The Old Man From Visegrad
Here is another story.
A man: he is a grandfather, father, husband, brother. He lives on a hill overlooking a little village called Visegrad (pronounced Vishegrad). The sparkling green Drina River flows through the village. It's beautiful, peaceful. The man, his father and his grandfather lived there all their lives, with Bosnian Serb and Muslim neighbors.
He is old now, but when he was a boy during World War II his parents and all but one brother were killed when that war touched Yugoslavia. He grew up and had a family of his own. Then came the next war in 1992. One July night or day, I don't remember now, the Bosnian Serbs militia, calling themselves Chetniks (after their cutthroat predecessors in World War II), came to his home and torched it. They shot 17 people there. He saw them shoot his wife in the back as she ran for her life. Watching snowflakes drift lazily, wetly toward the foundation of a new house on the land, I wonder how fast could an old woman run down a hillside? The camp fire is beginning to die down when I try to picture what happened. All I can think of is whether the mothers held their children as they were shot, or were they all fleeing frantically? I won't try to imagine the terror. I don't want to get too close to that darkness.
After the men left, the old man came out from hiding and tried to drag his wife up the hill to a small cemetary. She was too heavy for him, so a young man helped him. All told, he has lost two generations of his family to the two wars.
There was nothing the man could do, so he left and did not return for years. Seeking safety, the old man walked for miles and miles, ferried over a river, trudged up Mt. Igman in the snow. The women, the children and the toddler lying dead around his little house rejoined the earth. Later, the bones of some were collected and identities recorded. Others were never found or never identified. The problem is that to do DNA tests you need some genetic material from the deceased and from a relative. But there was no one left of some families to donate DNA. Whole families were wiped out during the war.
This story is like so many other Bosnian stories about the war. The details are different but the suffering is the same. What makes me shudder about the old man's story is that it's like someone hit replay and 50 years later the same film was showing. What breeds contempt and anger - evil - deep enough to carry on for so long? How do you heal the poisoned heart? With peace and security?
The man has begun rebuilding his home on the hill in little Visegrad near the green green Drina River. His son and the son's sons help. He loves his home, covered in plum blossoms by spring and snow by winter.
A little old lady - one of his B. Serb neighbors - who looks like she must be 100, strolls quietly by in her headscrarf and long skirt. She keeps an eye on the houses on the hill. The old man's daughter-in-law tells me that her sons almost surely knew what was going to happen to the family. Why didn't they warn us? the man wonders, as does what is left of his family. As the old woman slowly vanishes down the long country path, I wonder, did she stroll by to watch the team collect the bones of the man's family?
A man: he is a grandfather, father, husband, brother. He lives on a hill overlooking a little village called Visegrad (pronounced Vishegrad). The sparkling green Drina River flows through the village. It's beautiful, peaceful. The man, his father and his grandfather lived there all their lives, with Bosnian Serb and Muslim neighbors.
He is old now, but when he was a boy during World War II his parents and all but one brother were killed when that war touched Yugoslavia. He grew up and had a family of his own. Then came the next war in 1992. One July night or day, I don't remember now, the Bosnian Serbs militia, calling themselves Chetniks (after their cutthroat predecessors in World War II), came to his home and torched it. They shot 17 people there. He saw them shoot his wife in the back as she ran for her life. Watching snowflakes drift lazily, wetly toward the foundation of a new house on the land, I wonder how fast could an old woman run down a hillside? The camp fire is beginning to die down when I try to picture what happened. All I can think of is whether the mothers held their children as they were shot, or were they all fleeing frantically? I won't try to imagine the terror. I don't want to get too close to that darkness.
After the men left, the old man came out from hiding and tried to drag his wife up the hill to a small cemetary. She was too heavy for him, so a young man helped him. All told, he has lost two generations of his family to the two wars.
There was nothing the man could do, so he left and did not return for years. Seeking safety, the old man walked for miles and miles, ferried over a river, trudged up Mt. Igman in the snow. The women, the children and the toddler lying dead around his little house rejoined the earth. Later, the bones of some were collected and identities recorded. Others were never found or never identified. The problem is that to do DNA tests you need some genetic material from the deceased and from a relative. But there was no one left of some families to donate DNA. Whole families were wiped out during the war.
This story is like so many other Bosnian stories about the war. The details are different but the suffering is the same. What makes me shudder about the old man's story is that it's like someone hit replay and 50 years later the same film was showing. What breeds contempt and anger - evil - deep enough to carry on for so long? How do you heal the poisoned heart? With peace and security?
The man has begun rebuilding his home on the hill in little Visegrad near the green green Drina River. His son and the son's sons help. He loves his home, covered in plum blossoms by spring and snow by winter.
A little old lady - one of his B. Serb neighbors - who looks like she must be 100, strolls quietly by in her headscrarf and long skirt. She keeps an eye on the houses on the hill. The old man's daughter-in-law tells me that her sons almost surely knew what was going to happen to the family. Why didn't they warn us? the man wonders, as does what is left of his family. As the old woman slowly vanishes down the long country path, I wonder, did she stroll by to watch the team collect the bones of the man's family?
posted by A.W. Woodall at 4:15 AM
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