Sarajevo Burning
jedan
Sarajevo is burning.
You can already smell it, the acrid stench of searing flesh. It fills the streets, carried by the breeze, and causes even the strongest of our men to eject what little content he has in his stomach onto the shattered sidewalks. We are under no illusions – we know how this day will end. The civilian casualties will continue to pile up and will be left to rot in the streets, and we will retreat with nothing to show for our work other than the bitter tendrils of death clinging to our nostrils. We fight for a single casualty on their side, just one person who dies for the cause and gives us hope that we are participating in a losing battle. However, we all know such a casualty will not appear. Instead, we resign ourselves to a rapidly approaching future where Sarajevo ceases to exist.
It has been almost two months since the Serbs forced their way into the city. The civil unrest shown in other countries should have been warning enough – after all, Bosnia had been safe from horror stories such as the shellfire in Croatia and the war in Slovenia for too long. They were something to mention in passing, comments to a neighbour in the street or snippets of the news shown across every television screen in the country. Slobodan Milošević’s face, plastered on every outlet as he assured us that all was well. Sarajevo was safe, at least to begin with. We were hidden from the atrocities taking place across Yugoslavia, ignoring their effects encroaching on our borders, and blind to the consequences until it was too late.
Yes, we had placed the safety of our city in the hands of blind faith.
As I kick the edge of my heels relentlessly against the kerb, I can feel the dirt and shrapnel dislodge from the heavy treads of my boots. Of all assignments you can be given, night watch is the worst – you can do nothing other than watch the city crumble as the eerie silence of moonlight washes over all. We dare not talk, for fear that the snipers hidden deep within the hills surrounding the city will hear. They have good aim. We have lost many a comrade in this way. If only one positive phrase regarding the Serbs leaves my mouth in this lifetime, it is praise for their marksmanship. Their aim is solid and true and in the past few weeks alone, I have watched many of my countrymen – military and civilian – fall at their scopes.
We are only seven strong tonight, assigned to the western limits of the city. For now, we have taken refuge in an abandoned building. It was once a supermarket and was one of the first buildings to fall victim to the shellfire inflicted upon us by Milošević’s men. It is quiet here. The almost residual chatter of enemy gunfire stopped early this afternoon. The lack of sound has lulled the city into a wary state of comfort. For now, only the sound of burning buildings remain, a sole reminder that we are a city under siege.
We have even relaxed a little ourselves; a small packet of cigarettes has been passed around and our heads are encircled with smoke. I take another long drag of my own, feeling the tension in my muscles leave as the nicotine washes over my system. The burning edges smart against my fingers, but I do not mind. The sensation is almost soothing. I am alive and fighting, well enough to feel the sharp stab of pain as my fingers burn. It is reassuring – the pain means that they have not won. The pain means that we are still here to feel, still here to oppose the oppressive regime that we have been living under for so long, and still here to fight until the very end for our country.
Nobody speaks. There is little for us all to talk about, even if we could. The army of Bosnia and Herzegovina is, at present, a shoddy affair; a hodgepodge of bodies shuttled straight from the high schools and factories into the battlefield. We have little in common, and few experiences to share. Only a small number of us are over the age of twenty and even fewer than that have had experience of combat. We are all too young to remember the atrocities the great wars of yesteryear brought with them. We learned of the assassination of Franz Ferdinand – the last time that innocent blood flowed through the streets of Sarajevo – through books and films, but the flickering of black-and-white images on a screen could not prepare anybody for the smells or the sounds that armed combat brought. They also failed to impress the lack of choice that you were given when faced with an impossible task – you either fight or you die. There is no other way out.
Another explosion sounds in the distance. I can feel the vibrations coursing through the cold tile floor that I am sitting on. One of the soldiers – a child, really, barely even sixteen – jumps violently at the sound. He pulls his knees to his chest and buries his face in them, hugging his legs as if his entire life depended on him staying in that exact position. He has not taken to military life well and for a second, I almost feel sorry for him. He is too young for war – he is almost five years younger than I. He should be at school learning about algebra and grammar, not clutching a gun in some god-forsaken warzone. He probably knew very little about the war before he joined the pride-swollen ranks of the Armija Republike Bosne i Hercegovine, but it is almost a guarantee that he will never forget what he has seen in the past few months. They will haunt him for a lifetime to come.
If he lives that long, that is.
Another of my men moves forward quickly, stubbing his cigarette out violently and glancing around the wall and into the deserted streets. He will see nobody. The attacks are quick and relentless, and come from the horizon. He shakes his head violently, as if he expected anything else, and returns his gaze towards the group.
“Jakša,” he grunts, spitting out my name as if it were profanity, “are we going to go see what that was?”
I think for a moment, before shaking my head and stubbing my own cigarette against the wall in a similar fashion.
“Too dangerous,” I murmur in a low voice, casting a sideways glance at the hills. At night, they are mere shadows against the sky, and I know that danger and almost certain death lurk there. Moving from our position will risk the lives of every man that I am sitting with. I will not lose any other men under my charge – at least not tonight. “Could be a trap. Damn snipers’d pick us off like flies to honey.”
As I speak, the chatter of gunfire has started up again in the distance. The brief cease-fire of the afternoon and evening has not extended into early morning. Another group has been engaged in battle and once again, the streets of my once-great hometown will be covered in the blood of innocent men. Their bodies will be left on display, riddled with bullet holes. The buildings will continue to crumble around our ears, and the war will rage on well into daylight.
Sarajevo is burning.
You can already smell it, the acrid stench of searing flesh. It fills the streets, carried by the breeze, and causes even the strongest of our men to eject what little content he has in his stomach onto the shattered sidewalks. We are under no illusions – we know how this day will end. The civilian casualties will continue to pile up and will be left to rot in the streets, and we will retreat with nothing to show for our work other than the bitter tendrils of death clinging to our nostrils. We fight for a single casualty on their side, just one person who dies for the cause and gives us hope that we are participating in a losing battle. However, we all know such a casualty will not appear. Instead, we resign ourselves to a rapidly approaching future where Sarajevo ceases to exist.
It has been almost two months since the Serbs forced their way into the city. The civil unrest shown in other countries should have been warning enough – after all, Bosnia had been safe from horror stories such as the shellfire in Croatia and the war in Slovenia for too long. They were something to mention in passing, comments to a neighbour in the street or snippets of the news shown across every television screen in the country. Slobodan Milošević’s face, plastered on every outlet as he assured us that all was well. Sarajevo was safe, at least to begin with. We were hidden from the atrocities taking place across Yugoslavia, ignoring their effects encroaching on our borders, and blind to the consequences until it was too late.
Yes, we had placed the safety of our city in the hands of blind faith.
As I kick the edge of my heels relentlessly against the kerb, I can feel the dirt and shrapnel dislodge from the heavy treads of my boots. Of all assignments you can be given, night watch is the worst – you can do nothing other than watch the city crumble as the eerie silence of moonlight washes over all. We dare not talk, for fear that the snipers hidden deep within the hills surrounding the city will hear. They have good aim. We have lost many a comrade in this way. If only one positive phrase regarding the Serbs leaves my mouth in this lifetime, it is praise for their marksmanship. Their aim is solid and true and in the past few weeks alone, I have watched many of my countrymen – military and civilian – fall at their scopes.
We are only seven strong tonight, assigned to the western limits of the city. For now, we have taken refuge in an abandoned building. It was once a supermarket and was one of the first buildings to fall victim to the shellfire inflicted upon us by Milošević’s men. It is quiet here. The almost residual chatter of enemy gunfire stopped early this afternoon. The lack of sound has lulled the city into a wary state of comfort. For now, only the sound of burning buildings remain, a sole reminder that we are a city under siege.
We have even relaxed a little ourselves; a small packet of cigarettes has been passed around and our heads are encircled with smoke. I take another long drag of my own, feeling the tension in my muscles leave as the nicotine washes over my system. The burning edges smart against my fingers, but I do not mind. The sensation is almost soothing. I am alive and fighting, well enough to feel the sharp stab of pain as my fingers burn. It is reassuring – the pain means that they have not won. The pain means that we are still here to feel, still here to oppose the oppressive regime that we have been living under for so long, and still here to fight until the very end for our country.
Nobody speaks. There is little for us all to talk about, even if we could. The army of Bosnia and Herzegovina is, at present, a shoddy affair; a hodgepodge of bodies shuttled straight from the high schools and factories into the battlefield. We have little in common, and few experiences to share. Only a small number of us are over the age of twenty and even fewer than that have had experience of combat. We are all too young to remember the atrocities the great wars of yesteryear brought with them. We learned of the assassination of Franz Ferdinand – the last time that innocent blood flowed through the streets of Sarajevo – through books and films, but the flickering of black-and-white images on a screen could not prepare anybody for the smells or the sounds that armed combat brought. They also failed to impress the lack of choice that you were given when faced with an impossible task – you either fight or you die. There is no other way out.
Another explosion sounds in the distance. I can feel the vibrations coursing through the cold tile floor that I am sitting on. One of the soldiers – a child, really, barely even sixteen – jumps violently at the sound. He pulls his knees to his chest and buries his face in them, hugging his legs as if his entire life depended on him staying in that exact position. He has not taken to military life well and for a second, I almost feel sorry for him. He is too young for war – he is almost five years younger than I. He should be at school learning about algebra and grammar, not clutching a gun in some god-forsaken warzone. He probably knew very little about the war before he joined the pride-swollen ranks of the Armija Republike Bosne i Hercegovine, but it is almost a guarantee that he will never forget what he has seen in the past few months. They will haunt him for a lifetime to come.
If he lives that long, that is.
Another of my men moves forward quickly, stubbing his cigarette out violently and glancing around the wall and into the deserted streets. He will see nobody. The attacks are quick and relentless, and come from the horizon. He shakes his head violently, as if he expected anything else, and returns his gaze towards the group.
“Jakša,” he grunts, spitting out my name as if it were profanity, “are we going to go see what that was?”
I think for a moment, before shaking my head and stubbing my own cigarette against the wall in a similar fashion.
“Too dangerous,” I murmur in a low voice, casting a sideways glance at the hills. At night, they are mere shadows against the sky, and I know that danger and almost certain death lurk there. Moving from our position will risk the lives of every man that I am sitting with. I will not lose any other men under my charge – at least not tonight. “Could be a trap. Damn snipers’d pick us off like flies to honey.”
As I speak, the chatter of gunfire has started up again in the distance. The brief cease-fire of the afternoon and evening has not extended into early morning. Another group has been engaged in battle and once again, the streets of my once-great hometown will be covered in the blood of innocent men. Their bodies will be left on display, riddled with bullet holes. The buildings will continue to crumble around our ears, and the war will rage on well into daylight.
Sarajevo is burning.
♠ ♠ ♠
rewritten 02.05.2018