A Child’s First Encounter With War

My story of a hostage situation, involving myself and over 10,000 other women and children during the Yugoslavian war

With growing conflicts raging across the globe, from Ukraine and Russia, to Palestine and Israel – among others – it’s hard to stay silent about my own story of war and how my childhood was ripped away and changed my life forever. On this Substack, I intend to share my FULL story, unlike I ever have before. That means the good, the bad, and the outright ugly and evil.

I was just an average little kid, with a big smile and eyes full of wonder, usually found in my black and white polka dot shirt that matched nicely with the pigtails my mother made for me. I wish I could tell you more about my childhood, but that light was quickly taken from me.

At the age of 2, the war in Yugoslavia began, and I found myself in the center of it.

Sarajevo, once a beautiful city, quickly turned to rubble before my eyes. I watched my home get bombed and destroyed daily. I saw people running across the streets screaming, breaking the eerie silence between the shelling.

As you can imagine, my life changed rapidly, and I changed. As a young child, I learned to keep my mouth shut. I learned it wasn’t okay to be me or express myself. In short, I learned to survive. I never understood how this would impact me until years later and much more suffering.

War doesn’t culminate over many years; or at least, not the way we see it (though in my opinion now that I’m older, more often than not, it’s planned WAY ahead of time.) But it seems to happen overnight, instantly changing everyone’s lives – forever.

This marked the beginning of my story, as my family and I struggled to survive for the next four years.

From age 2 to 6, I continued to watch my home get bombed, with my city under siege for over 1,000 days – the longest siege in modern European history through the 20th century, followed by the 872-day Nazi siege on Leningrad during WWII.

Being In My Body Became Unsafe

Being in my body then meant feeling the ground shake beneath my feet over 300 times a day. It meant hearing deafening silence, with periodic shotguns and screams of pain echoing through my neighborhood.

Being in my body meant feeling unstable on my feet as shells fell outside my window, one after another. It meant huddling in the darkness, in a cold basement, not knowing when I’d see the light again—if ever. It meant feeling utterly alone, helpless, and powerless – not knowing if I’d see my loved ones again.

Being in my body was the last place I wanted to be and the most unsafe. My body eventually began to reflect that through eczema and topical steroid withdrawal (TSW)—bursting at the seams, unable to contain me.

My skin became a reflection of that constant running. The fight, flight, and freeze response to be anywhere else—anywhere but inside this body.

One of My Worst Memories of War

As the conflict escalated, my mother tried to take my brother and me to safety. This is one of my worst memories, one that still haunts me to this day.

On the TV, we saw people leaving—women and children. They made it look safe. We packed our bags, though there wasn’t much to pack anyway. We said goodbye to my father, who looked strong and unaffected, with deep fear and sadness in his eyes, and we headed out.

My brother, my mother, and I got on the bus—etched into my brain as a constant memory of the torture to come. When we arrived on the outskirts of my hometown, the line of buses was stopped, including ours. Maybe just a border check, we hoped. But we felt it was more than that. We felt the chaos, uncertainty, even aggression.

Then, the man I will never forget – an image that seems to be forever frozen in my mind. He was dressed in an army suit, big leather boots, and a ski mask over his face—entered the bus. A big rifle cradled his chest—a threat of what was to come if we didn’t listen and obey. Like any child, I had no clue what was going on. I tried to look over the seat, but I was so short I could barely see. I saw him and my mother, with a deep fear settling in her stomach. I moved closer to my brother, trying to feel more protected, more safe. It didn’t help much because he was terrified too. We were just kids facing a human weapon that could end our lives any second.

When we reached the school, we were herded into a tiny gymnasium. It was dark and smelled funny. They expected us to sleep there, but the floors were cold. My mother and the other women tried to get us into a classroom, so we could sleep on a desk, at least. It was slightly less freezing than the cold tiles on the floor. There were so many kids and their mothers, it was hard to discern what was going on, how we all ended up there. In total, the estimate was 5,000+ children, plus their mothers/caregivers.

Light Even in Darkness

As I sensed the smell of feces and urine flooding the school, not understanding at the time the soldiers had plugged all the toilets in the school, forcing us to smell it, as a form of its own psychological torture.

I heard the chaos around me, but my mind flashed back to the bus. As we passed a nearby town, which was unaffected by the war, people got out of their homes and approached the buses. They threw water, juice, food—anything they could through the windows. They knew what was going on as it was all over the news, and, at the very least, had an idea of what we were up against. Although they couldn’t change our fate, they still showed us—showed me—the light in the darkness.

That was the first time I realized that no matter how dark it got around me, and how much chaos and destruction there was, there would always be some light. And that’s what I needed to hold onto.

My mind flashed back to the gymnasium. There were more men like the one on the bus, always discussing something together. I couldn’t see their faces, only their eyes peeking out from their ski masks. My mother carried my port-a-potty in her purse. I was learning to pee on my own in a hostage situation. While they flashed strobe lights at us and drove us around the school, making us believe we were about to be freed, only to put us back in there.

I was learning to pee because I was only 3 years old. It had just been my birthday last month, and now—well, here we are.

After three days, United Nations was forced to step in, and we were finally freed and able to continue our journey to escape Sarajevo. Though 3 days may not seem like a long time, it felt like an eternity. We continued our trek, ending up in Croatia—a neighboring country where the conflict wasn’t as intense as in my hometown.

We spent several months there with family friends, but eventually, my mom decided to take us back to Sarajevo.

When we returned, we were thrown into the most dangerous part of the conflict.

The Start of My Health Issues

At 4 years old, my own life started to reflect what was happening outside of me, and my health began to deteriorate.

This story involves another difficult memory, one that still haunts me.

At 4 years old, my inner world started to crash, as Bosnia ran out of food, and I was one of the children most heavily affected. It wasn’t common there, but I ended up nearly starving to death in the hospital, with everyone around me just waiting for me to die. There were no more resources. There was no more food, let alone anything nutritious for a child.

Somehow, call it luck, fate, or divine intervention, but I survived – obviously. However, my life was never the same again. The starvation and malnourishment damaged my digestive system, and I developed celiac disease. I could no longer eat gluten, even though the most common food available then was wheat flour. My family continued to struggle for many years, trying to keep us all alive.

Resilience In Chaos

Amidst the chaos and despair, resilience began to emerge. Later in life, especially during topical steroid withdrawal (TSW), I embarked on a journey of self-discovery—a journey that transcended just my physical healing. I delved into the deep corners of my own psyche, particularly through hypnotherapy and regression. I started to finally confront the ghosts of the trauma that haunted me. I sought solace in spirituality, drawing strength from ancient wisdom that lay within – a wisdom and consciousness that could never be taken away from me, no matter what happened to me and around me, physically.

Nobody leaves a war unscathed—both literally and metaphorically. There are no “sides”, and there are no “winners” and “losers”.

We all try to move on with our lives and bury it as if it never happened. We hold onto the good things in life and are grateful that it’s “not as bad as it once was.” But that energy looms around us all the time, haunting us. I’ve had to grieve my birthplace, my hometown, my people, my loved ones, and myself, my entire life. I have grieved thousands of versions of my parents, my brother, and myself because none of us remained the same after that. We tried to put on our most brave and strong faces. We tried to find happiness after escaping all the rubble and destruction.

But there was no way to escape the darkness that comes with war. It stayed with us, showing up in our eyes and smiles. It seeped into the way we drink our coffee and the way we sleep—or don’t sleep. We pass it onto our children, and they pass it onto theirs—unless we do our hardest to break the patterns. And that in itself is a whole other journey. A journey of uncovering all the defense mechanisms we placed upon ourselves to survive. It is a journey of grief, sorrow, longing, regret, and loss—so much loss.

Moving Forward

While my journey has been one of immense pain and struggle, it has also been one of profound resilience and growth. I continue to confront and heal from my past, understanding that my story, though filled with darkness, also holds the light of survival and hope.

Even this writing, and the creation of this Substack, is an integral part of that – continuing on my healing journey through writing and sharing my experiences and insights. And hopefully, inspiring others to join the conversation and do the same.