My mother bought this jacket for me from a boutique shop in Bosnia. This is what I was wearing when I left our house for the last time, before it was destroyed by Serbian forces, and what I wore throughout our occupation during the genocide. This jacket has witnessed countless atrocities - some of which I speak of, most of which I don’t - much like most genocide survivors.

My mother, sister and I were separated from my father and were detained in the Trnopolje concentration camp. My father survived the Omarska, Keraterm and Trnopolje concentration camps and we were reunited with him a year later in England, upon discovering that he was alive when he appeared on the news. 

During our occupation in the Trnopolje concentration camp, we slept on concrete, outside, huddled in the corner of a school classroom, with nothing to eat and little to no water. We drank rain water to survive; that in itself is a blessing.

My mother protected me and my sister under the weight of her own body from continuous shelling above us, cut our hair so that we looked like boys, squeezed us into the corners of rooms and covered us with discarded clothes that she had found, in order to protect us from Serbian guards who were perpetually raping women and young girls.

Serbian guards forced us into carriages for livestock, with the numbers of women and children always decreasing as they raped them and disposed of their bodies. In Paklenca, after commanding us to line up at the edge of the River of Bosna, Serbian guards pointed their rifles at us and threatened to shoot us into the river.

But Bosnians are like grass: when the hay carts pass over the grass and the wheels move on, every blade rights itself again.