Your brain is the most complex organ in your body, you see, it has the power to just forget things that have happened to us as a natural survival skill and defense mechanism that we humans develop to protect ourselves. This seems to be the case of my childhood, perhaps my brain has forced me to forget, or perhaps I’ve chosen to skip reading that chapter of my life because I didn’t have control of writing it — I was forced to live it, with no knowledge that happy endings existed. However, one chapter at a time, I stand here today, living my happy ending and now oddly enough, being thankful for all of the events that took place in my life to get me to where I am today.
I don’t remember much before the summer of ’95 when I was just six years old. I remember my mother and father crying to other family members that they were unsure if the decision they were making was a good one. We sought refuge in Germany, during the Bosnian war, and now that Hollbruck was in process of signing the Dayton peace treaty, we were at risk of being sent back to war-torn Bosnia. Living in a refugee camp was still much safer than returning to Brcko, as a Muslim family, with no home to return to and no money to survive.
That evening my father walked over to Lidl, to buy bread and sparkling water (it was cheaper to buy sparkling water than it was distilled, I still don’t understand why). There were nights we either ate nothing at all or ate bread. As he was checking out he had just enough left over to buy a pack of cigarettes, Is your dad even Bosnian if he doesn’t smoke? As he picked up the cigarettes he saw me eying chocolate, I hadn’t eaten it in a long time.
Longing to just get my hands on a piece of Kinder, but knowing that taking something without being able to afford it could get my family in even more trouble. Without hesitation, my father put the cigarettes down, grabbed that pack of chocolate bars, and told me that I had to share with my sister. That was the last trip we would ever take to Lidl, and oddly enough it is also where my memories begin. The following day we had a one-way ticket on a TWA flight, to what was the beginning of the rest of our lives.
“Refugees didn’t just escape a place. They had to escape a thousand memories until they’d put enough time and distance between them and their misery to wake to a better day.”
Every time I tell someone we made it to America through the lottery process they look confused. No one ever knows what the program is, or what it entails. The DV lottery program is designed to allow immigrants, much like myself, from other regions to have a chance to immigrate to the United States. The Green cards are offered through the diversity visa program and awarded through a random computer draw. You read that right, we won the JACKPOT. It was life-changing. Unlike the million dollar jackpot that you win through your local state lottery and blow within a year based on irresponsible decisions, this was PERMANENT. We had a second chance at life thanks to America.
The first couple of years in America presented struggles similar to war-torn Bosnia, except we didn’t fear we would be religiously persecuted. We lived in the ghetto, my parents worked THREE dead-end jobs just to provide a roof over our heads and my babysitter, aka my 8-year-old sister, lacked the discipline needed to take care of me, us. Those years I remember but prefer not to. My mother would come home crying that her boss abused her, he would yell, cuss, even throw her work back at her if something was done incorrectly. Her first jobs in America included printing pictures on coffee mugs ( that her boss would throw at her, literally) cleaning a gym and cleaning a bank formerly known as Homeside lending. She dare not report her abusive boss or even talk back as the fear of losing her job was great, and he knew that.
I looked her old boss up recently on Facebook, 22 years later, and wrote him a message about the scars he left on my family from those abusive times. That there weren’t many memories I held on to pre and immediately post-war, but his name was one of them. That I watched my mother come home every evening and cry, but never report him because feeding her children trumped her dignity and pride. Care to know what the coward did? He blocked me, like the true coward that he was. I wish I would have reported him, even years later but I assume it’ s been too long. I also assume that she was just one of many, as this place hired a lot of Bosnian immigrants because they were cheap labor and hard workers.
Years went by and my parents learned how to speak English, they strived to assimilate every day. Unlike many Bosnians, they never forced my sister or me to speak only our mother tongue at home. My mother perfected her English so well she got a job at Home Side Lending in 2000, the same bank she cleaned at! She now had a desk, a computer, a nametag… She was someone important! I remember her bringing her new nametag home just to show it to us.
She sat us down and told us this was the reason they came to the land of opportunity. That a nobody could become a somebody, she beamed with pride. 18 years later and that same name tag sits proudly on her desk, with the title Information Analyst 3 beneath it. She has stayed with the same company for 18 years, transitioning from Home Side to Washington Mutual, to Chase! I couldn’t be more proud.
My father started off doing construction. His work was so great, and demand for the job so high he opened up his own business and even employed Americans to work for him. How amazing is it that a refugee, an immigrant, that was granted a visa by pure randomness, was now not only a contributing member of society but a contributing member to the American economy!
We were finally living the all American dream. My parents purchased their first home in 2001 and life in America was great. We went to a great school, lived in a great neighborhood; they could even afford to enroll us in to extracurricular activities, yet something was always missing. I graduated high school and was on my way to college, in Florida, but the thought of life in Europe always intrigued me. The more time I spent in America, the more my heart ached for Bosnia. Home is where the heart is, yet my heart was split between two homes. Even though I remember nothing about Bosnia, every year that my parents took us back to visit, was a reaffirmation that I needed to eventually end up there.
Sve sto je srcu drago, daleko je.
I met my husband my senior year of college, in Jacksonville, Florida. I was working as a wealth management consultant at Merrill Lynch and he was new to town, on his first duty station with the Navy, as a naval aviator. I knew nothing about the Navy or the lifestyle I just knew that this guy kept me laughing for hours on our first date. He took me to a Turkish restaurant, and before we knew it, it was 2 am and we were nowhere near being done getting to know each other.
Who knew that would be the beginning of the rest of my life. Now I will say I had my hesitations, I was afraid of how my family would accept this man, he wasn’t from my country, didn’t speak my language, didn’t understand our cultures and customs. He was, well what we had become, an American. Even though I considered myself an American, at home, I was still very much a Bosnian. I was afraid that I would disappoint my family by telling them I was falling in love with an American. Little did I know that my family would love this American more than me, no joke! If my mom ever ignores my phone call it’s probably because she’s on the other line with my husband!
We dated for 2 years before we both knew that this was it, this is what all the movies described love as. Love is constant butterflies, wanting to do everything to make the other person happy, being considerate of each other’s feelings, spending as much time together as possible. In November of 2011, Cory asked me to marry him. At that time, I was still very new to the idea of living a military life as the only thing I knew about the military was that they fought in wars. I survived one war and I sure as hell wasn’t going to be marrying a man that would go to war, so although I loved him, the decision to say yes was a hard one. Nonetheless, I said yes and in September of 2012, I finally got my fairytale *beginning* as there is no ending in sight for our family.
So as it goes, this Bosnian war refugee meets a Navy Pilot who sweeps her off of her feet. We found out 4 weeks before our wedding day that we were expecting our first child.
My husband knew how important it was for me to keep the Bosnian culture and traditions alive in my children so he allowed me full freedom to name our daughter any name I chose. I chose Aria. Aria in Italian is a solo in an opera, the word Aria means Air. My name, Aida, is an Egyptian opera, so Aria was my solo. It was also a name both families could easily pronounce and one that worked well in both languages.
Cory, Aria and I were offered an adventure of a lifetime to relocate to Yokosuka Japan, only 20 miles south of Tokyo! In 2014, with no hesitation, we packed up all of our belongings in our 3 bedroom apartment in Washington DC and moved our family to Tokyo! In 2016 Cory and I took a trip to Hong Kong and brought back a permanent souvenir, little Aiden.
Made in Hong Kong, with Bosnian and American parts, assembled in Japan! Moving to Japan is also what started our passion for travel. Aria and I have been to 56 countries together and Cory, Aiden, Aria and I have been to 29 countries together. The Hilgarts take the world one country at a time!
What I admire the most about my All-American husband is his passion for Bosnia. Since marrying me, he has fully immersed himself in learning about the country to gain a better understanding of the events that occurred. My husband is also a bit of a nerd, so when he decided to work on his second masters (he is now completing his third), he told me he was interested in getting a degree in diplomacy and foreign policy. His focus? Peace and conflict in Eastern Europe.
He wanted to learn all about Bosnia so he could teach our children what happened. Not just what I remember, or don’t remember. Not just what our parents had told us, not just what politicians have told us. He wanted to know the whole history. Those who do not know the past, are condemned to repeat it. He made it a priority for his children to know about that part of their lives. After all, they were my first generation American Bosnian babies. I couldn’t be more proud to say that he has had three of his papers about Bosnia professionally published.
You should see the way he passionately talks about Bosnia. There is nothing sexier than seeing my husband argue with me about Bosnian politics — and be right. Here he is, an all American boy, who played soccer in Portland, Oregon while my city was being mortared, yet he can tell you the date my city of Brcko was first bombed, and I can’t. There is something so eerily beautiful about that.
The Navy has since provided us with a life of adventure but eight years in and we are ready to say thank you and goodbye. Our life of adventure isn’t ending, but our life with the Navy is. The older our children get, the harder deployments get. It never gets easier explaining to a child that daddy will be gone for 6 months and that life just has to go on. So as of November 1st 2018, Cory will no longer be active duty, instead, he will be a Navy reservist. He has landed his dream job flying for an American contract company, that’s as much as I know. This company is allowing us to live anywhere in the world. Cory came home with a map last month, threw it at me and said, “Where do you want to live? Pick a place, let’s pack our bags and go!”
Immediately, I thought Bosnia.
What an amazing opportunity for my children to be able to live the childhood I never got. I wanted to vicariously live through them. I wanted to see my daughter go to a Bosnian school, make Bosnian friends, ask for a few marks to go buy cevapi down the street. To watch Fatima our neighbor yell at her for stepping on her paprika plant.
I so desperately wanted to take it as a sign for a second chance at life in Bosnia. However, I knew that the decision we would be making would impact our children and as much as we absolutely love Bosnia, corruption is still high and healthcare is still questionable. I sat down with my husband and after writing a huge list of pro’s and con’s we made the mutual choice to move our family to Zagreb, Croatia! You guys, I wish you could sense the enthusiasm as I write that sentence. WE ARE MOVING TO ZAGREB in January!
Zagreb is only 2 hours away from my hometown of Brcko, so my daughter will still have the opportunity to hear Fatima yell at her. Yet Croatia is in the EU, healthcare is more regulated, corruption is at bay, and the opportunity to travel is greater. My children will learn how to speak Croatian and Bosnian, both very similar languages.
It’s funny how life tends to come back full circle. We stand in a very similar crossroad, where we made such a difficult decision in life before, but this time we take a different road.
I always felt that my heart was in two places at once.
I felt it because it was because God knew that my soul longed to be back in my motherland. That I would eventually get the opportunity that little Aida missed out on. That I can now take my children to a Bosnian park and watch them play with other Bosnian children.
We’ve decided to jump on this opportunity and have given ourselves five years. Five years to expose our children to the Balkans. Five years to have them hopefully learn how to speak Bosnian/Croatian fluently. Five years to develop relationships with their Bosnian family members back home. Five years to feel connected to Bosnia. Five years to identify with the country I felt that I missed out on. It’s going to be a beautiful five years, and I can’t wait to see what they have in store for us.
Once Aria completes the fifth grade at the international school in Zagreb, we will be making the move back to America. There we will live the suburban life, Cory will most likely fly for either Delta or United, I will perhaps find a part-time job, or not. Our children will continue their education in America in hopes that they go to an American college.
However, if at any point in time they have a strong urge to go back to Bosnia, I will encourage them to do so. If they decide that they want to stay in America and live that all American life, I will encourage them to do so. If they feel their heart is in two places at once, I will encourage them to explore both places, to love both countries, to embrace both cultures and we will constantly remind them that there is beauty in being Bosnian American Children. That’s what being Balkan Bred is all about.
Love,
The Hilgarts
The Hilgarts plan on moving to Zagreb, Croatia, only a couple hours away from Aida’s hometown, Brcko, in January 2019, where their children will attend an international school.
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