I pray this letter never reaches you.
I am sorry. I am sorry you have to see this. Iam sorry I’ve left you alone. The moment I was grabbed
from your arms into the clutches of ominous death I knew I would never return to you. Do you
remember my hands you used to kiss? These hands, though tied, now pray to be back in your warm
embrace, thanking God each night for the UN’s protection.
BETRAYAL. HYPOCRISY. COWARDICE.
How could they just leave us like that? Last week I played football with them, and now they
supervise the execution of my family. The blood of my nation splattered so mercilessly across the
classroom next door doesn’t even make me vomit anymore. Every beat of my heart is a bullet
shattering into pieces the skull of my grandfather, my father, my brother. United Nothing.
RACISM. DIVISION. HATE.
The land weeps for its sons. Serene Srebrenica, a city of safety brought to its knees in a single
gunshot. One became ten; became a hundred; became thousands more. And now what’s left? A
blanket of snow concealing bloodstains and secrets of this untold war. The sky and mountains that
brought clean water and air now only brings agony and despair. Men of honour lie beneath the once
sparkling River Drina where Papa taught me to swim. Why? Mere names. We share the same skin,
culture, language, even pray to the same God, yet genetic waste is what they call us. And they won’t
stop until we are all gone.
MISSING PEOPLE. MISSING PEOPLE.
What happened to you, Bosnia, my beloved? You were once home to Europe’s very own Jerusalem,
and now death and destruction devour your very soul. Shattered hopes and battered dreams. Bullet-
ridden buildings become broken homes. Holy Qurans lay unearthed between scattered bones.
Mama, I read mine every day. I pray for us to meet again in a land with no such agony, where rivers
are made from water and not blood, and food is found on trees and not in the pockets of the dead.
But mother donâ€™t you cry, for some good may still come of this. If I must be torn from you, then do
not let the world forget. A paradise of free souls is where I await you, Mama.
16 YEARS OLD. 20 YEARS DEAD.
Srebrenica remembers. Will you?
– Written by Najmul Haque & Merium Bhuiyan