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“We’re all dead,” the young man answered. I shook my head violently.“No, no, no!” To the right of the hospital sat the squat, orange brick-covered health clinic where Ilijaz worked. People frequently took breaks to smoke and talk on the steps of its verandah. Josip Broz“Tito” had died a decade previously, but no one had the heart to remove a giant poster of the adored leader from the lobby window. “Comrade Tito,” read the front page of a Srebrenica newspaper, reporting his death, “we swear to you that we will not turn off your road.” The eyes in his magnified head stared vaguely in the direction of Bratunac.
