THE FIRST DAYS OF WAR

Until April sixth, nineteen ninety-two, our world was simple. It was filled with laughter, play, and the smell of my mother’s cooking. Summers were warm and free. Winters were calm and bright.

That day, we heard sirens and gunfire for the first time.

Sirens cut through the air. Gunfire followed soon after. The sound of machine guns echoed across Mramor hill and crept deep into our bones.

My mother pulled us inside and locked the door. That night, we slept fully dressed, a suitcase placed by the entrance. It was no longer a precaution. It was a message that safety no longer existed.

War crept in quietly at first, then swallowed us whole.

One day we were playing in the fields. The next, we were hiding in basements, listening to the whistle of shells tearing through the sky.

I was twelve years old. Alisa was fifteen. Our brother was five.

Fear was everywhere, but it did not paralyze me.

I feared only God.

We tried to maintain a sense of normal life. We went to school when we could, helped our mother, and played whenever there was a brief moment of peace. My father and uncle dug a trench behind our house because we had no basement. When I first saw water halfway up the trench, I joked, “At least we will not be thirsty.”

Even laughter felt fragile.

 

EMPTYING SCHOOLS

Before the war, people in Bosnia identified mostly by faith and family, not by nationality. Muslims, later officially called Bosniaks, held tightly to tradition and religion. Orthodox Christians considered themselves Serbs. Catholics saw themselves as Croats, even if they were born and raised in Bosnia.

In villages, these groups lived side by side for generations. They respected customs, celebrated holidays together, shared daily life, and rarely thought about labels.

As the war pushed its way into everyday life, our world began to shrink.

Each week, my school grew emptier. Many of my classmates were Serbs, and one by one, they left Bosnia. I still do not understand why. No one ever harmed them, yet families packed their suitcases and disappeared.

Classrooms once filled with laughter, arguments, and noise became silent. Friends I had played with, fought snowball battles with, and shared secrets with were suddenly gone.

One day my math teacher demanded three notebooks. We had no money. My parents were smokers, but they did not even have cigarette paper, so they tore pages from my notebook instead. When the teacher asked where it was, I said, “My mother smoked it.”

He kicked me out of the classroom, thinking I was mocking him.

Alisa had finished elementary school, but high school was no longer an option. Transportation was limited, and high schools were in Tuzla. Hospitals and schools were prime targets, and my mother refused to let Alisa risk her life just to attend classes.

THE FALL OF THE QUEEN ON OZREN

One weekend, my aunt came from Srebrenik to visit our grandmother. She was a high school teacher and often stayed with her. That day she arrived and said quietly, “Tomorrow our army will attack Ozren.”

Ozren was the mountain where Serbian forces had their artillery. From there, they shelled Tuzla and our village with terrifying ease. We were exposed and vulnerable. From our house, we could see their monument, called the Queen. It stood tall, a symbol of their control.

How my aunt knew about the attack, I will never understand. That information should have been secret. I believe someone who loved her warned her.

The next morning, I stood on our terrace, staring at the mountain. When the fighting began, I listened to the explosions, my eyes fixed on the Queen.

I told myself that if everything went silent and the monument was still standing, we would have to flee. But if the Queen fell, we would be safe.

Then it happened.

The monument collapsed.

I began jumping and shouting, “The Queen fell. The Queen fell. Now we are safe.”

For the first time in many days, joy filled my chest. It felt like sunlight was breaking through a storm. I felt hope again.

THE ARRIVAL OF REFUGEES, 1992–1993

Day by day, refugees arrived. Our school became a shelter. Five families shared one classroom. Mattresses covered the floors. Toilets were scarce. The smell of bleach lingered in the air.

We befriended many of them, listening to stories that felt impossible to believe. At the time, I could not imagine that the whole world would one day speak of their suffering.

Map of Bosnia and Herzegovina