It seems like yesterday to think about it. I was about thirteen years-old and had only been in America for about two months. It was as if I was on a foreign planet. America was a fantasy, a place where there were no concentration camps or mines. I did not have to worry about watching my little sibling being murdered in the street just because they followed a different religion. Of course I did not have any more siblings at that point. It was 1998 and I had just been adopted by a kind American family in Upstate New York.
The snow had arrived around the middle of December. I had of course seen snow in my native Bosnia. Our country was very mountainous after all. My home village of Ahmići had a mountain near it. It was part of the Lašva valley. We of course had our fair share of snow. I remember my mama making a comment about Olympics but it was before I was born. When I saw the snow fall down in my new home, it made me think of Ahmići. Though there were no mountains overlooking our home, it still felt a little more like home than the day before. I remember going out and just sitting there, forgetting my coat and jacket and just crying. My new mother was not happy with me about that at all.
After this new mother had brought me in, handing me a cup of hot chocolate, she spoke to my new siblings. I soon found myself being forced into a snow suit and jacket and taken outside, something that I was not at all fond of. I did not hate these new siblings; it was just that they were not MY siblings. They were kids my own age that lived in the same house as me. I still was stuck in Bosnia with my family in my head. Any acceptance seemed like a horrible insult to my dead family.
I had gone out with my new siblings who had shown me their new sled so that they could go down a hill near the home. It was funny to think back to that time because I was still getting used to this new home. These American siblings were a strange species to me. I knew only a little English at that time so it was generally through physical actions that I understood what they meant. They were kind to me even though I was the new kid, letting me get on the front of one of the sleds. Though I tried to be miserable, something that seemed like an acceptable thing to do since my family was dead and I was not, I remember smiling and screaming for joy as we traversed down the hill. I had not smiled once since arriving at planet America. When we fell at the end of the ride, I remember my face falling right into the cool snow. I slowly sat up, which was hard with my prosthetic leg and noticed that I had snow on my nose. The siblings laughed. At first I wanted to cry because I thought they were making fun of me. They then put snow on their noses and I found myself laughing along with them.
The Christmas season was also strange to me. After all I am a Muslim, a Bosniak, so the religious aspects were not as important to me. I was not dumb to Christmas. I understood that it was the day that Jesus Christ was born. In Islam we think of him as a prophet and not as the son of God. Plus we follow the cycles of the moon and not the sun so holidays are not one specific day every year. Even with that I knew what Christmas was. I was not ignorant to what it was about either. My village did not just consist of Muslims after all but also Catholics or Croats. Christmas before the war was a lot of fun. Christmas day always made me smile because you knew that you were going to be invited to a spectacular meal. I still remember those meals which filled you up easily. My grandfather, who was an imam, did not object to these dinners. I would later find out that he went through World War II and the harrowing experience along with the decades of Tito’s rule, made him very accepting of other faiths.
Christmas in a small Bosnian village was different than Christmas in America. It was a powerful culture shock. Television ads were full of incentives to buy different products; lights were strung all over the house and outside. Going on the bus to school was more fun than before December. In the morning you could still see the lights decorated from all of the different houses. It was almost overwhelming to me. The trauma of the war was still raw, even though the war ended three years prior. I still missed my family, my village and bureks. (My favorite pastry.) I was not sure what to think about this idea of Christmas Spirit. How was I to feel this joy and happiness that they spoke of? My dreams were nightmares of gun fire and screams and cruel laughter. I still jumped if someone were to catch me unawares. I still cried as I thought about everything that I had experienced. One time the whole “family” had gone to sit down for dinner. They gave a prayer. I did not know what they said only understanding little snippets like I, and, you and love. When I heard the word love which was ljubav to me, I started to cry as I thought about how we would sit during dinners and talk about love. In summary, I felt none of this Christmas spirit and did not want to celebrate.
Except for the excursion into sledding, I showed little emotion around this new family of mine. Getting presents meant nothing to me as the only thing I wanted was my real family back. I even dreamed of going back to Bosnia. The one sad thing that I learned from the war, in my opinion, is that people want to change you. Being a Bosniak from a small central Bosnian village was bad. Being Muslim was horrible and people wanted you to be anything but that. So I also felt anger towards this new family. They wanted to change me, make me more American, more Christian. I felt that all of this Christmas talk was supposed to convert me. I thought that I was better in the orphanage in Sarajevo that I had been staying at since the fall of 1995 when I was barely ten years-old.
The plan was simple of course. Take what little belongings I had and go back to Bosnia. I was thirteen at the time and it did not seem like such a problem at all. I had little to take with me, mostly clothes that they had bought for me. It seemed that they forgot that I was a war child at times. Material things did not matter anymore to me. I had little clothes during the war after all and did not consider it an important issue that I had practically worn the same outfit for years. I put them in there anyway. I did not put anything else in there because they did not seem that important. After all a war has a way of showing what really is important. The latest CD of the Backstreet Boys or Hanson did not seem important. I had no idea why this mother thought I wanted it. It was all gibberish to me. It was nothing at all like the music back in Bosnia. I would have rather she bought me a Bijelo Dugme CD. It was my mama’s favorite band. At least then I could feel some connection to her. I was not going to get that from any American boy band. I took some money from the purse of this new mother of mine and decided to go a mosque nearby that I had been taken to. I had knowledge in Arabic, which the imam there did too. He was the only one I could truly communicate with in planet America except for some stupid social worker.
I walked to the mosque, my coat zipped up due to the cold. It was about a few miles from our home and I walked the whole thing. I was not at all fazed about this; after all there was a lot of walking from place to place during the war, hoping to get somewhere safe and not get killed along the way. I still remember the crunching of the hard snow as I walked down a snowy path, my boots getting wet as the snow attempted to seep in. I walked for what seemed like hours, the light slowly receding. As night seemed to near I still walked. There was no fear of the night, of wolves devouring my flesh. I had seen monsters that will destroy you and they did not look at all like wolves. I was more afraid of a fellow human than any beast in the woods.
As it got dark, I realized that I should have started sooner. I still had a few miles to go, I was probably about half way there. I felt sleepy and tried to look for somewhere to sleep. Due to the fact that my new home was near a forest, miles from any town I had decided to look for some kind of shelter. We had lived in caves during the war at some point so that seemed like an appropriate shelter. I soon realized that this was not the forests of Bosnia, there were no caves here and it was getting cold. Sadly I realized that my plan had failed. It was getting very dark, it was cold and windy and I had no place to go. I had always felt that I had no home and no family. I soon realized how fallacious that was. The new home in America was in fact a home with heat and people that seemed to care about me. Even if I was too proud to accept them, that was the truth. I still was quite proud and that sentiment was shrugged off as me just wanting to be in a warm bed.
I decided to use my clothes as a type of blanket, taking out the slacks, shirts and dresses. As I was in the process of doing that, I looked up to see something nearby. It was too far to ascertain if it was man or creature. My war experience caused me to be wary of anything unfamiliar. A wolf would tear me apart, but a human could do that too and make it just as painful. I took my things and went behind a tree. I heard the sounds of crunching snow, which slowly got closer. I prayed to some questionable god due to my fear. My grandfather was an imam anyway. In my mind I was praying not to the almighty Allah but to my grandfather and the rest of my family. Then of course came that familiar feeling that I had when I was in danger. Was I really praying to live? To not die? Why is that? After all death was not horrible to me like it was for many people. Death meant being reuniting with my family. It meant happiness, joy and peace. Was not that what Christmas was supposed to be about? I had tried to kill myself before, the scars on my wrists proved that. I seemed so much easier for me. After all who would care? Though this new family would hug me, was not mean or cruel and gave me food and a roof over my head, I did not think that they truly loved me. In Bosnia there were those that seemed to care about the war. Bands and actors wrote songs about it, talked about it in the news and created charities to help me. I did not think that they really cared. After all even by 1998, their numbers were dwindling. To this day I feel a type of bitterness towards them. Very few seem to even notice that Bosnia is a country. I doubt many could find it on a map. It makes me mad to think that Bosnia was just a PR stunt to them. Very few celebrities seem to truly care about Bosnia. Those that do have my respect.
I decided to put my clothes in my bag and take my fate. The wolf can tear apart my flesh; the human can beat and murder me. It would all work for the best as I would be reunited with my real family.
Instead fate intervened. I zipped up my bag and walked out to meet whatever thing was out there. It was dark so it was not until they came close that I realized it was a human. A girl my age had staring back at me. She was wearing a small coat that looked more appropriate for the spring and boots that were worn and tattered. All of the sudden I felt admiration and respect for her. After all I knew what it was like to have very little. Then she started to speak to me. It was English and I frowned. Of course it was going to be. I had no idea what she was saying.
“No English…Bosnia,” I spoke. It was my common expression in America for strangers. It was not exactly a complete sentence but my vocabulary was limited.
She did not look annoyed or upset. That was the traditional expression to my statement. Instead she looked happy and started to talk even more. I heard a few pronouns and a couple of words like good and happy but that was it. She put her arm around my shoulder and we started walking. I was not sure what to do at this point. She seemed nice enough though I knew from experience that nice was not equal to good. After all she could be leading me into a trap. I did not really care at all. I was still feeling fearless. Her voice was excited and happy as she continued to speak. I was not sure what it meant that she was talking so much. Did she misunderstand what I said? I furrowed my forehead, trying to think of something to say in English.
“No…word. No…English. Bosnia…Sarajevo. No America. Olympics.” These were words that I knew. I hoped that it made more sense. I could of course say something in Bosnian but Bosnian was not a common language in America.
She stopped and turned to look at me. She started to laugh, something I took as offensive. “Yes…Bosnia.” She was trying to tell me that she understood what I said. I did not understand the humor in that. Of course I was starting to understand that America has a very different culture. Humor was a lot different there then in my home country. So maybe it was funny to be from Bosnia.
Then we started to move again, walking for a short while until I saw smoke. It was obviously a house, probably her house. That was proven when she suddenly got more excited and spoke faster than before. Her gait also was more rapid. It was almost a quick walk which was hard for me because of my artificial leg. I stumbled a little and she stopped. I lifted up my pants and showed her. I heard a long and drawn out “oh” and then a slower walk. We eventually did get to the place, which looked like a shack. It was small and seemed to have a log as its materials. It was small too, not at all big like my new home which had two stories and was probably 10 times bigger than this one. Of course only the rich could truly afford an adoption.
We came to the door and she opened it, saying something I actually understood. “Helllllllooooooo!”
She had my hand and grabbed it, bringing me inside and closing the door. I looked to see a small fireplace, the wood crackling and warming me up immediately. I did not realize how cold I was until I felt the heat. I wanted to go there but respectfully stood where I was. Looking over at the girl, her face brightened as she noticed someone. I looked over to see a woman. She must have been her mother as they had similar physical characteristics from their small nose to mousy brown hair. There was a huge hug and then the woman started to smooth over the girl’s weak coat, taking off the snow. Then she looked over at me. I looked up at her, meeting her eyes. It was then that a wave of emotion took over. There was something about her eyes, a warmness that took me aback. It was almost like my mother was look back at me. My new mother was of course kind but it was not the same as this woman. It started to make me miss my mother.
I was about to cry, something that was common as you know by now, but was stopped. The tears had welled up when the woman gave me a warm hug. Not only did it warm me but it made me feel…wanted. I felt like this woman was my mama, something that scared me. I let go and avoided her eyes. After all it was easier then to forget that look. She started to speak to the girl and I heard Bosnia. I assumed they were talking to me. I felt the woman bring me to a small table and sit me in a chair. The girl sat next to me on the left and the woman was over at an area of the house that seemed to house a kitchen. I smelled food and realized that I was also hungry. I ate what she gave me, forgetting my manners and ignoring the woman, who went to sit down across from me, talk to the girl. After I finished, I heard a scream and frowned when I saw a man come in. I was still wary of strangers after all. He came out from my right and looked like he was in the middle of something. He was wearing a tattered sweater, his hair disheveled and his glasses at the bridge of his nose. He had pitch black hair unlike the females but shared the same warm smile. It was then that they spoke to him, the man sitting on my right. I heard Bosnia again and knew they were explaining the situation.
“So you are from Bosnia?” I almost choked on the piece of turkey I was eating. I had not heard anyone in America, except for someone called a social worker, speak in Bosnian. It took me aback and I seemed at a loss for words.
The man chuckled, “It’s alright. I studied in Sarajevo in the seventies. I will not say that I speak well, but I’m sure that it’s better than everyone else.”
I nodded. If felt so strange to speak in my native language. A lot of times I felt like it was bad to speak Bosnian. It seemed like it was almost outlawed. To speak it seemed like I was coming home.
“You speak well.”
The man scooted closer. “I’m sorry to say that it isn’t much. We are not rich but I want you to feel at home.”
I nodded again. I looked around, turning to see the Christmas tree. It was small and different from the one my new family had. I also saw the traditional presents and noticed the difference. There were only three unlike the dozens from my new family. It did not matter to me. I looked back and suddenly felt a pang of guilt. All three of them had a look of pure humiliation. After all having a stranger see how poor you are is not a great feeling. I suddenly felt the urge to talk like the girl had.
“I like this house. I like the tree and the gifts. You are humble.”
I looked over at the man who translated. The woman seemed to have mixed emotions to that. After all it’s not every day that you are complimented for being poor. The man seemed a little impressed with me.
“I don’t think that I’ve ever heard someone say that before. What is your name?”
I put down my silverware. “Jasmilla.”
“That is Muslim.” I suddenly felt afraid. After all for the past six years being Muslim has been a very dangerous thing to be. This man could be like all of them. I realized that I had to go. Maybe they would let me go and freeze to death. I did not see a difference in that or being killed here.
He seemed to sense my fear and shook his head. “Oh no honey. Don’t be afraid. I think that Jasmilla is a pretty name. It’s a slavic version of Jasmine. I think that it’s wonderful that you are Muslim. My best friend in Sarajevo was Muslim. The funny thing is that I did not even know that until we said goodbye.”
It calmed me a little. There was still the feeling that this was a trap.
The woman grabbed my dish and silverware and brought it to the kitchen, cleaning it. The girl then spoke to the man while she did this. He then looked over at me.
“My daughter wants to know what you were doing out in the forest.”
I pondered that. It did not seem at all dangerous to just tell them. “I want to go home.”
I spoke it quickly, looking down at my lap. The man touched my shoulder. I looked up at him. “To Bosnia? Do you not like your home here?”
I shrugged. “It is not Bosnia.”
This seemed to surprise him. “Aren’t you afraid? Or is there family there?”
I looked away, fighting back tears again. Thinking about my family was just too much. Then I would have to remember that they were dead and that I was alive. The girl then spoke in English.
“My daughter wants you to know that she did not mean to upset you.”
I shrugged and as quick as my prosthetic leg would allow, went to the fireplace, silently crying. It was then that the three approached me. The woman sat down and turned my head so that I was looking at them all. She then spoke in English.
“My wife wants you to know that you are welcome to stay here for the night.”
I was not sure what to think of that. After all I was still emotional about my dead family. I silently nodded. The man then spoke. “I know that you are a Muslim but it is Christmas Eve. This is the season of love and giving. You should not be alone or feel that way. Unfortunately we do not have another room. You can spend the night in my daughter Melanie’s room.”
I shrugged again but did not answer him. To be honest he could have said that he had a gun and that he was going to shoot me in the pancreas and I would have had the same reaction. Christmas Eve meant little to me and not because I was a Muslim. What was I to be happy about? The man seemed to understand that and spoke to both Melanie and his wife. They left the way he came in and I looked over at him, a little curious.
“It’s hard to celebrate when you have lost so much Jasmilla.”
It was a fact that I agreed with. I nodded but did not speak.
“You love them very much, I can tell that.”
I agreed again and looked over at him; my eyes welled up with tears. “They are gone. I will never get them back.”
“They are not gone Jasmilla.”
I turned my head so fast I thought I was going to get whiplash. I looked over at him very confused and angry. Was he some genocide denier? “Yes they are!”
He shook his head. “No Jasmilla you do not understand me. Your family is dead physically but not here.” He pointed to my heart. I looked at where his finger was and shook my head.
“I cannot speak to them. I cannot touch them.”
“You just aren’t listening Jasmilla.”
It was a philosophical argument that was a little confusing to my thirteen year-old mind. After all I was not five so I understood the spirit is with you always comment. Somehow, whether it was his tone or inflection, it seemed to mean something else entirely. But what was I supposed to listen to? What were they trying to say? I looked at the fire and suddenly had a memory come to me. It was sometime in late 1993 and our family was living in a cave. It was the safest that we were during the whole war. There was a small lake deep in the cave and small game to hunt and eat nearby. The cold was the worse. It reminded me of the cold outside. My father and grandfather would cut down trees nearby, trying to be as quiet as possible and usually going for small brush if possible. The village below did not seem to notice for awhile. Still there was always the fear. One night we were all sitting down by the fire when my grandfather stopped us in the middle of our small supper of squirrel. Even my mother, who was feeding my newborn sister, had stopped paying attention to her infant. He had a serious tone. This was different as he usually tried to make things not as scary for me, my brother Miro and cousin Suljo. All of that was gone. He was the elder of the family and I was told to respect him even before the war.
“These are horrible times indeed. Very horrible. We must not allow them to win. Their power is through fear and pain. I am sure that our numbers will dwindle. Whether it is one or all of us, we must not let that control us. If only two or even one survive, you must not be sad. We were a good family and had a good life, even if it will end tomorrow. I want everyone here to promise to never forget us but to allow yourself to live a good life. Remember that even if it seems sad or unfair, you must do this! Remember also that you have the gift of life, something the others no longer have.”
I remember looking at the fire, tears falling down my cheek as I remembered the memory. It was advice that I had forgotten for a long time. Was my grandfather right? Should I live for him? Should I celebrate Christmas with this new family? Should I allow myself to love? I did not speak to the man as I went into Melanie’s room, falling into an uncertain sleep.
This is where you start to understand why this first Christmas in America was so vivid. I awoke on Christmas morning to find that I was asleep in a strange white room. As I had a prosthetic leg, I understood it was a hospital, having been to one too many. My new family looked over at me concerned. I was very confused of course, as you can imagine. I looked for the family, thinking that they might still be here. I then felt anger at the idea that this new family of mine might have thought that they were not good enough and had them leave or would not even let them come to the hospital in the first place. I saw a man who I recognized as the Bosnian speaking social worker. Well at least I would have someone to communication with.
“Hey Jamilla. How are you feeling?” The man sat down and looked over at me. It was concern but it did not seem genuine. After all if you are paid to come somewhere, are you really going to care?
I shrugged. “I’m fine. Where are they?”
The man looked confused and translated what I said. Did he not understand what I said? My new mother took my hand and clasped it. She spoke and I looked over at the man to translate.
“Who are you talking about?”
I looked over at him like he was crazy. “The people! The people that I stayed with last night. They were in a cabin in the woods and let me stay for the night. They must be here.”
He shook his head. I did not like the way he was looking at me, like I was stupid. I got enough stupid looks in this country from people. I hated what it implied.
“There was no one. We found you in the woods in a burned down cabin. It had been that way for over a decade.”
He shook my head. “No. I saw them. One man spoke Bosnian. He said that he was in Sarajevo in the seventies. The daughter was named Melanie.”
This is when things got really disturbing. I watched as the man translated the words. My new father looked like he saw a ghost, his skin turned deathly pale. My new mother started to cry. It took several moments before she recovered. She was still clutching my hand. She squeezed it hard and I let go out of pain. As I was analyzing my hurt hand she sat down on the side of the bed, a determined look on her face. She started to speak in English faster than usual. I was not sure what to think of that.
“She wants to know more. Did the man have disheveled hair and glasses at the bridge of his nose?”
I nodded and she sobbed. She was barely able to speak to the translator. He looked over at me, raising his eyebrow.
“She says that fifteen years ago, her aunt and husband had lived there. They were not rich as they lost a lot of money a few years prior. In 1983, on Christmas, their house burned down. The tree had caught on fire and they all died.”
I still remember looking over at this woman and seeing the look in her eyes. She was reliving the pain of losing her aunt. It was something that I obviously understood. Later I found out that she was close to her cousin Melanie who spoke too much. It was a horrible tragedy that changed her. Her uncle was interested in Bosnia and she made a promise to someday adopt a Bosnian to remember him. I was of course shocked at that and it made me like and admire her. I was not just some person that she brought to show off, to act like she was some saint. I was something, important. I remember her saying that God gave me to her and that it was her uncle’s way to saying that he is not really gone and that he would always be with her.
That first Christmas changed me too. I felt closer to this woman. Closer than I was before. I felt a connection and a respect as we had gone through tragedies. I also started to see more of my mother in this woman and to really feel these people were my family. To this day, thirteen years later, I feel like this woman is my mother. I will never forget that first Christmas in America. I will never forget.