I'm running across an intersection to avoid the bullet of a sniper from the hill when I walk straight into some photographers:
they're doing their job, in deep cover.
If a bullet hit me they'd get a shot worth so much more than my life that I'm not even sure whom to hate:
the Chetnik sniper or these monkeys with Nikons.
For the Chetniks I'm just a simple target but those othersconfirm my utter helplessness and even want to take advantage of it.
In Sarajevo, death is a job for all of them.
Life has been narrowed down completely, reduced to gestures...a man covering his head with a newspaper as he runs across the same street, scared of a sniper's bullet.