Zedin, Mina's only Son

Zedin, Mina's only Son

He was 22 when he was taken, my Zedin. Always smiling, ready to help, never said no to anyone. Sometimes he would spend all day with his mechanical saw, cutting firewood for people and would come home without a penny in his pockets. I'd say: Son, you were gone all day and earned nothing? "Mother, I couldn't take their money, they had so little and the winter is coming, I just couldn't," he would say. That is how he was. He was so good with his hands, he would make money from selling cast iron grills he made. He was saving to buy a new car: "Perhaps dad will chip in a little and I will make more, and we'll buy a bigger car. When I get married, maybe our family will grow so that we will need a bigger car."

Farewell

When they came to the house to take him away, he was so sick he could not stand on his feet. I pleaded with the soldier who was in command to leave him, that Zedin is to weak to go. He said: "He is faking, he's just scared. Get up!" So I took him under his arm and led him to the bus that was parked on the street. I begged the soldier to allow him to take his medicine with him and he agreed, so I brought it out of the house. Zedin was shouting for me to go home. He was waving from the bus window: "Mom, go home, please." "No, son," I said, "I want to go with you." The bus left. They took Zvonko, Vlado, Stevo, my son, Muhamed, and Sefik, and Djevad, and Mirzet, and Karlo, and that man from the bottom of the street, the one who married Mira, Ivica.

Reunion

They were exhumed by the Hague Tribunal. I was there. I collected the bones, what was left, and found the piece through which a bullet went. Standing there, crying, when this man from the Tribunal approached me. He put his arm around my shoulder and asked me who else do I have. "I have these bones, that is all" I replied. "Tell me who did you find first," I asked. "Your child," he said. "So, he had to watch everything that happened to the others and then was killed," I asked. He lowered his eyes, said nothing for a while, and then quietly nodded: "Yes, that is how it happened."

Things

I washed all his things. Socks have not decomposed, nor his shirt, I washed them all and brought them home. His lighter, and his ID, and his medicine, glasses, I washed them all and brought them. I spend hours with these things in my lap. I did not find any shoes, they must have taken them off of him. My dearest son... This was blood that transformed into white... Here.. All of it... I washed it all...

Neighbors

I just can't understand why, God, why? These were all neighbours who took him away, they were not strangers. We all knew each other. I just wish to be able to see the man who killed him, to ask him what were Zedin's last words. To look him in the eye and ask: Why did you do it? What did he say to you when he laid his eyes on you the last time? To know... I just wish I could know who the killer is.

Hasan

I was in Germany, to sort out some documents, my husband Hasan was ill. My sister Beska went to visit him, to make him coffee, and she asked: "Hasan, how are you, are you in pain?" He just put his hand on his heart and said: "My child, Beska, that is my only pain." I came back on Monday, I was at the gate of the house when he drew his last breath.

He never told me that. Zedin was taken in 1992, we found him in 2000, but Hasan never said a word about what happened to him. Never, he wanted to spare me more grief, because I cried all the time. Never until those last words:“My child is my only pain." I used to tell him that we did lose a child, but that we had each other to help get through the day. And now he is gone too.

Memory

I was so sad. Eid would come, everyone would have someone to visit them, and it was difficult for me. So I decided to put this plaque up so that I have my loved ones to look at. I also did it for the neighbours. I want this to hurt their eyes. To remind them of what they did. Many people said that I shouldn't have. I said, if you lived through the same you would think differently. I am not asking anyone for permission anymore. I do what my heart tells me to do. Nobody will tell me what to do again, only my heart.