It is May 1995, and Bosnia is in its third year of war. I’m travelling with a Workers Aid convoy from the UK, Spain and France. After a week of driving, our dozen or so lorries arrive at the foot of Mount Milankovic, which is territory controlled by the Bosnian army. A soldier approaches us. A local volunteer, he wears jeans and plimsolls.
“Good news,” he says. “We’ve pushed the enemy back and now control the road round the mountain, but it’s under sniper fire. You can take the old track over the mountain, or this road.”
We have a convoy meeting. First-timers want to go over the mountain. Old hands want to take the other route and risk the snipers.
