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
Living through war was the hardest experience of my life, but it taught me one unforgettable lesson: never plan too far ahead, because tomorrow is never promised.
The Yugoslav war in Bosnia destroyed countless lives, yet for reasons I may never fully understand, mine was spared. On August 10, 1993—just 16 days before my seventeenth birthday—I arrived in the United States with the help of my two aunts, Nefira and Hida. I didn’t speak a word of English. At seventeen, I had to start over, learning not only a new language but also new customs, rules, and ways of life. It was overwhelming, but the kindness and open-heartedness of the people I met in Chicago made all the difference. Their warmth helped me feel at home in this incredible city.
At twenty-two, I met my husband, Todd. He was confident, self-assured, and charming in a way that made him seem larger than life. Born in Chicago, Todd likes to joke about his diverse heritage, calling himself a “mutt.”
Two years after our wedding, we welcomed our first son, Denny, and five years later, Devin joined our family. Life became wonderfully full—busy, but full of love. Between a full-time job, raising two boys, and caring for our family, it seemed I had everything I could want. But deep down, something still felt incomplete, like there was an untold story inside me, waiting to be set free.
Writing that story didn’t come easily. For years, I pushed it aside, focusing on day-to-day life. But even the busiest of days couldn’t quiet the memories of Bosnia in 1992—the faces of those I loved, the lives taken too soon, and the pain of being one of the lucky ones. That untold story lingered in my mind for nearly two decades, waiting for the right moment.
“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
In July 2009, that moment finally arrived. One morning, a simple comment from my mother about what my children were wearing sparked something in me. What seemed like a small critique unearthed a wave of emotions that had been building for seventeen years. By the time I arrived at work, the character of Selma’s mother, Sabina, had taken shape in my mind. I couldn’t ignore the story any longer.
That day, despite my busy role as a Senior Secretary in a Public Relations department at one of Chicago’s largest healthcare systems, I found moments to jot down the beginnings of what would become Remember Me. That evening, after the kids were in bed and the house was quiet, I poured myself into writing—a kind of therapy I had relied on since I was a child. This time, though, it wasn’t just for me. I had a story to share.
Remember Me is my tribute to those who lost their lives in Prijedor in 1992, simply because they were not Serbs. Writing this book allowed me to honor their memories and ensure that what happened will never be forgotten. Books, after all, are forever.
My biggest goal is finally fulfilled and I can now breathe the air of freedom with a clear conscience—I didn’t forget…
As long as Remember Me exists, the story of Prijedor will live on—and that is the greatest 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, while visiting my hometown of 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 stop by and talk with my father. I found this odd because, back in ’92, he had joined the Serb Army and was sent to war zones across Bosnia and Croatia. Before the war, this man had been a teacher at one of the high schools in Prijedor.
He sat down, and over coffee, little by little, he shared his memories of the war. I was stunned by his honesty. He felt immense guilt 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 begun one day in 1992 when the head of his unit ordered him to kill one of his former students—a Bosniak Muslim. The order was incomprehensible to him. He tried everything to avoid carrying it out, but in the end, he had to comply.
He told us he had tried so hard to escape the army—faking mental illness, trying anything to get out—but nothing worked. Now, two decades later, he is still haunted by his nightmares.
His confessions shook me to the core. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. I was physically ill for the entire month I was there. I’m still not sure why he chose to confess to us—my parents and me—but it sparked an idea to write this book. I believe I survived the horrors of war so that I could give a voice to those who lost theirs. I thought, why not compile these memories and weave them into an accessible, easy-to-read novel?
Perhaps one day, our children’s children will read a story about Bosnia and how it was destroyed. Maybe they will be the ones to finally understand and answer the question I’ve been searching for over 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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