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Enisa Salčinović je Fočanka koja se sjeća, i nakon 25 godina, prve ispaljene granate koja je pala u Foči. Živjela je u porodičnoj kući u fočanskom naselju Aladža. Radila je u lokalnoj bolnici. Prisjeća se da je tog kobnog 7. aprila 1992. godine pozvana da dođe na posao, jer je, kako kaže, u gradu nastao haos.

-Vratila sam se s posla oko pola jedan. Izašla sam ranije jer sam vidjela da situacija na poslu nije dobra. Kada sam došla kući, zatekla sam dvije porodice iz komšiluka koje su došle jer je naš podrum bio dobro ukopan u zemlju. Sjećam se dobro prve granate koja je pala u 17:25 sati. Tada nas je u podrumu bilo osamnaestero. Prva granata je pala na srednjoškolski centar. Treća granata je pala u naše dvorište – prisjeća se Enisa uz duboke uzdahe.

U ranu zoru 8. aprila Enisa je ponovo otišla u bolnicu, u nadi da će u njoj naći sigurno utočište za svoju porodicu. Međutim, poslije se ispostavilo da u Foči više nije bilo sigurnog mjesta za Bošnjake.

-Kada je Foča pala, 18. aprila, suprug je pokušao da ide iz Foče u Goražde. Uhvatili su ga pred bolnicom kada je krenuo, misleći, putem spasa. Nisu tada samo njega zatvorili, nego sve muškarce koji su bili u bolnici, a nisu bili Srbi. Sve su ih odveli u Kazneno-popravni dom (KPD) Foča. Jedino su tada bili pošteđeni, svih tih golgota, tadašnji direktor bolnice Reuf Tafro i rahmetli Fadil Kučuk – priča Enisa, drhtavim glasom, jer u nastavku njene priče saznajemo najstrašnije golgote koje je prošla u Foči te 1992. godine.

-Otišla sam 14. maja da posjetim supruga u zatvoru. Tada sam vidjela doslovno pola čovjeka, čije je lice bilo sive boje. Nisam mogla vjerovati da je to on. Tada smo razgovarali doslovno pet minuta, a njegove zadnje riječi bile su: Bježi, Enisa, iz ovoga grada i ne osvrći se ni na koga – prisjeća se Salčinović, čije svjedočenje prekida snažan plač.

Dani pakla su se nastavili. Enisa je ubrzo prebačena u logor u sportskoj dvorani „Partizan“ u Foči.
-Zatočena sam krajem jula u „Partizanu“. Tu nisam dugo ostala. Goru sam torturu i silovanje proživjela u stanu svoga oca, u koji sam se preselila izlaskom iz bolnice. Tamo su me zatočili Bijeli orlovi. Bila sam žrtva silovanja. O onome što sam vidjela u logoru „Partizan“ ne mogu ni da pričam. Tu su majke gledale kako im siluju kćerke, a nisu imale moć da to zaustave – priča nam Enisa ne krijući suze i bol koju i dan-danas nosi sa sobom.

Zločinac koji je njoj najviše boli nanio bio je radni kolega njenog supruga. Nikada nije doveden pred lice pravde, a Enisa smatra da nikada i neće. Upoznala je Tužilaštvo BiH i navela njegovo ime, ali pravda ga nikada nije stigla.

Ova dama, koja danas ponosno korača, ne želi da šuti o onome što je preživjela. Jednom prilikom je rekla kako bi voljela da sunce nikada ne zađe, jer kada se smrkne, i njene misli su jednake noćnoj tami.

-Sada bih voljela da dan traje 22 sata, a ona ostala dva sata bih spavala, jer toliko moji snovi traju. Nikada, ali nikada, nijedna žena koja je prošla najgore zlo u ratu neće moći spavati, niti o lijepim stvarima razmišljati. Ne samo žene koje su iz Foče, to se dešavalo ženama iz Rogatice, Višegrada… – priča Enisa, koja je iz Foče izašla 13. augusta 1992. godine. Iz „Partizana“ ju je izveo bivši radni kolega iz bolnice.

-Prepoznao me u logoru. Izveo me iz grupe žena i naredio da izađem s njim. Izveo me je izvan dvorane, u neki sokak, a onda mi je rekao: Ja ti više ne mogu pomoći. Vratila sam se u stan svoga oca, odakle sam, nekoliko dana kasnije, uspjela pobjeći na slobodnu teritoriju – ispričala je Enisa.
Enisa se od mnogih drugih razlikuje jer glasno govori o onome što joj se desilo. Kako kaže, nema čega da se stidi. Trebaju se stidjeti samo oni koji su to počinili.

-Podstaklo me je mnogo stvari da govorim javno o ovome, a najviše negiranje Republike Srpske i Srbije svega onoga što se nama desilo. Kako da ne progovorim kada neki negiraju postojanje logora i silovanje žena. Neki tvrde kako smo se same ubijale, silovale… Kako neko može biti toliko bezobrazan. Ja hoću u lice da kažem i evo, stala sam da im kažem da ne govore istinu, da su bezobrazni. Dovoljno su nas potcjenjivali, pljuvali nas i oni nisu jednostavno željeli da budemo žene, majke… Njihova želja je bila da budemo ništa. Ja nisam mogla da šutim i da sjedim skrštenih ruku i da gledam taj bezobrazluk koji su oni sve vrijeme isticali – poručuje Enisa, žena koja je poslala jasnu poruku svim žrtvama koje se danas stide i šute o zločinama koje su preživjeli.

-Treba u životu dići glavu i glas. Reći istinu i služiti se njom. Jer istina uvijek pobijedi i ona ispliva. Istina će donijeti mir u naše duše i u našoj zemlji.

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LOGOR Partizan

Tokom posljednjeg rata u Bosni i Hercegovini procjenjuje se da je silovano između 20.000 i 50.000 žena. Dvadeset godina nakon tih zločina u BiH još uvijek ne postoji registar o prezicnom broju žrtava, a samo nešto više od 700 žena ostvarilo je status civilne žrtve rate.

Država ne poduzima gotovo nikakve mjere kako bi žrtvama olakšala suočavanje sa posljedicama zlostavljanja. Pomoć im pruža tek nekoliko nevladnih organizacija. Jedna od njih je Medica Zenica, koja je ovih dana obilježila dva desteljeća postojanja. Tim povodom u Zenici je održana konferencija pod nazivom „Djelujući ka dostojanstvu – 20 godina borbe za dostojanstvo onih koji su preživjeli ratna silovanja“.

Tisuće žena koje su silovane u Bosni i Hercegovini i danas čekaju kažnjavanje počinitelja tih zločina. Neka od njih počele se i javno govoriti o tome što im se dogodilo početkom devedesetih godina. Svoju priču bosanskohercegovačkim medijima, prije godinu dana, ispričala je 59-ogodišnja Enisa Salčinović iz Foče. Silovana je 1992. godine u fočanskom logoru Partizan:

„Zamislite kad u Partizanu ne čuje se ni plač djece. Zamislite kako izgleda kad dušmanin siluje pred majkom kćerku, a vi to morate stojeći da gledate i ne možete da joj pomognete.“

Enisa danas živi u Sarajevu. U rodni grad se ne želi vratiti:

„Ja sam kroz moju priču i kroz moje svjedočenje željela da zločinci budu kažnjeni, da se prepoznaju, da makar ne mogu mirno spavati – jer ja ne mogu mirno da spavam, pa želim ni oni da mirno ne spavaju.“

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genocid u Foči _ 4701
Koncentracioni logori u Foči

Sarajevo, 20 years on
The Telegraph, 08 Apr 2012
By Kim Willsher
For the first time in two decades, our award-winning reporter returns to the Bosnian city – and hears how the pain of a brutal conflict still remains.

Enisa Salcinovic is telling a story. It is one she has told many times before, but her hands are shaking and tears roll down her cheeks as if it happened yesterday. It is a story of war, of killings and rape, of hatred and despair; of the evil people can do to fellow human beings. It is a story of Bosnia.
This weekend, the Bosnian capital of Sarajevo is marking the 20th anniversary of the start of the 44-month siege that came to symbolise the most bloody conflict in Europe since the Second World War. It was sparked by the disintegration of what was Yugoslavia. By the time it ended in an uneasy truce in 1995, it had claimed an estimated 100,000 lives and left around 2.2 million people dispossessed.
Today, 17 years after the shelling and sniping stopped, the pain has continued for women like Enisa. “It doesn’t go away, however many times I tell my story,” she says, weeping in a café near her home in the Dobrinja district of Sarajevo. “Even now I find myself thinking, how could it have happened? How could such hatred, such violence have risen up to consume us all?”
In April 1992, Enisa, a hospital administrator, her electrician husband Nusret and their two young daughters were living in Foca, a river valley town in eastern Bosnia. One day, without warning, local Bosnian Serbs began rounding up thousands of Muslim and Croat civilians, as they were to do across the country. Much later, it would be given a name: “ethnic cleansing”.
Nusret was among those taken away. A few days later, Enisa was visited by one of his colleagues. The man, a Bosnian Serb, had not come to commiserate. Instead he raped her. He then told the terrified woman he would be back in a few days and warned her not to leave home or he would hunt her down and kill her.

Over the next few months, the man repeatedly raped her in the family home, often with her children and elderly parents in the next room. In August, Foca’s Muslims were told to leave.
Enisa never saw Nusret again. Later, she learnt he had been shot by his captors and his body dumped in the Drina river. “He was on a bus being moved somewhere. They stopped by a bridge and took off 24 men, one of them my husband. He knew he was going to die. He told a relative, ‘Give my wife and my children a kiss from me,’” says Enisa, now 58. “The river rose, the river fell. We never found him.”
At the start of 1992, Sarajevo was a cosmopolitan, cultured and ethnically diverse city, home to around 400,000 people. In April that year, Bosnian Serb forces – led by Radovan Karadzic – took to the hills surrounding the capital and cut it off from the world for three times longer than the siege of Stalingrad.
From vantage points overlooking the city, the Bosnian Serbs attempted to pound Sarajevo into submission with mortars and shells. The average number of shells launched daily on the mainly civilian population was 329. On the worst day – July 22 1993– 3,777 fell.
Crowds foraging the almost-bare market stalls for food, or queuing at water standpipes, were easy targets. A football match was hit, killing 15; a water queue hit, killing 12; and at Markale marketplace in February 1994, a shell killed 68 civilians.
Snipers, who could pick off a child walking hand-in-hand with his grandfather at 500 metres – and did – terrorised the local population. Death came in many guises. The sub-zero winter temperatures took their toll on a weakened population without water, electricity and little, if any, food. Desperate Sarajevans cut down almost every tree in the city and dug up bushes to burn to stave off the cold. When there was no plant life left, they burnt their books and their furniture.
Hardly a family emerged from the war unscathed. In a small park by the main road running through Sarajevo, there is a memorial to the children who were killed. Name after name is engraved on seven turning cylinders: Aldin Sipovic 1992-1993; Mirza Parla 1983-1993; Damir Mekic 1988-1992… the list goes on. In the spring sunshine, an elderly woman approaches the monument, kisses her middle and index fingers and touches the cylinder. As she stands, head bowed, the sound of the water in the fountain seems to drown out the traffic.
In 1992, Marina Emersic, then 31, and her sister Mirna, 23, lived in a tower block just 100 yards from the front line. At the entrance to their estate in 1992 someone had written, “Welcome to hell”. That year, they invited me to stay with them, offering a mattress in the hallway. “It’s the safest place,” they assured me. The term “safest” was relative: the inside walls of the flat were peppered with holes where shrapnel from the shells crashing down outside had passed straight through, and sometimes out the other side of, the building.
Every day Marina braved what became known as “snipers’ alley” to reach her office in the accounts department at the Holiday Inn, home to visiting journalists. In the beginning everyone ran. Towards the end, weary and despairing at what had become a living death, Sarajevans would walk, leaving their fate to chance and the mood of the Bosnian Serbs that day.
“I try to think of happier times, the things we laughed about, and not the bad days,” says Marina, who still lives in the same flat and shared a lunch with me last week. “But even today when I see a table full of food, I thank God there is something to eat.”
It took her sister Mirna, who now lives in Germany, years to get over the trauma and guilt of seeing her father injured by a shell that fell just feet from the apartment, and being so paralysed with fear that she was unable to run for help. “I will never forget that. Never,” she says. “He was lying there bleeding and I could not move.”
During the siege, everyday items – soap, toothpaste, cosmetics – became luxuries. For Mirna, pizza and sweets were the stuff of dreams. During one visit, I brought Marina and Mirna some chocolate. Later, I discovered they had argued all the way home about whether to eat it en route or save it to share with family and neighbours. “But what if we are shot and killed on the way home? Then we will never have tasted the chocolate,” argued Mirna.
When the war ended in 1995, Bosnia was divided into three areas representing the country’s warring factions: the Bosniaks, the Croats and the Serbs. Today, representatives of all three have a say in running the country. Since they mostly disagree, the result is often paralysis.
Yet there is a glimmer of hope in the absence, on the surface at least, of outright hostility between the previously warring factions. Some complain of discrimination against the now-minority Bosnian Serbs and Bosnian Croats, but no one I spoke to was anything other than conciliatory. There is anger and frustration – particularly at the rampant unemployment – and accusations of official corruption, but no hatred; at least none that is openly expressed. It is as if everyone is aware where hatred took them to 20 years ago.
Few of the Serbs who fled Sarajevo, crossing to the side of the besiegers, have returned, and for those like Maja Kraljavca, 34, who lost their homes, there has been little closure. In a shanty settlement in Lukavica, an area of what used to be known as Serb Sarajevo, Maja and her two children, Radomir, five, and Elena, 12, live in a tin-roofed former army barracks. Maja was 14 when the war broke out and her parents fled their home. The family, like around 100,000 others displaced by the war, has been waiting to be rehoused ever since.
“What kind of a life is this for my children? Before the war, when I was at school, we were all together – Serbs, Muslims, Croats – and nobody cared who was who. Now look what they have done. I am a Bosnian Serb, but I hate them for what they did. I have never had a normal adult life. That is all I want.”
In Sarajevo, the rare signs of reconciliation between the communities are hindered by high unemployment and poverty. There was widespread astonishment last week when soldiers from both sides, many of whom had been trying to kill each other 20 years ago, gathered in Sarajevo to complain about having their pensions cut. “It was nothing personal, even then, it was political,” said one Bosnian Serb, in army fatigues. “Now we are all poor and all in the same boat.”
On Friday, in a moving tribute, 11,541 empty chairs were laid out in the centre of Sarajevo to symbolise the dead and the missing. In the middle were row upon row of smaller chairs, some decorated with flowers, soft toys or messages, to commemorate the lost children.
For Enisa Salcinovic, her story and the story of Bosnia has to be told, and retold, no matter how painful. It is the only way to ensure the slaughter and suffering were not in vain.
“Even now I cannot understand how people we lived with all our lives, our neighbours, turned on us and wanted to make us disappear,” she says. “All we can do is educate our children to make sure they never have to go through what we did. But I still lie awake at night thinking, how did this happen? Where did this hatred come from?”

Kim Willsher / The Telegraph, 08 Apr 2012
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foca-1992-bol-kao-nekad-boli-isto-i-sad

Zvuk sirene probudio je Fočake u ranu zoru 7. aprila 1992. godine. Ubrzo se proširila vijest da su Arkanovi tigrovi, paramilitarna jedinica koju je predvodio zločinac Željko Ražnjatović Arkan, napala je policijsku stanicu. Sirena za uzbunu značila je i početak pokolja, ubistava, silovanja i progona Bošnjaka iz tog dijela Bosne i Hercegovine.
Foču su tog dana tukli pješadijom i teškom artiljerijom postavljenom na brdima iznad grada. Prve mete su bila naselja u kojima su živjeli Bošnjaci, i to prije svih Donje Polje, Aladža i Čohodor Mahala. U to vrijeme se pokušalo zaustaviti divljačko ponašanje paravojnih snaga.
U strašnim zločinima koji su počinjeni u ovome gradu na Drini i Ćehotini ubijeno je 3.000 građana, Bošnjaka. 1.000 ljudi se još vode kao nestali, iako je jasna njihova sudbina nakon 25 godina.
Za zločine počinjene u Foči izrečeno je svega osam zatvorskih kazni. Na najdužu kaznu zatvora osuđen je Gojko Janković, 34 godine, zatim Dragoljub Kunarac na 28, presuđeno je i Neđi Samardžiću na 24 godine zatvora, te Radomiru Kovaču na 20 godina kao i Radovanu Stankoviću.Nešto manje kazne, po 12 godina, dobili su Zoran Vuković i Milorad Krnojelac, a Dragan Zelenović je prizano krivicu i osuđen je na 15 godina zatvora.

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Enisa je član SULKS – Savez Udruženja Logoraša Kanton Sarajevo.
Sekcija Žena logorašica koja djeluje unutar Saveza logoraša kantona Sarajevo je nevladina asocijacija koja okuplja žene koje su zbog agresije na BiH bile prisilno odvedene i internirane u logore. Sekcija broji oko 1000 članica od čega je oko 60% sa prostora Istočne Bosne: Foča, Rogatica, Rudo, Višegrad, Čajniče a oko 40% sa područja Kantona Sarajevo. Nažalost većina njih je prošla najgore moguće torture psihofizičkog i seksualnog zlostavljanja i silovanja, što je ostavilo trajan pečat na njihovu mentalnu i fizičku konstituciju. Nijedna žrtva nije ostala bez posljedica:te posljedice uključuju sniženi samopouzdanje, sniženo samopšoštovanje, anksioznost, depresiju, noćne more, stid, krivnju, oslabljen identitet žrtve.Nailazimo na osobe izmjenjene personalnosti, koja sebe doživljava trajno izmjenjenom,oslabljenom i slabe su nade da će ikada više moći funkcionirati u skladu sa svojim spolom i svojom ulogom u familiji i društvu.

Savez Udruženja Logoraša, Kantona Sarajevo

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agencije/internet

vidjeti još:

Enisa Salčinović, preživjela žrtva logora “Partizan” u Foči (foto i VIDEO)
https://focanskidani.wordpress.com/2016/05/01/enisa-salcinovic-prezivjela-zrtva-logora-partizan-u-foci-foto-i-video/

Enisa Salčinović, preživjela žrtva logora “Partizan” u Foči (VIDEO)
Enisa Salčinović, preživjela žrtva logora “Partizan” u Foči (VIDEO)

FOČA:STRADANJE FAMILIJE SALČINOVIĆ IZ ALADŽE (foto)
https://focanskidani.wordpress.com/2016/05/02/focastradanje-familije-salcinovic-iz-aladze-foto/

Enisa Salčinović, preživjela žrtva logora “Partizan” u Foči
Enisa Salčinović

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