My parents were newlyweds when survival became their primary concern. In April of 1992, Serb forces mobilized to secure Bosnian territory after the latter announced independence from Yugoslavia. My mother, 18 years old at the time, was about four months pregnant with me when the world collapsed around her.
In Teočak, Bosnia, where we lived, men were gathering what weapons they could find and taking turns on the frontlines to keep their families safe. My grandfather was an imam and played an important role in boosting morale among the troops. I vaguely remember many people coming and going from our house to stop, rest and eat. I don’t remember much of my father in those days, but I know where he was and how he risked his life every day.
After the Dayton Peace Accords, things settled down and I remember going to first grade and meeting my mother’s family for the first time – we were cut of from each other for years because of the fighting. My little sister was born in 1996. We lived a relatively calm life aside from sometimes being told not to go in certain areas because there might be mines, or because we might find bullets lodged into the walls of our house.
War was mentioned occasionally, like when someone’s body was brought back to be buried. My best friend and nextdoor neighbor no longer had a father. We were the same age, but it never occurred to me just how lucky I was to have my dad until I grew older.
Members of my family endured the worst in life and saw things they won’t speak of. Part of comforting them meant that I had to grow up quickly. I learned to understand the emotional reasons behind unexplained outbursts or why my father was disillusioned.
In early 2000, we left for Austria because my parents wanted a better life for me and my sister. My father’s two sisters made their way there during the war, where they still live to this day. He and his brother stayed with their parents, my mother and me. My mother was the driving force behind us attempting to move as well.
The years after the move remain a blur in my mind. Within two years, I attended schools in Austria and Germany, I met many people whose names I can’t remember – though some of their faces remain with me still. I wish I could remember the girl in my classroom who walked up to me and placed a cookie on the edge of my desk and sat back down. It was my first day of school. I know she was Croatian and that she probably understood why I was there.
When we finally got our approval to move to the US, I wasn’t happy to hear that I’d have to move again. I was speaking German, had friends and family close by who visited me. We arrived mid-2001 and all I knew is that education was key. I worked hard to learn English and excel in school. My parents started working not long after at odd jobs, so I had a lot of responsibility. I had to make sure my little sister had some stability. She was only in kindergarten so I’m always thankful her life had few interruptions that she could remember.
Being white Muslims from Europe means that we weren’t discriminated against post-9/11 like others were. We blended in easily. I can’t recall ever having problems, unless I explicitly stated how I identified religiously. My privilege is something I’m well aware of and its part of the reason I chose to work in politics and try to focus on educating others.
It was stability I craved above all else. Each person in my family interpreted that to mean a different thing. My father sees it as being able to move back home to be closer to family. My mother wants to see her kids happy. I struggle to define stability for myself, especially as my life made it hard for me to fit in anywhere. I have finally come to the conclusion that I don’t have to. We all struggle with identity. I find comfort knowing I’m definitely not alone in being caught between worlds.
Thinking about the past, it’s hard to escape how much hardship it contained. I was reminded of this when my mother became pregnant in 2012. I asked her why she wanted to have another child and she said she never got to experience the joy of raising a child under normal circumstances. She never got to do something as simple as push her baby in a stroller.
My two sisters are now 19 and three years old and I’m 23. For our family, the youngest one symbolizes a bright new path, free from the experiences of war and exile. Her journey will be different from mine – and from many others here in the United States. But I strive for a world in which everyone can enjoy the brightness and hope that she was born into.
Open contributions: How did you get to the US?
