The Bosnian War took every little thing from me – my home, my dad, uncles, and friends. The whole lot I once knew.
Before the war, my childhood in my hometown village of Barane (within the south of recent day Bosnia and Herzegovina) was amazing. My family was Muslim – made up of my dad, mam, older brother, and older sister.
The one things that mattered to me were which cartoons we watched, which books we liked, and – most significantly – which football clubs we supported.
But slowly, our childhood games modified. We stopped playing hide and seek, and commenced playing soldiers, tanks, and camps.
Once I was seven years old, the siege of Sarajevo by Serb forces began and Bosnia became the setting of Europe’s only genocide because the Holocaust.
I wasn’t aware that Serbian and Croatian politicians were equating Bosnian Muslims to animals, insects, and disease. Sooner or later, I even remember finding Mam crying in front of the TV.
She quickly wiped her tears, then hugged me, kissed me on the pinnacle, and told me not to fret. Years later, I realised she had been watching the war spread across Bosnia.
In spring 1992, war got here to our village. At first, it felt surreal. After about two months, my parents made a call that we needed to flee our home for our own safety.
In the primary nine months of war, we moved 14 times before we eventually settled with one in all my uncles in a close-by village.
Things got much worse in the summertime of 1993 when Croatian forces began rounding up Muslim men into concentration camps, including my dad and most of my male relatives. A few of my cousins were just 16 years old.
I cried myself to sleep that night. Within the aftermath, I wouldn’t leave my mam’s side.
There have been also camps for ladies and kids and on August 4, we were rounded up in a ‘collection centre’. That’s once we were searched by Croatian soldiers.
Mam was forced to sign a document stating she was giving up every little thing we had for ‘safekeeping’ to the local council. One among the soldiers even tried to bribe me with chocolate to inform him if we were hiding anything. I remember seeing myself crying within the reflection of his sunglasses.
We were then loaded onto cattle trucks together with other families and driven a few hours towards Bosnian government territory, south of Mostar. That day was the primary time I stepped over a dead body to survive.
We eventually made our option to my aunt Emina’s house, my mam’s older sister, where we were allowed to remain. We were exhausted, frightened, and ravenous.
Life was really difficult at Emina’s house because 1000’s of shells rained on town every day. We fell asleep hungry every night, but my mam and aunt were so resourceful. They used chicken feed to make bread and grass to make pies.
We began school as an act of defiance, however it was safest to go at night. I used to be eager to learn to read and write because we began receiving letters from my dad through the International Red Cross.
That is once we learnt what had happened to him. He ended up in Dretelj, a former military complex, and kept in one in all the tunnels that went deep into the mountain. Inside weeks of arriving within the concentration camp, he lost 4 stone (25kg) after being treated very badly. He still can’t talk in regards to the full details.
He was there for just a few months before the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) helped secure the discharge of around 500 prisoners. The UK was one in all several countries to absorb refugees.
My dad was delivered to Newcastle. We were so relieved that he was protected and we desperately desired to be reunited with him. Unfortunately, it will be six full months until that was possible.
Within the meantime, on the night of January 24, 1994, Croat forces dropped bombs from a plane onto Mostar. Through my classroom window, I saw our street in flames.
It turned out that my auntie Emina was wounded. She had been standing on the front door when she heard the plane, then the blast threw her back into the home.
Relations managed to get her to a hospital, however it lacked medical equipment and medicine. She died the next morning on January 25.
I lost all faith in humanity. My life felt fragile and meaningless.
On June 19, the Red Cross got here to seek out us in Mostar and gave us two hours to make your mind up whether we would depart Bosnia. It was a difficult decision to go away my grandparents and cousins, but I used to be excited to see my dad again.
We were then taken to a refugee camp in Croatia, where we spent exactly a month. We arrived in London on July 19 and flew to Newcastle later that day.
We were reunited with my dad on the airport that very same day. My sister spotted him in the group first and ran to him, then my brother followed quickly after her.
Bosnian Genocide Educational Trust
Smajo Bešo is the founding father of the Bosnian Genocide Educational Trust. For more information in regards to the work they do, visit their website here.
I held on to my mam. I used to be frightened, nervous, and shy. But as soon as I saw him approaching us, I ran to him.
I feel like I can still feel that hug now. I used to be so joyful, but that feeling didn’t last.
On our first night in Newcastle, I woke up screaming. I suffered with PTSD for a few years after that.
Ever since, we rarely discussed what we went through, but I even have since realised that my family has been reliving the identical trauma for generations.
My great grandad was in a concentration camp throughout the First World War, then my grandad within the Second World War, and eventually my dad in Bosnia within the Nineties. I grew up wondering if this fate awaited me too.
Our plan was all the time to remain within the UK temporarily, but we learnt within the years since that our house had been torched. We still have the important thing to the house though because a component of us believes we’ll return sooner or later.
After highschool, I went to Newcastle University to check architecture, completing each my undergraduate and Master’s degrees. I began working as an architect before moving to the university to show architecture in 2016.
I’ve had the urge to inform my story ever since I used to be a toddler. It helped me feel like I used to be moving toward justice. Importantly, it helped me heal.
I got here to grasp that my story might be a strong tool for peacebuilding. Only by acknowledging the reality of the past can we construct a safer, more just future.
So I began sharing, anywhere people were willing to listen. A whole bunch of times a 12 months, up and down the country.
In 2020, I established the Bosnian Genocide Educational Trust. Then in 2023, I used to be awarded an OBE by King Charles for my work in genocide and Holocaust education. I attended Buckingham Palace with my wife, Allija, and mam. It was an emotional day for all of us.
I have to say, I even have never been as frightened as I even have been over the past 12 months. The language utilized by far-right politicians today is eerily paying homage to the rhetoric Serb and Croat nationalists utilized in the Nineties.
Despite every little thing my parents experienced in Bosnia, they continue to be beacons of strength, hope, and inspiration. We just celebrated my dad’s 73rd birthday and my mam’s sixty fifth. They were surrounded by all their children and grandchildren, it was an exquisite day.
My parents all the time say, those that tried to exterminate us, to interrupt our spirit, to dehumanise us, only managed to dehumanise themselves.
Yet here we’re, three generations together, energetic, love, and laughter.
Do you could have a story you’d wish to share? Get in contact by emailing James.Besanvalle@metro.co.uk.
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