It was an ordinary afternoon in May 1995 in Sarajevo. Twelve-year-old Djemil Hodzic was outside with his older brother, 16-year-old Amel, playing in their neighbourhood as children laughed and parents looked on.
Amel was playing tennis while Djemil and his friends played marbles nearby. Without warning, Amel froze, gasping for air, his hand clutching his chest. Within moments, a red stain spread across his white T-shirt. It took a few seconds for the children to grasp what had happened — Amel had been shot by a sniper stationed in the surrounding hills.
“Amel was the tallest among us children — he was an easy target,” Djemil recalls.
Their mother, a nurse who had just returned from a night shift, was preparing lunch when the shot rang out. An ambulance was called, but Amel died in her lap before it arrived.
In an email interaction, Djemil said he believes his brother may have been a victim not only of sniper fire but also of what later came to be known as “sniper tourism” — one of the most disturbing allegations to surface from the 1992–1995 Bosnian war. The conflict erupted after Bosnia and Herzegovina declared independence from Yugoslavia in March 1992, pitting the army of Republika Srpska — the Bosnian Serb force — against the army of the Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina.
The term “sniper tourism” refers to claims that wealthy foreign nationals paid Bosnian Serb soldiers substantial sums to shoot at civilians from hilltop positions overlooking Sarajevo during the siege.
The Siege of Sarajevo remains the longest siege of a capital city in modern history. After Bosniaks (Bosnian Muslims) declared independence, Bosnian Serb leaders seeking to create a “Greater Serbia” opposed the move, sparking a war that killed nearly 100,000 people and displaced more than a million.
Allegations surrounding sniper tourism resurfaced in November 2025, when Italian authorities opened an investigation into claims that some of their citizens may have participated. The probe followed a 17-page complaint filed by Italian journalist and novelist Ezio Gavazzeni, who alleged that wealthy foreigners — including Italians — paid between $90,000 and $115,000 to fire on civilians, with additional payments reportedly offered to target children.
Determined to preserve the memories of those who suffered, Djemil has launched a project titled Sniper Alley, compiling eyewitness testimonies and creating an online archive of photographs from the siege. “I felt it was important to ensure the world does not forget the hell Bosnians went through, especially while many responsible remain free and unpunished,” he said.
Elza, 50, who asked to be identified by her first name only, described the reports of sniper tourism as “despicable and grisly.” She was a teenager during the war and remembers meeting friends in underground shelters.
“Every time I saw my friends, I tried to memorise their faces, fearing it could be our last meeting,” she said.
Harun Mehmedinovic, 42, now a Bosnian-American filmmaker, recalled that many civilians were killed attempting to cross what became known as “Sniper Alley” — the main boulevard in Sarajevo, including Ulica Zmaja od Bosne and Meša Selimović Boulevard. The route connected the city centre to industrial areas and the airport.
“Anyone who didn’t live in the city centre had to walk one or two kilometres through that perilous stretch to fetch potable water,” he said. “They became easy targets.”
Habib AlBadawi, a professor at Lebanese University in Beirut and author of the research paper Hunting Humans — The Paid Killers of Sarajevo and the Milan Investigations, described the Italian inquiry as a “moral reckoning.”
“The siege of Sarajevo remains one of the starkest examples of systematic violence against civilians in post–World War II Europe,” AlBadawi said. “The Milan probe suggests that, for some, killing civilians in Sarajevo became a transactional service.”
Three decades on, many buildings in Sarajevo still bear bullet scars — silent reminders of the siege. When Hong Kong travel vlogger Chan Siu Ki visited in 2018, he noted how the city seemed to have moved on.
“The buildings are ordinary apartments now, with advertisements hanging from rooftops and walls, as if nothing had ever happened,” he observed.
Yet for survivors like Djemil, Elza and Harun, the memories remain vivid — and the search for accountability continues.
