The Bosnian Serb troops ringing the city, many of whom took part in the capture and execution of thousands of Muslims in Zepa and Srebrenica in the summer, remain grimly in place behind their heavy mortars and mounted machine guns. At one position, near the burned and gutted remains of a 15th-century church, Serbian soldiers ducked and crouched as they scrambled along the front line to avoid being spotted by Muslim snipers. Cease-fire violations, as in other parts of Bosnia, keep troops around Gorazde jittery. On the other side of the line, Gorazde itself is little more than a ghetto. Its muddy streets are swollen with thousands of families driven at the start of the war from dozens of towns and villages elsewhere along the Drina River valley.
Families live packed in unheated buildings that bear the scars of the shelling.
The 60,000 people here survive on the food carried in by daily aid convoys. Each morning as the huge white tractor-trailers crawl into the city, a ragged collection of spectators gathers on the side of the street to applaud. Before the cease-fire, supplies could often be carried in only on mules over the surrounding mountains and through Serbian lines. In the afternoon, crowds of silent men and women gather to scan the list on Steva Helete square for those who have parcels from the outside brought in by the U.N. High Commissioner for Refugees. Two of the three factories in and around Gorazde are gutted shells, their rusted machinery twisted by shells, charred by fire and home to packs of stray dogs.