The Healing Power of Forgiveness
by Swanee Hunt, Scripps Howard News Service
October 22, 2024

Never underestimate the human capacity for hatred—or forgiveness.

Srebrenica, the site of the worst atrocity in Europe since World War II, is back in the news. Last month, former President Bill Clinton was greeted by some 20,000 people as he dedicated a memorial to the 7,000 massacre victims. Clinton said he hoped the memorial would herald the return of Muslims to Srebrenica, where they were once 95 percent of the population.

The memorial is near where Bosnian Serb soldiers separated off the captured men and teenaged boys and killed them. As a diplomat in nearby Austria, I wrote an anguished journal entry about that night, July 11, 1995. "The Muslim women were ordered to take their small children and elderly relatives and climb into buses for a 50-mile ride to the Bosnian city of Tuzla, outside Serb-controlled territory. The women were told their husbands and sons would follow on foot. It was a cruel ruse. Within a few hours, thousands had their throats slit, or were lined up, shot and piled into mass graves. Only a few escaped through the woods."

For years, the world presumed this deed was perpetrated in the chaos of war. Last week we learned the slaughter and subsequent cover-up were planned long in advance. At The Hague tribunal, where indicted war criminals from former Yugoslavia are being brought to justice, math teacher turned army officer Momir Nikolic recounted the policy he helped implement: Cut off food aid so Muslims would be too weak for combat. Asked why he ignored the rule to protect prisoners of war, he replied, "Do you really think that in an operation where 7,000 people were killed that somebody was adhering to the Geneva Conventions?"

Today over 5,000 body bags await identification. That's eight years that wives, mothers and children haven't known when, or for whom to grieve. My friend Kada Hotic is a refugee. She carries a lone snapshot of her and her missing husband, sent from a relative outside the carnage. But it's the image of her son that haunts her memory.

"He was born in 1966. He grew tall. His hair was thin, like mine, but he had a beautifully shaped head, with full lips, a long face, and a nose like an eagle. We weren't like mother and son. We were friends...pals. I wake often in the night, and then I remember everything. I think of my son and don't sleep again for hours. When sleep finally closes my eyes, it's only for a short time. In the morning, I sit in my small room, drink my coffee, have a cigarette.... Then I remember that my son used to smoke. He made smoke rings. I remember that...and then cry. I wipe my tears in my loneliness."

Kada has funneled her pain into building an organization that pressures officials to expose the truth behind Srebrenica. Her group has held demonstrations that literally stopped traffic. Her political action isn't only about making change; it's also about preserving her last shred of self-respect. Comfort from others comes with an unacceptable price. As she explains, "No one can feel the pain of my wound. They can only show compassion. Then I feel like a beggar." Given those choices, she reckons, "I feel better when I protest."

Just when I think I understand Kada's unquenchable sorrow that drives her demand for justice, she surprises me, talking about the soldiers who destroyed her world. "The commanders awarded medals to those committing the worst crimes, who killed the most people in the fiercest way, or raped the most women. That soldier who killed my son believed he was doing good for his people and for his religion. I'm sure he's not aware even now that he committed crimes, and that he did evil to people."

I watched while Kada addressed a Serb audience in Belgrade: "I'm not here to say you're guilty. And I wouldn't want what happened to me to happen to any one of you. It's time to move on." The crowd responded with heads bent and tear-streaked cheeks as they acknowledged their failure to stop the onslaught so near the Serbian capital, led by their political leaders as Yugoslavia was falling apart. For Kada, that experience was a breakthrough. As we said goodbye, she told me, "I don't speak diplomatic language like you. I'll just tell you straight. Now I know I'm not alone. I can work with these Serb people. Together, we can create a new future."

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