The day I left my home country forever was August 26, 1992 — my sixteenth birthday.
As I stood on the street, waiting for a bus to take me away to an unknown hell, I was feeling ashamed of my own thoughts. I was brooding over my birthday. I was being a typical sixteen-year-old; a teenager. I wanted a birthday party. I wanted my friends and family to fuss over me. I wanted the sweet in the “sweet-sixteenth.” Why could’t I have all that?! Why was I being robbed of that?! For whom?! Instead of getting a birthday party, I was being forced out of my home. Being forced to watch as evil men killed my family, friends, neighbors. Being forced out of my freedom! Had to stay quiet as they called me names and tried to touch me inappropriately — had to let them do it! Had to keep quiet as they stole every single possession my parents and I owned. Why?! For whom?! For what?!
Five days before — August 21, 1992 — I was in a convoy that was transporting me from my home-town, Prijedor to Travnik. It was supposed to be a safe passage, but half way to our destination, the Serb army had stopped the convoy, forcing over 250 men and boys out and killing them in a place called Koričanske Stijene on Mount Vlašić. The rest of us were taken to the other side of the mountain and thrown onto the field of mines. (Read Remember Me).
And so I just stood there — at the bus-stop — hopelessly. Feeling as if someone had dumped a bucket of manure on my head. Feeling guilty for wanting something better for myself on my birthday as if I hadn’t just witnessed a mass murder take place only five days before.
My mom, noticing the look on my face, leaned closer and whispered: “Sanela, you’re alive. We’re alive. Isn’t that something to celebrate? We’re leaving hell on your birthday. That’s something, isn’t it?”
I stood quiet as her words made me feel worse, not better as she intended.
I felt hatred, but not toward the men who forced us out of our home, but toward myself. I wasn’t good enough to have a party. To celebrate my sweet sixteenth like all the other kids my age did and at the same time, I felt guilty for even wanting it now while all this misery was going on around me.
“It could be worse,” she continued. “We must hope for the best, but prepare for the worst.”
“What do you mean it could be worse?!” I snapped, “why do you always have to say that?! How about this, from now on you say, it could be better! Huh?! Maybe then it’ll start getting better, not worse!”
I turned my back to her, not wanting to talk any more. I felt even worse than before. I realized I had hurt her. She was only trying to make me feel better. She didn’t know anything either. She didn’t want this for me, I knew, but she was an easy target for me to take some frustration out on. She forgave me, I’m sure. She probably doesn’t even remember those words spoken in so much pain, but I do and I still feel guilty for dragging her down to that hell with me as if she didn’t have enough to deal with herself.
A few minutes later, I heard someone calling my name. Turning around I noticed a boy a couple of years older than I, whom I’d just met a day before, running to catch up as the bus we were waiting on slowly approached.
He was out of breath when he finally reached me. Almir was his name. I only remembered him because when he had introduced himself the day before, I’d noticed a hole in his forehead. It looked as if someone had scooped up half of his forehead and covered the hole with skin. After he had introduced himself, we had talked for a little bit. He had explained to me that the hole in his head was created by a shrapnel from a grenade that fell on his house killing his mother and two sisters.
It could be worse. My mom’s words rang in my head as I watched him approach.
“I have something for you,” he said earnestly, “Happy Birthday.”
He handed me something wrapped up in newspaper. “Don’t open it just yet. Wait until I’m gone.”
My voice was filled with emotion as I asked how he knew it was my birthday.
“Your cousin told me last night,” he smiled, “although it’s not much, it’s something to remind you you’re not alone. Be happy on your day Sanela,” he smiled sadly adding, “birthdays are a celebration of privilege of being alive and that’s what we are. Alive. We get to live another day. To meet some new people. To love. If nothing else, then to see what happens next.”
I’ve lived by those words every day of my life since, always wanting to see what happens next.
“My role in society, or any artist’s or poet’s role, is to try and express what we all feel. Not to tell people how to feel. Not as a preacher, not as a leader, but as a reflection of us all.” -John Lennon
I was born on August 26, 1976 in Prijedor, Bosnia and Herzegovina. I loved my home, family and friends. Just like everyone else, I always imagined what my future would look like when I grew up, but the events that unfolded when I was fifteen/sixteen were never part of my life plans.
Even though experiencing war was the worst experience of all, I did, however, learn one lesson – never to plan too far into the future, for tomorrow is not promised.
Although, the war in Bosnia destroyed so many lives, for some reason, it spared mine… I moved to the United States of America on August 10, 1993 – 16 days before my seventeenth birthday with the help of my two aunts, Nefira and Hida. When I landed in this beautiful country, I spoke not one word of English. At seventeen, I had to learn everything—I thought I already knew—all over again. I not only had to learn a new language but also new customs and rules. However, it didn’t take long for me to get used to the people here and to call Chicago “my home”. I was amazed at how friendly and big-hearted American people were and their friendliness and willingness to help made it easier for me to learn.
At twenty-two years old, I met my husband, Todd, who always seemed confident, like he owned the world. Born in Chicago, his family is so mixed up that he calls himself a mutt.
Two years after our marriage, we welcomed our first son, Denny, and five years later, we had another son, Devin. My life became so full and busy. I had a full-time job, two children, a husband, and our families, but even though it seemed I had it all, I always felt like something was missing. My life didn’t seem complete, like I was waiting for something else to happen. I now know it was the untold story that was always in the back of my mind, trying to break free.
Being busy helped me temporarily forget some of the horrible things my eyes had witnessed in Bosnia back in 1992—but even being busy couldn’t replace the pain of missing those that were not as lucky as I was. The ones whose faces I can still see in my mind’s eye so clearly. This amazing story was simmering inside me since I had moved to the United States. It needed to come out and to be told. However, not being able to speak, read, or write English, postponed it for almost two decades. I was never much of a talker. Always shy and quiet, so writing was the only way I could get it out. It was always sort of a therapy for me, my own secret way of letting it all out.
“Sanela is a powerful speaker, with the ability to mesmerize her audience with every word she says as she relays her horrific personal struggles during the Bosnian War. In addition, her ability to take the true life stories of the people she knew, and incorporate them into a love story, is amazing. I highly recommend this outstanding author to present to any student or community group, and I encourage anyone needing to know that something good can come from something horrible to read her book Remember Me. You will not be disappointed!” – Judy Kingsbury, Executive Assistant to the President Rochester Community and Technical College
Remember Me was written for all those who died in PRIJEDOR, Bosnia in 1992 for no other reason than the fact that they were not Serbs.
The story started getting out of my head and into my computer one day in July of 2009. That particular day was just the same as others. I had my routine—got up early and ready for work, I put my two boys into the car and drove them over to my mother’s who, then, drove my older son to school and took care of my younger one while I worked. After I dropped them off and proceeded driving to work, I couldn’t shake something that my mother had said to me. It was nothing really, just her usual—and in her eyes small—critique on what my children were wearing that day. That small remark triggered something that was developing inside me for seventeen years and before I knew it, the character of Selma’s mother, Sabina was born. That one, “innocent” comment grew into a web of events in my head.
Although—as a Senior Secretary for a Public Relations department in one of Chicago’s largest health care systems—I had a million things to do, I hid in my office that day, vigorously typing away a plot for Remember Me. Unwillingly, I eventually answered some calls and finished my work for the day, but I couldn’t get home fast enough to do my usual necessities and to put the kids to bed, so that I could sit down at the computer and write—something I typically did when I needed to vent. This time though, it was different. I had a story to tell. I invented my plot during the day and I wrote it out late at night when the house was quiet.
My biggest goal is finally fulfilled and I can now breathe the air of freedom with a clear conscience—I didn’t forget…
I know that as long as my book is out there—and books are forever—what happened in Prijedor is not going to be forgotten, and to me, that fact, is the biggest accomplishment of my life.
“Readers will discover that Jurich writes with the credibility and authenticity of a person who witnessed and experienced what took place in the Balkan countries during the 1990s.” –Gregory S. Lamb, Author of The People in Between
Here is the very first speech I gave about nine years ago, a little after my first book, ‘Remember Me,’ came out, at Rochester Community College in Minnesota. I was horrified. The place was packed, and I knew it was being covered by Channel Six news. My accent was a bit off, but the people who came out to see me were absolutely wonderful. I am so grateful for the experience, made possible by Mr. Armin Budimlić and his sister Fatima Said. It’s a long one, so go grab a cup of coffee or tea, get comfortable, and come hang out with me for an hour. ~Sanela
What inspired Haunting from the Past, Sequel to Remember Me:
One day when I was visiting my home town Prijedor in Bosnia, about twenty years or so after I was forced out, an old friend of my father’s, a Serb soldier, came to visit. He desperately wanted to stopover and talk with my father. I found this odd because back in ’92 he joined the Serb Army and was sent to war zones all over Bosnia and Croatia. Before the war, this man was a teacher in one of the high schools in Prijedor.
He sat down, and over coffee, little by little, he told us his own memories of war. I was stunned at his honesty. He felt so guilty about everything that had happened, but according to him, he had no choice but to enlist in the army. It was either that or death. His nightmare had started one day in 1992 when the head of his unit had ordered him to kill one of his old students—a Bosniak Muslim. It was incomprehensible to him. He tried everything to get out of it, but in the end, he had to do it.
He said that he’d tried so hard to get out of the army—faking mental illness, anything to get out—but nothing worked. And now, two decades later, he’s forced to live with his nightmares.
His confessions shook me so much. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. I was literally sick the whole month I was there. I’m still not sure why he wanted to confess to us, my parents and me, but it gave me an idea to write this book. Since I believe that I survived the horrors of the war so that I could give those who lost their voice a chance to tell their stories, I thought, why not compile all those memories and put them into an easy to read and understand novel? Maybe some day our children’s children will read a story about Bosnia and how it was destroyed. Perhaps they will be the ones to finally understand and get the answer to a question I’ve been searching for for the past two decades: Why?
A Voice for the Voiceless – Deep and Honest; a Five Star Book Review by Author Gregory S. Lamb
Sanela has a gift for sharing the very real feelings of her characters with the reader. I felt I really knew what Selma and the other characters created by Sanela were feeling. My emotions rose and fell with the feelings of her characters.
Her books are published through Tate Publishing, a mainline publishing house dedicated to working with aspiring authors and giving their books their best chance in the marketplace.
“Ms. Jurich is a master story teller with a historically important background that must be read in its entirety to be appreciated – Don’t worry, once she’s introduced, you’ll hang on every word.” – iSTAR
FIVE STARS FROM READERS’ FAVORITE!
FIVE STARS FROM AudioBookReviewer AND AN AUDIOBOOK REVIEWER’S CHOICE AWARD! 
“The author, Sanela Ramic Jurich paints a devastating picture of what Selma’s life becomes and the effects of war. She does not spare the listener with soft descriptions but rather gives them the bare truth of war and the horrible devastating actions of evil men subjecting women and children to extremes in suffering. Each character is skillfully built and developed into vivid people that are forced to suffer the most painful, devastating emotional and physical pain a human can endure. She eases her listeners into the story by showing us familiar acts and emotions – shopping, falling in love, family and friendships. The suddenness of the war reaching her hometown is unexpected and jarring and where she highlights the despair, pain, raw emotions, fear, and more. The love story between two people is amazing and provides hope and renewal. She brings the story full circle and demonstrates that healing is possible. The story flows steadily. Not only are her words powerful but her imagery is as well…” ~Charla for AudioBookReviewer
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