Hatidža Mehmedović from Srebrenica: “… If you ask God to find the remains of your loved ones …”

Hatidža Mehmedović co-founded the “Mothers of Srebrenica” association. She lost her husband and two sons in the Srebrenica genocide. They were 17 and 20 years old at the time. She told her tragic story to Bosnian journalist Elma Kazagić and returned to Vidikovac near Srebrenica in 2002. Hatidža Mehmedović died on July 22, 2018 at the age of 65 in a hospital in Sarajevo as a result of breast cancer. Like a brave lioness, she fought for justice until the end. Revenge was never part of her mission.

The attack on Srebrenica began before July 11. Srebrenica was exhausted from years of siege. We were hungry and hopeless. In the morning around 10:00 a.m. on July 11, 1995, my older son came to me and said: “Mom, if you hear that the town has fallen, then flee with Lalo (my younger son’s nickname) and dad to Potočari to UNPROFOR. This order has reached us: the older people, mothers and children should go to Potočari and those who have enough strength should flee through the forests and over the mountains to reach safe territory.

At midday, we saw columns of refugees moving past our house to Potočari, six kilometers away. The Serb siege ring was getting tighter and tighter. We waited for someone to help us; for NATO to attack the Serbian troops… After all, Srebrenica was a safe zone. But nothing happened.

At 7.15 pm sharp, we heard on Radio Srebrenica that the situation had normalized. But that wasn’t the voice of our newsreader Dino. We realized immediately that the Serbs had occupied the radio station, that the entire UN protection zone of Srebrenica had fallen. The children were silent, my husband Abdulah was silent, I was afraid for my children.

It was high time to get out of here. My husband Abdulah, my two sons Azmir and Almir, one 20, the other 17 years old, and I joined one of the many streams of refugees. We reached the Brestova plain between Srebrenica and the Tuzla protection zone. This is where most of the families split up. Some forever, like me. Only we didn’t know it at the time. The women and children fled to the nearby UN headquarters in Potočari, the men and boys moved on to the Blue Helmets in Tuzla. They would not have been accepted in Potočari. A confusing crowd was gathered here, crying loudly. We split up. Only for two or three days, we thought. Until our children would reach the safe area in Tuzla. And then there were the worries. Would they make it? They would be hungry and thirsty. I only had some water and bread with me. We didn’t know then that we would never see each other again. That’s what happened to hundreds of families in that square.

My younger son hugged me and said: “Mom, please go to Potočari, you know you won’t be able to walk for a long time. You can fall down, get tired. What should we do then? Please, go, mom!” His firm embrace, his arms … I will never forget this moment. My dear child … (cries).

Night came slowly. Detonations could be heard in Srebrenica. Mothers quietly let their tears run, children sobbed. The worst thing was to see men crying. My youngest son never left my side, we stood there hugging each other. When it came time to say goodbye, he gently pushed me away from him, put his hands on my face and said tearfully that I had to go now.

I left. My three waved sadly after me. My steps were heavy, I wanted to say a lot to them, but there was no time left. When we arrived in Potočari, I saw endless columns of people. Countless people, most of them on the factory premises. I wished my husband and children had been with me. Later I realized that they would have met the same fate.

People streamed into the protection zone all day long. I thought about my children all the time. I forgot to think about the rest of my relatives, brothers, father, mother … I met my mother-in-law in Potočari. We tried to sleep – on the asphalt, grass, earth … But it didn’t work.

The next morning I was sitting next to my mother-in-law. We were separated by a wire fence from the Dutch blue helmet soldiers who should have been protecting us. They were talking and laughing. I was surprised that most of them were only wearing shorts and T-shirts. We were later told that the Serbs had taken their uniforms. I asked Emina, a young translator from Srebrenica, what was going on here. She said to me: “Nothing Aunt Điđo (my nickname). Everything is fine.” She couldn’t say anything because the UN blue helmets were standing next to her. My silent mother said to me: “Something is wrong here, something strange is happening. People are restless, confused. It’s not good.” She must have felt it, because she had already survived a war. I went back to the young translator to ask her. She told me, “Go behind the yellow tape. The United Nations is responsible for everyone who is there.”

Suddenly there were Serbs. I felt nothing. My feelings went away with my children. I had no fear, no hunger, no thirst. General Mladić was standing just a few meters away from me. He was speaking into a megaphone, the television was filming. He grated sweet talk, said he didn’t want to harm us, said that buses to Tuzla would be coming soon. He handed out chocolate to the children – all for the cameras. He soon stopped filming and turned angrily to one of the cameramen: “Enough, that’s enough! Go away!”

Then the buses arrived. I tried to get on one three times. But a Serbian soldier stopped me. Suddenly another one said: “Let them go! Let them go!” I still wonder who that young man was who helped me. I am grateful to him. Not for the fact that I’m still alive. I see that as a punishment. But he saved me from great suffering, because many of our women were raped and many took their secret to the grave. I remember that there were two soldiers at the front and back of every bus, sorting people out from the queue. They wrote everything down. These lists must still exist somewhere.

All this time I knew nothing about my children. I prayed to God that their escape over the mountains and through the forests had been successful. I was worried because I knew that the escape was along the line of the Chetniks. They displaced thousands of people. I myself was displaced for years. I was everywhere in Bosnia. And every day I waited for news of my husband and sons.

Only a few survived the march along the Serbian lines. Thousands left their bones in the mountains. The Serbs either killed our men right away in the forest or a little later and then threw them into mass graves.

I waited for mine … But they didn’t come.

I returned to our house in October 2002. That was my greatest wish because I thought that my family didn’t know where I had been all this time. I thought they would come. In the meantime, there were Serbs living here who initially refused to leave the house. My neighbors told me that three pigeons had settled on my balcony the night I returned home. Three pigeons – like my three pigeons.

I took everything into my own hands and founded an association of returned women, the “Mothers of Srebrenica”. I occupied myself with all sorts of things just so I wouldn’t have to think about my family all the time. I visited cemeteries, saw children’s skulls, skeletons of women and men. I still hoped that mine were alive. One day I heard my son Almir. He called out, “Mom!” I ran to the stairs where he had loved to play. But my Lalo wasn’t there.

Shortly afterwards I received a call from Tuzla. It was November 13, 2007 and a friend called: “We’ve found your dead child.” I cried and cried. Shortly afterwards, my husband was also found. Or what was left of him: three bones in a mass grave. They had found my child complete, undressed and also in a mass grave. I don’t know whether it’s Azmir or Almir. They were both the same size. I’m still looking for the third member of my family.

This is my life. I travel from one mass grave to another in the hope of finding my loved ones. What a life it is when you ask God to find bones! So that they are complete and you can lay them to rest!

Many have since returned to Srebrenica. The town is alive again. Serbs are also living here again. But it is clear to everyone that Srebrenica suffers every July. People live differently here in July. In this month, the town sinks into mourning. That’s when people here are saddened and grieving.

On July 11, Serbian militias stormed the UN protection zone of Srebrenica. In the presence of Dutch UN blue helmets, more than 8,000 Muslims, including minors, were killed by the Serbs and buried in mass graves. Women were taken to rape camps. To this day, 20 years later, not all victims have been found and identified. The Srebrenica genocide is considered one of the worst war crimes in Europe’s history after the Second World War.

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