It Was The End of Winter

By: Amela Lalovic

It was the end of winter in 1992 in Sarajevo , the capital of Bosnia . I did not dream that this was going to be my last concert in Sarajevo and Bosnia . My favorite actor Rade Serbedjija and Coratian musician Arsen Dedic were the performers. At the National Theatre inSarajevo , so many people were waiting in line to buy at ticket. Waiting in Bosnian lines to buy tickets is a special occasion. People are yelling, pulling you, pushing, stepping on your shoes, and when the door gets opened, everybody moves at once. I remember the same crowds when I was small and going to see movies. I would almost lose consciousness and could not breathe before coming into the theater. Finally I somehow got tickets for myself and my friends. My shoes were all dirty.

One the stage was only a big piano and we waited for the concert to begin. Everybody was talking at the same time. I was so loud. I thought that speaking at the same time and interrupting betweens words is something that we invented in Bosnia . I thought that it was natural only to us. I was wrong, it is an international behavior all over the world—in Germany , America , and anywhere else. The hot conversation topic at that time was the price of gasoline, coffee, cigarettes, oil and public transportation. I had been waiting in line with my brother for two hours the week before to buy only one tank of fuel. All the prices went wild and changed overnight. Only bananas got cheaper.

When the performance stated I enjoyed it, and Rade Sebedjija was reciting the best poems ever, while the piano was playing. I felt that I belonged there, in that place, that city, and guess what—I understood every single world in every single poem. The Olympic city ofSarajevo was nice. So many different cultures in one place made this city special. If you walk around the city you can hear the sounds of the Roman Catholic Church, prayer from the Asian Muslim Mosque, popular hymns from the Serbian Orthodox church, and see Jewish Synagogues. The architecture shows that so many different cultures are mixed up in one small place. Sarajevo cannot represent all of Bosnia , however. The other cities had been special as well. Mosta in early spring was the most beautiful. Banja Luka city had one of the oldest castles in Bosnia and the beautiful Vrbas River , which is a famous canning and fishing place. My husband would mind if I didn’t say something about Tuzla , a city of salt and stung industry, and also a good place to get a husband. The industrial city of Zenica , famous for its huge coal mine. I was born in a city called Ravnik, one of the oldest Bosnian cities, vassalage capital during the Turkish Empire in Bosnia . For some reason so many wars had been happening in that part of Europe through the centuries. Hitler occupied Bosnia in 1941 and we regained freedom in 1945. Only 47 years later, we happened to have a civil war over religion and ethnic background.

Why war happened and who first started it is a story for politicians and writers of history. One this is for sure: it affected many lives, mine included. Anything I would say could not change a thing or return the people who lost their lives. Most of us live the rest of our lives with our memories of Bosnia before and during the wary, trying to let other know that no war brings any winners. We also try to remember the last long sung one spring in Sarajevo , and the message of that one concert.

Arab Values as Compared to American Values

  By Motasem Mansi

    Arabs believe in fate and destiny: “al-qader’ wa al-qader”, people believe that whatever is in God’s will, will happen. When someone is asked to do something they reply with “inshallah” that is, it is not their hands but in God’s will. However, even though Arabs believe in fate and destiny they believe it is important to work hard to achieve when they are, and once they have achieved something they would say “alhamdulilah”, meaning thank God.

    Change is viewed either as positive or negative depending on the type of change. If change is to influence the traditions and religious way of life then it is viewed as negative change, however, if it is associated with modernization and development to the country it is at first questioned then it is viewed as positive. Change in Arab counties is a slow process so that the people will accept it more. Yet is it evident now in Arab countries that change is progressing.

Arabs are more concerned with developing interpersonal relations and are not too bothered about someone being late. Although now in the business world, time is viewed as something that should be promptly kept. However, in social setting people are never on time, instead they tae their time. People make an effort in taking time to help others.

Theoretically in Islam all humans are equal. This is demonstrated when Muslims are buried, as they are put straight into the ground and war the same clothing. There should be no extravagant tombs, which convey that all humans are equal under the eyes of God. In real life it is a different story; rank and status are important. In most cases it is not what you know, but whom you know (your connections) that matters. Status and ranks are not achieved by one’s own merit or hard work but by which family the individuals belong to. The family name is the one that can give you high status. There is also no equality at work between employees and there is a hierarchy system almost everywhere. You may hear some people saying, “Look at this person who is now driving a fancy car and yet his family is not known.”

Individuals in each family are thought of as members of the family as a whole. Privacy is not a term that has a significant meaning in Arabic. People think it if strange if someone spends a lot of time on their own or by themselves. It would be regarded more as the person isolating him/her self or being lonely. People enjoy the company of others and like to spend a lot of time with others, never alone. People often know a lot about each other’s lives and troubles. This is not because Arabs are nosy, people often voluntarily tell each other about what is going on.

It is hard for people in Arab countries to move up the social ladder. When you are born, you are immediately placed in the social system. Your status is defined before you have accomplished anything yourself. It therefore depends al to on the family or the extended family as well as the nuclear family. People do no hesitate do favors for their family members in order to help them.

10 Years of Eternity

by: Serge Grigoryan

    As I take a glimpse at the tend years behind me, filled with hardship, discovery, amazement and excitement, it seems difficult to summarize such an experience in a few short paragraphs. However, as a blank piece of white paper in front of me gradually becomes covered with completed sentences, I realize that in a similar manner of the last decade of my lifetime has become more and more complete with fragments of unique and fruitful fragments of experiences which I wouldn’t trade for any others regardless of the circumstances.

      There was what I considered the beginning of the end, which would finally let me enter some new stage of life experience, previously unknown and quite unpredictable. For refugees, who losses greatly outnumber their gains and have a tendency to shatter hopefully thinking like fragile glass, the new beginning meant something very special. As millions of people around the world made their Christmas resolutions for the following year, we hoped for a little hospitality. We were tired of hostility and persuasion. We hungered for serenity and understanding.

      The first two months brought confusion due to the lack of basic means of communication with those surrounding us. It became easier from then on; frustration and the need for independent living push people to search deeper and to work harder. However, there are those who even though they refuse to give up, fall into the darkness of hopelessness, anyway.

      As I was born all over again, as I spoke my first words in English, and as the cultural adaptation took place day by day, my life began to accelerate towards the desirable. At first it was food and clothing. My first job as a housekeeper at a local hotel, on weekends and after school, was just enough to help my parents achieve such basic goals. But there was always a drive, a drive to reach further, a drive for knowledge and social acceptance.

      My second job after high school was at an electronics company, where in one year I managed to assume the responsibilities of quality control inspector. Nevertheless, it became evident to me that inspecting wires and chips under a low power microscope had limited possibilities for advancement. That is when I seriously reassessed my goals and career expectations, and decided to try my in the field of medicine, which had always fascinated me.

    Three different hospitals unit and two year later, I realized that not much could be achieved without a reasonable degree of education.  Thus, I entered King’s College of Wilkes-Barre , studying pre-medicine and wishing to become a physician’s assistance. My finances were limited, and I had to get a job at the local Red Cross chapter, washing the manikins and training gear — read more here— Every weekend I drove back home to Harrisburg , where I continued to work in the Intensive Care Unit. At that time my parents took a step even closer to the ultimate American dream—they bought a house on mortgage.

    As I advanced into my sophomore year of college, I became interested in psychology and related sciences. I transferred from King’s College to Lebanon Valley College , closer to home. I began studying psychobiology and philosophy, and life was becoming even more interesting and challenging by the day. I knew that I was not meant to explore clinical nursing any deeper, and yet my persistence captured another field of medicine, the file of pathology. By that time I was ready to graduate from college with a bachelors’ of science degree.

    Ten years are behind me…I have a nice office job, I live on my own, and yet I am still exploring my true field of study and enjoyment—the field of clinical psychology. Should my life slow down in the comfrot of my office chair and steady promotions? I guess the answer is more than evident it would not only enrich my life with new challenges and discoveries, but would also bring me up to the next stage of self-satisfaction. And such continuum would more than likely once more convince myself and others around me that being a refugee may be a great loss at first, but in the end it produces results than may be comparable to those achieved by others in a lifetime.

A Child’s Reflection

by: Phong Bui

   I was born three years after Saigon fell. Sevens year later, in 1985, my father and I fled Vietnam in a small cargo boat. Some people told me that I was too young to remember, but I remember the Journey as if it happened yesterday—things like this do not fade from memories. I have no knowledge of war except for the collection of stories that have been told to me over and over again by those who expected it. With the help of these stories, I was able to recollect everything that happened fifteen years ago and earlier. The Journey, so called in many immigrants’ families, shaped the early part of my life, guided me till now, and probably paved the way through the rest of my life.

      As a child, I did not know much about the war. Occasionally, I was told to keep an eye out for bombers, stay away from big tree near the riverbank, and never go near one particular tomb.  I obeyed all these rules: when I saw a plane in the sky, I ran inside for cover; when I walked near that tree that supposedly housed the ghosts of American soldiers, I made a detour around it; and when I played outside, I kept my distance from the tomb of the unnamed dead.

      From the books of my new homeland and the stories of my people, I have learned that after the war ended, the Vietcong repossessed the properties of many people, arrested prominent members of the community, persecuted the wealthy, and reformed our lives, Fears of the Vietcong drove many people out into the sea. Many fled; few made it. For every story those who reached safety, there were many more of those who did not. Tragedies fell on those caught by the guards before reaching the sea while others were attacked and left for dead by inhumane pirates, and still more unfortunate passengers were delivered to the ocean flood by small fragile boats.

    My story was a lucky one. My father and I spent five day on the open sea. We had sufficient water, enough food to keep the babies aboard from crying, and we only came near death a couple if times during the nights of several sudden and vicious storms.  A friendly Malaysian oilrig rescued us on the sixth day, after we sunk the boat.

    I spent eighteen months in Bidong, a refugee camp in Malaysia . I do not know how much I had to grow psychologically during those months, but I know that those times significantly impacted me. They are the day of which I have the most vivid memories. They were also the darkest. I was a child, and already, I had to endure endless bruises and cuts from the sharp stones on the islands, frequent floods that left us without any food or water for days and communal housing that stripped everyone of his privacy. Dr. Kenneth Wilson, a World Vision International member, wrote the following:

Being a refugee is being a name and a number on lists. It is being in a mass of people shuffled from one point to another, not knowing what you have to do next or where you are going. It is being a child fearful you will be separated from your parents.  It is being an elderly woman too weak to walk without help, but not too weak to smile luminously at a small act of kindness. It is having faith tot believe that wherever you go will be better than where you have been. When you are a refugee, hope is the last thing you let go.

       He was right hope was the last thing we wanted to surrender during these times.

      After another six months in Philippines , I arrived in the States. Everyone who came earlier than I, informed me that I would have a better fate than they did. They warned me not to interact with the Americans, Incidents of mugging, harassments, and racial discrimination seemed to be their favorite subjects of discussion. I did not care to hear such stories. True, I had only a handful of American friends outside of school, but they have taught me well about the American culture.  “I’ve left half a life in the high sea to pay the price of freedom,” my father once said, “so try to earn the other half”. I never did have a philosophy.  But my living half has not disappointed my father yet.

      I am twenty-two years old now. I just came home from college, a time in which my assimilation into the American culture went mainstream. Just the other afternoon, I sat outside with several old friends to chat about the told times.  Suddenly, we heard some startling laughter. Vietnamese kids were wresting with American kids. They were buddies fighting each other with the friendliest kicks and most playful punches. Things have changed.  “We no longer fear the Americans”, they seemed to say. “We are Americans—Asian Americans! We belong here.”

    I have a history. I survived the high sea. I did not starve to death. I made it to America . I have American friends. I am proud to be an American. I refuse to trade my Vietnamese ancestry for another. Nobody can take away my hope; I paid half a life for it already. But above all, I am grateful that I can reflect on my past to write the true thoughts of my mind.