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Even walking itself was no longer a simple task for me. My dad had always been a fast walker (when James and I were little, he often barreled ahead of us down crowded city streets), but now he was careful to stay by my side, guiding me as each leg jutted out and landed awkwardly, as if I was learning how to walk all over again. He couldn’t help but drop the cheerful facade when he saw my slow movements. When we got back to my room, he suggested a motto to keep my mind on the silver lining. THE AFTERNOON OF APRIL 17, Dr. Ilijaz Pilav, the skinny general practitioner whose father was ailing in his birth village of Gladovi?i, waited in vain at the empty health center for his replacement. With no patients to treat and no way to reach his girlfriend, Fatima, he’d had little to do but wander outside and scan Srebrenica for activity. He caught sight of two men in military uniforms as they disappeared between houses across the street. He watched buses packed with nervous faces rumble out of town, and this at last forced a question: “What am I still doing here?” Ilijaz and the other men attend Nijaz’sd?enaza burial prayers. They are gone just briefly; there is little time for ceremony. The supplies from the clinic are quickly transferred to the hospital and Ilijaz and the other five remaining doctors now share the burden of treating the ill in addition to the injured.* * *
