Adil B., 59
Žepa, Bosnia-Herzegovina
“And it was one room, one space, with 34 men, at the same time, their heads over here and their feet over here, and here were their heads and there were their feet, and their feet are like here, there, mixed up. We can’t turn around or tip over. Did they chase us around to work? No they didn’t. We just needed to lay there, we weren’t allowed to stand on our feet. We just laid there. And that was the camp.”
Interview originally conducted in BCS
So, first—what’s your name?
My name is Adil B. I was born on January 1, 1962 in Žepa, in the municipality of Rogatica. I survived the war, I survived the camps. I was in a camp for six months and from the camp I came to America and that’s where I am now.
In Žepa, the war started from the beginning of June 1992. We had a lot of refugees [and] displaced people… it was hard for food. There were people who died of hunger, and now, in Žepa, there are graves where they buried the hungry who died. We fled our house in June, we didn’t come back for six months. No one did. We were on a mountain called Bukovik, [which was] shelled. A lot of houses were destroyed from grenades. A lot of people were wounded and killed.
After 6 months, we returned to our house. We were there the whole winter, but we were shelled non-stop and we were cut-off from everything. No one could leave nor could we really do anything. We only had the food that we could make in the fields. Again, in summer, there was a big attack… 13 [people] were slaughtered, early in the morning.
[This] one woman was wounded for 3 days in the woods and was bleeding, [and] her wounds were getting worse. Luckily, Žepljaci found her and transferred her to Sarajevo in a helicopter to be treated and cured (She died recently). But, her two sons, two grandsons, two granddaughters, and two daughters-in-law were slaughtered. All in the same place. Two or three days later, we found the head of one of them somewhere, and then [we found] another and another.
And that’s where we survived ’93. With great hunger. The people of Žepa walked by foot to Srebrenica, twelve hours through the woods, and brought hybrid corn [back].
Once, in exchange for five kilograms of corn, we gave our cow—which cost 2,000 marks—but we gave it up for five kilograms of corn.
Later the United Nations came to Žepa and proclaimed that it was a protected zone, but that didn’t mean anything—We were shelled every day, as usual. Attacks happened regularly, from Bokšanice, Laza, Stoborana and the Radava mountains.
We fought the way they fought—we fought back.
While [the shelling] was happening, they [the UN, other countries] started bringing us humanitarian aid— Three kilograms of flour for one person every 15 days. And later, American planes started throwing down food to us at night. We went to [the woods] to catch the food so that we could survive. And in 1995, Žepa fell and Srebrenica fell. And… eh in Srebrenica, that we know, the genocide that happened there and… how many people disappeared? I don’t know the exact number but I see on YouTube 7-8-9 thousand? I don’t know exactly.
Srebrenica fell and people were coming to Žepa... alive but slaughtered.
[There was someone] that if they swallowed a drop of water, it would immediately come out of their throat and the wound would open...the throat would be open.
Žepa also fell. And [when that happened], this courier came and he said that the army was coming to Žepa, to the center of Žepa, to come do evacuations by bus, which I... I saw...that they were evacuating the people.
My child was taken off with the convoy... harassed... I think I died from that. That’s the biggest regret to me, my biggest sorrow...
We were there and the commander came to take us to Serbia. [He said] that our lives were 100% safe. Some really were... some weren’t. Mine was secure, I survived.
They took us. We were at the Drina [River] for three days—in the Drina—and there were grenades there too. As for our families—we didn’t know where they were, what they were doing, nor [the reason] why we didn’t know anything. On the fourth day, we crossed the Drina on this board across the river, and we climbed higher to some rocks, the twelve of us for three days. When we crossed, the twelve of us, we were climbing from one boulder to another, we had to cross between two boulders and it was very narrow, and there were two rifles turned toward us and they were cursing us… “balja materina” and pointing guns at us.
And they beat us down...we don’t have anything, you don’t have anything. When we climbed higher, maybe another 15-20 meters, all the people who had passed over the past three days were waiting there. It was already dark. There was a shed made out of wood and in that one shed there was someone fighting. Slapping was heard… shooting. One of them kicked him and he flew out of the side of the shed into the outside.
They brought those war dogs, those big ones, and they brought a reflector with big lights, and they pointed it at us the whole night…
We didn’t know where we were. We had already entered Serbia, on the Serbian side [of the Drina], and they now ruled over us however they wanted. And one guy said, “Brico, you’re in charge of everything, and if one tries to escape after the shooting, kill them all.”
We may have been cared for okay… [there were] around 200 to 250 people. They brought us to Jagoštica. It was already morning. We were there and from there they put us in these little trucks under tarps and they drove… we didn’t know where [we were], we were bound, under a tarp, we can’t see anything, we’re just going, they said where we were going but we didn’t know. Where? We don’t know anything. Then they brought [us] to a place called Šljivovica. We were there…. I was there 24 hours. After 24 hours, there was harassment, fighting… there was fighting, broken arms… they killed…
They killed. They made fun of us however they wanted. After 24 hours, you came to the door and they called [someone up] by first and last name, and that was the order and on me, they called me too and I went out there and they gathered us maybe 30-40 in a line. Then they put us on a bus and when you looked up, there were a lot of buses. I was in one bus… and I never… we didn’t eat, we didn’t have anything to give, nor did they ask us about anything. And we got on the bus and there was a guy who gave us we got half a piece of bread and one container of fish. Someone drove us wherever they drove us (it was night), the city was… we didn’t know it, nothing. We weren’t allowed to lift our heads, to look around, we just bowed our heads.
They brought us to a place called Mitrovo, a field. There, there were two buildings, like some children’s summer camps, and there I spent six full months. I was there for six whole months. We were able to eat once daily and even then it was very little… [at] 9:30am and it was some milk with some crumbled bread. That’s all you got.
Over [those] six months, I shaved twice, and I showered twice. And I was that dirty when I came to America.
I came to America January 23, 1996. I didn’t have any money, I didn’t speak the language, I had the clothes on my back (short sleeves in winter with snow). You don’t speak the language, you don’t have any money, you don’t have anything. And that was that. And I managed. And to this day, [I’m] here in America.
As far as I’m concerned, my place [house in Žepa] is ruined, I have… there was some houses that were donated, [that] were made. [Older people] went back... those houses disappeared and no one is left. In the center, when they took our wives and children and sisters and mothers and fathers, whoever you had, and they were abused… and the women were taken off on those convoys. Even still...there was rape. There was rape. And now… there were kids who were born from those rapes and children were born of it and those mothers didn’t want those kids. Where those kids are, what they’ve been doing, I don’t know.
What was life like before the war? When did the war start for you—was there a specific moment that you realized war had come?
We didn’t know anything about what was happening. Before the war, life was just everything that could be desired by someone. It was better than here in America. We all had jobs, we worked, buses circled, there were shops, cafes, restaurants, there were factories. I worked in forestry in Han Pijeska. I went there everyday, 40 minutes by bus.
We didn’t know anything about war.
That morning when Žepa was attacked, I left to dig for potatoes around the village (potatoes would sprout to be dug up). And people started shouting, “četnika are here!” “They’re attacking Žepa!”
That… how do we.. you don’t know where or what… there’s bombs… [clears throat]. First, you look to bring some clothes and some bread. Second, you’re not interested in anything other than [surviving]— because you probably don’t even have anything to wear, and now you’re thinking what am I going to take from here, from the house, I don’t have this or that… and you run away just to keep your head on.
And wherever we went, we chased cows and sheep. We didn’t leave them, we chased them to have milk and cheese and… and… you’ll slaughter the sheep to have a little bit of meat, and that’s that. We didn’t know anything until… I mean… yes, we saw [things] on the television, (when we had electricity). But, once they turned off our electricity, we didn’t have anything else.
I didn’t see electricity again until I came to America.
We went five years without electricity. We didn’t have anything. We couldn’t listen to the news. We didn’t have electricity. We didn’t have anything. Nothing. We didn’t have coffee nor sugar nor salt nor… nothing. You bake bread, there’s no salt. You make a stew or roast some meat—there’s no salt. And, if you to eat it like that, you eat...we got used to it and we ate it, but...
What was typical day before the war, after the war, during the war?
Pa, [during], it was...you didn’t know anything. I was young then, maybe 28... You really only care for your own head and that you aren’t killed. Other things don’t interest you. Your house is demolished? Well… I’ll make another, if I can just stay alive. And I had a child, I had a son (who… he died here in America). I took care of him, he was 8 years old. I hid him behind me so that they wouldn’t hit him. Nothing else mattered to me… I got him a piece of bread and some milk and nothing else mattered to me.
And I was young, so that could be sustained. But now… trauma comes, insomnia comes, and everything comes before your eyes. You don’t sleep [it’s like]...everything you think about is now coming knocking on your door and here it is… it’s called “the camps” and they beat you down. In the camps, people died from beatings… beatings, beatings… and they’re killed, dead. They beat everyone’s hands with that, that, how do you say it, that, that, police…
Like a baton?
That, yes. We called it sticks. Before, it was called “sticks,” in Bosnia. Everyone was beaten on their hands and on their feet. And [their] feet were black, swollen. Your hands, too. But you needed to walk when they told you to, as if you nothing was wrong. If you [didn’t] get up that moment, they stepped on you.
No one has ever gone back to my place, in my little hamlet, there isn’t anyone left. Nor is there the intention for anyone to go back. In fact there’s no one. Everyone that was there we…well… we were in camps, beaten, died from beatings. They were all young. One of my cousins died when he was 23 years old, from a beating. My aunt’s son died in a camp when he was 17 of beatings and hunger...
You can ask me whatever you want…I want to tell you because I survived this. I’m not lying about anything.
And were you in the army or were you a civilian?
I was a single father. I had a kid and I cared for my kid. And I cared for those cows and sheep so that my kid had food. That’s what I was.
How did you end up in the camp?
I was sent to the camp because I was counted as military age, 29 years old. A courier came to us, and the children and women and girls and old people and old women left on buses and my child left with my sister. I didn’t know where he [my son] went or where he was. I was counted as military. Some messenger came to us and said that our lives were safe and that we were going to Serbia. And we went through the Drina.
The Drina is big, there are parts where you had to swim and I didn’t know how to swim. And then I had like an oar and board to cross the Drina, but now if you fall it’s still… but I crossed.
And the camp… was it a work camp?
No, it wasn’t.
What was the camp like?
You know what the camp was like? There was one room for us and in this one room there were 34 of us. There weren’t beds, blankets, pillows. There was only parket… hardwood. And we slept there for six months. We went outside 9:30 in the morning to take a little bit of milk and a little bit of bread and then we returned to the room and just layed there.
I, when I came to America, I can’t convert it for you guys, but in kilograms, I was, in fact, I can’t convert it to pounds… I was 64 kilograms. And you know I’m really tall…I didn’t have any meat anywhere, not even a little bit. And my left side was all black, like around my hips, from laying on that hardwood.
And it was one room, one space, with 34 men, at the same time, their heads over here and their feet over here, and here were their heads and there were their feet, and their feet are like here, there, mixed up. We can’t turn around or tip over. Did they chase us around to work? No they didn’t. We just needed to lay there, we weren’t allowed to stand on our feet. We just laid there. And that was the camp.
In the morning, sometimes maybe two, maybe one, maybe two, maybe three [people] were called to the door and one officer with his… his pistol would point and say “You.” And he would take you away. And there was this little house and in that house… pa… if you survived, you survived. If you don’t survive…
Did you ever go there?
Where?
To that little house
I never did. I didn’t. Actually, I can’t lie, not about… I only received one slap. I mean it was a good slap, but I... no one ever beat me. For others, I watched what was happening with my eyes.
And were they looking for information, what, what was it?
Pa, there was no information there. They wanted to live how they wanted to live, they were just in the mood to beat you. And those three, four, those who were kick you in the knees, on your hands, those pushed you over, they were playing you, they trampled you, they break you,
they do what they want, and you don’t laugh, you don’t do anything. Because they have pistols, you know, if you go anywhere, you’re finished.
How long you were in the that camp?
I was there for six months.
It’s really horrible that a normal person could do that to another. Other people have talked about this too— do you feel like they were trying to kill your very soul?
Pa I am, dear… I went to therapy here for five or six years. And tried medicines and there was nothing that worked. But here… [gestures to us]. You’re kids, and I’m here now, stronger than you, I have a rifle, and you don’t have anything. And now I turn the rifle to you. What are you going to do? You don’t know if I’m going to kill you or if I’m joking. And, now there’s 10 people, with 10 rifles, turned to you, and you’re just sitting there, you can’t move. You wait on whether that rifle is going to kill you or not. And that’s… you are… you’re dead in the soul, inside. Stress… trauma, I never know how to say it.
And then you see, “Ah he didn’t kill me yet, I’m alive.” And then tomorrow it’s the same way. And again, “Hey, I survived today.” And like that for six months. Every day.
So just all day in the camps… nothing?
I couldn’t even work. Even if I was [supposed to be] working, I wouldn’t be able to because I was so hungry. I couldn’t walk. I just laid there. You’re not even allowed to sit. You lay there on a bare floor. There’s no blankets, no quilts, no mattresses, there isn’t anything, nothing, [just] a naked floor.
And now, for myself, now that I have a house, I won’t have any hardwood. There’s no chance. There isn’t. And wherever I go, even like, to a friend’s, and I see that hardwood, I won’t sit there long, I’ll leave. Because I immediately see the camp. I immediately see the camp and I leave.
When you were in the camp? Was it summer or winter?
Summer, summer. When did Srebrenica fall? July 11? We went to the camp seven days later. It was summer. Hot. 34 degrees [celsius], maybe a little less than that, in that room.
And with so many people…
A lot of people. It was so hot. There was a big window and the sun warmed it [the room] up. You’re hungry, powerless—”if only I could drink some water,” there’s no water. “If only I could eat a little bread, I don’t need, I don’t need anything else, just bread and water... I don’t need anything else.” But there isn’t anything.
I’ll only say—never again anywhere. I really just recommend to everyone that they forget what it was, that people love each other, and that we move forward. That’s what I’ll say to everyone. That’s the best way.
And now, when I say, “I’m a Serb, you’re a Croat, you’re a Muslim,” —if we cut ourselves with a little knife, the blood goes the same through you and through me, our meat is the same... where’s the difference there? There isn’t any difference.
How did you leave the camp?
Ah..ah… the President of America was Clinton. It was during that time. And he sent those people… what are they called… some Americans. They came and they took 450 people to go to America. And another 450 to go to… Australia, Germany, France… Somewhere else. And then 450 to come to America.
That went like… for example, 50 in one day, and then 10 days later another 50. I came [to the US] in the second round. When I left, we came to Belgrade… to the airport. And the Red Cross brought us pants, jeans, and brought us clothes and sneakers.
We had to leave the sneakers untied and we had to have our hands behind our heads, and that’s how we came to the airport. And in line, we were put behind each other one after another with our hands behind our heads, and they had pistols pointed to us from all sides. You don’t have… we’re at the airport, we have nothing, but they have guns pointed at us. Now, other people, civilians, travelers—they’re watching you astonished, like “what is this?”
And from there we left from Belgrade to Athens, from Athens to New York from New York to Atlanta, and from Atlanta to here. And so.
Just to clarify, when you were walking to the airport, you said that there were people with guns pointed on you. Who were those people?
Pa, they were Serbs, the Serbian Army. They brought us to the airport until we were picked up by the civilian police. This was the military policy, Serbian military. They brought us there [to the airport], and then the civilian police or they were some kind of security said to the army, like “You move away from them and you all come to us.” And then we got up and they told us, “Look up, now you’re safe.” That, wow, you lift your head up. And you correct your head and think “Pa whoa, is it possible to lift my head up? “ And we entered the plane. And so. That was that.
When they [the Red Cross] picked us up, that’s when we knew we were safe and that no one was going to kill us. Yeah...your head stays down so that no one took it off, that’s how we entered the plane. And there, while we were waiting for the plane, pa… you know when you’re sitting in the airport? [We had] bowed heads, like this [bows head], you can’t raise your head, and just under your eyes you watch there, those people— travelers—are watching astonished, “What is this?”
Like just regular travelers?
Yeah, regular travellers thinking like “What are these people?” We’re here with bowed heads. The police all around us. Rifles pointed at is, and no, these people are asking “What is this?”
Did you know someone maybe who escaped the camp?
No, no one could escape.
There were these two buildings, set up like this [gestures that they were across from each other]. And there was police guard around these buildings all two meters apart from each other, and it was like that around the building. When we came out, in the mornings at 9:30 to eat, here we were, there, something was given to us to eat, quickly, you eat and then again you go back in the building and nowhere else. No one could escape from there—no one even tried to wave, nor should they have because we were still deep along the Drina, there in Serbia. At Vrnjačke Banje. That was deep, deep in Serbia. You couldn’t go anywhere from there. If it was possible to go anywhere, I would have been the first to flee. But you’d perish. You’d die.
And when did you come to America?
January 23, 1996.
What was life and everything like during the war, before the camp? What was that like?
It wasn’t anything. We couldn’t buy anything anywhere because no one could even get anything to us. We were cut off from everything. And you know how we were cut off?
It’s like if the three of us [gestures to us] here were in this bag [gestures to an open purse on the table]. Everyone was all around this, all in one place, here [gestures around the open top of the bag]. They weren’t… those were our mountains. And we were here [gestures to the inside of the bag]. And now, they’re shooting from up here. Wherever they see anything. You can’t leave you, can’t do anything. And at night, if you mess around, if you do anything—dig for potatoes or something—you couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t go anywhere. We couldn’t buy anything. We were barefoot, people went barefoot. You don’t have salt to buy, there’s no sugar, there’s no oil...you don’t have anything. Nothing. And that’s how we survived, how we lived, from 1992 to 1995.
During war time, ah, those who grew corn had corn to eat. Those of us who were locals in Žepa gave land to people who came there from other places, who were expelled, so they could find some potatoes for themselves, to have a little bit. And there wasn’t anything, we didn’t have anything, they didn’t have anything.
And then America, or Germany, or Italy, threw us food from planes. And whoever was young and strong went and caught it. And those who were young, or weak they didn’t get it. And then, those of us who got the food, for example, if I caught a bag of flour, I’d give it to my other neighbors who didn’t have it, and then again I’d go tomorrow in the evening again… if they brought food again, and if I could bring some, I’d give it to them again so that they had it and I had some. And those could helped each other.
And did you know when the US or Germany or Italy was going to make drops?
Yes. Every day, after one in the morning. When it was your [American] daytime, it was night in Bosnia. And they made drops onto one mountain in the night. There was this one big, meadow with and forest around everything else. And now, we’d go and wait, start a fire, a big fire. And then you’d be there when the planes start, like you’d see them dropping in some other city. And they’d come throw [food] in that meadow. And then, we’d say bye to each other, and get home quickly and divide it among ourselves. There wasn’t any time where someone had something and you didn’t—They shared with each other and that’s what we figured it out.
You said that the military was surrounding the city. Did soldiers come down from the hills into the city?
They didn’t until the fall. There were only grenata there, you know, grenades. Grenades from tanks were fired into the villages, because the villages were attacked too—houses were close together, then one would catch fire, burn another, a third, and then everything foes. And that was that… and if a sniper saw you, the sniper killed you. And every attack they sent to Žepa we just returned right back. We didn’t give up Žepa. They couldn’t take Žepa. We’d fight back and then they were worse. Wherever we were, down, in, in the valley and they’d now, from up here [gestures] they’d see us, wherever, indiscriminately. And from there they just threw grenades wherever people were going. And 5, would perish, 10, 20. Lose a hand, lose a foot. My finger is crippled from it… shrapnel got me [gestures].
A really?
Yeah, there was, here, geler, do you know what geler is? The clip. From, from grenades, that, when the grenade explodes and then that, that part. It hit and it pierced me. You don’t have a doctor, you don’t have medicine, you don’t have anything. So you take a rag and wrap it, so that it doesn’t bleed as much, but what am I...it’s good, I still have my eyes.
Did you have family nearby? Were they also in Žepa?
I had a brother in Sarajevo, I had three sisters in Sarajevo, I had one sister in Goražda. I didn’t hear from them… you didn’t hear from anyone in that time until the war was over. I heard from them for the first time when I was here in America. You never knew if they were alive, if they were dead, nor did they know anything about me, no one, nothing. In Žepa, I had my child, my brother and his family, one sister who escaped with me with her husband and
But you didn’t come to America together?
No, no, we didn’t.
How you find each other once you got to America?
No one came to America. Besides me… they all stayed there. And then, I came January 23, 1996, and the first time I went to Bosnia was 2001. And then I saw my sister and that family.
I did hear from them when I came to America from the phone. We didn’t have Skype then, it was, you know, we didn’t have… I didn’t have money to buy anything, I didn’t know. And then, I did hear over the telephone from everyone. I’m here, I’m alive. Ah… 2001, in February, I went to Bosnia and then I saw my family, everyone. And so.
And so—
Do you guys want some water to drink? Some coffee?
[We laugh]. No, no, we’re okay, thank you so much.
[Nods, kindly. Laughs]. But still if there’s something else, ask. I’ll say it all again.
So in 2001—was that your first trip returning to Bosnia? How was that?
Pa, I came to the airport, my whole family and their little, newborn babies, they all came to the airport to get me, to see me. They didn’t believe that I was really there. And I didn’t believe that they were there, after all that time… and we greeted each other and we all left, and that…
That trip when I went, I didn’t go to see where my house was in Žepa, I didn’t dare, because I still had that terror… everything [war], I thought, was just waiting there, the same situation. I didn’t dare go. I was in Sarajevo for 15 days with family, with my brothers, my sisters, and I returned again to America. And then I went again in 2006, and then I went to Žepa… when I came to Žepa, where my house was, I didn’t recognize that place at all.
Not even the ćumez was left. Do you know what a ćumez is? Chicken coop. I didn’t have anything left there, nothing. I had a new house, a new house that I lived in for only a year. I built it. It wasn’t there… it was like it was never there. I had stables, I had a house on the mountain with a stable… there was nothing. There was just overgrown forest. However many years, no one…not...no one, cared for it, didn’t clean it, just overgrown…
What kind of changes in culture or in people did you notice when you went back to Bosnia?
To be honest, everything changed. Those of us who were outside and came to Bosnia to see that all of the people are under depression, and when they talk, they somehow talk loud, and never in any order... they all talk in one voice, a little like… like they’re not okay. I noticed that [change] and other things didn’t.
My family, they’re all good. No one goes there, to Žepa. There’s no need to go… there isn’t anything. All of them live in Sarajevo. In Sarajevo, I have three sisters, their daughters, their sons, grandchildren, I also have a sister in law, one of my brothers died and his kids, in Ilijaš. I have one sister. I bought myself a house, in Ilijaš, I have two more years [working in America] and then I’m going there, [laughs].
Did you know anyone who stayed in Žepa? Did they go back or did they never leave?
No… no one stayed. No one who stayed is still living… of living people [that I know], no one stayed in Žepa, they were all evicted...everything, everything, everything, everything. The ones who could, of the men, especially the military aged ones, they all left through the forest, the rest… whoever passed, passed. Of those, 900 of us went to Serbia. We were in camps. And all those who weren’t militarily competent—women, girls, kids, old people, —they were with these… taken on these buses.
During the war, I can imagine that you would feel like it would never end...was there a moment when you felt where you felt hopeful?
Pa… ah… they’d say, “Change is coming,” that “With the President of America, it’ll get better,” or “Something happened in Germany, there, they’ll protect us, it’ll get better,” pa… but to you it’s the same.
No one took any action. We were in a protected zone, with UNPROFOR, there was Russian UNPROFOR with us. They betrayed us. They gave us up. The same as in Srebrenica, they gave them… so many people were sent to slaughter.
And so… that was that. To me, that… everything would be fine. We’re not going anywhere, we’ll stand our ground, everything will be okay, there everything was worse and worse and worse… and it was what it was.
In the camp, with the same people for six months, what was the social dynamic?
Aa..a… there were conversations, but quiet. When I’d talk, my head was here [gestures to one side], this guy [on the other side] wouldn’t hear me. Because we didn’t know if there was someone at the door. The door was closed, and if they heard us—we weren’t allowed to talk. We whispered amongst ourselves, you know, “Are we going to survive?” “Are we going to be killed? “Are we going to be slaughtered like the others?” Even though the Red Cross came, and they registered us—I have that, that, that card, but mine is in Bosnia, for other reasons with my sister—And so, we just fantasized that we’d leave from there, alive. Wherever I went was fine, just let me go as long as it wasn’t there. And so. I came to America… here, Clinton picked us up.
Did you ever talk with the soldiers who were at the camp or on the way to the camp?
No, you weren’t allowed to say anything. You just shut up. We were in a room, and there was one really big hallway and the rooms were all along this hallway, [gesturing], the hallway was here, there was a bathroom, and there were soldiers, police officers, whatever, I don’t even know what they were. You sit down and if you want to go the bathroom, you’d ask him— “Sir, I need to go to the bathroom.” He’d say, “I didn’t hear you. Walk over here to tell me what you want.” You’d go over there and if you even said, “I want to go to the bathroom,” they’d slap you and you forgot that you needed to go to the bathroom and you return to the room. That was the conversation with them, nothing was allowed.
And were they older or were they around your age?
Pa, they were maybe 25, 28, 23, those were young people. None of them were old, those, they were all that military age, hardworking people. It wasn’t war for them. They had enough to eat, they had enough to drink, they had clothes to wear and they were strong. And then they beat us, naked and hot and hungry and dead.
Do you remember them well? Their names or faces?
In the camps? How could I not remember [their faces]. Even now when I sleep, I... I still dream about them. I don’t turn off the lights, turn off the lights to sleep. If they gave me $1,000, for just one night, $1,000— no, no, no, I don’t turn off the lights. Go, keep your $1,000. I dream about them—their beards, the caps on their heads, their rifles, on their shoulders and turned [toward us]... I dream that non-stop. I see… I see them every night.
How did the soldiers react to the Red Cross when they came?
Aa… the first time the Red Cross came, they didn’t let them in or come in contact with us. Because they had like one, kapija, gate, and at that gate, they [soldiers] weren’t letting [the Red Cross] them enter. Then, the second day, they came again, and today they couldn’t cross, and then they came again tomorrow. And now, the way it was, they were allowed to come in and register us. They said, like “No one can touch you, no one will beat you” but the beatings were always worse [when they left] but… they’d come again.
The Red Cross came to visit us, but we weren’t allowed to say anything because they [soldiers] always came in with, with the Red Cross, and we couldn’t say “They beat us,” or, “They don’t give us anything to eat.” And every two or three days, a big truck would come, that UFHC, they’d bring food, but they [soldiers] didn’t give any of it to us. They only gave us that milk in power and a little bread and that was that. And all the food was… but they didn’t give us any of that food and we’d see the United Nations dragging out all of this food, these apples, [we were] aching for it, they’d [soldiers] eat it, they’d bite it. We felt like, “Aaa, if I had that apple, he could take my eye out.” Or, “If only I could eat that apple, my stomach would be full and let them take my eye out… I wouldn’t have an eye.” But they wouldn’t give [us any of the food].
Was it hard to eat when you first came to the US?
You know what? When I came to America, I felt that I came to another camp. I don’t have money, not even a little bit, I don’t know the language, not even one word. I was housed in a bad area on Jefferson street. I was in this one house that house was made from a church. I came over with my uncle’s son, my cousin, [we came] together. And 15 days later my brother came and a second cousin. And now we were in that house. We got up in the morning and the water in our cups froze, the water in the toilet froze. The heat worked but it was a hollow house, everything escaped. And we didn’t have food. Once someone came to the door (and I didn’t know if I was allowed to open the door)—and I don’t speak the language and I didn’t know what it would be, who I’d be opening the door for.
And a guy came to the door with these dictionaries, and he gave me that dictionary, here it is now. And through the dictionary, we started talking, and he was from Russia, and that his grandfather (I don’t know and neither does his entirely) came to America, and that he stayed here. And he brought us some food. He brought us chicken, he brought us potatoes, macaroni, rice, oil, sugar, pa… everything. He even brought us cigarettes.
And if I knew now who that guy is and where he is, and I would go visit him with gifts just like that. Because he fed me. But I didn’t know, then, to take a phone number, the phones have changed... that was 23-24 years ago. Maybe he’s here somewhere, but if I knew where he was, I would go to him like a brother, to find him, to see him.
When the Red Cross brought to America, did they give you jobs or support?
Eh, I’ll say this to you. They took us to get social security numbers and 10 days later we got social security numbers.
I took my dictionary and I learned, in the dictionary, how to say “Ja trebam posao”—I need a job. And I went, in short sleeves, in snow, in winter, my heart breaking. And wherever I saw a big building, with those big cars, and I went to that building. And I didn’t know anything else and I carried my dictionary and I shouted “I need a job.”
And I came to one company and I said the same thing there and this one woman came, she was maybe 45-50 years old, and she took me by the hand and brought me into one office, and there was a guy standing there, he was also around 45-50 years old. His name was John M. And she was talking about something with him, what they were saying I don’t know, and she again took me by the hand, brought me to this car, took me somewhere, where I don’t know. Where’d she take me? She took me to a drug test center, and then they gave me a job. I went [coughs] for three months where that new stadium was. For the Titans.
My company was there and I walked from there via Jefferson Street, I crossed Jefferson Avenue to Arthur avenue, and that’s where I lived. I walked in sun, rain, it didn’t matter to me, I’d go. There wasn’t anyone else that walked by foot, just me. I never had any problems. And that’s how I went while I didn’t have any money to buy a car and I needed to get a driver’s license. When I passed, I bought a car, and so...
Where did you work?
Ahh... it was [Company name omitted], with beds and mattresses. There were other people from Bosnia who worked there, and then I…left, I went to the metro center to one company, [Company name omitted]. And then that company… it shut down, bankruptcy. And then I was employed part-time, cleaning the hospital, cleaning offices, just to stay alive. And to bring my kid over. To bring my kid over.
He was...he was with me for less than two years and then he died. He was 17 or 18 years old, not fully 18 years old. And I left again, and here I am now… and so…
When are you going back to Bosnia? Was that your wish when you came to America, to go back?
Yes it is. Yes, that’s my wish. Here it is: since I came to America, I’ve earned a pension—because there aren’t any jobs there, you two saw that when and know that, there aren’t jobs, not in Serbia, not in Croatia, not in Bo… there aren’t any anywhere— I have a wish to earn a pension here, to go home, to the home that I’ve set up for myself there, and to live. I still have two years to work…
Was their any formal acknowledgement of what happened in Žepa it from the government? To your house?
No one even asked me. Destroyed—destroyed. There’s nothing, nothing. As if I never existed. No one asked me anything, actually.
I—when I went on that short trip to Bosnia, I didn’t have the time to leave and go somewhere to find some… closure, to see damage… I didn’t have time. And, if I’m alive, and I can, I’ll go straight on and make an appointment with the Bosnian President, whoever it is, to say “You, with me, we can go see that I had this… and I want to build it again.” But before, I didn’t have any time, and if I’m alive and I go, I’ll find it, to build some house for me.
I don’t want their money. I don’t know money, I want to build my house exactly as I had it. And I want to live in it. And for it to stand alone. And then… I want to have my own, my own land.
And do you know anyone who could rebuild their homes that were destroyed?
Pa, there were a couple of families that returned to Žepa, some donors were able to build them some houses, some of them were built from Italy, donations from Italy, some from Germany, donors. That built up some of those little houses and so… they’re good. It’s good. Some people have them, however they got them.
Was there someone doing the war who really helped you?
No.
You manage it [war] yourself however you can. If you can, you make dinner. If you can’t, you lay there hungry and sleep. Because no one has anything to give you. And you… there wasn’t anything. And, and, and in the camps... no one helped anyone because they couldn’t— we could leave anywhere… nothing. There’s, in Kentucky, a lot of people who were in camps, I know there’s people. There’s one guy, [name omitted], he was beaten so much. I don’t know…
I saw him maybe two years ago, and I asked him, “Pa, are you really still alive?” And he says “Ah, here I am.” “After all of those however many beatings and strikes, you’re still alive?” And he says “Ah, here I am.”
How were, do you still have relationships with people from the camps, or from that time in your life?
Pa, you know what it is. I have relationships, but… I work, the house is a chore, and when I go somewhere to see someone, that’s that, but there isn’t anytime anywhere. And then in old age, your feet hurt, your hands hurt, there’s no peace and so… [laughs].
When did the war end for you? Was there a moment when you felt, like, “Okay, it’s over, I won’t be dealing with that anymore, it’s over,” was there a specific…
For me, the war ended when I sat on the plane in Belgrade. Because then I knew that no one was going to do anything to me.
Now, I’m on the plane and I’m living, but… my soul, my heart was empty. I don’t know where my kid was.
I didn’t know anything about him. And when I came to America, it was like, “I’m going to figure it out— everything. Even though I don’t speak the language, even though I don’t have any money, even though I don’t have anything, I’ll figure it out, I’ll work. But where was my kid? I didn’t know anything regarding him.
How old was he?
He was 11 years old when he left Žepa.
Did you know where went after that?
Pa, later I found it, when I got back in touch—they didn’t have telephone numbers, you don’t know who you’re going, you don’t know what. If someone could got a phone number for someone, then you ask “Do you know this person or this number?” So I figured out a phone and I called and he was with my sister, who wasn’t married [at the time]. And then she got married and he didn’t have anywhere to go, and then [my friend, name omitted] came, you know [him], and [he], he was in Zenica. [He] left from Sarajevo to Zenica, to bring him [my son] over, and then he led him [to the embassy] to come to America, where he needed to have those conversations. His mom didn’t want to sign what he needed to go to America, but... [My friend] came to America and he stays. And then six months later he [my son] came too.
At that time, was he with his mom?
No, no, no, he was with [my friend’s] daughter. It’s not… [his mom], she’s a married woman, and they have their family, and she didn’t want to know him at all, as if he didn’t exist.
What, what happened to his mom?
She got married. We broke up, she got married, she has a second married, second kids, for her it was… yeah.
What was it like when you and your son saw each other? After all of those years, how was it that first time?
Pa, you know how it was...nobody saw it. [If it was now], I’d have a tape, and that’s the only way I could tell you how it was. It was us…
[There were] maybe 30 people in front of him at the airport. But I didn’t know, I just couldn’t believe that my kid was coming. When I saw him come out, I fainted, right in the airport, I just fell. And then security and all of these people and those people started surrounding me, wondering if was I alive or was I dead.
And then he put his arms out to hug me. And they’re still here. I still feel them.
How was it for him when he came to America?
Pa, he was... he was young, he was young. He immediately figured out the language, he started in school, he immediately started driving, that, you know… everything came easy to him… the way it comes to those who are young. And he was 17, out of however many students, he was 17 [in his class]. That’s how he was.
Wow, a really good student—
He was… he was perfect. He went to school. He started working a small, part-time job, so that I didn’t hold all of the control over him, in case we started having problems—to be an example to me, it was that too.
He passed. I went to work, I still worked that day, that Christmas, and, and, and, and, we were going to have a break, the company, to be closed for a seven-day holiday. And I call him [my son] from work—we didn’t have cell phones, we had house phones— and he didn’t pick up. So I called a second time, no answer. I call a third time, no answer. The fourth time I called him, I ask “Son, where are you? Why aren’t you answering?” And he says, “I was in the bathroom, I threw up.” And I immediately left work, immediately, immediately, I said to my boss, “I’m leaving, my kid is sick.” And I go home, and he comes out in front of me, just black and blue here, like this, like he drowned, and I immediately called a friend who spoke the language because my Anel [my son] spoke the language, but if it was something dangerous, he might not be able to tell me, you know.
I called a friend who got his masters here, he speaks the language. And I called him to go to the emergency room and on the way to the emergency room, right outside of the emergency room, Anel fell on the sidewalk… and then I, um...they ran out from the emergency room, and put him on this bed, and they cut his clothes off with scissors. And then, bile burst inside of him and began to dissolve the organs around it and he couldn’t survive… and they took him on a helicopter from Hills to Vanderbilt. And while we were in the car driving to Vanderbilt, it was over.
But he wasn’t ever sick before?
Never. Never. He didn’t even have one tooth taken out. Everything for him… not even his teeth… nothing.
How old was he?
Ah, he died December 20, 2000. He would have been 18 years old on January 28, 2001. Not even fully 18. Not even fully 18.
We’re so, so sorry.
And so… that’s how it was for me. If you still have anything to ask, I’ll still tell you.
[Phone rings].
Is there anything that you want students or Americans to know about the war?
To know only one truth—that there was a genocide in Srebrenica and Žepa.
There was war everywhere, I’m not saying that there aren’t victims on all sides. But, there was an ethnic cleansing of Muslims in Žepa—not of another people. Those of us from Žepa were expelled only because we were Muslim.
And in that war, nowhere, it doesn’t matter… we were surrounded by Serbs on three sides and it didn’t happen there—not even one shed is damaged. And nothing else. They destroyed everything of ours. And just let the real truth be known—what it was. It wasn’t anything else. And so… just the truth.
Is there something that you want people still in in the Balkans to know?
I only want to order this of everyone: If the people are loved, if they don’t see, who’s a Muslim, who’s a Serb, who’s a Croat, if they don’t look to faith, if we all live together, if everything that was is forgotten, if we go forward and… this won’t be repeated. And our youth, students, I want them to be happy and to let them love each other and not see who is who. And so. There’s nothing else I wish of people. And so.
Are there any other specific stories or things you wanted to talk about?
No, nothing. All I want is for you all to be alive and everything and good, that you finish your school and that this doesn’t repeat, that you all don’t experience this.
And those of us who survived…I want he who’s guilty, he with dirty hands, he who killed, he who slaughtered, I want measures taken… that whatever law, court punishes… punishes him. It’s known who he is… It’s known who they [the perpetrators] are. If I were one, let them punish me—here I am. But it isn’t me. Whoever has dirty hands, those, from blood, someone will judge him, and someone will punish him. Whoever it is.
When we talk with people about the war right now, they often say, “Pa, the war came out of nowhere.” That it was a shock. Now, when you think about about the war or the years before the war, do you see anything that was maybe a sign of war or things that now seem important?
Pa, you know what, [coughs], I worked in Han Pjesak. Han Pjesak was a Serbian place, but you couldn’t even notice. Nothing… I worked with Serbian men, I worked with Serbian women, and I finished forestry technical school with them, we were like brothers and sisters. We were. I would go to lie in the park and no one would say even one word to you about it. I couldn’t feel anything.
But, there was one guy, who really liked to drink. He was a Serb named Brano. And he drank a little and said, “They [Serbian military] brought us food last night and put white flags on our houses.” Like, somewhere on the outside of the house they tied a white towel or sheet or something. So that they knew which houses were Serbian houses and at night they brought them flour, peas, rice, those foods that could hold. They were bringing things to them and they put a sign on the house, a white rag from, a white flag on the house, and they brought things to them and then they left, and these others ones they didn’t get anything [gesturing]. And then they, maybe a month later, they attacked and brutalized us from there.
And there was this space that’s in between Sokolac and Han Pjesak. And there were was a mixed population there, mixed between Serbs and Muslims. And now, they were bringing things to Serbs and not to Muslims. And then, Muslims who were from there were killed or those who were alive had to flee.
Wow, it happened fast.
Fast, yeah. That went so fast.
Did you think anything of it when you saw that there were these flags on the houses? Or did you think “Huh that’s weird” and that’s it?
Pa, you know what I thought? “That’s all a game, none of it is serious.” Because we, my generation and the older ones who remember ex-Tito’s Yugoslavia, we couldn’t imagine that that [war] had to happen. Because we, those of my generation and older, we had such great lives that no one could ever have again that’ll never…
America is [okay], we have to work, we have everything, but it’ll never be Tito’s Yugoslavia. Even close to Yugoslavia. Never.
And that you couldn’t imagine it [war]...we’d be sitting in some restaurant together, eating, drinking. No one cared who was Serbian, who was Croatian, who was Muslim, no. We were all one. And we’d go out together and we’d come and we’d go everything as one. And then, someone suddenly at once… decided to kill you.
As if… let me kill you because you’re a Serb, let me kill you because you are Croat, and you want to kill me because I’m a Muslim, without any other reason. There wasn’t any kind of reason… just to kill you because of your beliefs. And no one can change the faith of anyone. That’s what I am, and what about it? I respect all beliefs, I respect everyone, and God bless you the best. I respect everyone but I love myself. [Laughs].
[Laughs]. How do you feel now toward Yugoslavia, Serbia, Bosnia? Toward that region?
How could I say this, I… I know everything I went through, what it was, it cannot happen again. But because I… I left Žepa so freshly for the camps, I still think, “Everything is still the same.” That’s everything and that’s that. But when I go there, I see that it’s not and I can’t believe it and I, now… again, I don’t like hate. I want to see that all people in Bosnia-Herzegovina agree and that they live together and that they look ahead and that they don’t return to 1992. Forget, move forward. That’s the most dear thing to me that we do that. So that this will never happen again… I’d like it to be like that.
Because, as long as people are divided based on beliefs there is no progress. There’s no future. It only goes back. But if people learn to agree and respect their neighbors, beliefs don’t matter, the nationality doesn’t matter, then it’ll be okay. And while there are differences, when we’re only paying attention to beliefs, there’s no good. It’s not good.
I passed through on that last trip to Bosnia, I went to my Žepa, no one said anything to me. I stopped in Sokolac, that’s a Serbian area, I stopped there, I buy what I need, I put it in my car. I stop in Han Pjeska, where I worked, where I fully knew all of those people. Those people that I knew? They’re no more. Now, if it’s somewhere, it’s old, if it’s… it’s a whole other people I don’t know anyone anymore. I buy what I need, no one says anything to me. And I’d rather buy things there than in Sarajevo because it’s cheaper. [Laughs]. I don’t have any kind of problem[with anyone]. The first trip [to Bosnia] —I didn’t dare [go]. It was terrifying. Because there’s still that horror. I wouldn’t have dared gone to Žepa. But now I will, I go.
Have you ever gone to Serbia, or…?
Never. That was my first trip to Serbia, in the camps, and I’ll never ever go again. Never. Not even to the Serbian airport. Because I don’t want to have that stress. I don’t think that anyone is going to do anything to anyone, it’s normal to go that way [through Belgrade to Bosnia]. But I don’t want to bring back that image to my eyes of how I was in the airport, with bowed heads, and… I don’t… I... every part of it, if I went, conjures fear and I just don’t like that picture to come back to me, to remember that.
Pa…Those are our questions. Thank you so much for talking with us!
And thank you both for coming.
There is not one teacher, professor, who can teach you what those of us who survived can teach you. And now, you youth and students, you can listen, and… have some picture, some awful, terrible picture about that, and you all can’t let it happen to you. Love each other, watch out for each other, don’t pay attention to who’s who based on beliefs. We’re all made of blood and meat. And only, ah, only you all, and Americans, and Germans, and everyone else of the Balkan people can learn that lesson so that it doesn’t happen in your country, what happened in Bosnia. So that it doesn’t happen anywhere.