A Lesson in Courage from the Balkans of the 1990s

The Man Who Could Not Be Silenced (2024), a short film by Nebojša Slijepčević, made history as the first Croatian film to win the Palme d’Or for Best Short Film at Cannes and later earned an Oscar nomination in the short film category. A powerful statement about responsibility, humanity, and courage, the film is based on true events that unfolded at the Štrpci railway station near Višegrad, Bosnia and Herzegovina, in 1993. It follows Tomo Buzov (Dragan Mićanović), a retired officer of the Yugoslav People’s Army, as he finds himself at the center of a critical moral dilemma.

On 27 February 1993, Buzov, an ethnic Croat, was traveling by train from Belgrade to Bar to visit his son. While passing through eastern Bosnia, members of the Republika Srpska Army stopped the train, singling out ethnic Bosnians for what would later be remembered as the Štrpci massacre during the Bosnian genocide. The film depicts one of the Bosnian-Serb soldiers entering the cabin where Tomo is sitting with other passengers, among whom an ethnic Serb, Dragan (Goran Bogdan) and an ethnic 17-year old Bosnian, Milan Bodganović (Silvio Mumelas) in what at first seems to be a routine inspection.

The narrative masterfully builds tension by silently positioning Dragan, a passive observer, against Tomo, thus embodying two starkly opposing choices: fear and inaction versus courage and the willingness to speak up, even at the risk of one’s life. “Don’t be afraid,” Dragan is heard telling Milan when the latter confesses that he has no papers with him, “We won’t let them hurt anyone.” However, Dragan is unable to deliver on the promise when the Bosnian-Serb soldier starts harassing Milan, ordering him to leave the train. They are all aware of what is about to happen: in 1993 Bosnia, being singled out as a Bosniak, Croat, or Albanian meant certain death. But there is one man, in a train with hundreds of passengers, who refuses to accept this injustice.

“Leave him alone,” Tomo is heard asserting his authority toward the Bosnian-Serb soldier, who then turns against him. “Sit down and shut up. That’s none of your business,” the Bosnian-Serb soldier replies. “Yes, it is,” Tomo fires back. “You’re treating decent people like animals.” “Are you a lover of Muslims?” the soldier bullies him. “This isn’t an army; it’s a gang of criminals!” Tomo exclaims.

Tomo Buzov was the only Croat tortured and then murdered together with 19 Bosnian civilians that day—their bodies thrown into the Drina river. Slijepčević’s movie is exceptional not only because the storytelling is masterfully crafted, but also because the cinematography elevates the narration, therefore transforming this historic event into an important work of art. Moreover, the emotional depth and moral complexity of the characters are fully captured in only 13 minutes of screening. The audience is immersed in their feelings and moral dilemmas, experiencing fear, anxiety, shame, and guilt, together with Dragan, just as it internalizes the fearful curiosity of the other passengers or becomes astonished by the bravery, and human decency of Tomo.

What stands out visually is that the camera remains focused entirely on Dragan’s face throughout the film, with Tomo appearing only briefly, mainly at the very end. This technical choice reminded me of the feature film Son of Saul by Hungarian director László Nemes, which won the Best Foreign Language Film Oscar at the 88th Academy Awards in 2016. Shot on 35mm film, Nemes follows Jewish-Hungarian prisoner Saul, a Sonderkommando at the Auschwitz gas chambers in October 1943, in a tightly focused, portrait-like narrow frame. The audience, too, follows Saul from behind, seeing only his back, distanced from the surrounding environment and unable to view the background. However, while the portrait focus in Son of Saul is more intense, with Nemes’ choice aiming to immerse the audience in Saul’s experience to grasp the enormity of the Holocaust and the horror of Nazi concentration camps like Auschwitz, Slijepčević’s approach is different. In The Man Who Could Not Be Silenced, as the camera locks onto Dragan, it does not seek to understand his moral choice but rather to confront him.

The close-up which almost puts the audience face to face with Dragan, symbolically embodies the collective responsibility of Serbia on him, which has yet to apologize and take accountability for the genocide and other crimes committed during the 1990s under Slobodan Milošević’s regime. This is a crucial detail because it prevents the film from romanticizing Tomo’s sacrifice, urging the audience to challenge the horrendous reality surrounding the dissolution of Yugoslavia, and the narrative of martyrdom: Tomo’s death, like that of the Bosnian passengers that day, was the result of a brutal and criminal system, not an inevitable fate. Tomo’s life could have been spared, as the other dozens in that train, or the thousands all across Bosnia and Herzegovina.

In addition to the urgent need for a just historical reflection and reconciliation, which remain essential for preserving peace and stability in the Balkans, the film also serves as a powerful reminder that during the ‘90s in the region there were not only monsters and victims, but also those who resisted and stood up against evil. It is precisely this detail that gives the film a more universal tone.

The Balkans is not the only contested geopolitical space; wars and conflicts have happened elsewhere too. They persist today in various parts of the world. Moreover, in an ever-shifting international landscape marked by the rise of authoritarianism and the emergence of neofascist ideologies in the West, insecurity and fear have been further exacerbated. In this regard, Slijepčević’s film shifts the question from a hypothetical—What would I have done if I had been in that cabin with Tomo, Dragan, and Milan?—to the pressing reality—What am I doing now, as injustice unfolds around me, as the very foundations of democracy, freedom, and human dignity are once again under threat, as wars persist and innocent people’s lives continue to be violently taken away?

© 2025 Gresa Hasa. Të gjitha të drejtat janë të autorit.