In my dreams I wander amongst the rubble in the old part of the city, searching for a piece of stale bread; my mother and I breathe in the smoke from the dust of the shooting, and imagine that it is the smell of cake and kebab. We run even though it is nine in the evening, and perhaps we’re rerunning to meet our grenade; then an explosion thunders through the street of dignity, many people are wounded – sisters, brothers, mothers and fathers. I move closer and touch an injured hand. I touch death, terrified, I’m aware that it’s not a dream: it’s another day in Sarajevo (commonly pronounced: SAYRE – EE – YAY – VOE).…
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