Srebrenica, June 13: Our confidence in Bosfam’s chances of establishing a foothold in Srebrenica has been shaken by Hajra’s moodiness. By the end of the day, confidence is restored. Three remarkable women have convinced us that it might well be possible.

The first is Milica Janic, a Bosnian Serb who runs Bosfam’s office in Srebrenica. Milica and her family fled from the town in 1992 when it became a Muslim enclave. (Only one old lady, now in her late nineties, is said to have remained throughout). They returned after the 1995 massacre to a dead town. Several thousand displaced Serbs had been brought in from other war-ravaged Serb communities, but very much against their will.

Srebrenica might have been key to General Mladic’s mad dream of a Muslim-free Eastern Bosnia, but it was the last place on earth that his own Serb people wanted to live. For those Serbs who had lived here in harmony with Muslims prior to the war, like Milica’s family, it must have been like returning to a graveyard.

We would need more time to broach such delicate issues with Milica. But most writers have all but ignored the plight of Srebrenica’s Serbs. The honorable exception is our former AP colleague Peter Lippman, who has written much of AP’s material about Srebrenica. Peter always insisted that Srebrenica’s displaced Serbs should be viewed as victims.

Beba Hadzic, from Bosfam, sees Milica as a person of rare courage. When the first Muslims began to trickle back into Srebrenica, Milica was willing to help Beba organize a large knitting project, financed by the Canadians, that brought Serb and Muslim women together to make 500 sweaters for children in the primary school. It was the first attempt at ethnic reconciliation in the town, and it was not popular with many of the town’s hard-line Serb nationalist leaders. But Milica is proud of the project. Each of the women received 10 marks ($4). It is all neatly recorded.

Milica Janic runs Bosfam’s Srebrenica office.

Today, Milica’s task is to help us visit Esma Divovic and Esma’s close friend, Kadira Smajic, who both live some way out of Srebrenica. Both were active Bosfam members in Tuzla and Esma’s skills at the loom are legendary. She would be a prime candidate for any weaving venture here in Srebrenica. But her own house is not yet fit to live in, so we arrange to meet her in the house of Kadira.

It quickly becomes clear, in Pia’s words, that Esma and Kadira are “joined at the hip,” and the sight of these two women together quickly restores our spirits. One moment they are giggling like teenagers, the next they are discussing momentous events with furrowed brows. They were bussed out of Potocari together during those hellish days in July 1995, and were inseparable during exile in Tuzla. When Kadira’s house in Srebrenica was refurbished, she immediately asked Esma to come back and sleep at her place until Esma’s own house was fit to live in.

We spend some time establishing who is who and where we are, to the amusement of three of Kadira’s children – two boys and a girl, all in their twenties. It then begins to dawn on me why these two women are special. Neither lost any close relatives in the massacre. Esma’s husband died before the war and her only son is one of the few Muslims serving in the Srebrenica police force. Kadira’s husband also survived the massacre, as did her oldest son, who must have been very close to the age of fifteen back on July 11, 1995. A few months older and he would have been taken off to certain death.

Kadira has six children in all. I don’t know if there is another Muslim family with two living parents and six children in Srebrenica, but it is a wonderful relief to find a house that is bustling with life. Kadira’s oldest son is working at the Potocari memorial. Her daughter is several years older than our translator Begzada, but they can both agree that there is not much for young people in the town.

Buddies for life: Esma Divovic (left) and Kadira Smajic.

Esma and Kadira take us off to see Esma’s own house, which occupies a glorious position overlooking the valley but is missing floor-boards, tiles, and pretty much everything else – although it does seem structurally sound. Esma spends her days here, caring to her vegetables and doing what she can to clean up. She’s managed to make one room habitable, with a cot and a stove. All she needs now is some material, and she’d be able to move back in. Many families complain that some NGOs just dump wood and plaster on their doorstep and then leave widows to do the repairs – or pay workers. I imagine that Esma would be able to count on Kadira’s strong young family to help if and when she can obtain the materials.

Esma would love to resume weaving, and one could easily see her schooling Kadira in her own personal patterns at a loom together. With Milica managing the office in town, and Magbula and Hajra also weaving again, there is clearly the nucleus of a weaving project here in Srebrenica.

But I’m not thinking projects as we leave the sunny little patch of hillside. I’m thinking of the way Esma showed us round her little square house, once so trim and now so shabby. I’m thinking of the way she peeled a bit of paint off here and picked at a loose wire there – but with a grin rather than a grimace.

I can’t help but feel that this is a woman who knows how to count her blessings. With a living son, a life-long friend within calling distance, her own soil to touch, and no brutal nightmares of a murdered husband to contend with, Esma is rich beyond the dreams of most Muslims from Srebrenica.

She seems to know it. Perhaps this is why Pia and I catch ourselves smiling whenever Esma’s name comes up during the rest of our trip.