Bloody Eid al-Adha

Content warning: Violence, war

On June 10, 1992, our neighbor, whom we called Bijeli (White), came over. I didn’t know his real name, and since everyone in Bosnia is White, I wondered why they called him that. As he walked in, he said, "I remember that I must take off my shoes when entering a Muslim house," so he did. My mom told me to make some Turkish coffee and serve baklava for him. Really?! I screamed inside myself. I never liked how she made exceptions for the guests! God forbid, if I wanted a piece of baklava before Eid. Did she forget her long-time rule that bajramska baklava is "forbidden" and should be for Eid the next day? Well, that injustice could not spoil my happiness about tomorrow, I thought.

After helping out with the hospitality, I went on to choose my Eid outfit. I chose the new dimije that my aunt sewed, folded my bajramska aladza and took out my older sister’s nanule to go with it. I put them on and began tapping to a combination of slower and faster rhythms all throughout the house. I tried to make a rhythm of a known song and then heard my sister humming along as she recognized where is this going. The melody immediately sprang forth, "Nek Mirisu Avlije," and we blended her humming, my banging, and finger snapping. We spun and whirled and sang until the laughter caused us to collapse to the ground.

As we were settling down, I overheard my mother and Bijeli talking about an old cow we had. He promised to bring money as soon as he got paid, and my mother said, "Yes, my dear neighbor, of course, we can wait." It appears they struck some sort of agreement. My mother was glad to sell our elderly cow when he left, walking it because it was no longer producing milk for us. Bijeli appeared pleased because he intended to use it to make pastrami, and I, seeing my mother happy about the bargain, was even more excited about tomorrow. Making a good deal is a big deal for her as she was raising eight of us on her own.

As the night approached, I was all set tightening up the already detailed house and scented it in honor of our dearest guest, Eid, but I was too excited to fall asleep. I thought about the gifts prepared for me and estimated how much money I would receive the next day.

July 11, 1992: I heard my mother calling me, and I thought I heard some other panicked voices. I looked through the window, and it was already dawn. I was mad at myself for missing Sabah, but I didn’t hear muezzin. "Hurry! Hurry! Put some clothes on; we have to leave now!" my mother shouted. I saw my sisters standing in a hallway, layered up in mismatched clothes. A horrified look plastered on their pale faces revealed a dread I had never seen before. They motioned at me with their hands in a hurried manner, directing my attention to the rain boots they had retrieved from the closet for me, but I planned to wear nanule today.

We left home to hide in the woods. Grenades exploded, killing those who did not hide quickly. It was raining all day. At first, it didn’t rain on me when I leaned on a fat old tree, but shortly after, the rain poured down its trunk, soaking my shoulders and back. More and more people are joining us in the woods. Mothers desperately tried to shush their screaming babies while their somewhat older siblings sensed they are supposed to be quiet. The elderly, tired from walking, made canes from shattered branches to sustain themselves. I've figured out by now that various firearms have different sounds. I overheard some young men arguing, using phrases like "This is Zolja," "This is Sniper," or "This has to be 'papovka,'" as they were listening and analyzing what they heard. As the evening approached, I slipped into that peculiar duality of being alert while asleep.

July 12, 1991: Bang! Bang! Bang! What I heard did not sound like anything those boys shared their expertise on but like someone banging on a metal plate or a bucket. A man tried to get our attention. "Listen, everyone," he said. "We must surrender!" With a broken voice, he continued, "We are commanded to exit the woods and sit on the ground with our hands raised and facing 'them.'"

The land where we made our hasty settlement is known as Radolje. Men sat at the front clutching shirts, jackets, and other upper body coverings with one hand and showing any weapons they had in the other. From there, we were commanded to walk to the region of Strbacki Buk at the foot of the river Una. There was a bridge connecting two countries, over which you can go to Štrpce and Donji Lapac in neighboring Croatia. "They" walked around us, armed and furious, taking aside and killing whom they had chosen. Among "them," I recognized my neighbor Bijeli, who was the most furious and insane. He called random names from a list he was holding. Some said, "here I am," not knowing whether they should say that or keep quiet. Those called out were Vojno sposobni men and were lined up under the old bridge. As he passed us again, my mom dared to ask, "What is going on Bijeli?" to which he answered angrily, "Zacepi baba jebat cu vam majku balijsku!" The river Una looked so peaceful as the sun was about to set. The white fluff above her served as a cover. As I was lying down underneath the blanket, I thought about how lucky she was. But doesn’t she see us? If so, how can she let this happen? She knew all my secrets, I thought. I learned how to swim in her water, and I considered her like a best friend, so how can she peacefully watch? Oh no! Is she on their side? She must be "their" friend too. We shared her. She loved us all.

Everyone was alert and waiting. Men continued to be called by name, lined up beneath the bridge, or killed in the woods. At that time, nothing major happened to the elderly, women, and children. My mom hoped the next man on the list would be my older brother. Even though we were not sure why they were being separated, at least it was not immediate death as it is for those dragged into the woods. We were all exhausted, hungry, thirsty, frightened, and confused. We just waited and listened.

July 13, 1992. It’s Dawn. I looked towards the river, ready to ask her if she had a nice sleep, all tucked in under her white blanket, but the white blanket was not covering her anymore. It had slipped onto the side. I looked again, and this time I saw her white blanket floating over the field and moving toward us. Loud noises, rifles in the air, mad men shouting, madder now than yesterday. What is this? I heard them ask. I saw hope on people's faces. Some were saying, Elahamdullilah! Once again, I wasn't sure what was going on. My mom, who normally knew everything, didn’t know either. People were facing the river and commenting, "It's UNPROFOR! They are not going to let them kill us all."

I looked again and saw that the white blanket was actually a convoy of white armored vehicles from the United Nations. As "they" were talking to each other, we heard that someone swam across the river during the night and informed the UN about what was happening. People were relieved as if everything is over. They started to talk, and kids were saying they are hungry, while "they" were getting more angry.

I felt ashamed. I couldn’t forgive myself for doubting my best friend. I thought she was sleeping under her fluffy white blanket and ignoring what was going on. My dear Una, I hope you will forgive me. I could not see that you created your blanket to hide a swimmer who crossed your water in search of help. You saved many lives that day, making yourself calm and covering yourself with a white blanket. I understand you could not save us all, but you didn’t ignore it. You did what you could.

I thank you, my dear friend.

After the majority of the population (children, women, and elderly) crossed the bridge, we were transferred to the UN base and then to a concentration camp in Donji Lapac, Croatia. Those men who were separated were taken to camps where they underwent various tortures, and most of them were eventually killed and thrown into pits.

The bridge symbolizes parting, tears, pain, and suffering. For those who stayed under the bridge, it was only a desolate hope, and for us who crossed it, it was an escape.

I'm writing this to remind myself of it and to express my hope that this never happens to you.

Translations: dimije: a special kind of dress - specific Bosnian women's clothing bajramska aladza: type of Hijab head covering nanule: open-toe shoes with a wooden platform vojno sposobni: military-able men, approximately between the ages of 16-80

Zacepi baba jebat cu vam majku balijsku!: Shut the f--- up, old hag. I will f--- up all you Muslim animals.

Elahamdullilah: Thank God

— Sebiha Basar ’24, Elementary Education/Early Childhood