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April 2008 - Lori Fellner
I remember when the war broke out in Yugoslavia and, like many of
my twenty-something peers who had never known the atrocities of war, I
was oblivious to this harsh reality. That's not to say that I didn't feel
empathy for families whose lives had been destroyed, but the situation
didn't resonate with me. Did I ever once have to fear for my life, lying
awake at night listening to the drone of gunfire or watch in panic-stricken
awe the light from explosions just beyond my home? While I can't fathom
what that must have been like, the scene is all too vivid for Melina Naric.
Naric and her husband Damir grew up in Yugoslavia and lived in the once-peaceful
town of Visoko when the war started. In early 1992, when she was five
months pregnant, Naric fled to Croatia to live with an aunt. She anticipated
a short stay, but when fighting escalated with no end in sight, it was
extended. There was no way for her to communicate with her family and
she felt helpless, not knowing if her loved ones were safe. Months later,
her son Mario was born but it was another three months before she had
any contact with her husband and family. When her mother finally was able
to reach her using satellite phone, Naric was relieved to learn everyone
was safe. I wanted to come home. I couldn't stand it, not knowing what
was happening, she says. That December, her husband made the trip to her
by car, despite road closures en route from Bosnia to Croatia. A trip
that should have taken six hours took 36, but he brought his wife and
son safely home.
The country was in complete turmoil. We grew up with people we were now
being told to regard as our enemies, explains Naric. Both she and her
husband have mixed backgrounds, which meant they didn't belong to any
one faction. They felt displaced in their own country. Still, Naric regards
herself as one of the lucky ones. The people in our town were not extremists,
she says. She recalls entire villages and towns that were completely evacuated,
the people being forced to flee on foot. And while the Narics had a meager
existence, they were coping. With no jobs and only essential services
operating, they lived hand to mouth, receiving humanitarian aid and extra
food from neighbours. With no electricity, they cooked on a modified wood
stove. Naric received a single can of formula each week for Mario that
she mixed with rice, sugar and water. We were always hungry, she recalls.
But we made sure Mario got enough to eat. Being nearly fluent in English,
she eventually found work at the UN in the canteen and was able to bring
home leftover food to share with her family and neighbours.
While there's nothing normal about life in the midst of war, the Narics
resolved to make the best of their circumstances. They spent a lot of
time indoors and lived in constant fear of an attack. You never knew when
it (the bombing) would start, says Naric. If they were outdoors, they
would run to the closest house and take shelter. We would see the light
first and cover our ears, bracing for what came next. Because the bombing
and sniper attacks were intermittent, there would be days without incidence.
Naric says she began to feel normal again and visited friends, avoiding
the main streets for added safety. But she also recalls a horrific day
when she heard the bullets from a sniper's gun pelting the windows of
the bedroom where Mario laid sleeping. Frantically, she ran upstairs to
see a hole in the window, shattered the instant she touched it. To her
great relief, her infant son was unharmed. I thank God every day that
nothing happened to him.
The war ended in 1995 with the signing of a peace agreement, but there
was cause for concern because the national parties responsible were still
in power. Naric took a job as an interpreter with the UN a year later
but her husband didn't have a secure job, aside from temporary work with
aid agencies. This, coupled with the fact that children of mixed heritage
were being ostracized at school, led the Narics to question what type
of future they would have in their former country. So they made the decision
and set to work applying for a visa to come to Canada.
The often lengthy process was complete in only three months and Naric
credits good luck and impeccable timing to their success. A UN soldier
who had become a good friend during the war met their flight in Toronto
and brought the Narics to his home in St. Thomas. They eventually settled
in London where Naric's husband enrolled in ESL (English as a Second Language)
courses and Naric volunteered at the Cross Cultural Learner Centre. I
didn't think it would be so difficult coming here, she recalls of her
early days. She didn't feel confident for a very long time, and says now
she was probably suffering from post-traumatic stress at the time. If
I'd had the money, I would have gone back home, she says referring to
the culture shock she felt and the second thoughts about whether they'd
made the right decision. She remembers how hard it was seeing her husband
struggle to understand his language teacher and seeing the confusion on
his face brought her to tears.
Within a year, daughter Ella was born and they began settling into their
new life, meeting other immigrant families and adjusting to western society.
We learned to read the fine print, she recalls, referring to property
owners and others who prey on new immigrants because of language and cultural
differences. Her volunteer work eventually led to a position as a family
facilitator with the Host Program at the learning centre. She was working
with new immigrant families and it was a job that suited her well.
Last year, the Narics opened Naric Food and Deli in the Westmount area.
Their store specializes in foods from former Yugoslavia. Naric's husband
works full time at the store and Naric fills in when she can, working
around her schedule at the centre. We share it all, she says, referring
to their home and work life. He just doesn't vacuum, she adds with a laugh.
Their memories of the war are fading now, but talking about it is therapeutic
for Naric. Preserving their culture is important and Mario, who is now
15, and Ella, 9, speak fluent Bosnian. They visited their homeland several
times and Naric says the distance is difficult because her family is very
tightly knit. It's taken her a long time to feel secure here and for years
she referred to Bosnia and Herzegovina as her home. But recently, she
turned a corner. Our last trip back was in 2005, and it was the first
time returning to London felt like I was coming home. And, happily, this
is where she and her family want to stay.
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