Some Peace, At Last, For Admir

I first met young Admir in November 1993. We spoke for two days in a house in Gornji Rahic just a few miles from the Brcko front line between the Bosnian Army and the forces of Republika Srpska. The weather was growing cold and there was no electricity, so we spent most of the time huddled near a smoky wood fire for warmth and light. Although my primary job in Bosnia and Herzegovina at that time was to promote the humanitarian assistance work of the US Government, the American Embassy in Zagreb had also tasked me with collecting evidence regarding war crimes. This was what had led me to Admir.

Admir was a rail-thin, handsome twenty-four year old with an amazing memory for detail. Given the tales of horror he recounted over those two dreary days, he would have been luckier to have had no memory at all.

At the beginning of March 1992, Admir had been driving his Aunt on some unimportant errand when they were stopped at a checkpoint near the town of Brcko. Admir was arrested by the soldiers manning the barricade and soon found himself in the infamous Luka death camp. During the next several weeks, he descended into a hell that few of us can even imagine. Time after time he prayed for death to take him where he would not have to suffer anymore. Things happened to this unemployed, poorly-educated youth from the tiny village of Palanka that would have turned a weaker human being into a vengeance-seeking killing machine.

But something made Admir different. He had taken me on a two-day guided tour of Hades, but, while damaged in body, he was unscarred in spirit. Unlike so many victims who can think of nothing but hatred and vengeance, Admir wanted peace and understanding. At the end of our time together, he asked if he could recommend something for inclusion in my report and, afterwards, if he could make a personal request. What Admir insisted that I write was not that the "Serbs" had done those horrible things to him. Rather, he was the victim of individual criminals. Moreover, he insisted that if it were not for certain "Serbs" he would not even have survived to speak to me.

As for his request, Admir opened his mouth to reveal a bleeding mass of broken teeth and infected gums. His teeth had been smashed by a camp guard. The result was that he had not been able to eat solid food for more than a year, hence his emaciated appearance. He wanted to know if, on my next visit, I could bring the hospital in Tuzla the supplies they would need to make false teeth for him.

It was March 1994 before I could return to the Tuzla region to fulfill Admir's request. During that time, a dear friend of mine had gotten to know the young man from Palanka quite well when he came to visit his wounded brother in the hospital. She was charmed by his tenderness and good nature, and he revealed to her his fear of returning to the front, for Admir, like so many young men on all sides, had been forced into the army.

It was an early Spring day when my friend, Adisa, and I drove to Gornji Rahic to coordinate the delivery of medical equipment and to drive Admir back to Tuzla to have his teeth fixed. We talked on the way about taking Admir to dinner as soon as he was able to eat normally so we could buy him the biggest steak in Tuzla. After completing the first part of our mission, we went to the military headquarters to inquire after our patient. Adisa went inside while I remained in the car to speak to an American diplomat we had brought from Sarajevo. As soon as she returned, it was obvious tragedy had struck. Adisa was pale and trembling, and she broke down into uncontollable sobbing as she blurted out, "They said Admir is lying over there by the Mosque!"

Admir was killed by a sniper at the age of twenty-five. Adisa had seen him in Tuzla only one week before and told him I was coming. We were three days too late.
On Thursday, January 22nd, American soldiers arrested Goran Jelasic, the commander of the Luka death camp where Admir suffered so terribly. Jelasic, who likes to call himself the "Serb Adolf", will, at long last, go on trial at the International Tribunal in The Hague. The horrific crimes of which he is accused will be exposed for all the world to witness. Admir will have his day in court through the testimony of others.

Upon hearing of the arrest, I telephoned Adisa and discovered that she, too, was thinking of sweet, gentle Admir. We agreed that it was good that his tormentor was finally in custody, but we also knew that this is not, ultimately, what will bring our friend peace. This young lad turned reluctant warrior would want something more. He would want the world to know that it is not a people or an ethnic group that tortured and ultimately killed him. He would want it remembered that individuals commit crimes against individuals. Most of all, he would want someone to tell the world that there were men on the other side in Brcko who maintained their humanity, and who, at his darkest hour, helped a peasant boy from Palanka to survive.

In 1994, as I began my work with the International Criminal Tribunal in The Hague, one of my sons bought me an engraved pen for Father's Day. On it was inscribed not with my name but that of Admir, so as to remind me of his message of peace and hope every time I used it. Today, under the auspices of the United States Institute of Peace, I have been given the privilege of helping to establish a Truth and Reconciliation Commission for Bosnia and Herzegovina. As part of its task of defining the recent history of his battered homeland, this Commission will allow Admir to tell the other side of the story he so desperately wanted us all to hear.

The engraving has faded so that it is difficult read Admir's name. I think, perhaps, it is time to take it to someone who can make it shine again.