EVERY DEAD BABY IS A BABY CROATIAN

‘It isn’t a tank, it’s an ambulance.’ In the Information Centre of Bosnia-Herzegovina in London, we know We are losing the war as we have no heavy weapons and no tanks. Haris’ family disappeared when his house was burned down by Arkan Militiamen. We sometimes see him high upstairs through the office window, A miserable wartime Pole Star: separate, aloft, unreachable. In the papers, there are reports of rape camps and starvation; Pictures of Bosnians behind camp barbed wires, half-naked, Impaled on the war like oysters on a knife. Tom, calm as a sniper, has a plan to buy a tank for Bosnia in Kaliningrad, Paint it white, remove its guns and say it is an ambulance. Haris looks through th

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