Hardline Serbian soldiers of Yugoslavia recognized that the Bosnian residents of Srebrenica were all family, neighbors, friends, acquaintances, lovers…so wouldn’t it be positively romantic to bury them all side by side? Better yet, in a side-by-side configuration such that they were touching one another for eternity? That would only do for the nearly 8,000 Srebrenica residents they interred.
And there they lay.
They were wearing their Halloween masks—all of them. A frightfully ghoulish lot they were. They lay hand in hand, head against head, head in lap, head on chest, chest against chest, back to back, leg over back, leg over face, leg over leg…a death orgy. All the neighbors came to this gathering: the dads, uncles, moms, aunts, brothers, sisters, boys, girls…all God’s chillun’ got wings. Such little ones…so small. Impossibly small, some of them.
Exhumation of the Srebrenica massacre victims
Impossibly small because some of them were, in fact, dolls. Moms will be more compliant in their executions if they are allowed to keep their children with them. Children are more compliant in their executions if they are allowed to keep their toys with them. It made no difference to Serbian gunners; it just made their job easier. I observed that the young boys in Srebrenica that year fancied those little cup toys with a ball attached to a length of string. The kind where you would swing the ball around and try to catch it in the cup.
But their arms…where were their arms? None of them had arms. Ah, there they are, all behind their backs—secured by ligature. None of the men wore shirts. I noted one of the missus had her hands secured behind her by a length of beads that she had perhaps been wearing that day, that last day in Srebrenica. Burying these town folk together was a gesture by the Serbs who would go on living; it meant absolutely squat to the dead.
Our helo screamed as it heaved upward and forward, nose down and twisting in the sky. Barticus handed me a clump of wet napkins that he had just used to wipe the toothpaste off his lip. “Here,” he shouted, “You look ridiculous!” I grinned a mandatory grin as I wiped my lip. “Welcome to Bosnia!” he shouted. This time, I wore the vacant expression.
At some point during that flight I regained consciousness and realized I still had my video camera strapped to my left hand. The thought of it hadn’t so much as crossed my mind even for a moment at the grave. But then videos of mass graves do not make the best travel memorabilia…not in the least.
The job occupied the rest of my day well enough, but eventually, our tasks were done, and I was back at my safe house late that night. I made coffee despite the hour, as I felt quite certain the Sandman would not be punching my ticket that night. I heard the rush of a sudden heavy rain outside the house and felt a distinct urge to be out in it.
Exhumed grave of victims—2007
Stepping into the backyard, I became soaked immediately, head to toe, my coffee diluted by the deluge. The downpour was of such strength that I could scant see to the yard’s back wall. I was honestly OK with that. I was OK with not seeing anything, anything at all, ever again. I stood, soaked, and sipped and sighed. With each sip, my coffee tasted more and more like the night sky.
And yet it happened.
By Almighty God and with honor,
-Geo sends
Dedication for this article goes to NEWSREP sister Susan Hanigan
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A Delta Operator Describes the Stench of the Mass Graves of Bosnia,1995
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A Delta Operator Describes the Stench of the Mass Graves of Bosnia,1995
George E. Hand IV
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As our chopper flared hard over the street, we dumped out and spread out in quick-time route-step to the exhumation site, the palpable stench and the sight of impossibly small remains cementing the grim reality of Srebrenica’s tragedy.
