War graveyard from 1992-5 Bosnian war. Demoted/Sulejman Omerbasic.All rights reserved.The news of 35 people, including 14 babies and children, drowning in the Aegean Sea last week wrenched my heart. What does it take, I wondered, to make a mother lift her child onto a rickety, overcrowded boat? How does she swallow her fear? And what does she whisper to her child as they climb aboard, knowing full well they may not make the crossing alive?
I know the fear that drives a mother to make such a journey, but I also know the hope. My mother made a similar decision in the autumn of 1994, as war ravaged my country, Bosnia and Herzegovina. When she put her and her children’s lives into the hands of smugglers it was the only choice she had – just like thousands of others today.
I was eight when war broke out in my country in 1992. I learned the fear of being woken in the middle of the night to the horrific sound of artillery fire. I learned the heartache of losing my first love - my dad - then my grandpa, then my best friend, Ilma. Then I stopped counting. I learned what it meant to be internally displaced, hungry, malnourished, cold, scared, wishing for the nightmare to end.
