*The following story contains descriptions of sexual violence during a war. Reader discretion is advised.
I was born in a village near Zvornik in Bosnia and Herzegovina and grew up in a family of seven. There were five children; I was the third girl, with another sister and a brother following me. Although there were many of us and we lived modestly, I had a happy childhood. We all shared household responsibilities with our mother while our father worked. Alongside these chores, I attended school and completed eight grades.
My happiness and dreams for the future felt limitless. I was thinking about completing a stenography course so that I could find a job. Then, in 1992, the Serbian army entered my town, Zvornik. Mass killings and the persecution of non-Serb civilians began. It was then, in the spring, that my dreams and my happiness came to an end.
My life continued in hiding in the forests, and this lasted almost two months without sleep, bathing, or food. Each day grew harder than the last.
On June 21st, a date deeply carved into my memory, I gathered all my dreams and the happiness I had built over 18 years into a single plastic bag and, together with a group of about 60 women, girls, and children, I left my home forever. We walked in a column, not knowing where we were going.
The Serbian army captured us, loaded us onto a bus, and took us to a warehouse in Caparde. Soldiers immediately began entering the warehouse, cursing and insulting us because of our nationality. They began taking women and girls outside under the pretext that they needed help with cooking and cleaning.
One soldier entered, yelled at me for crying, and ordered me to come with him to change another woman’s clothes. I had no choice but to obey. I managed only to glance at my mother and brother—their pale faces said everything, though they could not help me.
He took me away. I briefly saw the woman he had mentioned, and then he led me upstairs. Pointing a rifle at me, he ordered me to undress. I trembled, feeling as if the ground had vanished beneath my feet. When I refused, he hit me, threw me onto a mattress, and raped me.
Choking on my own tears, I begged him to kill me. At 18 years old, I was marked with shame, the most brutal act that can be committed against a girl or woman. I felt I had lost my honor, the dignity of a woman who, according to our faith and tradition, was meant to enter marriage as a virgin. My life no longer had meaning. Countless thoughts shattered my heart and soul. I blamed myself, I felt disgusted with myself, and could still feel the man’s smell and foul breath on me.
How painful it was to return to the warehouse, to face my mother and brother and pretend that nothing had happened. Out of fear for their lives, I tried to hide what I had endured, even as everything inside me was breaking. That night was, perhaps, the longest night of my life. I kept asking myself: Did I have to experience and survive this just because I carry a different name and surname? I never thought of people in terms of faith or ethnicity. To me, there were only good people and bad people.
When morning came, they put us on a bus again. They dropped us off halfway and made us walk to the town of Kladanj. We walked all day—exhausted and terrified—and only at dusk did we reach free territory.
Two days later, we left Kladanj and arrived at a refugee center in Živinice. Life as a refugee was extremely difficult; the deep sadness and pain inside me did not fade.
After several months, I met the man who is now my husband. I decided to marry him, hoping to forget my past. He knew what I had survived and offered me his support. I gave birth to two daughters, who gave me strength and the will to live.
However, I had to seek medical support. I thought my wounds from the past had healed, but they had not. Every spring, they reopened and began to hurt again, and without realizing it, I passed my anxiety and trauma on to my children. I had no idea that many other women in Bosnia shared the same fate. I did not dare tell my doctor the cause of my nightmares. I did not even know it was allowed to speak about such things.
In 2009, the State Investigation and Protection Agency came to my door because someone had listed me as a witness. I gave mt statement, and they referred me to the organization “Women Victims of War” in Sarajevo, where I was granted the status of a civilian victim of war and learned more about my rights.
My greatest support came from my family and Dr. Amra Delić, whose volunteer work with survivors strengthened me, and gave me the courage to step out of the shadow of war and not remain imprisoned in my own past.
In 2012, we founded an association in the Tuzla Canton, and through its work, I participated in many workshops. Through the stories of other survivors, I confirmed what I already knew: that the female body had been used as a battlefield, as a weapon of war.
I decided to break the silence and speak publicly, because sexual violence is a crime against humanity, and remaining silent only helps the perpetrators escape justice—the very outcome they intended when they tried to humiliate and silence us.
According to estimates, between 20,000 and 50,000 women, girls, boys, and men were raped during the Bosnian War. Some were killed during or after the assault, and most remain silent. It is not easy to say, “I was raped.” Can anyone truly understand how heavy those words are?
Thanks to Dr. Amra, and by breaking the silence, I became a member of the global network “SEMA” for ending sexual violence in conflict, organized by Dr. Denis Mukwege. Additional support was provided by “Viva Žene,” which has been offering various forms of support and assistance to victims of wartime torture since 1994. Through group work with them, I learned many skills and coping strategies.
I am now an activist fighting for women’s rights and for change, regardless of the type of violence involved. Through my work, I have witnessed various forms of stigma within the international community, particularly the stigma faced by survivors of conflict-related sexual violence (CRSV). I have dedicated myself to addressing these deep-rooted prejudices and advocating for the dignity and rights of survivors. As a member of GTY, I hope to continue contributing to this important peacebuilding initiative, bringing with me the experience and perspective of a survivor.
Violence against women and children is not a problem for women’s organizations to address alone, it is a challenge for society as a whole. It is something that must be spoken about openly so that we can find a meaningful and lasting solution together.
That is why I raise my voice!
The consequences of war are severe, far too severe. The truth is painful, but it is the only cure.
Let it be our shared responsibility—yours and ours—to learn from the past.
Let no victim ever be forgotten, and may it inspire us to work together toward building a world without WAR, VIOLENCE, OR SUFFERING.
Let us build peace together, for your better future and for the future of the generations to come.
Disclaimer: The views, information, or opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily represent those of Global Taskforce for Youth Combatants and Accept International.
