Segment of Assignment:Bosnia
Prologue
April, 1994 Eighty-seven men sit or lie hip to hip on the concrete floor of their prison, a converted barn. The stinking odor of sweat and urine is mixed with that of the horse manure left by the previous occupants of these stalls. Hacking coughs and moans echo through the barn. Curled up on the few wisps of straw that litter the floor, some are able to escape their hunger and thirst in sleep.
Clothed in rags that hang from his emaciated body, a man kneels in the middle of the dark, dank barn. Others not too weak, follow his lead, struggle to their knees. It has been days since they have been outside the walls of this prison, so they can only guess they are facing Qiblah, the direction of the Ka’bah’ at Mecca. Kneeling, they assume the position of Sujud: body bent forward, hands on the ground, palms downwards, head lowered so that their brows touch the ground. Three times they repeat “Sobhana Rabbi-yal a’alaa.” Glory to my Lord, the Most High. Save us, our compassionate Lord, from our folly…
Suddenly the barn door is thrown open, flooding the inside with light. Four soldiers stride in, the muzzles of their rifles pointing at the mass of humanity. One soldier shoves his arm through his gun sling. The rifle hangs from his shoulder and he calls out, reading from a paper: “Ismail Begovich, Amer Landzo, Muhamed Filipovic, Alija Drino, Selam…”
One by one, living corpses struggle to a standing position. With a finger, the soldier silently counts those who stand. He shouts, “I called fourteen names. I see only thirteen. Which of you is the miserable dog who remains on the floor?”
A weak voice calls out, “Mustafa Topic cannot stand. He is dead.”
“Poor excuse,” the soldier mutters. The other soldiers roar with laughter.
The lead soldier waves his gun at those standing. “Outside, you stinking bags of garbage.”
Shuffling, picking their way slowly through those sitting and lying on the floor, the 13 whose names are called stumble through the barn door, blinking as sunlight strikes their eyes. The soldiers follow them out. The door is slammed shut.
For 20 minutes the remaining prisoners are silent in the darkness, listening to what they have come to recognize as the metallic sound of shovels striking the ground outside. Moments after the shoveling has stopped they hear a rapid fusillade of gunfire, followed by screams. Then silence.
Inside the walls of the prison, a murmur starts and grows in volume. “Sobhana Rabbi-yal a’alaa…”
April, 1994 Eighty-seven men sit or lie hip to hip on the concrete floor of their prison, a converted barn. The stinking odor of sweat and urine is mixed with that of the horse manure left by the previous occupants of these stalls. Hacking coughs and moans echo through the barn. Curled up on the few wisps of straw that litter the floor, some are able to escape their hunger and thirst in sleep.
Clothed in rags that hang from his emaciated body, a man kneels in the middle of the dark, dank barn. Others not too weak, follow his lead, struggle to their knees. It has been days since they have been outside the walls of this prison, so they can only guess they are facing Qiblah, the direction of the Ka’bah’ at Mecca. Kneeling, they assume the position of Sujud: body bent forward, hands on the ground, palms downwards, head lowered so that their brows touch the ground. Three times they repeat “Sobhana Rabbi-yal a’alaa.” Glory to my Lord, the Most High. Save us, our compassionate Lord, from our folly…
Suddenly the barn door is thrown open, flooding the inside with light. Four soldiers stride in, the muzzles of their rifles pointing at the mass of humanity. One soldier shoves his arm through his gun sling. The rifle hangs from his shoulder and he calls out, reading from a paper: “Ismail Begovich, Amer Landzo, Muhamed Filipovic, Alija Drino, Selam…”
One by one, living corpses struggle to a standing position. With a finger, the soldier silently counts those who stand. He shouts, “I called fourteen names. I see only thirteen. Which of you is the miserable dog who remains on the floor?”
A weak voice calls out, “Mustafa Topic cannot stand. He is dead.”
“Poor excuse,” the soldier mutters. The other soldiers roar with laughter.
The lead soldier waves his gun at those standing. “Outside, you stinking bags of garbage.”
Shuffling, picking their way slowly through those sitting and lying on the floor, the 13 whose names are called stumble through the barn door, blinking as sunlight strikes their eyes. The soldiers follow them out. The door is slammed shut.
For 20 minutes the remaining prisoners are silent in the darkness, listening to what they have come to recognize as the metallic sound of shovels striking the ground outside. Moments after the shoveling has stopped they hear a rapid fusillade of gunfire, followed by screams. Then silence.
Inside the walls of the prison, a murmur starts and grows in volume. “Sobhana Rabbi-yal a’alaa…”
