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Humanitarian Law CenterWe heard the sound of the front door being broken down at about 8o’clock. My sister Nurije went first, with me right behind her. A young manwho seemed to be in charge of the group came in first. He was in greencamouflage fatigues. The others wore different kinds of uniform; some likethe first one, others were in blue police uniforms and still others in black.About 20 of them had black bands or scarves around their heads. A fewwere wearing glasses. The young man could have been 23 or 24. He wastall and strongly built and his head was shaved. He had strange greenisheyes and a nice face, like Arkan’s. He had a badge on his shoulder but Icouldn’t make it out. As soon as he was inside, he grabbed me by the shirtwith one hand and trained his automatic at me with the other. He askedhow many people were in the house and I said a lot. My sister Nurije tookout a roll of banknotes and held it out to him. She didn’t say anything becauseshe doesn’t speak Serbian. He asked why the woman was giving himmoney and I replied it was because he would tell us in which direction wewere to go. She also gave him gold coins, necklaces and earrings.I remember that young man; he held me and gave me a hard time for atleast half an hour. He kept me close to himself and I could smell him. It wasa funny smell. From time to time, he would take a small bottle from thetop pocket of his uniform and smell it. The liquid it held was colourless. Hebecame more aggressive each time he uncorked the bottle and sniffed it.He asked me more than once how come I spoke such good Serbian, and Ireplied it was because of my work. He asked why we had stayed and notrun away. He kept swearing all the time. He pushed me toward the stairs,smashed in the door with his foot and asked me what was in there. I saidit was the basement. He tried to push me down the stairs. I struggled, mydaughter cried and begged him to spare her father, and Nurije kept pullingmy arm, trying to stop him from taking me away. Then they threw usout into the street.There were police and men in camouflage and black uniforms in the street.My daughter saw Toma Petrović, a Podujevo policeman. She saw him againa month later in Prishtina, went up to him and said he was in our housewhen we were driven out. He asked on what date that was, calculated andadmitted to her that he was in the uniformed group that 28 March. All hesaid was that I had been very lucky, that God himself had saved me.90