By July '95, Bosnian Serb forces wanted to "cleanse" it. But NATO bombs finally fell. The siege broke.
I’ve stared at the photos from that summer—men with rifles older than their fathers, women lining up for water under sniper fire. The UN called Goražde a "Safe Area." But there is no safety in a cauldron.
We talk about the wars of the 1990s as a tragedy of inaction. Goražde is the exception that proves the rule:
When the world finally sent planes (not troops, just planes), the Serb tanks pulled back. Goražde breathed.
Today, the Drina flows green again. But every bridge in town is a memorial.
Today, Goražde is a quiet, rebuilt city. But the bullet holes on its riverfront buildings still whisper the story of the summer of '95—when a small town refused to become a footnote in genocide.
