dormitories were packed. In one
day they brought in twenty Muslims captured in Humu, Kosman, Mjesaje, Vucevo, Zakmur.
But the number of camp inmates got smaller during the night. They were taken on a journey
from which there was no return.
Whenever Stojan entered one of the dormitories with the guards, the Muslims would
get up and press together and move back towards one of the corners of the dormitory. They
didnt who Stojan was. They thought that he needed them for the Zeljeznicki Bridge. Only
skin and bones, with a vacant look in their eyes, they made Stojan think of people who,
shackled in chains, live in filthy and damp underground tunnels.
This is how Stojan was acquainted with the lives Muslims lived in this concentration
camp. Stojan and the other Serbs could freely walk around the camp, enter the dormitories
but they were not allowed to talk to the camp inmates. The guards told Stojan everything
since they knew that he had been on the frontlines. They heard that he was Stojan Radovic,
the grandson of Nedjo Radovic from Celebici, but they didnt know that Stojan was here
because of politics, and they were afraid of him.
However, they found that this particular Radovic was calm and dignified. He spoke
sensibly and said only what needed to be said, In fact, he was too taciturn for them.
Stojan was surprised that the imprisoned Serbs were allowed to enter the dormitories
and handpick those Muslims that were to be taken to the Zeljezni Bridge. They refused to go
to the frontlines, but here they played the hero.
Stojan remembered Rasim, Hamids son. When Stojan entered one house in the village
of Djidjevo he saw Hamid, the father of Rasim, with whom he went to school. Rasim had
asked him to spare his son. Stojan remembered that Rasim was taken to the concentration
camp for the Muslims.
Hamid had remained in the house that was ablaze. That had been Stojans first
mission. They had taken the captured Muslims to the bridge in Brod. There, waiting for them
were Radoman and Gojan.
XXV
He entered the largest of the dormitories with Buri. One hundred and fifty three
Muslims were there, sleeping on mats, covered with thin blankets. When Stojan and Buri

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entered, everyone got up and started walking backwards, crowding in the corner of the room.
They waited for Buri to take out the list and start reading their names. Buri asked in a loud
voice:
Where is Rasim, the son of Hamid, a herbalist from Djidjevo?
A rather small inmate, wrapped in a blanket and standing on one of the mats, raised his
arm:
Im him.
Come with us.
Rasim followed Buri and Stojan. They entered Stojans room.
Stojan looked at Rasim. It seemed that he was sixty years old, yet he was Stojans age.
His hair had turned grey. His back was bent as if he had been carrying a heavy burden all his
life. He never lifted his head nor did he remove the blanket from his body. His tiny head with
a pointy nose reminded Stojan of Hamid. Rasim didnt even notice Stojan. He was staring at
the floor in front of him. He waited for Buri to take him away.
They were quiet until Buri broke the silence:
Stojan, how about Buri straightening him out a little
Dont.
Why not?
Let me ask him something. Listen, Rasim, do you know who I am?
Rasim slowly lifted his head. He stared at Stojan. He was silent for a while and then he
spoke:
I dont know. Youre new here. Thats what they say in the dormitory.
I am Stojan, Jovan Radovics son.
Rasim seemed to wake up and looked at Stojan, his eyes squinting.
Youre Stojan? We went to school together. Studied together.
I went to Germany a long time ago.
Then what are you doing here?
They asked me to come. I was in solitary confinement here, and now theyve let me
out.
How are Savka and your sons? Youve heard about my father Hamid. Your guys
burned him alive in his house in Djidjevo and brought me here to this prison.
I never knew about Hamid. I was in Celebici. Ever since I arrived in this Srbinje, Ive
been living in some kind of a dream. I just cant seem to wake up and start thinking about
Savka and my sons.
All the Serbs are living in some kind of a dream, and everything they are doing is a
dream. They are killing their neighbours. So much blood on the bridges cannot be a dream.
What are you saying? Buri shouted.
Let him be Buri, Stojan stood up. Take him back to the dormitory.
How about I straighten him out?
Dont
Why?
Just dont
However, Buri didnt listen and took Rasim to the solitary cell. Stojan witnessed
everything from the doorstep.
It wouldve been better if I left him in the dormitory, Stojan thought to himself.
That night Stojan couldnt fall asleep for a long time. He was listening to the screams
coming from the Zeljezni Bridge.
The screams werent that loud since Stojans room was on the other side of the
building, far from the bridge. At some point during the night the screaming stopped. No
matter how still Stojan tried to be, he couldnt hear anything.

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Am I imagining things? he asked himself. If I was just imagining things, I was
better off in solitary confinement. I wasnt imagining things in the solitary cell. Those men in
the dormitory were real, and I am a figment of their imagination. And someone who imagines
things, doesnt really exist.
He fell asleep just before dawn.
Following his conversation with Rasim, Stojan found himself in a column with
Muslims doing forced labour. All the guards turned their heads away from him and Buri kept
his distance from him. During the first few days, he was taken to the warehouse where
plundered goods were loaded onto the trucks and then taken to the renovated administration
buildings. They removed the roofing-tiles from the roof of the Gymnasium. They also washed
dishes, cleaned people up.
Stojan was in a group with Rasim who seemed to be more stoop-shouldered, and his
gaze also seemed to be almost permanently fixed to the ground.
Hes alive Stojan thought to himself.
XXVI
Jovan and Stojanka never turned off the light in Stojans room, even though the Serb
soldiers no longer gathered there. With that light, they created the illusion that the Serb
soldiers were still coming to the home before going off for another mission. Thats how
Stojanka wanted it.
Even the smallest of the children knew that as soon as dark descended, the Serb
soldiers started coming to Ristos house and that they steered clear of Jovans house.
Following their meeting, one by one, they would step outside and into the darkness. Other
soldiers came to Ristos house at dawn, talking so quietly that Jovan and Stojanka couldnt
hear anything. During the day, Officer Jovanovic came from Srbinje. He also gave Jovans
house a wide berth. Everyone in the village avoided Jovans house, even the women and the
children, as if the house was attacked by a plague. The elderly inhabitants of Celebici stayed
well clear of the house by walking around the other side of the orchards, not wanting Jovan to
see them.
Everything was poorly tended: Jovans house, the meadow where the broken tables
were scattered, Jovans orchard and the door leading to the cellar which remained ajar; he no
longer kept it locked.
Jovan and Stojanka lived alone, and they suffered as they grew older. With each
passing day they were closer to the ground their final resting place because of the great
pain they had to endure. They remained silent, not even looking at each other. Thinking about
Stojan, their souls were in torment. Their trembling bodies couldnt find peace and comfort in
one room, but they could not go among their people.
As the daylight was about to expire, Stojanka would turn the light on in Stojans room,
and Jovan would go to the cellar about his business, so that they would only run into each
other in the hallway.
Days went by in such fashion, and the two old people lived in suffering they could not
ignore, for when such suffering enters ones soul it clutches on, never letting go. Their
thoughts were with Stojan, and it was in vain to keep the light on in his room and the rest of
the house or to keep the untidy cellar unlocked. That is why they grew older with each and
every sleepless night and restless day. They ran into each other in the house, but their gazes
never met, and they never talked to each other.
In the church, they branded Stojan as a traitor and placed him in the concentration
camp with the Muslims. The Serbs avoided their house, and as far as the Radovic family was
concerned, no greater disgrace could fall upon them. No one in Celebici knew why Stojan was
declared a traitor. It was thought that he refused to fight the Turks some of the Serbs were

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secretly glad of this since they disliked Jovan because of his wealth. In Celebici, some went as
far as to suggest that Stojan was married to a Muslim.
After Stojan was sent to prison, the Serbs avoided the house, Jovans and Stojankas
souls became more burdened and they become increasingly lonely. They sat or lay in separate
rooms, waiting for their souls to depart their bodies.
One morning Stojanka didnt get up, and Jovan went to wake her. He quietly opened
the door, tiptoed into the room, bent over the bed and whispered:
Stojanka.
Stojanka woke up and saw Jovan standing above her. She raised herself and rested her
shoulders against the wall. Then she looked at Jovan:
What is it?
It is noon and youre not up.
What if I dont get up, whats the difference?
Go out, in front of the house.
Why?
Walk around.
I am not in the mood for anything, Jovan.
Listen Stojanka. You cant carry on like this. Theyre letting Stojan go, I heard it.
Who did you hear it from, when no one is talking to us?
Stojan is not a traitor; you know that yourself.
He has disgraced the Radovic family.
Dont say that Stojanka. You dont even ask how hes managing in jail, you only talk
of disgrace. He is in the concentration camp because he refuses to give them his money. And
why should he give it to them?
Because they would be praising him like the other members of the Radovic clan who
came before him.
That day I welcomed all the Serbs who came, and in return they destroyed my
orchard and spilled my brandy which they didnt even drink. And after all that, they are now
steering clear of my house.
If Stojan had only given them the money, now they would be singing your praises as
well.
He was right not to give them the money.
And why didnt he go after Hamza?
He knew that being sent after Hamza was his punishment. If that wasnt the case he
would have gone.
Suddenly, Stojanka became silent and lowered her head on the pillow.
Stojanka, what is it?
Wait
Stojanka was breathing with difficulty.
What is it Stojanka?
Wait
Are you in pain?
Thats not it.
Then, what is it?
I just remembered and became frightened if it shouldnt work out.
What?
Go to the church and tell Officer Davidovic that Stojan will go after Hamza.
What is the matter with you Stojanka?! Stojan can say that, but not me.

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If Davidovic promises you that he will release Stojan from the concentration camp,
then go to Stojan and tell him everything. He should go after that Hamza fellow. That way all
of us will be saved.
Stojan wont do it.
Tell him hes killing us, and then if he doesnt want to, then so be it. Since hes been
in prison people have been avoiding our house. Now go, I want to sleep some more.
Jovan slowly moved away from the bed and towards the door, his thoughts whirling
through his head. Stojanka was right to think the way she did.
Hamza could save all of us if Stojan agreed, Jovan was talking to himself.
Foca was liberated, and there were so many Serb soldiers throughout the destroyed
Muslim villages that they could comb the forest and capture Hamza without any danger to
their son.
Jovan stopped at the doorstep and turned around facing Stojanka:
Listen, I dont have to go to Srbinje. Officer Davidovic comes to Ristos house, so Ill
tell him there.
From that moment on, Jovan kept going out onto the meadow, hoping to see
Davidovic. It was only on the third day following his conversation with his wife, somewhere
around noon, that he saw Officer Davidovic getting out of a jeep in front of Ristos house.
Waving his arms, he ran towards him so as to get to him before he entered the house.
Davidovic stopped when he saw him. He couldnt decide how to react, then started walking
towards Jovan:
Why are you waving your arms, Jovan?
Jovan stopped several meters in front of him:
Mister Davidovic, my son Stojan would go after Hamza if you released him from
prison.
Let Stojan say that to the prison warden. He was defending some Muslim in the
concentration camp. He is disgracing all of us. But if he is willing to go after Hamza, well let
him go. I am making a promise to you right now. But with Stojan or without him, we are
going into the forest, so let him see what he wants to do. Now go on home.
Jovan raced back home. When he entered the room, Stojanka was still in bed. Tese
past few days, she hadnt gotten out of bed, but she was anxiously awaiting Jovans response.
When Jovan came in, she raised herself on her elbows and leaned against the wall.
Jovan yelled from the doorstep:
Stojanka, Davidovic will set him free if hes willing to go after Hamza. I am going
straight to the concentration camp. Go to sleep and Ill be back before daylights gone.

XXVII
Towards the end of the summer, the forest stream is clear and cold. Its water flows
without ever running dry or coming to a stop between the leafy banks and the rotten damp
branches. It stubbornly sneaks through the intertwined beech roots or cascades over them and
rushes down the uneven and craggy slopes, as rapid as if it had just begun its journey down
the mountain. In the morning, the fresh spring water easily awakens even those who had
trouble falling asleep during the night and were just lulled to sleep at the point when the night
and the stillness become one. That is the best kind of sleep, just like that of a year-old baby
who fights drowsiness as it is being rocked to sleep and then surrenders. A drowsiness that
comes softly just before the dawn breaks, only the cold spring water can clear. The face is
surprised by the natural coldness and freshness, and one is reminded of the snowy days to
come. Thoughts of the mountains spring to mind, where after snowstorms a flock of birds

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suddenly emerges from thistle bushes and a deer appears out of nowhere. The cold water
evokes memories of the life in nature, where everything flows in cycles.
Around the stream, everything suddenly came to life. The wind caressed the moisture
on the faces of those whose thoughts had been made clear by the water from the stream. The
water was awaking them, and their voices fluttered through the air. The forest dwellers were
emerging from the moss-grown trees and climbing down towards the spring, still lost in a
dream world. And as more approached the spring, their voices became louder:
Assalamu alaikum! Peace be with you!
Alaikumusselam ve rahmetullah. Peace and Allahs mercy be with you!
They bent over the stream, one after another, and washed their hands, faces and feet,
while the water was cascading over the tree roots. They didnt touch either the banks or the
bottom of the stream so that the silt wouldnt be disturbed and flow towards those making
ablutions downstream. The suns rays sneaked through the branches of the forest green, the
dew drops on the leaves flickering under the light and slowly melting away. The water and
sun represent life for some and death for others. Just like the grass in the sun as soon as it
rains, the turf trembles with sudden life and the next day the suns scorching heat brings
things back to where they were In nature everything is in motion, and so is mans life. The
water is healthy when it rushes from the craggy mountain slopes towards the sea, and it is
fetid when its flow stops and it becomes a bog and everyone keeps away from it. Thats how
people are when they dont want to work or seek knowledge; they become murky, like the
bottom of stagnant water, and it is difficult for them to gain clarity unless the water should
begin to flow again.
Its time, a slender young man of middle height spoke, more to himself than for
others to hear him. Lately his thoughts were swarming in his head just like ants, so that sleep
came late. Slender and sinewy, he had strength that was apparent with every motion, but his
dignified manner and has calm were neither pronounced nor negligible. Owing to this as well
as his wisdom, all those making ablutions wished him to speak so that they might listen. It
was as if such an arrangement was the natural way of things, which was good, since anything
determined by people leaves doubt about its righteousness.
They stood lined up for prayer, facing Mecca, and before them was the slender young
man who led the prayer. Raising the tips of his fingers to his ears, he uttered the following
words:
Allahu akbar. God is great! I bear witness that Muhammad is Gods prophet.
Feeling exaltation under the influence of his warm voice, they offered their prayers to
the One and Only God. The guttural voices flowed skyward and into the distance ahead, so
that one could not discern whether the sound of the leaders voice was gentle or strong, or
both at the same time. Everyone felt the sincerity in his voice, and it spread through nature
and their hearts.
God created body and the soul so that both served Him. All were one body, with their
gaze in the direction of the Kiblah, Gods holy temple, and they were one soul, with their
thoughts turned toward Him. Thats where the beauty in their hearts and bodies came from
and in their voices.
They stood barefoot in the glade, one hand clasping the other and resting on their
waist, their heads bowed, residing within themselves, as if time stood still. After pronouncing
the words God is great, they bowed, and their bodies spoke of His might and His mercy.
When they prostrated themselves, they felt insignificant and small and as soon as they lifted
their faces off the ground, they prayed to him to forgive their sins and then humbly touched
the ground with their foreheads again and returned to a sitting position while continuing to
pray.

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They were one body and one soul, here, next to the forest spring. They gently turned
their head left and then right, saying:
May God grant you peace and His blessings.
The twenty-seven men slowly stood up and extended their hands to each other. Their
prayer brought them so close to each other that one could barely hear them:
Asslamu alaikum!
We alaikumusselam ve rahmetullah!
And once again they went to the stream. This time they washed their hands from the
dirt and they washed their faces, and then they washed their feet because they had been
standing on the ground barefoot. They put on their socks and military boots. They were in no
hurry. They were silent and as if it had been planned, they entered deeper into the forest, came
to a clearing between beech trees where a log cabin built of beech timber stood, its logs fitted
without nails. The log cabin and those living in it seemed one with nature. The roof was very
steep so that it didnt leak and around it were dug out trenches. The interior of the cabin had
the scent of freshly cut trees, since it took as much as a year for the timber to dry.
Hamza, what are we doing today? Avdo Subo asked energetically, even though he
saw where everyone else was heading.
The things we do every day.
Ten automatic rifles were leaning against each so that they wouldnt collapse to the
ground. Next to the rifles were two Russian machine-guns.
Avdo, the machine-gun is yours. The dew might make the barrel rust.
What I was trying to tell you Hamza Well, just seven days ago we had only six
ordinary rifles, and now we have submachine guns and light machine-guns. When we stopped
that truck that was going towards Miljevina, by building a barricade, the Serbs fled and left us
everything. We got the weapons without firing a single shot. We have another eighty-eight
automatic rifles and two more light machine-guns, and there are twenty-seven of us. If there
were as many of us as the weapons, there would be no stopping us. But since weve armed
ourselves we havent gone anywhere.
They cleaned the weapons with a rag and oil. They worked without saying anything.
They were used to a quiet existence in a deep forest.
It seemed that the cabin was small, but they were in no need of a bigger one. They had
built benches using squared timber. They had covered them with blankets and slept on them.
Lengthwise, between their makeshift beds, they had placed a wide squared-timber piece for
eating. Hanging on the nails were rifles and the light machine-guns, and on the floor, in the
corner of the cabin, boxes of ammunition were piled on top of each other.
On four sides, one hundred meters above the cabin, placed atop the tallest beech trees
were makeshift sentry-boxes where guards relieved each other every eight hours without
Hamza ever having to remind them. Two of Hamzas men in camouflage uniforms were
watching over two cows in a clearing a little deeper into the forest, while others were
searching for food in the burnt-down and destroyed homes at the foot of the mountain.
During the night, life went on tranquilly in their hearts and in the darkness around the
cabin, while the day was lively with the prayers on their lips offered to Him. One body with
one goal, like the cold spring which grew into a stream and cleared their thoughts just before
the morning prayer and then rushed, gurgling and full of life.
Sometimes Hamza walked over to the guard stations, not to check on the guards but to
walk along the forest paths which converged from all sides. For the past seven days, they had
lived a quiet life and this worried him; there were too few of them and they couldnt hope to
openly battle the Serb soldiers who were far superior in number. They used to have only six
rifles and now they had machine-guns, automatic rifles and many boxes of ammunition, but
they still didnt engage the enemy in the open. Until now they had battled the Serb soldiers

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successfully by ambushing them on their way back from burning a village to the ground, but
that didnt qualify as fighting, since the Serb soldiers would flee while firing their weapons.
The fighters trusted Hamza who said they should surprise the Serb soldiers, because in
that case it didnt matter how many soldiers or weapons were on either side. The element of
surprise was a potent weapon; they would sneak up on the Serb soldiers by crawling along the
ground and Hamza would ask the Serbs to surrender. However only a small number of them
would likely do so, most would be so afraid that theyd run. Those Serbs who surrendered to
Hamza would be let go without any questions asked as soon as they were stripped of their
weapons.
XXVIII
Stojan had just got back from the construction site when Buri barged into his room. He
arrogantly opened the door and haughtily, while looking at the ceiling window, spoke:
Dont bother changing. Your father is waiting for you at the gate.
Stojans blood rushed through his veins. He was angered by Buris visit, but the news
about his father calmed him down.
Buri avoided Stojans gaze.
Ever since you brutally beat Rasim, I have become a concentration camp inmate,
Stojan said to him. And youre even taking me to the construction site.
Never mind that, Turk. Your father is waiting for you.
In his working clothes Stojan rushed down the stairs, along the length of the hallway
and towards the main gate. In front of the gate he was met by the guard on duty who opened
the door to the adjacent room. Jovan was sitting on a bench, stooped-shouldered and looking
much older. He was absent-mindedly staring at his feet when the door opened. Seeing him in
such a condition, Stojan seemed to snap out of a dream. He spoke:
My Jovan
Jovan could barely sat up straight and supporting himself with his hands on the back
of the bench, he slowly stood. He finally spoke:
Stojan.
The guard interrupted them:
Hurry up, youve got twenty minutes.
Stojan hugged his father for the first time in his life. When they sat down on the bench,
Jovan rested his gaze on his son. Stojan was tall and handsome, with dark black hair, a high
forehead and long arms. Even in the concentration camp, he looked better than Jovan in his
best days. Its just that he wasnt that same Stojan with a well-groomed appearance and gentle
hands, the way he was when he first arrived in Celebici, but someone rougher, who had
fought in a war and was now working on a construction site.
Jovan, we dont have much time, speak.
Listen, Stojan your imprisonment is killing us, we have aged overnight. Stojanka is
bedridden; she isnt even walking around the house anymore. No one visits us anymore.
But they did come when they needed you. I was burning Muslim villages, but when I
refused to give them the money, I found myself in a concentration camp. Now Im a traitor
too.
I know that, all too well. But this isnt doing you or us any good. Listen, Stojanka
wants you to go after Hamza. I talked to Officer Davidovic, and he said that theyll let you out
if you go into the forest. The Serb soldiers are getting ready to attack Gorazde, and those who
remain will go after Hamza. There are few of them and a lot of us. That would be the best
thing for you too, and for Stojanka and myself.
I didnt want to go after Hamza as a kind of punishment, you know that. But now,
there is no choice. Im having a hard time here too; the guards are turning their heads away

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from me. They are taking me to the construction site even on Sundays. What did Davidovic
say, who do I need to see?
The warden.
Good.
XXIX
In one engagement with the enemy, Hamzas men captured a Serb soldier who had
been mobilized in Belgrade and sent to Foca with the rest of the volunteers. All the Serb
soldiers fled when Hamza asked them to surrender except this soldier who waited for Hamza
with his hands in the air. He couldve escaped as well, but he waited. Hamza told his men to
disarm him but not tie his hands, and he invited the Serb soldier to join the column of men.
The prisoner nodded in agreement, and the men led him deeper into the forest in the direction
of the cabin. He breathed heavily, a little from fear and a little because he was out of breath
from walking. Tall and skinny, he barely moved his long legs. He wasnt the athletic type, and
such men found it easier to bear the burden of loneliness than to grapple with the world
outside. He had a bald head with grey sideburns and looked to be a little over the age of thirty,
but if someone were to observe his appearance and the way he walked, they would assume
that he was over fifty. Its not too hard to wrongly guess the age of a lonely man.
When they arrived at the stream, he knelt down to get a drink while Hamza and his
fighters waited.
He suddenly got up, as if he had snapped out of a reverie, and as he turned around to
face Hamza, he spoke:
Im not Serbian. I am Vejsil Sudic, I only live in Serbia. My parents moved there
from Travnik. My father is an officer so they transferred him to Belgrade. Men in civilian
clothes picked me up in a restaurant and took me to a garrison where they changed my
documents and gave me some with a Serbian name. They told me that they would take care of
my family, and they also told me that they would give me back my documents once we
liberate Foca.
Everyone looked at Hamza whose countenance revealed that he wasnt surprised by
what the prisoner had just said. Taking his time, Hamza asked him:
Youre not Serbian? How are we to trust you?
I was born in Travnik, and thats where I was circumcised.
Hamza exchanged glances with his fighters who were standing in a semi-circle around
them, and then he spoke to Avdo and Zahir:
Take him away and find out. The rest of you chop some firewood and bring it here.
Then Hamza looked towards the sky and said:
Tonight is going to be cold, just so you know.
Avdo and Zahir took the prisoner into the forest just above the cabin, and Hamz bent
over the stream and started washing his face. The breeze was blowing over his wet face, and
he felt a soothing coolness which agreed with his tranquil state of mind. Just as he finished
washing his face, laughter was heard from the forest along with Avdos voice:
Hamza, its true!
Avdo and Zahir rushed down the hill, and the prisoner followed, but not laughing, as if
they hadnt been talking about him.
Other fighters gathered around Hamza. Hamza opened his arms wide:
My brother, peace be with you and let me embrace you.
Other fighters hugged Vejsil after which he faced Hamza again, as if everything was
coming back to him. With incredulity, he kept looking at this young, slender man who wasnt
very tall but whose countenance exuded dignity and solemnity. Hamza radiated safety and

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calmness, a man who trusted his instinct. Vejsil looked at him pensively while the others were
silent, and then he spoke:
Youre Hamza?
Yes I am, was Hamzas short response.
Vejsil stood with his arms akimbo, bent over slightly but still holding his head up. He
said:
The Serb soldiers are so afraid of you, and yet you are so young and gentle.
Why are they afraid of me?
You attack them out of the blue, and they never know when youll ambush them.
They even frighten each other with your name. Once, Serb soldiers from two different units
ran into each other on the road, not too far from the forest, and each unit thinking that they ran
into you, started shooting at each other and running in opposite directions. Six soldiers on
both sides were killed. Since that time, the Serbs talk about you a lot, and everything that
happens to them they ascribe to Hamza.
I know, they are afraid of our resistance.
On one occasion, forty Serb soldiers were killed near Miljevina, and since that time,
everyone is afraid to go on a mission.
But let me ask you this. While others were running away, you waited for us with your
hands up in the air, and you couldve escaped.
I wanted to surrender to you.
So you wouldnt be with the Serbs any more?
I am a Muslim, and I have to set Muslim homes on fire and kill Muslims.
Thats the only reason?
Not just that
What is it then?
Its been ten days since Officer Davidovic mustered two hundred Serb soldiers to
liquidate you and your men.
Such silence ensued that only the gurgle of the stream was heard.
And?
Theyve already searched the entire forest on Kmur. They started combing the forest
frontally from both sides. They are armed with new Russian sub-machine guns for combat in
the forest. They are using nitroglycerine grenades with which they are burning everything in
front of them. I surrendered mostly so that I could warn you.
And why would we be hiding on Kmur?
That was just a drill. They know where youre hiding.
How?
Theyve sent large number of villagers into the forest. If theres anyone who knows
where youre hiding, it is officer Davidovic.
And what will you do now? If you want, you can go back. My men will show you the
way.
I dont want to go back. I want to come with you.
Then lets go. Let us show you our cabin.
Avdo, Zahir and the other fighters took Vejsil to the cabin and showed him the long
bench where he was to spend the night. Vejsil was surprised to see so much space inside and
he liked the stove the fighters had built using a barrel, but he was most excited by seeing the
guns hanging on the nails and the boxes with ammunition.
This is more important to you than life itself, he said.
Vejsil got the tour of the makeshift guarding platforms that were set up high on the
tallest beech trees. Imitating the chirping of birds, the guards relieved each other every two
hours, two by two. Those guards who climbed down the beech trees were surprised to see

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Vejsil, but on their way to the cabin they learned everything. Vejsil was surprised to see with
what ease the fighters moved along the uneven forest paths, and they were surprised to see
him lose his breath so quickly.
In two hours of walking in a big circle, they toured all four guarding stations, but
Vejsil wasnt concerned about fatigue. He asked the guards:
Can you see the Serb soldiers before they enter the forest?
We cant, but we can sense their presence about one hundred meters away from our
guarding posts. We would climb down the trees very quickly and ran over to our guys.
This didnt satisfy Vejsil.
As soon as they got back Vejsil went to Hamza, who was sitting alone on a log near
the spring.
Listen, Hamza, the guarding posts must be at the edge of the forest.
Hamza was looking at the water without even turning his head.
I know, Vejsil. Apart from the guards wed have seven scouts. Well discuss it
tomorrow. Dusk is falling.
Following the prayer, they gathered in the cabin where an old petrol lamp, hanging on
a rafter, was flickering. The lamp swayed a little so that its light threw shadows on the
weapons hung on the nails. The light flickered with varied intensity as if playing in the
evening tranquility. The fighters were silent, their heads hanging low, and Hamza watched the
dancing shadows and occasionally looked towards the door.
After everyone else had come in, Avdo and Vejsil joined them and sat on the bench
next to the door. Avdo handed a piece of crumpled paper to Hamza:
Hamza, this is what Vejsil showed me.
And what is this Vejsil?
A letter we received when we were leaving Serbia.
And what does it say?
Shall I read it?
Go ahead.
Avdo took the lamp off the rafter and placed it on the bench, next to Vejsil who began
to read:
Maybe these goals seem difficult and unattainable to you. Remember the famous
struggle for liberation under the leadership of Karadjordje when Serbia was full of Turks. In
Belgrade and other Serb towns, Muslim minarets were piercing the sky and next to them the
Turks were performing their stinking ablutions, just as they are doing it now in the Serb
Bosnia and Herzegovina. Hundreds of thousands of Muslims had inundated our homeland.
But take a stroll through Serbia today. You will not find a single Turk, you wont even find
their graves, not one single tombstone, because the Serbian people have wiped their ancient
foes off the face of this earth a long time ago. That is the proof and the best guarantee that we
shall endure in our struggle and that we shall eradicate the Turks from the remaining regions.
Not a single Muslim will remain among us.
There, Ive read it, Vejsil spoke.
Avdo hung the lamp back on the rafter.
Everyone was silent waiting for Hamza; he smiled in a dignified manner and asked:
Vejsil, you received that in the army barracks in Serbia?
They made copies for everyone.
Do you know where that text comes from?
No I dont.
Thats a part of the letter Draza Mihailovic sent to Golub Mitrovic, one of his
commanders. They are distributing it among the Serb soldiers in Bosnia so as to encourage
them into thinking that there wont be a single Muslim grave or a tombstone left in Bosnia.

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Others receive parts of The Mountain Wreath. Before it was Karadjordje, and now it is
Karadzic who is liberating the Serb from the Muslims.
Vejsil was surprised by what he heard, but he was even more amazed by the
knowledge Hamza possessed and how he put everything in simple terms. Therefore, he
couldnt resist asking:
Tell me something, Hamza. Youre the youngest one here. Perhaps youre as much as
fifteen years younger than me. Where did you learn all that, and how did you know who wrote
this letter? All right, let me reveal something to you I, like my father, graduated from the
military academy and I was at the top of my class.
And you dont work in the army?
I cant live without comfort and my own space, and there they enforce discipline and
exercise. I got a job in a retail company. What Im trying to say to you, Hamza, is that I didnt
know anything about these things you just mentioned.
Hamza replied calmly:
Listen here Vejsil, we know everything about everything except our own selves. We
dont know a thing about Muslim history, culture and religion, nor do we know anything
about the history of the Orthodox people, their culture and religion. These two are closely
related so, for our own good, we need to know both. The Serbs know about the one and not
the other, and the Muslims dont know anything about the Serbs or their own. For years, my
father forced me to read about these things.
Thousands of us set out from Serbia to Bosnia.
Do you see how Draza himself reminds us how minarets rose to the sky in Belgrade?
Hundreds of thousands of Muslims, he said, inundated their homeland. And stroll through
Serbia today, and you will not find a single Turk. Karadzic would like to write similar letters,
how at one time Bosnia was full of Turks and how now there are none. Let me explain
something to you. The Serbs have a national program which leaves no room for Muslims and
all non-Serbs, and they are gradually realizing this program. As far back as 1844, they started
with Nacertanije and continued with Homogenious Serbia and then the Memorandum
of 1986 followed. Every one of their programs took hundreds of thousands of Muslim lives.
Now the Serbs wish to carve out a Greater Serbia out of Yugoslavia that would encompass
Serbia, Montenegro, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Srijem and Backa. Then they would massacre
the Muslims in Sanjak. This life of ours appears to belong to us, but it is planned for us to
disappear. Others are determining who we are and which language we speak.
Visibly disturbed, everyone stared at Hamza. He used to talk about Serb insurrections
against Muslims, whom the Serb call Turks, but never before had his words carried such
weight, so that now everyone was looking at him, not able to utter a word. They couldnt
understand how Hamza managed to discuss all of this with them so calmly, as if it had
nothing to do with them. They were disturbed by what they heard, but they had no idea what
to ask and how to ask it. It was then that a voice came from the door:
Hamza, what you are saying is that we are going to disappear?
Hamza looked in the direction of the door.
I am talking to you about us, Muslims, and what the Serbs have planned for us. Your
grandfathers used to tell you how the Serbs were slaughtering us in the last war on the
Zeljezni Bridge, and Ive read in books about how they massacred us even before that. Thats
genocide, and the goal is to wipe us out, as it had been planned in those national programs
which are now being realized. The letter Vejsil just read to us talks about it. As far as Serbia is
concerned, only the Muslims of Sanjak remain. What is happening to us today is the direct
result of that Memorandum written by the Serb professors.
Zahir, who stood next to the door, asked:
What kind of people are Serbs?

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Youve seen it for yourselves. We grew up with them. We shared the good and the
bad, and then they entered our homes to massacre our children. How is it that the Serbs
changed overnight? Their church, their academics and those in power are doing everything so
that the nationalistic hatred of Njegos and Andric becomes mass hatred of the Serbian people
towards Muslims, so that even their children in schools have to know some part of the
Mountain Wreath by heart. When the time comes, our neighbours turn against us, even
though weve been good to them. The Serbs will live with their neighbours in harmony for
years, but at the same time they live with their myths and with their made-up history which
they pass on with their Balkan folk tales. Remember, all of this is in their programs, even the
part about living in good relations with the Muslims so that they may get to know them well
and then rise against them when their Serb leaders ask them to do so.
And what about the Muslims? Zahir asked again.
We have been writhing in pain through everything that has happened to us, and once
the pain subsides, we forget everything. And after each and every suffering we endure, we
once again trust our neighbour and open our hearts to them.
XXX
Only Hamzas voice was heard in the log cabin. Every word hit them hard. His words
expressed what theyd been feeling deep inside but no one had ever talked to them about it.
The light from the lamp was still flickering, playing with the shadows inside the log cabin.
Silence. Everyone was quiet, and then Vejsil asked in an even louder voice:
All right Hamzy, does that mean that were going to be slaughtered as well? So, Serbs
have this plan which they are fulfilling, and we are a part of this plan. Can Muslims resist
these programs? For instance, in the days to come, we are about to be attacked by two
hundred Serb soldiers. Can we hold out against them? And what can the Muslims do anyhow?
Except writhing in pain from massacre to massacre.
Im glad you asked that, Vejsil. Youve asked whether were going to be slaughtered.
We wont! Why! We wouldve been had we surrendered our weapons and remained in our
homes. Every single one of us defended ourselves with weapons and shot back at the Serbs,
and now they are afraid of us. They know that I will greet them with my rifle and that I wont
surrender. Thats why theyre afraid of me, and they scare each other using my name. We
escaped their plan because we refused to bow our heads to the tip of their knives. Thats why
the Serbs wont massacre us. Let the two hundred Serb soldiers come. We wont run. We will
attack them first. When the evil comes, one shouldnt wait for it but should meet it head on.
When the army from Mecca was making its way towards Badr, Prophet Muhammad, peace be
upon him, went to meet that army that was three times bigger than his, and he was victorious.
Muslims must not get used to the massacres. They must defend their lives with guns and not
walk in a single file towards the bridge. Every single one of them must defend the land they
live in and not run away and let others defend it for them. Imagine if the Muslims had dug out
trenches around every village they lived in. And if we had a single chain of command. Not a
single Serb would dare enter any village. I told my men how, during the last war, two
Muslims defended the village of Kunovo from the Chetniks for days. And they survived. We
must not accept genocide. Those who fled the Serb blade must tell their story, wherever in the
world they may be, so that everyone knows, and the world politicians can condemn these
massacres. So that the Serbs are tried for their crimes. And we must defend our lives, and
thats the only way well defend Bosnia. Thats why the Muslims must find a way to defend
themselves together. We have been forgetting everything that has been happening to us.
Remember the letter Vejsil read to you. At one time there used to be mosques in Serbia, but

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Karadjordje burned them to the ground. Those mosques that are left are in Bosnia and now
they are being burned to the ground by Milosevic and Karadzic.
And why do the Serbs take a slaughtered sheep to the wolf in the forest?
According to the stories from the past, to the wolf belongs its sacrifice. The wolf is
bloodthirsty, and it slaughters the sheep in the pen and drinks their blood. It slaughters all the
sheep in the pen and is so satiated with blood, it doesnt even touch the meat. The sheep are
disturbed but being inside the pen, they have nowhere to go, so they simply wait for their
executioner. But even if they werent penned, they would still wait for the wolf, and because
the sheep always wait for the wolf, the Serbs say that the sheep belong to the wolf, as its
sacrifice. And know this, during these times, the Serbs remember the old customs. Ask
yourselves, why do the Serbs need the wolf and the sheep now? Anyway, you men would
listen to me till dawn, but its time for the last evening prayer. Bring the lamp to the stream
and may Allah give us peaceful sleep so that we may wake up well rested.
Amen!
XXXI
Nothing worse can happen to a weary traveller in autumn then to have the rain enter
his bones and the wind from Maglic invade his body, and its even worse if he has to make it
down the mountain and into the village before dark. If it rained hard or if the gale was
blowing, no driver wanted to pull his truck loaded with lumber to the side of the road. But the
deep muddy ruts could not be avoided, and huge rocks and old beech trees with a tangle of
roots were washed down the slope by the murky waters. These roots could easily become
tangled in the engine. There were days when the rain storms were so intense that visibility
was zero, and the driver and his passengers would sit in the trucks cabin and wait for the rain
and the wind to abate. This could last until evening. They wouldnt be able to continue, nor
would they be able to go back. And night inside the cabin was marked by encroaching fear.
They were alone and felt that everything was descending upon them, and they were blind to
their surroundings, so they simply waited. The gale would sway and uproot the trees
slamming against the truck but it couldnt quite overturn the truck because the lumber was
heavy and took away from the winds fury and strength. Deep in the forest, one could hear the
branches and tree limbs being torn off and the yelping of the terrified animals. Along the
ground, the roaring of the whirlwind could be heard and the coldness in the drivers cabin
could be felt in ones bones.
The season when the autumn will paint the forest yellow and denude the trees of their
green covering is upon us, and that is worse for us than the wind and the rain, Hamza
thought to himself while he was walking with Vejsil along the fringe of the Velika Poljana, a
green pasture at the edge of the forest where no one ventured any more. He seemed to hear
someone whispering to him that the Serb army would look for him in the forests of Maglic.
He sensed it but he couldnt figure from whence they would come.
It is still early for the whirlwinds and rainstorms, and the easiest way for them to get
to the Velika Poljana is by trucks, even though thats the long way. They will most likely
come close to the forest and then after falling into ranks and receiving instructions, they will
move frontally. They will move deep into the forest and in front, they wil be protected by the
trees. However, they are afraid of being ambushed so they wont set out with trucks but will
take a guide who will take them in a single file along the forest paths, Hamza thought to
himself.
His thoughts were interrupted by Vejsil, who was pointing towards a hill just below the
field from whence a forest path climbed and meandered along the hill before taking a sharp
turn towards their position.

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Hamza, I know what youre thinking. Theyre sure of themselves. They know that we
dont have anti-armoured weapons with which we can hit their trucks. They will set out at
night, and before they arrive at Velika Poljana, they will turn off their headlights so that our
scouts cant see them.
And if they take the shortcut?
Davidovic is an old officer. If some Serb villager has discovered your whereabouts
and knows the location of your log-cabin and the guarding posts, then Davidovic will order
him to take them along the forest path so that they may circle around you and come at us from
behind. But we are deep in the forest where people dont venture. The Serb villagers have
surely noticed where you head following your battles, and thats all they need. They know
which mountain we are hiding on and thats enough information for them. I still have some of
that officers instinct in me.
While Vejsil was talking, Hamzas gaze climbed to the peaks of Maglic and descended
along the tortuous path, and then he spoke:
It would be sheer madness if they chose to come in their truck. Our guards will
construct makeshift guard posts on the tallest beech trees, and they will see and hear them.
Listen to me, Hamza. We will dig trenches along the edges of the Velika Poljana,
forming a semicircle around the field, and Avdo and Zahir can set up their machine-guns at
each end so that we will have a flanking fire, while the others will set up between them. Let
the scouts set up guarding posts on those hillocks next to the road. All this should be done
now.
Lowering clouds were gathering above the peaks of Maglic and dimming the daylight,
when the two started walking towards the forest.
I just hope there wont be any rain and wind, Hamza was offering a silent prayer to
Allah.
XXXII
If someone had taken a peek through the window of the Radovics house, he would
have seen the aged Stojanka and Jovan speaking to each other in hushed tones and bending
over a bed where their son Stojan slept soundly. They were watching him closely, and when
they werent close enough, they stooped over him so that they wouldnt miss anything. Jovan
held Stojanka by the shoulder, and she quietly whispered to him. Then they would slowly pull
themselves upright and walk towards the door. And as soon as Jovan opened the bedroom
door, Stojanka turned back towards Stojans bed.
Stojan came home from the concentration camp late, but his parents were waiting for
him. Jovan had kept himself busy by doing something around the house. Even though it was
dark, he would walk down into the cellar and switch the light on, then make his way to the
glade, all this to avoid seeing Stojankas torment as she awaited her sons arrival. She still
didnt believe that their son would come. And just as Jovan was bending over Stojanka who
was lying in her bed, their bedroom door opened. Stojan walked in wearing a camouflage
uniform. Not hearing the door open, Stojanka stared at the whiteness of the ceiling but Jovan
turned around:
My son!
Jovan and Stojanka, my Stojan barely whispered the words.
While Stojanka was trying to lift herself up, Stojan walked up and bent over to hug
her, while crying softly. Stojanka righted herself and extended her arms towards Stojan. He
wept when he saw her doddering and demented.
Jovan also wept.
And then Stojanka asked: Are you going after Hamza?
I am, Stojan could barely speak.
My Radovic, Stojanka whispered.

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Stojan began to tremble. Stojanka didnt once ask how he managed at the
concentration camp. Only Hamza and the Radovic clan were on her mind.
Stojan faced Jovan:
Im going to sleep. Tomorrow, the Serb army will gather in front of our house before
dawn. The trucks will be here even earlier. Jovan, do you still have any of that brandy of
yours?
I do.
Offer it to the troops before they leave for their mission. Officer Davidovic told me
that the more respected Serbs will get together on your meadow so that they may announce
that Foca has been liberated. Do you have any brandy for them?
I do.
Get all the men of the village together and set up those wooden tables on the meadow.
Davidovic wants it done.
Good.
Now Im going to sleep.
Jovan walked Stojan to his room, talking quietly so that Stojanka wouldnt hear:
Stojan, listen to my advice. Do not try to distinguish yourself. To hell with the Serb
grandeur and the Radovic clan. God forbid you should lose your legs. Then, everyone would
stay away from our house again, so that they wouldnt have to watch the poor old hero
Radovic.
I know that Jovan.
We wont turn the light off, Stojanka wont allow it.
As soon as Stojan fell asleep, Stojanka and Jovan quietly walked into the room.
XXXIII
The path twisted along the hills, and the warbling of birds rose in the direction of the
field, echoing towards the mountain peak. As if it were playing with the mountain, the forest
path zigzagged around its peaks; once it reached one of the peaks, it descended to the foot of
the slope, and then it would snake towards another peak. One could not perform a straight
climb along the craggy slopes and to the top of the mountain, and the path had to be trodden
in meandering fashion.
This particular morning, the rumbling of old engines, along with a deafening sound of
overheated engines, as if someone was revving the engine while the vehicle was standing,
seven heavy trucks arduously moved along the road. Each time the trucks negotiated a turn in
the mountain road, it seemed that the rest of the truck would separate from the drivers cabin
and overturn and roll off the road. But the trucks crawled along the uphill road and with each
and every turn they slowly rolled towards the plateau on top of the mountain. Once they
reached the lower part of the field, they took the longest road along the rising ground because
it had no turns.
In a clump of trees, next to the Velika Poljana, from whence one could survey the road
with all its turns, stood Hamza and Vejsil camouflaged with branches. They observed
everything in disbelief. Hamza let out a sigh:
Vejsil, you were not mistaken.
Davidovic is under the impression that we are afraid to attack such a force. And it
was your idea, Hamza, to come out and fight them.
Their eyes followed fighters who were running to their positions along the edge of the
forest.
There, Vejsil, the scouts have arrived. Now everyone is in the trenches.
Hamza, dont let anyone fire until you give the signal.

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Things will go as you said they would. They will enter the Velika Poljana with their
trucks, and we have surrounded it with our trenches. Once they form into ranks and move
frontally, Ill ask them to surrender. But they wont surrender.
No, out of fear, they will start shooting.
Then I will give my men the signal.
It will be a short battle, Hamza. They can only escape the crossfire by running down
the hill. The most important thing is that we surprise them and that we keep firing so that they
stay pinned to the ground. Everything else we leave to their fear. Lets go into the trench.
XXXIV
As they approached the Velika Poljana, the trucks pulled to the right and stopped
adjacently to each other. Spreading before them was the wide pasture. The Serb soldiers
jumped off the trucks and with their weapons in their hands ran deep into the pasture, where
their officers were waiting for them to fall into formation. Everyone was in a hurry to get
started before morning gave way to day, since they had to be back in the trucks before dark.
In just a few minutes, two hundred soldiers lined up into two rows and waited for their
orders. One of the officers spread out a map on the grass and showed the soldiers the
coordinates on the mountain, reminding them of the details of their mission. Suddenly, a
voice was heard from the forest:
Davidovic, surrender! You are surrounded! Throw down your weapons!
The Serb soldiers blood ran cold, but they instinctively threw themselves on the
ground and once in a prone position, they started firing from their automatic rifles in the
direction of the forest where the voice came from. Bursts of fire from various weapons
reverberated over the Velika Poljana, butr the Serbs were firing out of fear, and they werent
even trying to look ahead and locate the enemy. They fired incessantly and hurriedly changed
the clips on their automatic weapons.
And while they were lying in the pasture, they were suddenly rained upon with a
shower of bullets from all sides. Like an onslaught of hail on open ground that cannot miss, so
too the bullets hit their mark. Like so many whizzing wasps, the bullets converged on the men
from every direction. The Serb soldiers were no longer firing. Because of the immense fear
that overwhelmed them, they clustered into a huddle, somehow trying to protect themselves
from the angry and stinging wasps that were swarming them from all sides.
All this lasted for only a few moments. The sound of gunfire had barely subsided wen
a voice was heard:
Davidovic, weve got you in our gun-sights! Pick up your dead and the wounded,
load them up on your trucks and go back!
The soldiers were no longer listening to their officers. There was a pile of bodies in the
blood-soaked pasture, and they heard the painful groans of the wounded.
Davidovics voice was heard: Get all the wounded and the dead into the trucks!
XXXV
Before noon, the residents of Celebici set up the wooden tables on Jovans meadow
and covered the head table with the blue tablecloths embroidered with black eagles and
fringed with white lace. Once again Stojanka took out the icons sent from St. Nicholas
Church, among them those that were at one time housed in the church in Kaursko Polje. Some
of the gilded icons were gifts from rich merchants of Foca, and were kept in the Church.
Jovan had received them from priest Sekula. Behind the head table was a wall built from
planks which the residents of Celebici covered with white tablecloths which the women of
Celebici had embroidered with dates in Serb history. A stone statue of the wolf was brought

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out from Ristos house and placed atop a table that stood near the head table and the wooden
wall. Everything was there again except the old man Radoje.
And this time around, Jovans orchard around the meadow was dreary and bleak; the
fruit-trees were still suffering from the assault of the drunken men when so many branches
that used to offer shade were broken. Now, only a few odd branches had plums and apples.
The brandy was brought out from Jovans cellar, and the meat was brought out from
Ristos house.
Around noon, the more prominent guests began to arrive from the town and the
surrounding villages to celebrate the liberation of Srbinje, but there werent enough to even
fill the head table, and they didnt arrive openly and comfortably. Instead, they sneaked in as
if not wishing to be seen, so that they appeared as dreary and gloomy as Jovans orchard.
They were worried and werent saying anything. Everyone was tormented by his own share of
troubles. They embraced each other three times as quickly as they could, in a hurry to move
away and sit at their respective tables as rapidy as possible. And as each guest arrived, his
gaze only rested on his table.
In a lit room of Jovans house, Stojan was lying with a bandaged head, and Stojanka
was sitting at his side. Stojan had come to for the first time since a bullet on the Velika
Poljana blew away a tuft of hair and a bone fragment from his skull. Stojan woke up and saw
Stojanka. She crossed herself, saying:
Thank God youre alive, Stojan!
Im alive
Stojan fell silent, remembering something; he looked at Stojanka and barely got the
words out:
Listen Stojanka. Hamza couldve had all of us killed, but he didnt.
Ive heard, everyone is talking about it. But everyone is also saying that someone
warned Hamza. On your way back, someones rifle fired by accident and wounded you in the
head.
I remember one officer from Serbia who was sitting next to me. How is it that he, an
officer, would let his gun misfire? Those in the church know why they sent me. The Serbs
dont forgive when it comes to money matters. But, Stojanka, I dont think you heard me well
Hamza couldve killed us all.
Listen, Stojan, what is more important at this moment, these things youre saying or
that some Brankovic told Hamza to ambush you on the Velika Poljana? You listen to me. I
will tell you what is the most important thing now, since I know the Serbs of Celebici better
than anyone. You are now Radovic from Celebici wounded in battle against the Turks and you
need to stick to that. And never mind Hamza, theyll go after him again. Just so you know,
Ive told Officer Davidovic to use our contacts and bring your sons Savo and Dusan to
Srbinje, because you wont be fighting this war anymore. The doctor said that the bullet went
all the way to your brain.
Stojans face became flushed while Stojanka was speaking. He was breathing with
difficulty. Then he pushed his head back into the pillow and closed his eyes in hope of feeling
some pain, just so he didnt have to think about what Stojanka was saying. The dull pain came
quickly and sank into the abyss of darkness, where reality stopped. Numb with pain, he felt
like someone was cutting him to pieces, but he opened his eyes only to see Stojanka above
him.
Stojanka, he said, get out of the room I can no longer look at you.
What is the matter with you?
Get out!
He closed his eyes again, lifting his head from the pillow. The pain was abating as
Stojanka left the room.

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Suddenly, outside on the meadow, the silence was broken by yelling and shouting,
clouds colliding before a rainstorm. The clamour became louder, shaking the walls and the
foundations of Jovans house.
Is this the pain coming back? Stojan thought to himself. But he only felt that his
head was becoming numb. There was no pain.
Or am I just imagining things? he thought.
What was that? he asked himself. Where is Jovan?
With great difficulty he raised himself to his feet and walked toward the window.
Just then, Jovan ran into the room. Stojan turned around and opened up his arms to
embrace his father, but Jovan quickly threw himself on his knees and bending over, reached
two automatic rifles from under the bed. He handed one to Stojan:
Stojan, our guys attacked Officer Kovacevic from Serbia; theyre saying that he
betrayed the Serb army on the Velika Poljana. His men are defending him. We should have the
rifles handy.
Stojan took the rifle and stood at the window.
Jovan, those men wont be coming over here. They will soon be joined by blood. Its
up to us to wait. This too will pass. They will bring Savo and Dusan into this chaos. And Ill
be lying in bed like Nedjo. Stojanka will embolden them. You will be bringing out the
brandy.
Officer Kovacevic and his men pulled out their knives.
God, help the Serbs, Stojan kept repeating the words of priest Sekula.

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