You heard people say that they didn't even know where Yugoslavia was. That "they" were all the same, all equally guilty, all deserving of the fate they were inflicting on each other.
And you wanted to weep and scream and shake them, shake us, out of our complacency and indifference.
This book does it. It is about the former Yugoslavia, yes, but it is mostly about how shamefully we left the innocent, the defenceless, the decent, to hang in the wind. It's a book about our shame, and it keens with the same wail of impotent fury and shame I have been racked with all these year, since the fall of Srebrenica.
You want to run after people and press this book into their hand, crying: look, this man was there, he saw with his own eyes, you can't dismiss him as a propagandist, as a liar, as an interested party. He didn't turn his head, and you have to listen to what he has to say.
But you have a suspicion people will not listen. Not then, not now, nor in the future. We have not learned the lesson, that caring for you brother is the only way to make sure than somebody will take care of you if your time comes. And perhaps we never will.
Buy this book. Read it. But more important, make people who would much prefer not to know, not to feel, not to understand, read it.