The Drive to Potocari
As we were driving towards Potocari, I watched the landscape before me...filled with beautiful mountains. Driving through the towns told me a lot about the war in this region. Every single town we went through had very obvious signs of war, evidenced in a combination of bullet-holed buildings and bombed-out buildings, in various stages of disrepair – from plastered-over (but not painted-over) holes to completely neglected buildings with trees and shrubbery growing through them. Amongst these signs of war were newer looking houses and structures. In the country side I would see time and time again one neatly kept house next to an abandoned bullet-holed house. There are stories here, in the people and the landscape, stories that I’m not so sure have been listened to. I wonder what it would be like to have such traumatic reminders right in my face every day. I am really curious as to whether the lack of repair or destruction of these raw signs of war are purposely kept as they are – as reminders, or really are just left because no one knows what to do with them, or has the money to fix them or tear them down.
Something else I noticed was that police-men were standing along the road, at various points. It seemed to me they were there to guard certain (specific) places along the road. It felt like they were there both to keep people from harming those places and to keep people from seeing those places, but I still don't know for sure. I also noticed that the people in towns we passed were looking out windows or standing in doorways to see this convoy of 9 tour buses lead by the police. More and more I realized the extent to which I was intruding on these people’s lives.
When we started to enter towns closer to Srebrenica, someone on the intercom of the bus came on and told us (in rather choppy English) where, mainly Bosnian, refugees from Republica Srpska had fled for their safety, where certain memorials were, and where certain massacres had taken place. I imagined how the refugees walked down the very narrow winding road we were on to try and find safety, not knowing what was to come. I imagined what it was like to be overtaken by troops. How they boarded the buses and were ripped apart from their family members. How the women watched as the buses that were boarded with their husbands, sons, and fathers were driven in another direction; crying in anguish at not knowing what is to become of the men, wanting to be near them, to touch them, all the while aching at the thought at never seeing them again. Fear of what will happen to them, fear of what they themselves are about to endure. Uncertainty, grief, despair, shock. The thoughts: 'How could this be happening?'
I thought also of the Serbian soldiers: drunk, high, sleep-deprived; following the orders so that they themselves will survive this hell, and some, perhaps, enjoying the pain they are allowed to inflict. Each one of them is different from the other, each one of them is unique.
Why would an ordinary man in this particular war kill other ordinary men en-masse? How do the ideas of morality get so twisted? "Why" is actually not so hard for me to understand. I have been asking myself that question in this regard long enough to begin getting answers. One answer to this "Why" is actually quite simple to me: he kills for love…He kills so he can continue living on, so he can be with his own family again one day, because he loves them (and I realize that 'he' can just as readily be 'she'). This has been justified in various ways:
- He is literally being forced to "kill - or be killed".
- Out of revenge for his ancestor who was killed before his time by the imagined ancestors of the people he kills now.
- He is too tired to care anymore, too weary from others he has killed and raped to really give a shit about morality.
- Killing has become part of a way to relieve his own pain.
- He does not even perceive those he is killing as human beings, within the realm of his moral reality.
- "This is war…this is what is done in war."
- "Everyone else is doing it, so it must be okay."
...I try to understand the mindset of these soldiers, not to make right what they did…but to understand humanity, and how it can go wrong. Just because people who kill are humans just like those humans who do not kill, does not mean there should not be consequences to it. We could debate about whether a person can be evil, or whether a person just does evil things…but when we start separating evil into other or something separate from humanity, we run into the very thing which justifies the destruction of those "others".
To me, this is important. Not just important, but key to reality. It is impossible for me to study humanity without looking into the depths of its darkness. Seeing a twelve year old mass grave is just one aspect of the darkness of humanity…one of so many. Nevertheless, for those of you who do not want to look at or think about this, or have already done plenty of it and have no desire to do so again…I understand. So, a word of warning…
***PLEASE DON’T READ THIS SECTION IF YOU THINK YOU WILL FIND IT DISTURBING***
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Mass grave near Potocari
Once we reached Potocari, we all exited the buses, and walked up a path to see a mass grave. A man was waiting for us, with a translator, to tell us about the grave. He told us that this grave was a secondary mass grave, explaining further that the massacred Bosnian Muslims had originally been buried in primary mass graves. But, in order to cover their tracks, the Serbian army went back, dug up the graves, took apart the bodies, and dispersed the body parts into secondary mass graves all over the country (I’m not sure what specific country he meant exactly). Around 79 mass graves have been found so far, and the mass grave we were about to see was the most recently discovered secondary mass grave.
We walked up a hill, along a narrow mud path, and reached what had been dug up so far, a hole around 30 X 20 feet in diameter, and 5 to 15 feet deep in different areas. I stared at the brownish-red bones sticking out of the mud: a spinal column with ribs, femurs, sculls with teeth perfectly intact , shirts, pants, arms, shoes, bone fragments. There were numbers next to each set of bones or clothing items. We were told that the bones were not taken off-site immediately because the body parts had to be pieced together on-site, like a puzzle (whenever possible). Seeing what was left of these people was one of the deepest experiences of my life. Part of me felt like I should not be there, looking at the remnants of these people. Then I was overcome with a sense that these people were my people, and all of humanity is connected. I needed to see and feel the pain of these people, in order to understand the reality of this world.
There was a map that showed where all the mass graves had been found in Bosnia and Herzegovina - most of which are in the Republika Srpski. We were given the example of how one man had been, found in four mass graves: his scull in one, his left hip in one, his right femur in one, and his right arm in another. The grieving that the family members of these men have to endure never really ends. Often one body part is found, let’s say the right leg. So, a funeral procession is done and the body part is buried. But the family is continually on edge, not knowing whether they will be getting a knock on the door from someone saying that another body part has been found - whether that be in two months, 20 months, or two years. We were told that, altogether, around 4,000 people have been identified from mass graves in Bosnia and Herzegovina so far. This day, at the annual ceremony, they were burying around 465.
Through translation we were given the opportunity to ask questions about the mass grave. One man asked how this grave was found. They explained that a woman who lives in the house we had passed had told them about this area - that it was the only area around that was flat (for this area is on and surrounded by mountains), and it used to be a soccer field where kids would play.
Another man asked the other to describe the response of loved-ones when told that a family member had been found in one of the mass graves - a question that I felt crossed a line, but was later glad it was asked because it actually brought more humanity and reality into the situation. The man described how they had found a mass grave in Northern Bosnia and Herzegovina, in a ravine in a cave. There were two layers of bodies in this mass grave, in between which was filled with trash and dirt, and again covered with trash and dirt. During the excavation of this mass grave, a man had been standing at the site. His wife, 4-year-old son, and infant daughter, sister, and another family member were all buried in this grave (unbeknownst to the excavators). As they carried out the remains of his wife (whom they had not yet identified), this man stood at the edge and said 'that is so-and-so', but did not look behind him as she was carried away. They carried out the remains of his son, who was four at the time of death, and he said 'that is so-and-so', but did not look behind him as the remnants were carried away. This went on with his other family members as they were carried out of the mass grave one-by-one. At first, people did not know what he was saying, but later realized that he knew he was seeing his family members brought up from the grave. He waited until, at last, his baby infant girl (who would now be around twelve) was carried out four days after the rest of his family. Hearing about this man, who knew his entire family was buried in this place, sensing who it was as each family member was brought out, and knowing there were others still in the grave – really struck a cord in me. I imagine all the years that have come between him and his family, all the memories which are stuck in a time and place he will never be again, all the hopes and dreams that died with them; the interactions he misses, and those he has forgotten. The pain of being ripped apart from them too soon.
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Potocari Cemetery Memorial
After this, we were directed toward the Potocari Cemetery, where the reading of 465 names and burial was about to begin. At first I was uncertain as to whether it was appropriate for me to enter the graveyard, as I am not Muslim and had not thought to bring a headscarf
with me. I did not know what was proper. Eventually, I did enter and stayed on the outskirts of the graveyard, along the wall. I listened to the first 119 names being read by several people – in order of first names – ”...Hassan ---, Hassani ---, Hassani ---,...Ibrahim ---, Ibrahim ---,...and so on...” As each name was read, a numbered green-cloth ‘casket’ was carried to the grave sites. I noticed that as the caskets were carried across a path from one end of the cemetery to the other, men who were lining the path would reach up and touched each one, while the women were on the outskirts of the men – watching. I kept thinking about how these names being called were names of men who had lived and breathed, who had loved and hated, who had hopes and dreams. Men with sisters and mothers. Men with wives and children. Men with lives that were cut short in horrific ways, whose bodies were torn to pieces and buried in random graves, who are remembered so deeply and fully in such a painful way. I thought of my friends and family and what I might have felt if they had been killed in such ways. I thought of my father. Though I miss him and his death was the most painful time of my life, none of my pain could ever compare with this. I really started to get dizzy thinking about all these things. Seeing all these people full of memories and loss. After awhile I could not take in hearing all those names and seeing all those caskets.Potocari Museum
After I left the cemetery, I went to a museum near the memorial graveyard. The museum was placed in a warehouse, with black-painted sections in the middle of the warehouse devoted to the museum. In one of these sections, I read the stories of some of the Bosnian men who were killed in this area - along with a picture of their faces and an object that was found in their pocket (ex: a house key, a lighter, a Koran, a flint).
In the face of all this, I realized just how meaningless my life was…I really felt it’s meaninglessness…which was a gift. I don’t mean this in a negative way. More than anything, I gained perspective. Looking back at what I was doing in July 1995 (when the massacres at Srebrenica were occurring), I could not help but laugh at my own idiocy. Who really cares? When facing this type of pain and death, from the view of your own life, you start to really see clearly what matters and what doesn’t. Every little moment matters.Although I left feeling exhausted and drained, I was also left with a degree of strength of a type that is different for me. I know I am changed - in a positive way. And the sadness that I so often feel has been lessened to a great degree and replaced with a feeling of 'peaceful understanding' (for lack of a better term).
