When Serb forces bombed my home in Sarajevo, I was hiding in a neighbour’s house just across the street. It was July 19, 1995, and I was four years old and putting on my red socks – the socks my father had exchanged a packet of cigarettes for, the only socks I had during that last year of the war.
My mother had promised to take me to play in the front yard of our neighbour’s house – a small patch of grass, concrete and freedom in a city that was under constant Serb shelling.
