Bosnia, July 1995

The Reviews

By  S. H. Pearson

A writer who savours the recounting of war is from the devil.  Today I read a lurid account of the genocidal  massacres in Srebrenica from the faceless, nameless, blameless, authorless “Borg” that is Wikipedia.    The killings bear a signature that ties the deed to the doer.  “By their fruits you shall know them.”

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Srebrenica_massacre

Many  Americans did not get spun-up about this when it happened for good reason.  They were kept in the dark about it.  What passed for warfare in a place they could not spell, pronounce, nor find on a map was mitigated by the media as an understatement.  It didn’t help  that little about it showed up on the radar.  There were suspiciously few journalists to report such news.  Makes you wonder why.  “Where the heck is Bosnia?”   So it was an efficacious strategy to start the Muslim-killing campaign there.  Who’s gonna see it go down?  You can always lie about it later.

I find it impossible to believe that Serbian Christians could carry out what happened there.  No.  It was the work of the devil.  Kind of like Tex Watson was “supposed” to have said when he came to kill Roman Polanski’s wife, “I’m the devil — come to do the devil’s work.”

Back to this sadistic writer.  He wrote like a Ph.D. by the tone and scope of his vocabulary.  The words were applied deftly to his bragging about what happened to the Muslims.  He wallowed in the intricacies of how a baby’s throat was cut, women were raped and tortured, men were gunned down en masse from ages 16-85.  He gloated, taunted and magnified the war crimes with his choice of words.  He was proud of what happened there on behalf of his unholy ilk.  He used this “historical discussion” to delight in what happened and relish in the reminiscence.  Soak in it, this blood-bath.

This joker goes on to ambiguously lampoon the ragged band of Muslim soldiers.  He made fun of how they marched for days and had no shoes, proper uniforms, government-issued guns, food or water.  He rubbed salt into the wound that is Muslim Bosnia.

He made sardonic sport of how people were scared, lost in the wilderness, eating snails and grass, dying of starvation and thirst, maimed, mined, carpet-bombed by an international collective.  Some black-hearted videographer complained how his battery was running low while taking footage of men being killed.  Then an American spy plane flies over a few days after the massacre to take photographs of the carnage.

Do you smell a rat, or is it just me?

It gave him wood to quote the disemboweling accounts of the few survivors.  And then he smeared them for having survived by “pretending to be dead” after the gun-smoke cleared from the mass executions.  He writhed all over the vivid narratives of how these poor lads lay quietly under their dying brothers-in-arms and felt the “hot blood” soaking into their backs.

Whoever this writer was is of course a secret.  He didn’t want us to know.  I think he is afraid that some one will hunt him down guerilla-style and kill him with their bare hands.  Unlike those poor boys in Srebrenica though, this Cossack will be wearing boots, burning high-test.  Maybe that is why we don’t see this guy’s by-line.  He fears the winter-hardened bolshoy mott of Universal Justice.  The steel-toe claack.

Life is a temporal arrangement.  It all ends with a flat-line.  This Luciferian writer too shall pass.  Unlike the 16-year-olds sleeping in killing fields, however, he may find himself exquisitely bored at 93 with toes turned up, watching the beige walls that surround his bed.  It is a scenario that makes men wish they were dead, and think, “Perhaps I should have died with my boots on.”

He wrote for miles about how the Serbs cut off ears, noses and lips.  Rused and abused these Muslims.  Promised them that United Nations Peace-keepers were there to help them.  Lured them out of the woods only to herd them off to the killing fields and mow them down with machine-gun fire.  Machine-guns don’t kill as efficiently as assault rifles and pistols.  Such riddling leaves men weltering in their blood for hours if not for days.  The Serbs (he claims) left wounded men laying in the field who were begging to be killed.  And the Serbs would say, “Let them suffer.  We’ll kill them later.”  This grisly freak enjoyed writing about all this.  I got the full flavour of his tone.  It riled an ire in me that can only be called The Hague of Universal Justice.

And The Hague.  What a joke.  What a big Kangaroo stage of lip-service.  Justice has not been served.  That’s like saying the “International Crisis Group” that was drummed-up over this pre-meditated, highly-organised slaughter is about keeping the peace.  Bitch please.   They had 400 “armed” peace-keepers there who just watched the blood fly and did NOTHING.  Dutchmen were after all the guys who designed the best torture-chambers.  Why the hell would you give them a peace-keeping job, oh Son of the Morning?  Certainly you have given them immunity for their crimes.

Think for a minute on the term “ethnic cleansing.”  Break it down in your mind and arrive at a definition.  The details on “this ordeal” as the freak-from-hell writer put it, have been published.  No way for him then to spin away from what is already known, so he takes the next predictable tack, gloat and brag about it.  Smear and lampoon those whose blood ran in the streets and fields to the tune of 8000 men and boys.

Never forget what they did in Bosnia.  Let it be a lesson to you.  And food for thought when other sustenance fails.