Unlike Bosnia and Gaza, international justice must act swiftly for Syria

The first time I went to a Syrian restaurant was in Morocco in 2013. I was in Casablanca for work, and one of my Turkish colleagues took me there after our meetings with the media.

We ordered Baba Ghanoush, Fattoush, Falafel, Hummus, Kibbeh, and other delicious Middle Eastern dishes that have influenced cuisines around the world. I realised Syrians use a lot of eggplants, chickpeas, zucchinis, and garlic. Their food is as rich in flavour as their history.

The owner of the restaurant was Syrian and had escaped to Morocco when the war began in 2011.

I told him I was from Bosnia, from Sarajevo, and that I was a refugee during the 1990s.

We bonded and talked about how difficult life in exile is while your city and people are being bombed and under siege. At the time, I didn’t know I’d recall this meeting years later.

He didn’t want my pity; instead, he wanted to know if it had been difficult for us to rebuild our lives after returning to Sarajevo.

I was honest. I told him we still face many problems in Bosnia due to ethnic divisions, but that life had moved on. I explained that we still disagree about history and that the past continues to prevent us from building a better future.

For those who lost most of their family, it’s worse—the horrors may have stopped, but the nightmares are alive and well.

I spoke about generations suffering from PTSD and the vast, unattended wastelands left behind.

Yet, what mattered most to us was gaining independence and building a democratic country I’m proud of.

He knew a lot about Bosnia, particularly the Srebrenica genocide. He told me the world said “never again” after more than 8,000 Bosnian Muslim men and boys were slaughtered in the small town of Srebrenica by Bosnian Serb forces.

He implied that the world had continued to witness atrocities and had learned nothing from Bosnia.

“We are still looking for their bodies,” I replied.

Just a few months before I met him, in August of that same year, the chemical attack on Ghouta had happened. The opposition-controlled area was struck by rockets containing the chemical agent sarin, launched by Assad’s forces.

The UN confirmed that sarin was used. It is a human-made nerve agent, classified as a chemical weapon.

Photos of piled bodies, including children, were shared worldwide. Like during the Bosnian war, people demanded accountability and called on global powers to prevent further horrors.

“Never again,” world leaders said repeatedly.

We sat in silence for a few moments.

I asked him if he thought the war would end soon.

“For now, I will focus on my life here. There are many things people outside Syria don’t understand about Assad. One day they will. I was lucky to escape, and I want to cherish every moment of being alive.”

His words stayed with me.

We finished the meal with Booza, a milk-based dessert.

I mentioned that we have something called Boza in Bascarsija, Sarajevo’s old town, but it’s made of fermented maize and wheat. It’s nothing like their Booza. I invited him to visit Sarajevo to try it, but I never saw him again.

Five years later, my life took a different turn when I moved to Istanbul for work.

One April day in 2018, as I presented the news for TRT World, a troubling report came from Eastern Ghouta—Assad’s regime had attacked Douma with chemical weapons in the dead of night. Witnesses described a strong smell and yellow foam coming from people’s mouths. Children struggled to breathe.

Photographs of children gasping for air and frothing at the mouth flooded social media, shaking everyone in the newsroom. Dozens were killed, and more than a hundred were injured.

I felt like someone had punched me in the gut. The Syrian restaurant owner’s words from Morocco echoed in my mind - "never again"- and yet we were witnessing innocent people, including children as young as a few months old, subjected to worst atrocities.

This attack was part of Assad’s military offensive, Operation Damascus Steel, to capture rebel-held territory.

Medical groups, including the White Helmets, reported that Syrian Air Force helicopters dropped barrel bombs on Douma. These bombs caused convulsions in some residents and suffocated others.

By then, the world had grown numb to Syria’s horror stories. Douma fell to Assad’s forces shortly after the chlorine attack. Many victims never got to tell their stories. The years that followed saw even more brutality—bombings, killings, and endless suffering.

By March 2024, the Syrian conflict had claimed over 617,910 lives, according to SOHR, and displaced millions.

The decades long nightmare in the country finally neared its end in early December 2024, as a swift opposition offensive toppled Assad’s dictatorship.

I recorded an episode of my show Across the Balkans, featuring a former Damascus mayor who now lives in Sarajevo. I asked him how it felt with Assad gone.

“It feels like a dream. I thought he would be the last man standing in Damascus,” he said.

But he admitted he was worried. The future, he explained, depended on how Syrians organised themselves to rebuild.

Assad’s regime left behind mass graves, tens of thousands of corpses, and countless families searching for their missing loved ones. Most Syrians now seek closure through justice.

As a Bosnian, I know the importance of international investigations and verdicts. They are crucial for a fresh start.

In Syria, observers are entering prisons and uncovering dark sites, speaking to countless victims of Assad’s war machine.

Those of us who survived Slobodan Milosevic's regime in the 1990s painfully understand how slow global justice can be. Thousands of cases of enforced disappearances remain unresolved.

Milosevic was charged by the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia for genocide and war crimes in Bosnia, Croatia, and Kosovo.

Even before he died, the legal process was slow and lenient. Trials for others accused of crimes in Bosnia, Croatia, and Kosovo were marred by delays. When verdicts finally came, they were often too lenient, casting doubt on international justice.

Milosevic died before his trial concluded, leaving many victims’ families feeling justice was never served.

After years in hiding, Bosnian Serb commander Ratko Mladic was found guilty in 2017 of genocide, crimes against humanity, and war crimes. He is now serving a life sentence in The Hague.

Although Bosnia struggles three decades later, with many feeling justice was incomplete, we recognise the significance of these verdicts. They give hope to right-thinking people, showing the world acknowledges who stood on the wrong side of history.

The fall of Bashar al Assad is an opportunity for Syrians to gather evidence of his regime’s crimes. They owe it to the victims. The process must begin now.