Trip to Bosnia - I have something to say

It seemed like a so far away place. 13 hours by Pullman are very much actually. But geographically, if I think about it, it’s a stone’s throw from the sweet and innocent Italy. So close to us that I can still hear the screams of the sentenced to death echo, those who didn’t die immediately so they begged the soldier to shoot them again.

These screams have always been here, since the late 90s they wander in the wind and bounce between the Adriatic shores. But honestly I’ve never heard of them. Maybe I confused them for some seagull complaint.

But once you see, or better, you hear those atrocities, you can’t close your eyes and plug your ears. The silence that scratches the ears, the silence of entire families swept away from the face of this earth governed by infamous men, the silence can echo too.

Beings, not humans, I didn’t see anything human there. Only the tears of the people that visited the graveyard or the pictures of those who hung themselves to escape the tortures they knew, because they knew, would have been inflicted to them.

                            

 

The question spontaneously rises in me: why all of this? The answer still slips away and this not-answer leaves me a bitter taste in my mouth, that sometimes, when I don’t notice, it turns into anger. That anger that makes your tongue itch so much to let you spit out rash and inappropriate words.

I wasn’t, I wasn’t there those days. The days of the massacre. I wasn’t even born. And maybe my resentment sound ridicule, almost hypocritical. But if there isn’t anyone still  resentful, that clasps their fists and cry tears in front of these useless bloodsheds, then there is no purpose in talking about this either, everything is lost.

I don’t want to believe to this eventuality, I want to imagine one thousand resentful faces and one thousand tears that line just as many faces. I want to imagine one thousand people that tell other people about their tears and their resentment to another one thousand people in order to spread resentment but most importantly awareness, for what happened.

For those 8372 who now are no more.

(Those are the pictures I took during my trip to Bosnia in Srebrenica)