We went to Srebrenica on Friday. That isn’t the kind of trip that I can just talk about, as if it could be easily equated to any one of our other day trips. I remember the 90s very well, and genocide happening during my lifetime, on a continent where I occasionally lived, is hard to digest. While I was throwing fits about what I wanted in my lunch, or whether I could go to my friend’s house on a weeknight, other kids were walking 100 kilometers to Tuzla while their brothers and fathers and friends were being killed by artillery and sniper fire. I was begging my Dad for those new Adidas sneakers, while mothers and daughters and sisters in Bosnia were begging for the lives of their husbands and sons and brothers. There is very little I can say about Srebrenica without sounding cavalier, which is why I will say very little this week.


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