Bosnia After the War Essays

Always Grateful
By Adisa Redžic
May 2000

"You have to be strong and educate yourselves! That's the only way to fight the war and all the miseries it brings along!" Those were my aunt's refrain to me, my sister, and my five cousins the three long years we stayed with her. She willingly became like a mother as I struggled to live between two worlds.

The violence in Banja Luka was escalating in spring 1992. My aunt kept calling with alarm about our safety. My parents had to be decisive, and they accepted her offer to take the teenagers of the family into her care. I was only 15 years old, my sister, 176. We didn't want to leave, but within 24 hours we packed and were en route to Amman, Jordan.

Our aunt met us at the airport with great relief. She did her best to help us adjust to the new surroundings. Amman's population is almost 1,000,000 compared to 200,000 in Banja Luka. There the streets are packed with people who wait for buses in orderly lines. In my town, we make a rush.

At first we were quite dazzled by the solid sandstone buildings that insulate against the heat and their flat rooftops. Quickly, however, we longed for our little room under the eaves of our home where we used to retreat to read. We found the shortage of water and sparse vegetation in the summer months depressing. We recalled our abundant river Vrbas with its lush weeping willows along the edge.

My aunt tried to distract us. We visited her large extended family of in-laws. We couldn't help think: What is mother doing now? How is father? Our grandparents? The over 25 members of our family now living together under that one roof?

To qualify for school, at first we had to study both English and Arabic intensively. My aunt encouraged us. She had had to learn English and Arabic, too. After almost a year, we found ourselves in a school with a high, eight-foot wall around it. Girls, in proper school uniforms, had to stand quietly in line every morning waiting to hear the national anthem before the school day began. This was C.M.S., Christian Missionary School. Back home at a public school, there was co-education. We wore what we wished within reason. The day began with music from our student radio station.

Now back in Bosnia, memories flash back. Thanks to my aunt, always ready to talk about our problems, to help us solve them, not only did I survive that challenging period, but gained languages and experience. We will always value her efforts on our behalf when we needed them most. We cherish her dearly.