11/25/2005
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To
speak of Srebrenica is to speak with shame. Who knows if one
should even be free to speak about this city. The name evokes the
most serious indictments against the “civilized world” in the past few
decades. The city resonates with words like “genocide,”
“common grave,” “DNA testing,” “women of Srebrenica,” “mothers of
Srebrenica,” or still other phrases like, “Maybe this is a
war,” “They were all executed in a few days,” “8,000 to
11,000 men are missing,” “The Blue Helmets [UN peacekeepers] had
to stand by and watch.” The city, today, weighs one down with the
burden of trying to make some sense out of expressions like those noted
above. This is the task of those who take up the challenge of
living in this city—and of making it a living city. They accept
their grim inheritance: of mourning, of silence, of unheard
protest, of hatred and fatigue. Even in these conditions, many
strive to make a positive contribution. In spite of a dark daily
grind they accept the challenge to grow as human beings—as men and
women—before seeing themselves as Serbs or Muslims. There is only
one street that leads downtown, only one street to enter and only one
street to leave. Out of respect, one always travels this street
slowly. On the right, at Potocari, just before the city center,
lies an expanse of green stones—first names, family names, dates—which
still occupies the space outside the Memorial Center. These
stones are waiting for positive identification of bodies before being
placed inside the center. I often enter this memorial. I
bring my students for visits. Sometimes Amra accompanies us.
Daily Memory.
Amra is among the first people I met last fall. She returned to
Srebrenica, but she was not able to go everywhere…. some places
remind her of her father and she simply cannot go there. She is
28 years old. She speaks very good English. Before the
foundation that runs the Memorial Center hired her, she spent time in
Sweden with her sister. Her sister will not return to Srebrenica:
she was taken to that factory of horrors on that cursed day. The
day they separated the men from the women. The separation.
“You go over here. They go over there.” A tap on the
shoulder, “Little girl where do you think you are going?” “To my
father.” “Come, come over here.” Her father still has not
been found. Amra’s job is to lead groups that come to visit the
Memorial, which is both a cemetery and a monument to their
memory. She tells them the history of the city—which is also the
story of her own life.
In this history there is no trace of a past before 1992. When I come with my
students Amra feels relieved, and she requests that I take her place in recounting
this history. She asks me to spare her the burden of reliving once more the history
that has so scarred her. Briefly, I become the guide. I am familiar with the
events and I retell them. I give voice to the sorrow of other people. I do it
with respect, but I always ask myself how great must be Amra’s weariness. Her
daily life is made up of constantly recalling everything that happened to Srebrenica
and to her. I am struck by those people who manage to live and to nourish their
own humanity even in Srebrenica. The last time that I visited the Memorial Center,
just a few days ago—myself, Amra, my students—some pupils from a middle school
in Mostar were there on a field trip, about fifty children. Jostling, confusion,
joking around, laughter—but also attention and tears: these are the gifts that
these young guests brought to the cemetery. Daily life is made of such stuff
around here.
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Ten Years after the Massacre, the banality of mourning
Written for PeaceReporter by
Giuseppe Terrasi*
Giuseppe Terrasi*
To
speak of Srebrenica is to speak with shame. Who knows if one
should even be free to speak about this city. The name evokes the
most serious indictments against the “civilized world” in the past few
decades. The city resonates with words like “genocide,”
“common grave,” “DNA testing,” “women of Srebrenica,” “mothers of
Srebrenica,” or still other phrases like, “Maybe this is a
war,” “They were all executed in a few days,” “8,000 to
11,000 men are missing,” “The Blue Helmets [UN peacekeepers] had
to stand by and watch.” The city, today, weighs one down with the
burden of trying to make some sense out of expressions like those noted
above. This is the task of those who take up the challenge of
living in this city—and of making it a living city. They accept
their grim inheritance: of mourning, of silence, of unheard
protest, of hatred and fatigue. Even in these conditions, many
strive to make a positive contribution. In spite of a dark daily
grind they accept the challenge to grow as human beings—as men and
women—before seeing themselves as Serbs or Muslims. There is only
one street that leads downtown, only one street to enter and only one
street to leave. Out of respect, one always travels this street
slowly. On the right, at Potocari, just before the city center,
lies an expanse of green stones—first names, family names, dates—which
still occupies the space outside the Memorial Center. These
stones are waiting for positive identification of bodies before being
placed inside the center. I often enter this memorial. I
bring my students for visits. Sometimes Amra accompanies us.Daily Memory.
Amra is among the first people I met last fall. She returned to
Srebrenica, but she was not able to go everywhere…. some places
remind her of her father and she simply cannot go there. She is
28 years old. She speaks very good English. Before the
foundation that runs the Memorial Center hired her, she spent time in
Sweden with her sister. Her sister will not return to Srebrenica:
she was taken to that factory of horrors on that cursed day. The
day they separated the men from the women. The separation.
“You go over here. They go over there.” A tap on the
shoulder, “Little girl where do you think you are going?” “To my
father.” “Come, come over here.” Her father still has not
been found. Amra’s job is to lead groups that come to visit the
Memorial, which is both a cemetery and a monument to their
memory. She tells them the history of the city—which is also the
story of her own life.In this history there is no trace of a past before 1992. When I come with my
students Amra feels relieved, and she requests that I take her place in recounting
this history. She asks me to spare her the burden of reliving once more the history
that has so scarred her. Briefly, I become the guide. I am familiar with the
events and I retell them. I give voice to the sorrow of other people. I do it
with respect, but I always ask myself how great must be Amra’s weariness. Her
daily life is made up of constantly recalling everything that happened to Srebrenica
and to her. I am struck by those people who manage to live and to nourish their
own humanity even in Srebrenica. The last time that I visited the Memorial Center,
just a few days ago—myself, Amra, my students—some pupils from a middle school
in Mostar were there on a field trip, about fifty children. Jostling, confusion,
joking around, laughter—but also attention and tears: these are the gifts that
these young guests brought to the cemetery. Daily life is made of such stuff
around here.
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