The Story of Us by Sanela Ramic Jurich
Prologue
Another gorgeous summer day; I shouldn’t be surprised by that, as days here are always gorgeous. It’s summer all the time. The only time it rains and is gloomy is when we have an argument. He pulls the anger out of me. He knows which buttons to push, and he pushes them well. He understands the extent of effect he has on me. He’s the only one who can bring the storm, lightning, darkness, rain… out of me. It never lasts, of course, but it shows the power he has over me, and he loves it. Oh, I’m sure I have the same effect on him too, but men can’t bring out the storms with their emotions like women can. Men can only walk away and hide. He hides in his man-cave until the storms of his emotions die down, and then he comes back out looking more handsome than before; if that’s even possible. His smile can light up an entire universe. He is warm and inviting. The blue shade of his eyes doesn’t exist anywhere else in any other universe. It only exists inside of him, and when he’s calm and content, his eyes deepen and darken just a tiny bit. No one else can see it but me. I watch him so closely all the time. I soak him in. His beauty is indescribable to me. I don’t just physically see it; I feel it deeply. I know him so well that the beauty of him – all of him inside and out – overwhelms me. Soulmates.
We’ve known each other for eons. I don’t even remember the first time I laid eyes on him. We must have been created at the same time. Each lifetime we lived, we lived it together: learning and growing, driving each other mad at times too, but always ending up here – back home. He’s my opposite. There’s no me without him.
Our home is created for the two of us. That’s where we go after each lifetime. No matter where we end up in life, or who we end up with, once it’s over, we retire here.
The house itself is not huge nor fancy-looking. A small cottage over a big mansion was my idea. He went along with it because of the promise I made: I would let him rebuild it any way he liked if he wasn’t satisfied with the way it looked now. Later, however, he admitted he loved it too. The house is white. Brown shutters on windows and the oval door with an old-fashioned knocker in the middle of it are brown too. The roof is red and peaky. Multi-colored flowers are everywhere in the front. Red roses are climbing up the house, and their scent is alluring. The front yard is cozy and covered in freshly cut grass surrounded by a picket fence. The fence is not white but the natural color of the wood it was made of. There’s a path passing by the house. Across the path is a waist-high wall, and behind it, in its entire glory, is the ocean. Oh, the smell in the air is captivating. Even though the sound of the waves hitting the rocks is loud, it gets drowned out by birdsong, an occasional bee buzzing, a bark of a dog, a horse neighing somewhere in the distance… but the best part about the surroundings here is that no noise is ever caused by a car, train, or airplane. There are no neighbors in sight, but we know they are nearby if we need them. To the left of the house, the dirt path leads to a green hill. It takes some effort to climb it, but once up there, it feels like an accomplishment. The view of the ocean–once on top–is spectacular and is well worth the climb. There are no fences there. Walking down the hill in the opposite direction leads to a white, sandy beach. The beach is vast, with lots to explore. Caves and a small forest are not too far away either. This particular evening, we went out for a walk. We climbed up our hill and laid down our blanket so we could have a picnic. Even though we don’t need to eat here, we still do it. We love the comforting taste of food and wine. We teased and made each other laugh until our bellies ached. We talked for hours and hours like we usually do. We lost track of time and before we knew it, we were blanketed by the night. Night creatures were slowly coming out of their hiding places and making noises. It felt like there was something heavy in the air, though. Couldn’t put my finger on it; couldn’t truly understand the feeling. He seemed somewhat different. I could tell there was something he wanted to talk about but was struggling to find the right words. The worry written on his face he was trying to conceal was overwhelming.
“What is it?” I asked slowly, even though I dreaded the answer. As an empath, I was soaking up the emotions he was feeling right now, and it felt like his nerves were getting the best of him. He was worried about my reaction. He was worried I would say no.
He looked deeply into my eyes as if he was trying to see what my answer would be. Unable to read me, he groaned, then whispered, “Let’s do it! I’m ready to go again!”
I didn’t have to ask to know what he meant. I instantly knew what he wanted to do again. It was not something I ever looked forward to doing because it terrified me. Each time we did it in the past, he was the one who insisted. He was the one who initiated it, and even though I was reluctant to do it, each time he asked, I always said yes. But I only agreed to it because of his promise to stay close and keep me safe.
Reading the fear on my face, he inched closer and looked deeper into my eyes. “Please?” he whispered, knowing I could never say no when he looked at me that way.
“Together?” I asked in a shaky whisper. “Promise?”
“Always,” he answered as he placed a kiss on my hand.
“When?” I asked, dreading the answer. I knew that once he got the urge to go, it was always immediate.
“Tomorrow morning.”
I nodded without looking at him. A lifetime away from home, from knowing who we truly are. What if we get separated? I thought sadly. What if we don’t find each other on the other side? What if I get lost? What if I lose him? All those questions were buzzing around in my head. We didn’t need to pack anything for this trip. A one-way ticket to planet Earth.
I didn’t sleep that night. I had a million questions on my mind. The only comforting thought I had was knowing I would not be going alone. “He’ll be with me every step of the way,” I thought. “He’s the brave one. He won’t let go of my hand, and we’ll end up in the same place. We’ll find each other in that life just like we did in all the others. Our souls will recognize the familiarity of one another, and everything will be fine.” I was convinced we would go on our journey of learning, and we’d come back home for eternity again. Someday we’d know everything, and there wouldn’t be a reason to go back. We’d move on to a higher, better place, but until then, we’d keep going back. Always learning. Constantly evolving.
This morning, he was the one to make coffee. I couldn’t conceal my dread, and he couldn’t hide his giddiness. He was excited to go, to explore a new life, to meet new people.
He kept trying to excite me about it, but my worry overwhelmed me. I couldn’t calm my thoughts no matter how hard I tried. We finished sipping our coffee and headed for the door. I turned around one last time, looking into our cozy living room and taking it all in: a small fire simmering in the fireplace, three fat candles shimmering with a soft white glow on top of it, a portrait of the two of us above, a comical one someone had painted to make us laugh. We loved it so much that we framed and hung it over our fireplace. The furniture was comfortable and inviting. “There is so much love here,” I thought, “why does he want to leave?”
Looking over into the dining room, I noticed a bowl of green apples on the table. Of course, they would not spoil by the time we came back. Time here runs differently than time on Earth. My eyes teared up slowly.
“Come,” he said gently, “we’ll be back before you know it. It’s just a short trip.”
“It feels different this time,” I whined quietly. “I’m really scared.”
“Don’t be,” he answered. “I won’t let go of your hand, I promise.”
I trusted him. I knew he would never put me in danger. We slowly closed the door behind us. I didn’t turn around to look at the house. My heart was breaking at the thought of leaving it. We exited the front yard, closing the short gate, and headed in the opposite direction of our hill. Walking down the dusty path, I felt like my entire being was dying. My overwhelming sadness was slowing us down, but his growing excitement was pushing us forward. Next thing I knew, we were standing by a gaping opening of a tunnel. There was a guard there, a short fat man who looked like those ugly trolls in fairy tale-books who guarded passages and bridges.
“Where to?” the troll asked sleepily.
“Earth,” answered my companion with a broad smile on his face.
The troll nodded. “Well, you know the drill. Keep walking straight until you reach the fork in the road. I know this isn’t your first rodeo, so,” he chuckled, cracking himself up, “you know that if you want to end up together, don’t let go of each other’s hand. And if you want to go to the good place, once at the fork, keep going right.”
He wrote down our names, and off we went.
We tightened the grip on each other’s hands and entered the tunnel. It was lit by small round lights above our heads. We still had quite a long walk ahead of us, so he tried to lift my mood by talking, which was a bad idea because our talks always, always ended up in arguments. We should have kept quiet because our next conversation sealed our fate.
We usually don’t spend much time with others, but we do meet up with them at least once a week. There’s a small town not far from home where everyone knows everyone else. That’s where we go to mingle and catch up with others but also to welcome any newcomers.
As we walked further away into the tunnel, he started telling me about a conversation he had with one of the other female souls last time we were in town. She was a love interest of his in one of his previous lives. While telling me about their conversation, he casually mentioned that she told him she was thinking of going back to Earth.
“That’s why he wants to go back,” I thought jealously, “that is the real reason we’re heading toward a new lifetime right now.” I became furious at the thought. Not wanting to show him how enraged I was with jealousy, I let slip that I too ran into an old flame in town, the one I knew he hated. I lied, of course, but couldn’t stop myself. I wanted to get back at him for indulging in a flirtation with another woman.
Instantly, he stopped talking. He couldn’t handle the jealousy that was occupying his heart and his thoughts right now. I felt it. As an empath, I felt what he was feeling and it got mixed up with my own emotions, making me feel so angry. He let go of my hand and kept walking faster.
In all the mix of emotions, I didn’t realize he let go of my hand.
We stopped at the fork. There were two ways to go now. Each way was pulling us forward like a magnet. We couldn’t see anything beyond this point. Both pathways were completely obscured by fog. Deafening noise was coming from both ways. It sounded like wind. As we inched closer, the noise became impossibly louder.
“Which way did the troll say we should go?!” I shouted over the noise.
He just shrugged, not looking at me. He did not answer. He was still mad at me.
I tried to take his hand, but he pulled it away quickly. He didn’t want me close. I felt so alone and weak. I didn’t have any more strength in me to smooth things over like I always do. With my back turned toward both openings, I turned to face him. I could see and feel the disappointment and resentment he felt toward me. I slowly started walking backward while looking at him. “Whichever magnet pulls me in,” I thought sadly, “that’s where I’m going.” I felt the pull of the force and was sucked in. It happened so fast, I didn’t have time to form another thought. It was the left way that pulled me in. I vaguely heard him call out my name in desperation, but it was too late. I was gone from his sight. As I was speeding through the orbit, all of my lives and “home” flashed before my eyes, and then they slowly started disappearing from memory. The only memory I held onto was of his eyes. I closed mine so I could concentrate on keeping the memory of him alive in my mind. I regretted the argument we had and wanted him here to keep me safe. I knew I was now being forced to live out this next life alone. Without him. My worst nightmare had come to life. We were lost to each other.
He hesitated for five minutes, not realizing that five minutes here meant nineteen years on the other side. When he finally got pulled in, it was the right way. He ended up in a good place, nineteen years younger than I.
I ended up across the ocean in a faraway place, always feeling like I didn’t belong. Looking up at the stars every night, I wished I could go home. Not being able to tell anyone, nor explain which home I wanted to go to, was lonely. Even I myself didn’t exactly know where that was or why I felt that way. All of my memories from before were wiped out. Only sometimes, when I’d close my eyes, I would see the most beautiful shade of blue staring back at me. I searched high and low for those eyes, but none that I met ever even came close to that perfection.
I lived through war and an abusive marriage. Nobody ever loved me.
One day, many years into my life, I unexpectedly recognized the familiar eyes for “eyes are the mirrors to the soul.” The familiarity of his eyes was so inviting and pleasant. Staring at his face calmed me and made me feel like everything was alright. I tried not to think about how someone I had never met before could seem so familiar to me.
Chapter 1
First Memory – First Loss
The very first memory I have is of me at barely three years old, standing next to my grandfather. My grandfather, a tall man with salt and pepper colored hair, smoked a pipe. His face was calm and peaceful, with a hint of contentment in his expression as he stared at the horizon ahead. He was a quiet man with a big heart and a clever mind. He moved through life like a whisper, his presence felt but never imposing. As we stood next to each other, I watched him clear out his pipe and place it into the front pocket of his shirt. He slowly placed his hands behind his back, holding his left in his right hand. I immediately did the same thing with my hands, wanting to be just like him. He didn’t acknowledge me, but I noticed him smile as his short mustache, which was the same color as his hair, spread into a grimace and I felt a little encouraged. He quickly concealed the look of amusement on his face, replacing it with a look of a serious ponderer.
I didn’t realize it then, but we were witnessing a beautiful sunset. We stood in a vast field on his land, and we just stared at the distance. I was so preoccupied trying to act like him that I hadn’t realized we were just taking a moment to enjoy the sunset. As the sun began its descent towards the horizon, casting long shadows across the sprawling meadow, we stood side by side, watching in awe as the sky transformed into a canvas of vibrant colors.
The rolling hills that surrounded us were alive with the sound of nature, as birds chirped, and insects hummed in the warm evening air. The gentle breeze carried the scent of wildflowers, adding to the sensory experience of the moment, but it was the sunset that held our attention, as we watched the golden orb of the sun sink lower and lower, casting long shadows across the grass. As the sky transitioned from bright oranges and yellows to deep purples and blues, we stood in silence, lost in the beauty of the moment.
The memory of the sunset, and the sense of connection that I felt with my grandfather, would stay with me for years to come, a reminder of the beauty and wonder of the natural world, and the power of human connection in the face of its majesty.
My grandfather was my favorite person in this lifetime and losing him was the most heart-wrenching experience of my existence. He was the one who looked after me when my parents worked. Oh, I loved him so. As I had mentioned before, he was a quiet guy, but even so, he was still the best storyteller in the world. To me, he was the smartest person alive. He lived a very rich and long life, full of adventures and accomplishments.
In World War II, he fought against the Nazis. This was before I was born, you know, and now, he was full of stories to tell. He did not mind sharing as long as I left him alone when he needed time to watch the news, or some other political documentaries on TV. He was my hero in more ways than I can count.
Although I had a nice childhood, I always felt like something was missing, like I was supposed to be somewhere else. Somebody was expecting me somewhere else, and I always had the urge to go. But go where? I just didn’t know. I felt so lonely and homesick, even though I was home. How could I explain that feeling to anyone? Nobody would understand, I knew, and so I kept it to myself. I quietly suffered in silence.
Little fragments of memories would resurface every once in a while, but I had no explanations as to why. At times I wondered if they were really my own memories or perhaps it was my wild imagination. It certainly did not feel like imagination, however, and deep inside I knew they were memories. For example, one time when I was in school, I was paying attention in class and not really thinking about anything else. I remember specifically pushing my hair behind my left ear, and suddenly that movement triggered a memory; a flashback of someone else touching my hair gently, pushing it behind my ear. I remembered feeling so in love that I almost started to cry. The feeling was overwhelming.
I, Sarah, was not in love at that time; but that other girl, the “true” me, was so overwhelmingly in love with the person who was ever so gently pushing her hair behind her ear. I remembered the blueness of his eyes, but I couldn’t see his face. It was just an abrupt memory that faded away as quickly as it came. The feeling of loss afterwards was unbearable. Oh, how I longed for that person, that place, that…me.
As the years passed, I found myself haunted by memories and flashbacks that grew increasingly frequent. Sometimes, it felt as if I was losing my grip on reality. I struggled to make sense of what was happening and found myself feeling increasingly homesick. The urge to return to the place I called “home” was eating away at me.
Most nights, I would sit by my window, staring out into the darkness, searching for a glimmer of hope. I would gaze up at the sky, scanning the stars in desperation. I longed to be reunited with the familiar sights and sounds I thought I once knew. My mind was consumed by an intense longing to be somewhere else. It was a peculiar feeling, one that I couldn’t quite comprehend. After all, I had a wonderful life. My parents were caring and supportive, my cousins and friends were always eager to play, and my teachers and neighbors adored me. There wasn’t a single aspect of my life that I wished to alter.
We were constantly traveling all over Europe, meeting new people, and creating unforgettable memories. Yet, despite all of this, I couldn’t shake off the constant ache of loneliness and longing for home. It was as if something within me was slowly draining life out of me.
As I struggled to understand my emotions, I couldn’t help but wonder if my yearning was simply a symptom of my restlessness. Perhaps I needed a change of scenery, a new adventure to embark on. Or maybe, just maybe, there was something missing in my life that I had yet to discover. Whatever the reason, I knew one thing for certain: I couldn’t continue living like this. I needed to find a way to overcome this homesickness and gain the joy and excitement that filled the hearts of my peers.
There was another strange thing that happened to me during this time. Whenever I developed a crush on someone, I would feel guilty, as though I were cheating on somebody else. The strange thing was, I had no idea who this mysterious someone else was. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that it had something to do with those piercing blue eyes that I saw every time I closed my own. It was as if they were calling out to me, urging me to come home.
One warm summer afternoon, I was sitting on the porch swing at my grandfather’s house, enjoying the breeze that rustled through the trees. I must have been about ten or eleven years old then. My grandfather, a wise old man with a lifetime of experience, joined me on the swing and we began to talk. I was bursting with curiosity and really needed someone else’s opinion on those unanswered questions that always lurked in the back of my mind.
“Grandpa, can I ask you something?” I said, looking up at him.
“Of course, my dear. What’s on your mind?” my grandfather replied, his kind eyes sparkling with warmth.
“I feel like I don’t really belong anywhere,” I said, my voice quiet. “I don’t fit in at school, and I don’t feel like I fit in with my friends either. I just feel like I’m floating around, not really connected to anything.”
My grandfather nodded thoughtfully. “I know that feeling,” he said. “When I was your age, I felt the same way. But let me tell you something, Sarah. The sense of belonging doesn’t come from fitting in with others. It comes from knowing who you are and being true to yourself.”
I looked at him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that you don’t have to change who you are to fit in with others,” my grandfather said. “You are unique, with your own talents and interests. Embrace those things, and don’t be afraid to stand out. When you do that, you’ll find people who appreciate you for who you are, and that’s where your sense of belonging will come from.”
I thought about this for a moment. “But what if I don’t know who I am?” I asked.
My grandfather smiled at me. “That’s okay,” he said. “That’s part of the journey of life. You’ll figure it out as you go along. Just remember to always be true to yourself, and everything else will fall into place.”
I leaned my head against my grandfather’s shoulder, feeling comforted by his words. “Thanks, Grandpa,” I said. “You always know just what to say.”
My grandfather chuckled. “I’ve had a lot of practice,” he said. “And don’t forget, Sarah. You always have a place to belong with your family, no matter what.”
I smiled, feeling a sense of warmth and love. I realized that I didn’t have to search for belonging, because I already had it with my family. And with my grandfather’s wise words ringing in my ears, I knew that I would find my place in the world, too, one day.
I woke up to a cloud of dust and debris, choking and disoriented. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light as I tried to make sense of my surroundings, I remembered I was in my grandfather’s house. The war had started, and my parents and I went to check on grandpa, to make sure he was okay. When it got dark outside, we decided to spend the night there since traveling at night was now forbidden. I felt a sharp pain in my side and realized that I was lying in the rubble of what used to be our home.
My ears rang with the echoes of explosions and the distant sounds of gunfire. I saw a flash of light in the distance, and I knew that the battle raged on. The smell of smoke and burning wood filled my nostrils, and I heard the crackling of flames nearby.
When I tried to move, sharp pain shot through my body, reminding me of the injuries I sustained during the attack. I looked down and saw blood on my shirt, the source of the pain on my side.
As my vision cleared, I began to see the destruction around me. The walls and roof of our home were gone, replaced by piles of debris and twisted metal. Our belongings were scattered and broken, some buried beneath the rubble.
I called out for help, but my voice was weak and hoarse. I tried to push myself up, but my injuries prevented me from moving. I began to panic, scanning the room for my family.
“Grandpa?” I cried, fearing the worst. “Mom, dad?” Nothing. No signs of life, “Grandpa!” I squealed again, but my voice was just a whisper. There was no reply, and I felt a deep-seated fear that I was left alone in the world.
Just then, I heard the sound of footsteps approaching. I saw a figure emerge from the smoke and dust, moving towards me with urgency. I recognized the face of a neighbor, who had come to check on us and offer help.
“Come on,” He said, “we have to hurry. We must hide before they come for us.”
“What? No!” I screamed, “we can’t go. We have to find my family. They’re here somewhere, probably injured and need our help.”
“We can’t wait,” the neighbor said putting his arms around me and lifting me up.
“No,” I screamed, “put me down, we can’t leave them!”
But he kept running. Not paying any attention to me. I looked around frantically trying to locate them.
“Grandpa,” I cried, “put me down, please. I see my grandpa. He’s stuck under that rubble over there. Please. We have to help him.”
“It’s too late,” the guy said, “He’s gone. I’m sorry. I saw him before I found you. I checked but…” he shook his head, “I’m sorry.”
Tears streamed down my face as he carried me through the smoke and disorder. The devastating reality struck me hard: my entire family was gone. They vanished in a blink of an eye, leaving me alone and helpless. The remains of my grandfather’s house, along with everything inside, had crumbled into debris that buried them.
After several hours of walking, we finally reached what I thought was a small forest, which later proved to be a corn field.
“There’s a lower chance of them finding us if we stay away from others,” my savior said. “We should stay here. Hopefully, they won’t come here looking for us. They’ll go to the Kurevo woods up on the hill. They know that’s where the rest of the town had fled. We’ll figure something else out in the morning. We just have to survive the night.”
I was too distraught to even think about my own safety. I just wanted to lie down and die. I was angry at him for saving me. I thought I should have stayed at my grandfather’s house with the rest of them and awaited my destiny there. I knew that those soldiers looking for us had no mercy, though. They wouldn’t think twice before killing me or, worse, raping or taking me to a concentration camp. This was the 1993 Yugoslavia; the beginning of an end.”
“Let me see,” the guy said, “your injury… let me take a look.”
I winced when I tried to move so he could assess my injuries. It was hard to see anything because we couldn’t use any flashlights for fear of being discovered. Even the moonlight was non-existent that night.
“It’s okay,” I said, “I’m fine. Don’t worry. It’s not so bad.”
“Here,” he whispered, wrapping me up in a thin blanket he pulled out of his backpack. “Maybe try to get some sleep. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow. I need you to be well rested. We’ll try to find a way out of this town, and, unfortunately, we’ll have to walk.”
Sleeping was impossible, not just because of the unbearable pain on my side from injuries, but also because of the rumbling sounds of grenades flying over us and exploding in the nearby woods. I was cold and scared to death of being discovered. I had heard horrible stories of rape-camps and did not want to end up in any one of them. I’d rather be dead, I thought and started contemplating on how to end my life before they could take me captive if they do discover us. Maybe I’d provoke one of them by reaching for his gun, so he would react and end it swiftly without thinking, I thought.
Despite being wrapped up in the neighbor’s blanket like a small child, I couldn’t stop shivering uncontrollably from the intense cold. My teeth chattered loudly, and I was concerned that my wound might get infected, but I didn’t want to burden him with my worries. After all, there was nothing he could do to help me at that moment, so we simply had to wait until morning.
The shelling finally stopped some time close to dawn and as the first light broke through, we decided to move. We were going back to town to see if we could find some supplies; the essentials to bring with us. We examined my wound and realized I would need stiches. He was also worried about an infection.
“Maybe we’ll find some antibiotics back in town,” he said, “but we must move fast. You know they’ll be coming in tanks soon.”
I nodded. That was their emo. They would shell the town and destroy as much property as possible first and then they would move in with tanks, guns, knives to kill and take prisoners; to “cleanse” the area. I shivered at the thought.
As we inched closer to town, I could see the destruction. Smoke billowed from what were once buildings and homes.
As we drew closer, the scene before us was even more devastating. The streets were littered with rubble, twisted metal and charred debris. What had once been bustling storefronts and homes were now piles of twisted metal and shattered glass. It was obvious that many bombs had gone off and decimated everything in their path.
The silence was eerie, punctuated only by the occasional sound of debris shifting in the wind. There were no signs of life, no people wandering the streets or trying to salvage what was left of their homes.
As we walked through the ruins of the town, I felt a sense of overwhelming sadness and despair. How could such destruction and devastation be inflicted upon innocent people? It was a sobering reminder of the horrors of war and the toll it takes on innocent civilians caught in the crossfire.
I ran inside my grandfather’s destroyed home, hoping and praying that by some miracle they were still alive. But I was devastated when I discovered their bodies one by one. They were unrecognizable. Pain in my heart was all I could think about. The unbearable horrible pain of losing them and realizing I wouldn’t be able to bury them; to give them a proper funeral, to put them to rest like normal human beings who are loved. I had to flee in a hurry without saying my final goodbye.
Twenty years later I found out that they were moved to a mass grave, then, they were moved from that mass grave to another one to hide the crimes committed against them. Thanks to the DNA testing, tens of thousands of persons buried in those mass graves were identified, but due to the use of heavy machinery to move their remains from one mass grave to another, finding anyone’s body as a whole was impossible, so I ended up burying two leg bones that belonged to my mother, a skull of my father and a femur; a thigh bone that once belonged to my grandfather. The pain of losing them, and then not being able to find them for decades, and when finally I did find them, their remains were torn apart and scattered, burying what little I had of them in some memorial graveyard was painful also. The pain was indescribable, a searing ache that consumed me from within. My heart was shattered into a million pieces. That pain stayed with me throughout my life, an ever-present reminder of what I had lost. It never left me, not for a second, and I learned to live with it. It became a part of who I was, shaping my outlook on life.
Now back to my tale:
As I looked back at my grandfather’s house, my heart was heavy with sadness and fear. I knew the soldiers would come soon and they would be ruthless in their pursuit of anyone they deemed a threat. We had to flee, leaving behind everything we knew and loved. I was glad I didn’t have to go through it alone though. My grandfather’s neighbor, an elderly man with a kind heart and a strong will acted like a guardian angel. He took me under his wing and guided me through the treacherous journey that lay ahead.
For days, we walked through rugged terrain, our feet sore and blistered, our stomachs empty and rumbling. But through it all, my grandfather’s neighbor never lost hope. He regaled me with stories of his own youth, when he had traveled the world as a sailor, and his tales of adventure and danger helped to distract me from my own perilous situation.
I listened in awe while trying not to interrupt by asking questions.
“Have you ever been to America,” I finally asked. I had always dreamed of seeing America and the stories I had heard about the land of opportunity had always fascinated me.
“Oh, yes,” he said, “it was one of the best experiences of my life. I was about twenty-three, twenty-four years old at the time.”
“Will you tell me about it?” I asked breathlessly.
“Sure,” he said, “come, lets rest for a minute and I’ll tell you all about it.”
We slowly moved toward an old barn that looked abandoned. Surrounded by tall grass, it was obvious that no one had been there for a while. It was dirty and empty. We felt relieved there were no people in sight.
“Come, let’s take a look at that wound again,” he said gently. I waited patiently for him to begin his tale of America. The land I had always dreamed of but was never able to visit.
“One day,” he started, “I was assigned to a ship that was headed to New York City. As the ship approached the harbor, I stood on the deck and watched in awe as the city grew larger and larger. The tall skyscrapers seemed to touch the sky and the lights of the city sparkled like diamonds in the distance.
“When the ship finally docked, I was eager to explore the city. I had heard so much about America and was excited to see it for myself. My buddies and I made our way to Manhattan and as we walked through the streets, I was struck by the hustle and bustle of the city.
“I was amazed by the size of everything in America. The buildings were taller, the streets were wider, and the cars were bigger than anything I had ever seen before. I marveled at the incredible engineering feats that had made all of this possible. As we walked through Times Square, I felt like I was in a dream, or better yet, in a movie,” he chuckled and continued, “the bright lights, the towering billboards, and the crowds of people all around me were overwhelming. I had never seen anything like it before.
“Over the next few days, we explored as much of the city as we could. We visited the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, and the Brooklyn Bridge. We ate hot dogs and pizza and drank coffee from street vendors. We even went to a baseball game and cheered on the New York Yankees!
“But despite all the excitement,” he sighed, “I couldn’t wait to get back to my ship. I had missed the sea and the familiar routine of life on board. As the ship sailed away from the harbor, I watched the city disappear into the distance, grateful for the chance to have seen the United States of America but also relieved to be back on the water.”
We stayed quiet for a while. He even fell asleep, while I pondered over his story. I thought that if I ever had a chance to visit America, I’d never want to leave. I felt like “it” was calling me. Perhaps this was “home” I always longed to get to.
A little while later we got back on the road. For the most part, he practically carried me for the pain in my side was getting worse. It never completely stopped bleeding either, so we had to stop often to assess and dress it again and again. We did find some antibiotics back in town, but they were now making me feel even more tired and fatigued.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, we arrived at the border of a neighboring country. We could see the border guards in the distance, and our hearts leapt with joy and relief. But our journey was not over yet. The guards were suspicious of us, and we had to convince them that we were not a threat.
It was a tense and nerve-wracking moment, but my grandfather’s neighbor remained calm and composed. He spoke with the guards gently, and after some negotiation and persuasion, we were allowed to cross the border.
On the other side, we were greeted by aid workers who took us in and provided us with the basic necessities of life. We were given food to eat, a roof over our heads, and medical attention for our injuries. It was a moment of overwhelming gratitude, and tears streamed down my face as I realized that we had made it to safety, and it was all thanks to this kind old man who had risked his own life to help me flee our war-tore country.
This was a goodbye, however, because he was moving on to another country where his daughter and her family waited for him.
I turned to him, standing a few steps away, and saw tears welling up in his own eyes. His wrinkled face broke into a small smile, and he reached out to hug me. I wrapped my arms around him tightly, knowing that this could very well be the last time I ever saw him.
“Thank you,” I whispered into his ear, my voice shaking with emotion.
The old man pulled back and placed his hands on my shoulders. “You don’t have to thank me, my child. It was the least I could do.”
I looked at him, studying his face. He was a kind soul, and I knew that he had risked his own safety to help me escape the horrors of war. He had provided me with a safe place to hide, helped me dress my wound, and arranged a safe passage to this new place. Without him, I was sure I would have been captured by those soldiers and taken to one of those horrifying camps I’d heard about and possibly would have even gotten killed.
I felt a lump form in my throat as I tried to find the right words to say. “I don’t know how to repay you,” I finally managed to say.
The old man chuckled softly. “You don’t owe me anything, my child. Just promise me that you’ll be safe and happy here.”
I nodded, unable to speak as tears continued to roll down my face. I knew that this moment would stay with me for the rest of my life, and I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards this kind stranger who had become a lifeline for me.
As I turned to leave, he placed his hand on my arm. “Wait,” he said softly, pulling out a small piece of paper from his pocket. “Take this. It’s my daughter’s address. If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to contact me.”
I took the paper, holding it tightly in my hand. “Thank you,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
The old man smiled at me one last time before turning and walking away. I watched him go, feeling a deep sense of sadness wash over me. But I knew that I had been given a second chance at life, and I was determined to make the most of it, to honor the sacrifices that this kind old man had made for me.
Looking back on that journey now, I am filled with admiration and gratitude for my grandfather’s neighbor. He was a true hero, who risked his own life to save mine without ever asking for anything in return.
I thought I’d be happy and safe here, but I was wrong. The only good thing about my situation now was going back to school. I got enrolled in high school and was happy to go, but since I didn’t have any family in that city to sponsor me, I had to live in a refugee camp. The conditions in the camp were terrible. We were crammed into small tents, with little food or water. Disease was rampant, and many people were sick or dying.
As a teenage girl, I felt vulnerable and exposed. I was constantly harassed by men in the camp, who saw me as an easy target. I knew that I had to stay strong, but it was hard. I missed my home, my friends, my life before everything fell apart.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months. I lived in the refugee camp, waiting for something to change. But nothing did. I was stuck there, with no way out.
It was a horrible situation, and I often wondered if I would ever be able to escape. But even in the midst of all the suffering, I never lost hope. I clung to the belief that one day, things would get better. That one day, I would be able to leave the refugee camp and start a new life. I still gazed at the stars every night yearning to go “home” to those blue eyes that were searching and calling out to me.
Chapter 2
Secrets Revealed
Early one morning, I was taken aback when I received an unexpected letter. Assuming it was from the old man who had helped me get to safety, I excitedly tore it open, only to discover something utterly surprising, rather than the expected kind words from my grandfather’s neighbor. It read:
My dear niece,
I hope this letter finds you well. I must start by saying that it feels strange addressing you as my niece, for we have never met, nor have we ever exchanged words. However, as fate would have it, we are bound by blood, a bond that I have only recently discovered.
You see, I am your great aunt, your grandfather’s sister, and for reasons that still elude me, we were estranged for many years. I have often wondered what life would have been like if things had been different, if we had not allowed our differences to get in the way.
But enough about the past, for I am writing to you today with a purpose. I want to offer you an opportunity, a chance to start anew, just like I did when I first came to America many years ago.
I am fortunate to have built a life here, and I would be honored to sponsor you to come and live with me. It won’t be easy, for leaving everything you know behind is never easy, but I promise you that it will be worth it. I am deeply sorry for your loss. I understand how crippling the pain of loss can be and I will do my best to help you get through it.
We will have much to catch up on, and I cannot wait to hear all about your life, your dreams, and your aspirations. I want to be a part of your journey, to offer you my guidance and my support.
It may seem strange to you, receiving a letter from a long-lost relative, but I hope that you will consider my offer. Life is too short to hold grudges, and I believe that family is everything. I am reaching out to you because I believe that we have a chance to make up for lost time, to create new memories together. I want you to know that you are not alone in the world.
I look forward to hearing from you and hope that you will consider my offer.
With love,
Your Great Aunt, Safia
It had been an arduous few months since the moment I had decided to embark on a new journey, one that would take me far away from my current life. I knew I had to take the leap of faith and begin a ne chapter in my life. I replied to my aunt’s letter telling her I was gratefully accepting her offer.
The first obstacle that came my way was the daunting process of getting all the necessary paperwork ready to travel to America. I spent countless hours poring over forms and documents, double-checking every detail to ensure that everything was in order. It was a tedious process, one that tested my patience and determination.
As I thought about the exciting possibilities that awaited me in America, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of nervousness and anxiety. What would it be like to live in a new country? Would I fit in? But, above all, I was excited to be reunited with family. I had never met my great aunt, Safia, but the thought of having a big family and meeting her children and grandchildren filled me with joy.
I couldn’t wait to find out where I would be living once I arrived there. Perhaps I would be living with my great aunt and her family, or maybe with one of her children. It would be great if I could go to school with her grandchildren so they could show me around and help me adjust to my new surroundings.
Despite all the excitement and anticipation, however, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of sadness that my grandfather had never mentioned his sister before. I wondered why he had kept her a secret and if there was a deeper reason for it. As I mulled over these thoughts, I found myself worrying about what kind of person my great aunt might be. I prayed that she wasn’t some horrible person that I would be stuck living with.
But despite my worries and anxieties, I knew deep down that nothing could be worse than living in a refugee camp. No matter what lay ahead, I was determined to make the most of this opportunity and start a new chapter in my life.
As I started to pack, the reality of my departure finally hit me. I didn’t have anyone close to bid farewell to, no parents or siblings to embrace for the last time. Just a few acquaintances from school and a couple of teachers who had taught me over the past months. They were nice people, but they weren’t family.
However, there was one person I felt compelled to contact before leaving. An old man who had saved my life, my grandfather’s neighbor. He had left me his daughter’s address, and I had written to him to let him know that I was moving to America and had an aunt there. I promised to keep in touch as soon as I had a new address.
It was during my eleven-month stint as a refugee that I learned the devastating news. All my aunts and uncles, cousins… had been killed or displaced in the war. I said a few short prayers for them as a final goodbye and then left.
As I got into the taxicab that would take me to the airport, I clung to my little carry-on bag as if it was my lifeline. It contained everything I owned, which wasn’t much. But it was all I had, and it was going with me to America, where I hoped to start a new life.
The journey ahead was going to be challenging, but I was ready for it. I knew that this was the right decision for me, and I was determined to make the most of this opportunity.
A nine-hour plane ride seemed to drag on. As my plane began its descent into New York City, I couldn’t contain my excitement. I pressed my face against the small window and watched as the city grew larger and larger beneath me. The skyscrapers seemed to touch the sky and the lights twinkled like stars.
We finally landed, and I was informed that all of the paperwork that would allow me to live and work in this country would be waiting for me at the airport. As soon as I stepped off the plane, I felt a sense of exhilaration that I had never experienced before. Everything seemed so big and bright and new. A short Asian woman greeted me, letting me know that all of my paperwork was waiting for me and she would help me retrieve it. Her name was Amy. She spoke very slowly and extremely loudly.
“Ruh-zoo-mee-sh?” she finally asked in her broken Serbo-Croatian.
I chuckled, “Yes, I understand. I can speak English just fine.”
“Oh, thank God!” she said, exhaling. We both giggled.
She walked me over to the counter where they gave me a bag with all the paperwork. It contained my green card, which would allow me to travel and work, and to go to school. I received a social security number, which they told me was the most important number now and to memorize it, but to never reveal it to anyone else unless asked for it by employers or schools. Some other important papers were included as well such as addresses, phone numbers, and other vital information I would need for the next few months.
Amy told me she worked for a non-profit organization Aunt Safia went to for help to aid me in starting a new life here.
“So,” Amy smiled, “you can call me anytime with any questions you might have, and I’ll be happy to help you. I’ll show you around and take you to your first doctor’s appointment and to the Public Aid office. I’ll help you apply for jobs, and I’ll accompany you to any job or school interviews. Don’t worry,” she smiled again, “you are not alone.”
“Is that the only bag you have?” she asked pointing at my pitiful looking backpack.
“Mhm.” I said, hiding my teary eyes.
“Good,” she exclaimed, “we don’t have to wait in that long line then. Come on, I’ll take you to your aunt. She’s very excited to meet you.”
It didn’t take long for me to spot an elderly woman standing alone in a cluster of strangers. She was scanning the crowd impatiently. Seeing her like that before she spotted me made me feel bursts of love toward her, toward this stranger. I was grateful beyond comprehension. I loved her already for giving me a chance at a better life. For making it possible for me to be here. To claim this place as my own.
Her eyes filled with tears as she saw me approaching. Without a word, she gave me a hug and sobbed.
“Oh, you poor, poor child,” she whimpered through sobs, “you beautiful poor child.”
I couldn’t help but cry too. I haven’t been hugged like that in almost a year. It was one of those hugs that made you feel safe and loved, protected.
“Hi,” I finally said quietly.
“Oh, you are so beautiful,” she said, “let me look at you.” She pulled away gently to look at me. We were almost at the same height with me being just about an inch taller.
“Well, I’m gonna go,” said Amy, “remember to call me with anything you need, anything at all.”
I nodded, “thank you.”
“Oh, you’re welcome,” she said, “it was really nice to meet you.”
“Thank you Amy,” said aunt Safia, “we’ll talk soon.”
Amy nodded and left.
“Come, let’s get out of this place,” Aunt Safia said taking my hand. She led me out of the airport like a small child, never letting go of my hand.
The sound of cars honking and people shouting filled the air as soon as we were out and I couldn’t help but smile. Before we made our way to Aunt Safia’s townhouse, as we walked through the streets, I felt like I was in a movie. The buildings were so tall that I had to tilt my head all the way back to see the tops. I was struck by the sheer size and scale of everything. This was not the small town I was used to—and I had seen many towns and cities in Europe—I had never seen anything like this. Everything was awe inspiring and I couldn’t help but recall the old man’s tale of New York City, and how he felt like he was in a movie. Now, as I stood amidst the towering structures and bustling streets, I knew exactly what he meant. This was a world that I had only ever dreamed of, and now I was living it. I felt like I was part of a storybook tale, experiencing the thrill of the unknown and the excitement of new beginnings.
For months I’d told myself I was safe. I was free. But for the first time, wandering the pretty streets with their tall buildings and quaint houses, breathing in the sea air, listening to the sharp New York voices, I felt safe. And free.
No one knew me, but they would. They would know me. I would make friends here, and a life. A future. Nothing from the past would touch me here.
One day I would be as much a part of this land as the narrow post office with its faded gray wood or the tourist center cobbled together by old clinker bricks.
I wanted a home, roots, family, and friends. I yearned for the familiar that never judged too harshly. Perhaps I would find some part of that here, in this new land. I couldn’t imagine a place farther away from where I’ve been.
I spent my first night in America in the lovely bed, hugging my happiness to me as I listened to the stars ring and the streets breathe.
I was up before sunrise eager to begin exploring.
Over the next few days, I explored as much of the city as I could. I visited Times Square, the Empire State Building, and the Statue of Liberty. I ate hot dogs and pizza and drank coffee from street vendors. Every moment was a new adventure.
My favorite memory, however, was when I stumbled upon a street performer in Central Park. He was playing the saxophone and the sound of his music echoed through the trees. I stood and watched him for what felt like hours, mesmerized by his talent and the beauty of the park.
My Great Aunt Safia did not have any children. She was married twice, but both of her husbands had passed away after a few years of marriage.
“Some of us are destined to be alone, I guess,” she said, lowering her gaze. She explained that she kept busy throughout life. She built her wealth by becoming an incredibly successful clothes designer. She said she lived a full and rewarding life.
As I sat across from her, I couldn’t help but notice how much she resembled her brother, my grandfather. She too had gray hair that wasn’t completely gray yet. She had pale skin and green eyes. Her nose looked straight and narrow. Even though she had wrinkles all over her face and dark bags under her eyes, it was obvious she was beautiful. I wondered what had happened between her and my grandfather. She had left her home, her family and everything else she held dear and moved away, never to return. It was a mystery that had plagued me since I became aware of her existence.
But I didn’t want to push her into telling me. I knew it was a painful subject, one that she had likely kept buried for a long time. So, I just hoped she would tell me when she was ready.
In the meantime, I did my best to keep her company. I told her stories about my grandfather, whom I loved more than anyone else in the world. I spoke of our adventures and the places we visited, of the people that were in our lives. I talked about everything, hoping that my words would bring her comfort.
But as I recounted the events of the day my grandfather died, something changed. She began to cry, her sobs echoing through the room. I felt a pang of guilt in my chest, realizing too late that I had opened up old wounds.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, reaching out to comfort her. “I had no idea it was going to hurt you so much.”
But she just shook her head. “No, it’s not your fault,” she said between sobs. “I’ve been holding onto this pain for too long. It’s time for me to let it go.”
And with that, she began to tell me the story of what had happened between her and my grandfather, a tale of love and loss, of secrets and betrayal.
“How much do you know about our family?” She suddenly asked, “I mean, before you were born, before your father and your grandfather were born?”
With a shrug, I replied, “Honestly, I don’t know much about my great-grandparents. My grandfather never really spoke about them. He mostly talked about his own experiences as an airplane engineer in the army. He designed and tested planes, and that seemed to be his passion. He also served in World War II and fought against Hitler, which always made me feel proud of him. He even shared with me how he was captured by the Nazis and held prisoner in Germany, but he was eventually rescued by his friends and that’s how he survived.”
“Oh, I see,” she said, “did you know we were royalty?”
I smirked a little waiting for her to continue, but she kept quiet, and I wanted her to elaborate.
“I thought there were no royals in Communism,” I finally said.
“That’s right. But Yugoslavia didn’t become a communist country until 1945. At the end of World War II and what was it before then, do you know? It was a kingdom,” she said firmly without waiting for my reply, “Didn’t you learn your history at school?”
I smirked, “what I learned at school were tales of how brave Communists were. We sang songs about Tito and the communist party, about the partisans and the pioneers. We even learned some songs in Russian, but we barely touched up on a subject of Yugoslavia ever being a kingdom. I kind of knew it was, I guess, but it was always one of those lessons that begin with: “Centuries ago…” so, I always assumed that that part of history was centuries ago, or at least that’s how they taught it to us.”
“No, my dear child,” she said, “it was during my lifetime. My father was an earl,” she said proudly and took a moment to compose herself as the tears welled up in her eyes. “My father, your great grandfather,” she continued, “was a kind and noble man who had dedicated his life to serving his people and protecting his family’s legacy.
“As a child, I remember being in awe of my father’s status as an earl. Everywhere we went, people would bow and curtsy in respect, and our family was treated with the utmost honor and reverence. But being an earl was not just a matter of social status – it also came with great responsibility.
“Our family was tasked with managing the vast lands and estates that had been passed down through generations, and my father was always busy with matters of governance and administration. But despite his busy schedule, he always made time for his family and was a loving father who instilled in us the importance of duty, honor, and responsibility.
“Growing up in a family of nobles also meant that we were surrounded by luxury and wealth. We lived in a grand manor house surrounded by beautiful gardens and acres of pristine land. We had a retinue of servants who tended to our every need, and our family was able to enjoy the finest food, clothing, and furnishings.
“But along with this wealth came great expectations. Our family was expected to live up to the highest standards of conduct and propriety, and any misstep or scandal could bring shame and disgrace to our family’s reputation. It was a heavy burden to bear, but my father always reminded us that with privilege came responsibility. My brother stood to inherit it all once our father passed away. Being a woman in those times, didn’t mean much and you could only inherit property if you were married. I wasn’t worried; however, our wealth was vast, and my brother was just.” She sighed and looked down at her hands resting in her lap.
“The growing popularity of the Communist party supporting the Soviet Russia and the Hungarian Soviet Republic, started posing a threat to the king and the government, so Assembly passed the Law of protection of public security and state order. Many criticized the Communist party for being unconstitutional, since the Constitution guaranteed freedom of speech and thinking.
“And so, the party started functioning as an illegal revolutionary organization. In 1941 Hitler invaded half the Europe. The party issued a proclamation calling all the nations of Yugoslavia to resist the enemies’ attack and encouraging the people to volunteer and help the army.
“With the help of the Soviet Union and later the British Special Operations Executive, as well as the American Office of Strategic Services, the Partisans took control over territories using guerrilla tactics and popularized their aims using propaganda. The time of war was crucial for the Party’s influence and power.
“At the end of the Yugoslav People’s Liberation War, the Communist Party assumed control over Yugoslavia. After the communists rose to power, Yugoslavia went under a big change. Communism shaped new beliefs and values, formed a sense of brotherhood and eradicated religion. As with all ideologies, communism in Yugoslavia served a dictator. In this case, the world-famous dictator, Tito.
“One day in 1945, a group of armed soldiers dressed in partisan uniforms with red stars on their hats, came over to our house and took my father away “for questioning”. My father was never seen nor heard from again. The winds of change were blowing, and we failed to read the signs. The rise of communism in Yugoslavia was inevitable, and my brother, who was deeply entrenched in politics, saw it coming long before it arrived. We lost everything in a flash, and our assets were taken away by the communists in the name of equality. My brother knew that his life was in danger, and the only way to save himself was to join the regime. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but he did it to protect himself and our family.
“The communists were ruthless, and they destroyed everything in their path to feed their greed. My brother, who had predicted their rise to power, played his cards wisely and saved himself. He didn’t leave me empty-handed either. He transferred ownership of several Swiss bank accounts to me, giving me a chance to start afresh in a new world.
“It was a difficult decision to make, but my brother’s foresight and quick thinking saved my life. I left Yugoslavia with a heavy heart, but with the hope of starting a new life in a new world. I will always be grateful for my brother’s sacrifice and will never forget the lessons I learned during those turbulent times.
“At his request, however, we didn’t keep in touch, and I resented him for it. I always thought of him as a traitor, but I see it now, I see that he was doing what was best. He didn’t let his pride get in the way of our safety. He protected me. Then, at the end of World War II, he got married to your grandmother. That’s when I lost track of them. The friend that was writing to me back then suddenly stopped. I don’t know why he stopped writing to me, but I had to move on with my life and forget the past. I had to let them all go, so I stopped searching and wondering. I became busy living my own life and I did my best to forget them just like they forgot me.” She sniffled.
As I listened, I felt a sense of understanding wash over me, a realization that life is never as simple as we want it to be.
“So, what happened to your grandmother?” She asked, “you haven’t mentioned her at all.”
“She passed away before I was born,” I said, “I never knew her. Grandpa raised my dad alone. She died of cancer when my dad was only four years old. Grandpa never remarried. My mom’s parents, however, had seven children who got married and had children of their own, so, growing up, I had many cousins close to my age to play with. But… I looked down at my hands resting in my lap and sighed, they were all either killed or displaced in this war. My grandparents did not survive the Omarska concentration camp they were taken to in 1992 after their house was destroyed. I thought I was left alone in the world until … your letter.”
“Oh,” she said, “I’m so sorry honey.” She covered her face with her hands and sobbed, “I always thought he was a traitor,” she sniffled, “he chose communists over his own family. Why didn’t he come with me? He betrayed me for them and now, so many years later…” she paused again as the sobs shook her whole body, “after everything he lost, after all he gave them, they killed him.”
I nodded slowly, my thoughts spinning as I realized she was right. The Yugoslav war – a conflict that had torn apart the region I called home – had indeed started in 1992, with Slovenia, Croatia, and Bosnia declaring their independence from Yugoslavia. It was a desperate attempt to break free from a regime they no longer wanted to be a part of.
But it was not going to be an easy feat. The Serbs and the communist party were determined to keep a tight grip on their hold over the region, and they were not going to let go without a fight. And so, the conflict spiraled out of control, spreading like wildfire and consuming everything in its path.
I lost everything because of someone else’s fanaticism, their blind adherence to a cause that would ultimately lead to the downfall of so many.
As I gazed out the window, watching the world go by, I couldn’t help but wonder how things might have been different if we had all just learned to let go of our differences and embrace our common humanity. But alas, such thoughts were but a distant dream in a world torn apart by conflict and strife.
I cleared my throat nervously and spoke up. “I have a thought,” I began softly, catching the attention of the woman sitting across from me. “I can’t help but think that my grandfather’s decision to help you escape all those years ago ended up saving and changing my life too.”
She looked at me quizzically, urging me to go on. “Just imagine,” I continued, “if you hadn’t left your home back then, you wouldn’t have been able to build a life here and bring me along. I would have been trapped in that horrible refugee camp, and who knows what would have happened to me there.”
Her expression softened as she considered my words, and I pressed on. “And now, here we are, with a chance at a new life and a family to call our own. If I have children someday, my grandfather’s—and yours—legacy will live on through them.”
The weight of my words hung heavily in the air between us as we both contemplated the impact of one man’s selfless act so many years ago. It was a reminder of the fragility of life and the far-reaching consequences of our choices.
I felt so fortunate to have her in my life. My great aunt, Safia, provided me with everything. She was a vivacious woman who had seen the world, and she wanted nothing more than to share her experiences with me. She became my guide, my mentor, and my friend.
When I first arrived in New York City, my aunt was there to show me around. She took me to all the best restaurants and bars, where I tried exotic foods and drinks I had never even heard of before. She also took me to concerts, theaters, and museums, where I was able to experience the arts in a way that I had never imagined.
But my aunt didn’t just show me the glitz and glamour of the city. She also took me to see the more solemn aspects of life. We visited gorgeous buildings, churches, synagogues, and temples, where I was able to learn about the world’s many religions and cultures.
Aunt Safia was a woman who believed in education above all else. She wanted me to learn about all of the marvels of the world, to read all kinds of books and poems. And she had the means to make it happen. She shared everything with me, from her wealth to her knowledge.
And when I wasn’t in school, we traveled. My aunt took me to South America, where we explored the Amazon rainforest and the ruins of Machu Picchu. We went to L.A., California, where we walked along the famous Hollywood Boulevard and took a tour of the movie studios. We visited Florida, where we soaked up the sun on the beautiful beaches. And we even went to Hawaii, where we swam with dolphins and saw volcanoes up close.
Thanks to her, I was able to experience the world in a way that few people ever do. She showed me everything there was to see, and I will always be grateful to her for that.
© Sanela Ramic Jurich. All rights reserved.