The men are separated

On [July] 13th we went, at noon, after the burial we left the "11 March" [factory] and headed toward the checkpoint in front of the battery factory . . . . and then this group of people were withdrawing. It was hot, we were going step by step, as there were many people. We came in front of the slaughterhouse, there was some shade there, and we stopped there, some 10 meters away from where we were to cross . . . . We saw in front of us a check-point with a transporter, and while we were standing in the line, a truck came full of Serbian soldiers who came to Srebrenica to loot, you know . . . .

From the direction of Bratunac, towards Srebrenica, trucks full of people came and they were going to Srebrenica, and they said that we "balije" [derogatory word for Muslim] are leaving and that this is not for us anymore. They are going to live there now, and they were not the people who had lived there before. These people were strangers. When we came down and came to the slaughterhouse, then we saw, from some 10-15 meters in front of us [that] they started separating. They were separating boys from 12 years of age and old men to 77 years of age.

When our turn came, two of our neighbors were separated in front of us. They separated many from my family, and [people] from my area, I know many of those by name and surname, those that were separated. And now it was our turn. We came, as we were approaching, there was a checkpoint, and at the checkpoint stood armed Chetniks [Serbs]. And [one] said to my husband, as we were coming from above, "You come this way" and to me, " You go on!"

For me to go on, while he stopped for a moment. While we were standing in the queue, he was very worried about me, as my health is a bit fragile. He told me not to worry, that everything will be all right. It was so hot, he was worried I would faint.

His hand was on my shoulder, trembling, . . . somewhere deep inside me it still trembles . . . . It seems to me that every moment I feel it here on my left shoulder and that hot whisper of his that was reaching my ear as he told me not to worry that everything will be all right. [He said] to tell, when I come to Tuzla [Bosnia], to tell my son that he sends his warmest regards and to tell him to listen to me. And when I talk to my daughter, who is in Slovenia, by phone to tell her that her daddy has been missing her very much and that he cannot wait until the moment he will see her . . . . But he never lived to see that moment. These were his last words. They separated him and I stayed mute, I could not talk . . . . How I walked to the trucks, believe me, I don't know. I don't know how I climbed the truck or came by [the] truck. I don't know what I stood on to climb up [onto the truck]. I passed, and he stayed with his black jacket which he held in his hand. I could see him for another 10 yards while the truck went around the transporter, and afterwards another truck parked in the way. I never saw him again and don't know what happened to him. I regret so much that I did not say, "Don't take him," that I didn't scream or shout for help. Maybe it would be easier to live now. I just left silently, and could not speak, while my tears were flowing like a river and still do today, believe me . . . .