Tarik Divkovic

Sometimes I wake up soaked in sweat, my heart racing, convinced I’m back in that muddy trench. The war has been over for decades, but in my mind, certain moments are as fresh as yesterday. I live in Sarajevo, Bosnia, in a small apartment near Baščaršija. People here know me as the quiet man who writes letters to the newspaper and attends mosque every Friday. They don’t see the weight I carry.

I was raised in a devout Muslim family. My father taught me to value peace above all else. I believed in that. But when the siege began, when snipers picked off children at play and homes became targets, peace felt like a luxury no one could afford. I fought. We all did. I didn’t want to, but there was no choice. You can't talk your way out of artillery fire.

One night in ’93, we were in a makeshift trench on the edge of the city. I remember the cold, the smell of gunpowder and earth. A man I barely knew lay beside me. A bullet tore through his helmet and lodged in his skull. He lived for three more days in a hospital without proper medicine or heat. Later I learned his name. He had two young children. Just like I did. I still see his eyes when I close mine.

I’m 62 now. What haunts me more than anything is how we’re still not free. Not really. Politicians, radio hosts, even schoolteachers—many still feed the youth with hate. Different names now, different slogans, but the same poison. It spreads easily. And the young believe it, because they’ve never tasted war.

Faith has kept me from collapsing under the weight of it all. That, and the act of telling. I write every day. Sometimes just to myself. Sometimes for others to read. I want my grandchildren to know that violence is never strength. It’s a failure. And no enemy ever died from being understood. Only from being forgotten.