suddenly reached out and grabbed my arm. I tried half-heartedly to shake him off, but he clung all the tighter. It was in the middle of a downpour. A bloody bandage was wrapped around the top of his head, and the rain was causing rivulets of blood to run down his face. His eyebrows were arched, his eyes staring and he said something I didnât catch, or couldnât understand. It sounded like a question. He hung onto me, waiting for an answer. The rain was drumming on the canvas that had been thrown across his body, and I stood in the mud, cursing under my breath, wanting to escape. I looked at one of the orderlies carrying the wounded man for help, but he only shrugged. He didnât seem to understand either. I didnât know the answer the wounded man was looking for, so I tore my arm from his grip, almost yanking him off the stretcher and onto the ground, and the stretcher bearers carried him away through the curtain of water. It made me feel sick.
Amongst those who havenât been wounded, thereâs a definite camaraderie. I think this is because weâre all beyond the pale, outside the bounds of civilised society. Having the rest of the world against us brings us closer together. Itâs certainly something Iâve always found appealing: having everyone hate us has never bothered me. The truth is, I like that. It makes me more determined than ever to thumb my nose at them. Yes, I like having the whole world against us, and having the opportunity to play the part of the bad guy. None of us cares what they think. Again and again I hear men saying, âThey can fuck off!â âFuck them!â âTo hell with that lot!â Sometimes theyâre talking about the people of Sarajevo, but most of the time theyâre talking about the UN, the representatives of those on the inside. Although the men were suspicious of me at first, they now believe Iâve betrayed their enemy, which amounts to virtually everyone else in the world. Iâve changed sides, or thatâs how they see it. In their eyes Iâm a fellow collaborator.
Often the talk that is carried on in the camp is between two people. Itâs whispered, like a confession, often earnestly, and canât be heard by anyone else. Thereâs also a lot of grunting. Many of the men will grunt rather than speak. Theyâll grunt when they take their plates of food off the cook, grunt at the person sitting next to a vacant spot by the fire to find out if itâs free, grunt instead of answering yes or no to someoneâs question.
Is that what theyâve become, animals living in the forest, grunting, eating, sleeping, fornicating, lying down in the mud, warming themselves by the fire, barely communicating with each other, concentrating solely on the basics, cut off from the world, doing what theyâre doing for no reason other than that theyâve been told to do it? By Milosevic, I suppose.
Sometimes thereâs singing around the campfire. It can be just one man with a guitar, or it can be everyone present. In the main theyâre folk songs, some of which I recognise from childhood. When everyone sings, an air of maudlin sincerity descends, the men either closing their eyes, lowering them to the ground as if overcome by emotion, or raising them to the pitch-black sky as if seeking an answer to their struggles here on earth. Occasionally theyâll dance the kolo, a local dance. I donât join in. They dance in the mud because thereâs no grass in the campsite. They dance, not in celebration, but in order to give themselves comfort.
The campsite is the focus point for the surrounding area. Old friends greet each other, soldiers who havenât met for awhile clasp hands or shoulders and shout affectionate obscenities at each other, standing eyeball to eyeball. Others sit in silence by the fire, brooding, clasping their bottles of Slivovitz, being consumed by the alcohol and the flames. The
Amongst those who havenât been wounded, thereâs a definite camaraderie. I think this is because weâre all beyond the pale, outside the bounds of civilised society. Having the rest of the world against us brings us closer together. Itâs certainly something Iâve always found appealing: having everyone hate us has never bothered me. The truth is, I like that. It makes me more determined than ever to thumb my nose at them. Yes, I like having the whole world against us, and having the opportunity to play the part of the bad guy. None of us cares what they think. Again and again I hear men saying, âThey can fuck off!â âFuck them!â âTo hell with that lot!â Sometimes theyâre talking about the people of Sarajevo, but most of the time theyâre talking about the UN, the representatives of those on the inside. Although the men were suspicious of me at first, they now believe Iâve betrayed their enemy, which amounts to virtually everyone else in the world. Iâve changed sides, or thatâs how they see it. In their eyes Iâm a fellow collaborator.
Often the talk that is carried on in the camp is between two people. Itâs whispered, like a confession, often earnestly, and canât be heard by anyone else. Thereâs also a lot of grunting. Many of the men will grunt rather than speak. Theyâll grunt when they take their plates of food off the cook, grunt at the person sitting next to a vacant spot by the fire to find out if itâs free, grunt instead of answering yes or no to someoneâs question.
Is that what theyâve become, animals living in the forest, grunting, eating, sleeping, fornicating, lying down in the mud, warming themselves by the fire, barely communicating with each other, concentrating solely on the basics, cut off from the world, doing what theyâre doing for no reason other than that theyâve been told to do it? By Milosevic, I suppose.
Sometimes thereâs singing around the campfire. It can be just one man with a guitar, or it can be everyone present. In the main theyâre folk songs, some of which I recognise from childhood. When everyone sings, an air of maudlin sincerity descends, the men either closing their eyes, lowering them to the ground as if overcome by emotion, or raising them to the pitch-black sky as if seeking an answer to their struggles here on earth. Occasionally theyâll dance the kolo, a local dance. I donât join in. They dance in the mud because thereâs no grass in the campsite. They dance, not in celebration, but in order to give themselves comfort.
The campsite is the focus point for the surrounding area. Old friends greet each other, soldiers who havenât met for awhile clasp hands or shoulders and shout affectionate obscenities at each other, standing eyeball to eyeball. Others sit in silence by the fire, brooding, clasping their bottles of Slivovitz, being consumed by the alcohol and the flames. The
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