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“Who’s talking to you?” With supplies found in a nearby clinic and the assistance of two medical technicians—his cousin, Sulejman, and a dark-haired refugee named Naim—Ilijaz organized a medical station in a newly built house a couple of yards away from his family’s home. He spent most of his time outside of it, visiting the ill and those injured by mines, shells and bullets. During military actions, he had to stay behind the lines in case one of the men was hurt. It frustrated him to sit back like a child watching his brothers and sisters at work. He wanted to take the same risk as the others and felt fully capable of fighting. “When will she be able to go home?” my dad asked.
