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EXTRACT: BEFORE THE ATTACK

Instead of going into the basement we spent that first night with Rama and Nafi, remaining close for protection and comfort. Also with us were another neighbour, Ramadan, and his wife and children, boys of an age with my younger two.

There was to be no sleep. In the distance we heard explosions, gun shots, machinery, and we knew that our turn would come. If not this night, it would be the next, or the night after that. Somehow we had to deal with our fear and in this our wise, old neighbour Rama was wonderful. He gathered us round him and told us stories of his experiences in the Second World War. He told his stories well and the boys listened with rapt attention, their minds in what was for them the distant past.

When it was time to leave in the morning we said we would come back the next night, but Rama said, ‘No, you must find somewhere more secure than this. Did you mention a basement close to here?’

The second night we went down to the centre of town as a family. And yes, in one of the big houses there was a hidden basement, covered with a carpet. There we spent the night with about a hundred others, dreading the moment when the trap door above might be thrown open, listening as the explosions grew closer.

On the third night I took a carpet into the basement for the mothers of younger children to use, but now still more people had arrived. There was not enough space and we were asked to divide our family. I was to remain in the basement with our youngest son while my husband stayed with the older boys upstairs. We went along with this at first but I could not bear it to have the family separated. I took my youngest son by the hand and we went upstairs to find the others. After a short discussion we decided we would return home and let whatever happened happen. Against the possibility of even violent death we would not be parted.

That night we listened to the news on a battery radio, but it was impossible to be sure of anything. The middle and younger boys were exhausted and slept in their clothes on armchairs but our oldest could not sleep any more than we could. By this time he was eighteen years old and very mature and, before we could stop him, he slipped outside to keep watch

About midnight the village of Llashtica, only six kilometres away on the other side of the hill, was attacked. At night sound travels far, we heard explosions and gunshots and fighting. Understanding my oldest son was now a young man I asked my husband to go outside and speak to him and ask him to stay close. Our son simply told him, ‘I am not going anywhere’, and there was no point in arguing. We all understood that events were working towards some kind of conclusion

Next day was the Feast of Eid, an important Muslim celebration. Although we had very little to celebrate I decided to make a good meal after so many days of sandwiches. Potato soup and rice: they were the best I could do in the circumstances. We sent some round to Rama and Nafi and so between us, in the hallowing of our traditions and in the giving and receiving of hospitality, asserted our humanity in time of war. With this gesture, and as so often in those days, I felt that Salihe and Sherife were close in spirit

Outside I joined the boys. It was a bright day and the youngest pointed to a light, a reflection, on the hill opposite that held the underground army base. ‘I’ve never noticed that disc before,’ I said. ‘It seems to have sprung up overnight.

Although we could not see it, in the forest a chain saw was being used to cut timber, and we could hear other, heavier, machinery. We could even hear voices. My oldest son had been watching military trucks and APCs travel back and forth for hours. It was not only the Serbian Army. With the soldiers were paramilitaries and other irregulars. My oldest boy looked at me

‘They’re coming for us,’ he said.