من البوسنة إلى فلسطين، تاريخنا سوف يتلاقى

I rise from a half-sleep. Eyelids feel heavy. Opening the window only lets the sweltering air settle around the crevices of an ungainly bed that creeks and screeches and whispesrs. It inhabits the space between the wall and a half-peeled wallpaper, gently maneuvering the bedroom door open and shut and electrifying tiny hairs on my head. A woman scolds two small children. A bus makes a sharp turn and a wailing sound echoes. It is the first of July in Sarajevo. 

In exactly 11 days, the remains of 14 victims from the Srebrenica genocide will be put to rest, having been found three decades later. During the 1992-1995 armed conflict in Bosnia and Herzegovina, more than 8,000 Bosnian Muslim (Bosniak) men and boys were murdered in the greater Srebrenica area, a once designated UN-protected ‘safe area.’ 

On July 11, 2024, families gathered under the splintering sun to commemorate loss. Echoes of the Srebrenica Inferno haunted the luscious woodlands surrounding the memorial. Silence again cloaked the field of white gravestones. 

Some bodies were taken from initial mass graves, exhumed, and reburied at secondary grave sites at the discretion of the Army of Republika Srpska and the affiliated civilian population. This practice made identification a multi-decade long process. As we near 30 years since these events, fewer burials are made each year. Many bodies remain unidentified as their closest relatives have also vanished. 

The commemoration this year carried another heavy burden. As I write this, Israeli Occupation Forces bombed another ‘safe zone,’ this time a refugee camp near Khan Yunis in Gaza. The parallels between the atrocities committed in Bosnia and the current annihilation of the Palestinian people and land are difficult to miss. They have left my family, friends, and community in a state of endless mourning. Glimpses of levity feel fleeting and unreal. Everyday joys become nuisances. Lights too bright. Music deafening. Splashes of rain on heated skin piercing. Chairs crinkly and uncomfortable. Winds tarred by smoke. Shoe sizes too small. Memories clouded. Heartbreak colossal. Guilt palpable. Dreams laughable. Brain and body at odds. 

Yet rudely, and perhaps unreservedly, hope veils as anger enters our bodies. Nerves light up. TVs become objects to be cussed at and spat on as international leadership wave off questions about beheaded children, charred bodies, bloodied rubble, decimated limbs, lives, homes, neighborhoods. Arms and legs reflexively go up, senior men with rugged skin speak of water and bread lines during the Siege of Sarajevo, sniper alleys, homes that once were, neighbors that turned to stone, mine-infested apple trees, mine-rigged children's toys, the kind of hunger that makes your toes twitch, expired food aid, mostly cans of beef, sometimes pork, sometimes horse meat, food dogs would not touch. They wipe their foreheads, cigarette in hand, as they watch Palestinians run after aid packages dropped into the sea. 

At this year’s commemoration in Srebrenica, families displayed both Palestinian and Bosnian flags. Journalist Motaz Azaiza spoke of parallel histories and justice to come. Maybe in 30 years they will piously proclaim ‘never again’ and tread lightly around what can be defined as genocide. Maybe in 30 years they will find just the right legal mandate, and not one hour or victim over that, and they will come up with a name for the crime. Embassies will release statements and journalists will sit in on court hearings and mothers will weep and we will create digital libraries with martyred faces and sing songs and make movies and write poetry. 

Still, maybe in 30 years, our histories will no longer be only parallel but will converge, the way that the Bosnian river Neretva spills into the Adriatic Sea, calmly and all at once.