What I Lost, and What I Gained

The conflicts in Bosnia and Croatia formally ended 12 years ago last month when the warring parties met in Dayton, Ohio, to hash out an uneasy peace that holds today. I covered the disintegration of Yugoslavia for four years for The Washington Post. Recently, I heard from a young woman whom I first saw in 1993 lying on a gurney in terrible pain in the Bosnian city of Mostar. With war engulfing Iraq and Afghanistan, Selma Handzar wanted to tell her story. Here it is.

-- John Pomfret, Outlook editor

In 1993, I was an 11-year-old living in the Bosnian city of Mostar with my parents and younger brother as war between the Bosnians, the Serbs and the Croats raged around us. Like the children of Iraq and Afghanistan today, my brother and I grew accustomed to the environment of war. After a while, the sounds of shelling and the sights of soldiers become commonplace, a part of the background of your life. Until something happens. Something that, if it doesn't kill you, changes your life.

* * *

Aug. 20, 1993.

It's about one o'clock, and my brother and I have just stepped into the back yard to play. The fighting is always worst around mid-morning, then later in the afternoon, but around this time there's usually a lull, so we think we'll be safe.

Hardly a minute passes before I hear the familiar whistle of war. We're used to hearing bombs all day long, but this is different. This is close. It shrieks past my ear. Then there's nothing.

I scream my brother's name. "Mirzaaaaaa!" He's crawling toward me. Everything is in slow motion. I see his lips form the words, "Seko, are you okay?" But there's no sound. His face is covered in tar and blood. I take a step toward him, but my leg gives out. I look to my right and see my arm hanging from my shoulder by a piece of skin. I can't hear anything.

* * *

I'm on the floor, turning my head toward my brother. There's noise again, screams. I see people all around me; a man holds my brother in his arms. A blanket falls over my face. In the darkness I scream, but no sound comes out. They must think I'm dead. Will they bury me alive?

I try again. Where's my brother? Please don't bury me! Where are you taking me? I can hear my mom calling our names, but I can't answer her. I have no voice. There is no light.

I awaken again to someone saying, "Her or her brother -- which one is in more pain?" We're in a makeshift hospital in a basement somewhere. I can speak again. "Mirza," I say. "Mirza is in more pain." Silence falls again. Everything's a blur, but I catch the look on the doctor's face as he grants my wish to spare my brother.