Srebrenica

Yesterday, while here in this internet cafe posting the photos, the internet caretaker (a lady of a few years older than me) saw them from over my shoulder and asked about them.  I told her I'd just returned from there.  She looked at me and said in a relatively even voice, "My husband is in Srebrenica."

She didn't say died, she didn't say killed, she didn't say buried.

Any of the others might not have slipped past my defenses I have placed against emotional reaction against these stories.  But her expression and words slipped in and tore a hole.  For the next half hour when other people would come into the cafe, I heard the break hidden in her voice.  She canceled out my time on the computer (essentially giving me an hour for free), and, when I finished, I walked over to her and said, "I'm not sure what it would mean to you, but I am sorry."

She clutched my hand tightly in hers and spoke so hushed her words sounded like an escaped sigh.  "Thank you.  Thank you for visiting there."

Later, in speaking with a close acquaintance here, I heard the repeated phrase, "There is nothing to say about Srebrenica.  It is a place you simply have to go to."  And, "Everyone on the planet should visit Srebrenica."

I've been through two Nazi death camps.

The town of Srebrenica and the memorial at Potočari are different.  Not that there's an atrocity contest, but this place is different than Treblinka.  It's different than Auschwitz and Birkenau.

It is a still and quiet place.  It is a place far beyond words.

"My husband is in Srebrenica."

That was the most painful thing I have ever heard spoken in my entire life.

The rest is silence.



~•~