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A Mother, A Son, and A Wartime Secret
Selma had no social media presence and no listed phone number, but a $4.99 People Search brought up an address in upstate New York. I wrote her a letter, dropped it in a mailbox, and hoped for the best. I had heard that she wanted to put the past behind her and I didn’t know if she would want to talk to me. It had been more than 20 years.
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Three days later, my phone rang. Selma wanted to see me.
To protect her privacy, I am not naming the town she lives in, and Selma is a pseudonym. I had not seen her since 1996 when I was reporting a story for Newsweek about rape and the children born from it during the war in Bosnia.
Back then, Selma was living in a ruin of an apartment on the outskirts of battle-scarred Sarajevo. Tormented and destitute, she counted herself as one of what was estimated to be more than 20,000 women who were raped during the four-year conflict. She had become pregnant and given birth to a baby boy. She saw the baby as an extension of the man she says raped her, a reminder of the pain and torture she had endured. “When I heard him cry, I asked the doctor to bring him to me. I wanted to strangle him,” she told me then. She left the baby at the hospital and tried to go on with her life.
In New York, it appeared that she had succeeded in doing so. She was married now, with two American-born teenagers. They lived in a tidy three-story house, with a garden. Selma cooked a lunch of chicken, rice, and broccoli, flavored with Chinese spices, followed by a spread of cookies, pastries, and coffee. She showed me photographs chronicling her life over the past couple of decades in the United States—the births of her children, picnics in the park, visiting Bosnian friends in New York City. The photos were organized in albums, neatly labeled by date. She said her life was good in New York—she felt safe and was grateful for her husband and children.
But as the afternoon wore on it became clear to me that Selma had not found peace. As we chatted about what had transpired over the years—we had both married and had children—Selma was calm, engaging, polite. But when I brought up Bosnia, she grew agitated. She said she felt betrayed, not just by what happened during the war, but by the post-war institutions that were supposed to help her. The aid organizations that flooded in to Bosnia after the war didn’t help her. The Association of Women Victims of War in Bosnia, which campaigns for the rights of women who were raped, didn’t help her. “None of them did anything for me,” she said. “The only one who ever did anything for me was God, because God sent me my husband and he has taken care of me.”
In between cigarettes—her fingers trembling as she smoked—she gestured for her husband to hand her the bag of pills sitting on the table. She was struggling with multiple ailments. I learned that she rarely left the house, and was never left alone. Her husband, who worked nights, stayed with her during the day. Her kids, who went to school during the day, stayed with her at night.
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When we first met, back in 1996, Selma told me that she wanted her alleged rapist to stand trial for war crimes. She knew his name—he had been a neighbor, a married man with a grown child. She wanted the baby to be used as evidence in a war-crimes trial, so, from a distance, she kept tabs on what became of him. At the time, this sounded like a pipe dream. The United Nations had established a war-crimes tribunal, but the tribunal planned to focus on high-ranking suspects—those who planned and executed the crimes. Selma’s alleged rapist was a foot soldier. And although rape has been used as a weapon of war since time immemorial—Homer’s Iliad opens with a discussion of rape as a military tactic—no one had ever been prosecuted for it as a war crime.
The United Nations International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia would change all of that. It was the first international effort to prosecute war crimes since World War II, and the first court in history to explicitly recognize rape as a war crime. Both the U.N. tribunal for the former Yugoslavia and the U.N. International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda, which was established a year later, successfully prosecuted wartime leaders for rape. In doing so, they set far-reaching precedents, including prosecutions for mass rape at the International Criminal Court, which was established in 2002.
I had recently learned that Selma’s alleged rapist had, in fact, been put on trial, not at the U.N. tribunal but at its successor court, a special war-crimes chamber in Sarajevo that was staffed with international judges. More than 10 years after the rape, Selma had returned to Bosnia to testify. DNA from the child she left at the hospital was submitted as evidence, and Selma’s rapist was convicted. But he appealed and was acquitted. The reversal—in proceedings sharply criticized by legal observers from international monitoring organizations—sent Selma spiraling into despair. The accused, meanwhile, became a free man who has since denied that he fathered a child during the war.
I had asked to come to Selma’s house because I wanted to write about the case. I hoped, I suppose, that doing so might provide Selma some solace, some recognition that the process had not been fair to her. I suspect she invited me to visit in the same hope. But as the hours passed, it became clear that Selma was tormented by more than a verdict. I realized that there were things I knew that she had not told her husband. There were things they both knew but had kept from their children. There were now so many layers of omission, secrets, and pain it seemed it might be impossible to sort truth from whatever fills its absence.
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Meanwhile, across the ocean, in the beleaguered Balkan nation she fled, the child Selma left behind had grown up and was on his own search for truth. That search was threatening to reveal her secrets, and possibly unravel the family that was holding her together.
Selma’s story began in a bleak coal-mining town in Bosnia, which was not yet a country when it lurched into war in the early 1990s. For most of the 20th Century, Bosnia was a republic in Yugoslavia, a Communist country whose name translates as land of southern Slavs. Its three main groups, Muslims, Croats, and Serbs, all lived in Selma’s town. But in April 1992, shortly after Bosnia declared independence from Yugoslavia, Serb forces took control and began killing or driving out all non-Serbs, a process known as ethnic cleansing. Muslims and Croats were put under house arrest. Their phone lines were cut. Serb paramilitary forces then made their way through town rounding up the men. Many of the women were taken to “rape camps.”
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Serb forces came for Selma’s father that spring. She never saw him again. The following day, Selma said, a neighbor appeared at her door and said she had received a phone call. The caller said that Selma needed to give a statement at military headquarters and that someone would be coming to her family’s apartment to take her there. The soldier who came for Selma was, she says, someone she knew by sight. Instead of taking her to the military headquarters, which was a ruse, he took her to his apartment and forced himself on her. When he was done, he threatened to kill her if she told anyone. Over the next three months, he sent for her several more times. After the last time, he told her he was leaving town to visit his wife and child, who were in neighboring Montenegro. He assured Selma that nothing bad would happen to her while he was gone.
A few days later, Selma, her mother, her sister, and the rest of the area’s Muslim population were forced out of their homes and sent to Goražde, a nearby town held by Bosnian forces. Goražde was overrun with displaced people from other areas and had swelled to twice its pre-war population. It was surrounded by Serb forces, which had cut off its water and electricity supply and were shelling it from every direction. Food was in short supply because the Serbs controlled all roads leading in and out.
It was there—displaced, her father presumed dead, crammed into a makeshift shelter with little to eat or drink and artillery and sniper fire raining down on the town—that Selma realized she was pregnant. Had she not been overwhelmed with grief, fear, and shame, and had Goražde’s hospital not been overrun with war casualties it was ill-equipped to treat, she might have tried to get an abortion. As it was, she didn’t have the agency to do so.
For a time, Selma hid her pregnancy from her mother and sister, hoping she would miscarry. She considered killing herself. “I thought I could throw myself into the Drina,” she said, referring to the fast-flowing green river that runs through Goražde. She gave birth in February 1993 in a freezing cold hospital that was under siege. She was relieved when it was over, and keen to put as much distance as possible between her and the baby she saw as the manifestation of the horrors she endured.
It was a few months after Selma left the baby at the hospital that the U.N. announced the establishment of the war-crimes tribunal in The Hague, Netherlands. Everyone in Bosnia heard the news, including Selma. World leaders proclaimed that the U.N. tribunal would put an end to impunity and usher in a new age of accountability. Accountability was what Selma wanted more than anything in the world. “He has wounded me in a way that I will never heal,” she said about her alleged rapist. She said she wanted to see him in The Hague.
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February 1993 was not a good time to be born in Goražde. Almost every building had been shelled, many of them several times over. The once-industrial riverside town was now a panorama of gutted and burned structures where amputees and other war wounded spent their days searching for food and water, and wood to burn for heat. Its inhabitants were emaciated. Over the first 10 months of siege, average adult weight loss was about 30 pounds.
Nobody was in a position to take in a newborn—especially not one that was understood to be the offspring of a Serb rapist, a story that quickly spread from the hospital and became known around town. But the hospital’s maintenance man, who had grown up an orphan, took pity on the malnourished infant. Muharem Muhic was in his late 40s and had two grown daughters. Serb troops had forced his family out of their home on the outskirts of Goražde and they were now living in a small apartment near the hospital. Muharem began bringing the baby to the apartment, where his wife and daughters cared for him during the day, then bringing him back to the hospital at night.
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In time, the Muhics gave the baby a name: Alen. Then they stopped bringing him back to the hospital at night. Advija Muhic, Muharem’s wife, recalled her neighbors telling her she was crazy: “They used to say to me, ‘You don’t have enough food to feed yourselves, and you’ve taken in a baby? What are you thinking?’” Even the director of the hospital questioned the Muhics’ choice.
In April 1993, Goražde was declared a “U.N. safe area” and U.N. peacekeepers were deployed to protect humanitarian-aid convoys. The shelling ceased and aid began rolling in. When Alen was five months old, the Red Cross told the Muhic family that it was time to put him up for adoption. A Spanish colonel who had been deployed with the U.N. was interested in adopting him. But the Muhics couldn’t bear the thought of losing Alen, and decided to formally adopt him themselves. The colonel came to their home and met Alen, but didn’t press the matter. “He told us, ‘Don’t worry. I can see how much you love him and I won’t take him away,’” Advija later told me.
So Selma’s abandoned baby legally became Alen Muhic.
I met Alen when he was 3, while first reporting the Newsweek story. Advija, Muharem, and their two daughters doted over the little boy. Theirs was a household full of kindness and joy, and they channeled it into Alen. He was no longer an unwanted baby: He was the cherished son the Muhics always wanted.
Alen was a talkative, friendly toddler, obsessed with airplanes. He had blond hair and big brown eyes. He called Advija and Muharem mama and papa. They hadn’t yet told Alen about the circumstances of his birth; he was still too young. But they had no intention of keeping it a secret. “I don’t know how I’m going to tell him, but I must,” Advija said. If they didn’t tell him, Advija said, she feared somebody else would. Some neighbors referred to Alen as “little Chetnik,” a derogatory term for Serbs. Others casually greeted him as Pero, a common Serb name. Already, Alen knew he was being teased. “I hate it when they call me Pero!” he told me, emphatically. Advija said that occasionally townspeople sneered at her and that she sometimes wished she could run away and live somewhere else.
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I found the man Selma accused of raping her at his family home in eastern Bosnia. As we sat outside in his garden drinking slivovitz, a plum brandy, he told me that he knew who Selma was. When I told him that Selma had accused him of raping her and fathering a child, he wrinkled his face in disgust. “Why would I rape her?” he asked dismissively. “She wouldn’t be worth it.” If he had wanted Selma, he said, he could have had her at any time. “I would like her to look me in the eyes and tell me why she says this,” he said.
The story ran in the September 23, 1996, edition of Newsweek. The Muhics said things got more difficult for them after that. The teasing got worse for Alen, and Advija said she had a few unpleasant run-ins at the market. “People used to say things like, ‘When that little Chetnik grows up I hope he kills you,’” Advija said.
I consulted an aid worker who had worked in Goražde and offered to help the Muhics relocate to Sarajevo, where they could be more anonymous. She discouraged it. Unemployment in Bosnia was rampant and Muharem had a job at the hospital in Goražde. She said she would work with Alen’s parents and teachers and get the family the support they needed. As for me, the best thing I could do was leave. “You’ve already done enough,” she said, making it clear that she didn’t approve of the article I had written.
I thought often of Alen over the following years. I wondered what would become of him, when he would learn the truth, and how he would take it. I was racked with guilt for making his life more difficult than it already was. And I thought, too, of Selma. What would become of her? Would she remain trapped in that impoverished, battle-scarred suburb of Sarajevo dreaming of vengeance that would never come?
In time, Bosnia faded from the headlines. I went on to cover other stories—the war in Kosovo, the war on terror, and, for a time, the war-crimes trials in The Hague. By the time it closed down, the U.N. tribunal had indicted 161 suspects, including the Bosnian Serb wartime leaders. Thirty-two of them were convicted for sexual violence. The man accused of raping Selma was not one of them.
As they fretted about how much to tell Alen about his background, Advija and Muharem did what they could to protect their beloved little boy from the taunts and teasing. Advija walked Alen to school and picked him up every day until the second semester of fifth grade. “I wanted to make sure that none of the other kids picked on him,” she said.
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By the time Alen turned 10, he didn’t want his mother accompanying him to and from school and insisted on going on his own. On the third day he went alone, he came home in tears. He and another kid got into an argument in the schoolyard and the other kid blurted out that Alen’s parents were not his real parents and that he was a Chetnik bastard who was found in a garbage can. Alen raced home and confronted his parents.
After that, Advija said, “We went through hell.” Alen says he always knew he was adopted, and Advija says she never tried to hide it from him. But she recalled how once, when the family was on vacation on the Adriatic Coast, Alen asked her about the scar on her belly. Advija had had a C-section and explained that the scar was from having a baby.
“You lied to me!” Alen screamed at her now. “You said you carried me in your belly!”
Alen sank into despair. He felt betrayed by his biological mother and his adoptive parents, and sickened by the idea that his father was a Chetnik. He had been raised as a Bosnian Muslim. Advija said Alen was angry and would lash out at his parents. He would slam the door and stay in his room and refuse to talk for hours at a time. For a while, he became suicidal.
Not long after Alen learned the truth about his origins, one of his father’s cousins, Šemsudin Gegić, who worked at Sarajevo Television, asked if he could make a documentary about Alen’s story. Alen, who was interested in being an actor, wanted to do it. The Muhics said Gegić suggested the movie could be profitable and that the money could be put away for Alen’s education; they agreed to do it.
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A Boy from A War Movie, a 27-minute film that came out in 2004, is a strange synthesis of documentary and fantasy. It begins with 10-year-old Alen wandering onto a film set and asking what the movie is about. When the director tells him, Alen replies that his story is much more interesting. As Alen begins telling his story, a young woman appears on screen, wandering along snow-covered hillsides singing about her search for a “holy child.” The film caused a stir in Bosnia. Until then, there had been very little discussion about rape during the war. It was a taboo topic. Now a little boy was talking about it in a movie. The film made a big splash at the Sarajevo Film Festival, won an award at the Sofia Film Festival, and, unbeknownst to me, was screened at the Tribeca Film Festival, two subway stops from my apartment.
Alen says making that movie—“making my personal life public”—gave him a sense of relief: “As soon as it was done I felt like a burden of shame was lifted from my shoulders. It helped me liberate my identity.”
Apparently, it also made an impression on war-crimes prosecutors.
In December 2004, as the U.N. war-crimes tribunal issued its final indictments, it began making preparations for a special tribunal in Sarajevo to prosecute remaining war-crimes suspects. This successor court was to be part of the Bosnian judicial system, but with international judges and oversight. Each judicial panel would have two international judges and one local judge. In time, that ratio would switch to two local judges and one international judge, and eventually to all local judges—the idea being t
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