El sniper de Sarajevo

the hills can see you. We were always moving, to make the work of the snipers harder. But never running, to show our pride.

I make cautious decisions as to where, when, and how to move :
to stay close to the buildings or take the middle of the road...
zig-zag... quickly... slow...?
I automatically try to avoid the angle of sight from the hills that are now too close and which make everyone in town uncomfortable...
Sometimes while walking I try to imagine what it's like to be hit by a sniper...
Can you feel the bullet hitting your body...?
Does it hurt... is it hot...?
I wonder whether I'll fall...
Would I hear the whizzing of the bullet...?
Before the shot...? Afterwards...?
What's the sound of bones cracking...?
The cyclist who was beheaded by an anti-aircraft gun the other day,
was he conscious of anything...?
I keep thinking I will "only" be wounded...
I never think I'll be killed.
I wonder whether I'd have time to see a part of my flesh flying before me
after I've been hit...?
What about the smell...? Taste...?
What goes on in the mind of the man who hides his head behind a paper while running across a sniper covered intersection...?
I think : am I afraid or am I just curious...?
Because I hate not knowing anything that might concern me...?
So I wonder why some people walk around completely numb, lost, unconcerned...
Some are protecting those who are with them, some run mechanically...
Others fend off their fears making up stupid explanations along the way...
Sometimes I think about those who shoot.
How do they decide : man or dog... child or woman... younger... or rather someone famous... or by the colours of the clothes...?
Is he happy when he hits the target...?
I often think of the deep contempt Sarajevans feel towards those who say they don't know who's shooting whom or where from, and those who seem to believe these tales.
They're just watching some future fascists around them shooting at their children...