I saw my first dead body aged 8 – it wasn’t the last

The Bosnian War took everything from me – my home, my dad, uncles, and friends. Everything I once knew.

Before the war, my childhood in my hometown village of Barane (in the south of modern day Bosnia and Herzegovina) was amazing. My family was Muslim – made up of my dad, mam, older brother, and older sister.

The only things that mattered to me were which cartoons we watched, which books we liked, and – most importantly – which football clubs we supported.

But slowly, our childhood games changed. We stopped playing hide and seek, and started playing soldiers, tanks, and camps.

When I was seven years old, the siege of Sarajevo by Serb forces began and Bosnia became the setting of Europe’s only genocide since the Holocaust.

I wasn’t aware that Serbian and Croatian politicians were equating Bosnian Muslims to animals, insects, and disease. One day, I even remember finding Mam crying in front of the TV.

She quickly wiped her tears, then hugged me, kissed me on the head, and told me not to worry. Years later, I realised she had been watching the war spread across Bosnia. 

In spring 1992, war came to our village. At first, it felt surreal. After about two months, my parents made a decision that we had to flee our home for our own safety. 

In the first nine months of war, we moved 14 times before we eventually settled with one of my uncles in a nearby village.

Things got much worse in the summer of 1993 when Croatian forces began rounding up Muslim men into concentration camps, including my dad and most of my male relatives. Some of my cousins were just 16 years old.

I cried myself to sleep that night. In the aftermath, I wouldn’t leave my mam’s side.

There were also camps for women and children and on August 4, we were rounded up in a ‘collection centre’. That’s when we were searched by Croatian soldiers.

Mam was forced to sign a document stating she was giving up everything we had for ‘safekeeping’ to the local council. One of the soldiers even tried to bribe me with chocolate to tell him if we were hiding anything. I remember seeing myself crying in the reflection of his sunglasses.

We were then loaded onto cattle trucks along with other families and driven a couple of hours towards Bosnian government territory, south of Mostar. That day was the first time I stepped over a dead body to survive.

We eventually made our way to my aunt Emina’s house, my mam’s older sister, where we were allowed to stay. We were exhausted, frightened, and starving.

Life was really difficult at Emina’s house because thousands of shells rained on the city daily. We fell asleep hungry every night, but my mam and aunt were so resourceful. They used chicken feed to make bread and grass to make pies. 

We started school as an act of defiance, but it was safest to go at night. I was desperate to learn to read and write because we started receiving letters from my dad through the International Red Cross.

This is when we learnt what had happened to him. He ended up in Dretelj, a former military complex, and kept in one of the tunnels that went deep into the mountain. Within weeks of arriving in the concentration camp, he lost four stone (25kg) after being treated very badly. He still can’t talk about the full details.

He was there for a few months before the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) helped secure the release of around 500 prisoners. The UK was one of several countries to take in refugees.

My dad was brought to Newcastle. We were so relieved that he was safe and we desperately wanted to be reunited with him. Unfortunately, it would be six full months until that was possible.

In the meantime, on the night of January 24, 1994, Croat forces dropped bombs from a plane onto Mostar. Through my classroom window, I saw our street in flames.

It turned out that my auntie Emina was wounded. She had been standing at the front door when she heard the plane, then the blast threw her back into the house.

Family members managed to get her to a hospital, but it lacked medical equipment and medicine. She died the following morning on January 25.

I lost all faith in humanity. My life felt fragile and meaningless.

On June 19, the Red Cross came to find us in Mostar and gave us two hours to decide whether we would leave Bosnia. It was a difficult decision to leave my grandparents and cousins, but I was excited to see my dad again.

We were then taken to a refugee camp in Croatia, where we spent exactly a month. We arrived in London on July 19 and flew to Newcastle later that day.  

We were reunited with my dad at the airport that same day. My sister spotted him in the crowd first and ran to him, then my brother followed quickly after her.

I held on to my mam. I was frightened, nervous, and shy. But as soon as I saw him approaching us, I ran to him.

I feel like I can still feel that hug now. I was so happy, but that feeling didn’t last.

On our first night in Newcastle, I woke up screaming. I suffered with PTSD for many years after that.

Ever since, we rarely discussed what we went through, but I have since realised that my family has been reliving the same trauma for generations.

My great grandad was in a concentration camp during the First World War, then my grandad in the Second World War, and finally my dad in Bosnia in the 1990s. I grew up wondering if this fate awaited me too.

Our plan was always to stay in the UK temporarily, but we learnt in the years since that our house had been torched. We still have the key to the home though because a part of us believes we’ll go back one day.

After high school, I went to Newcastle University to study architecture, completing both my undergraduate and Master’s degrees. I started working as an architect before moving to the university to teach architecture in 2016.

I’ve had the urge to tell my story ever since I was a child. It helped me feel like I was moving toward justice. Importantly, it helped me heal.

I came to understand that my story could be a powerful tool for peacebuilding. Only by acknowledging the truth of the past can we build a safer, more just future.

So I started sharing, anywhere people were willing to listen. Hundreds of times a year, up and down the country.

In 2020, I established the Bosnian Genocide Educational Trust. Then in 2023, I was awarded an OBE by King Charles for my work in genocide and Holocaust education. I attended Buckingham Palace with my wife, Allija, and mam. It was an emotional day for all of us.

I must say, I have never been as frightened as I have been over the past year. The language used by far-right politicians today is eerily reminiscent of the rhetoric Serb and Croat nationalists used in the 1990s.

Despite everything my parents experienced in Bosnia, they remain beacons of strength, hope, and inspiration. We just celebrated my dad’s 73rd birthday and my mam’s 65th. They were surrounded by all their children and grandchildren, it was a beautiful day.

My parents always say, those who tried to exterminate us, to break our spirit, to dehumanise us, only managed to dehumanise themselves.

Yet here we are, three generations together, full of life, love, and laughter.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing James.Besanvalle@metro.co.uk. 

Share your views in the comments below.