On an October night on the frontline around Sarajevo I was arrested and interrogated by Bosnian Army Intelligence. I volunteered my journal, which had contacts for Bosnian Serbs across the line, such as the daughter of Radovan Karadzic and others. They asked how I could be friends with every side of the conflict, and that when one side intended and practiced genocide and war crimes on the other side I could so casually claim friendships with the former. I thought of the thousands of makeshift graves in the city, Ana and her family starving and freezing and being targeted by snipers, of Dragan Markovic wounded in the foot and fearing the loss of a leg from lack of medication, the children in the hospital I had visited and all of their exhausted and heartbroken parents, the couple killed across the street from where I stayed because they had rigged a makeshift gas line wrong and were blown into the street, little Sulejman Haljevac Memo, my buddy who told how everyday classmates simply disappeared, some dead and some refugeed. Standing on a fence is a luxury, and in a conflict such luxuries simply cannot stand. it isolates the individual at a time when isolation is most dangerous, and dampens the resistance to injustice and oppression at precisely the moment when concerted fronts and locked arms cannot tolerate weakness. 

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