The last flight from Belgrade to Sarajevo was cancelled 'due to fog' in the capital of the then Yugoslav Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina on the evening of April 5, leaving several journalists at midnight to find transport and be in Sarajevo until noon on April 6 for the scheduled miners' anti-war protest.

There was no choice but to take my car with black P for press license plates and number 60 as a sign that it is the American media AP.

Around 5 am, the four of us went on an adventure we had never dreamed of, regardless of the experience of reporting from previous conflicts in Slovenia and Croatia.

Two other cars packed with reporters followed.

The first barricades were Serbian. After a couple of hours of negotiations, they let us through “on your own responsibility.”

Near Sarajevo, a Bosniak guard. The younger man, in civilian clothes, surprised that we managed to come from “that” side, gives us detailed instructions on how to get down to the city. Slowly, turn on all four signals, keep a close distance between the cars, and put on the TV or press the” sign to be seen.

We arrived at the Holiday Inn just before noon. Strange situation. People were leaving the hotel. A colleague from the US, who was just checking out, said: “There are rumours that the hotel will be attacked. Don't stay. ”

But, a colleague from the BBC and I checked in and settled into the rooms.

Shots were soon heard. From my room window, I saw people who came to the protest, looking in the direction of the hotel and seeking shelter behind concrete fences, containers…

I tried to call the colleague, but the line was busy. I got out into the hallway and smelled gunpowder. It was clear the shooting came from the inside of the hotel.

I took the elevator down to the lobby, and when the door opened, I saw several rifle barrels pointed at me. I laughed hysterically and said: “I'm a journalist, come on.”

They let me out and asked for my press ID. “Who's upstairs? Where are the terrorists?” “I don't know. A BBC colleague.” “Call her to get down. If she is alone in the elevator, tell her to scream; if she is not, let her be silent.”

Meanwhile, I saw several people in civilian clothes lying on the lobby's floor, their faces on the ground and their hands tied behind their backs. “Terrorists,” said their guard, “caught in a hotel with weapons.”

Finally, a colleague from the BBC came down, silent despite a warning, and with a bulletproof vest on. I looked for a phone to call the editorial office in Belgrade. They let me behind the reception desk and told me to bend down. Two or three guys with rifles stood in front of the reception desk. I felt like Barbara Walters in Vietnam.

I told my colleague in Belgrade: “The war has started.” He laughed and said, you are kidding me. A guy, obviously in charge, heard me convincing him it was not a joke and fired a shot from ‘Thomson’ at the ceiling. The colleague on the phone got serious and started writing down what I was telling him.

The BBC colleague and I were sitting in the lobby, figuring out where to go. Two guys approached us and asked whose car was at the parking lot (the only one still there) with the press sign. I said mine. “Come on, let's get out of here by that car.” “Where?” “Where it's safer,” he said, asking for the keys to drive. I protested, but he said that the whole city was under blockades and that I would not know where to go.

One of them gave me an expensive ball pen. “That's for your car. I don't need it,” he said. I thought he was joking. He wasn't.

We drove to the ‘Belgrade’ hotel. The driver would pull out half of his body from the window holding the steering wheel and yelling his name at every barricade. The people just waved us through. I don't know which way we took to the hotel, but it lasted for a while.

However, I remember accidentally seeing a mine (experience from before) tied to a park bench that blocked the road. My driver did not see it and wanted to go around the bench. I shouted, mine, stop. He stopped, looked at the mine, then at me and asked, “How did you know?” “I didn't know; I saw.”

We arrived at the Belgrade Hotel, and my colleague and I checked in. The two guys were still there, and I asked for the car key. “No. We need them. We can't walk to our headquarters.” “I'm going to Mostar tomorrow; I need the car; please give me the key.” I guess I sounded irritating, and they both moved their jackets aside. I saw two handguns on each of them. “OK. Fine,” I said, looking at the weapons they both carried on the belts of their camouflage trousers.

The next day I went back to the Holiday Inn and asked the main guy who shot at the ceiling if he knew where my car was. “What type of car?” I said. “A, that one. It's near the ‘Bristol’ Hotel. There is some shooting there, so you see what to do.” I did nothing. Later, I heard the car ended in one of “Dobrinja” outskirts, peppered with bullets.

That night, at the ‘Belgrade’ Hotel lobby, the colleague from the BBC and I met an Englishman who did not leave Sarajevo, because, like many Sarajevans, he did not believe that the real war could engulf the city.

He ran a casino there if I remember correctly. We chatted a bit, and he said he had seen who we came with. He told us a few details about one of them and said, “take care.”

A couple of hours later, the BBC colleague and I decided to go and have some sleep. A man at the reception stopped me and said: “The one who took your car came back and asked for you. I told him I didn't know where you were.” “Why? Maybe he would have returned my car key!” The receptionist looked at me with a kind of pity. I got the message, and he said – take care tonight.

The BBC woman asked what did we talked about. “O, don't count on me. I'm too scared,” she said after I told her.

OK, good to know, I thought.

I went to my room, blocked the door with one bed, and sat on the other. I didn't sleep.

The next day, severe shelling started.

Today, 30 years later, the vivid images hit me from time to time; some of them, unfortunately, or luckily, already fading out.