Since the outbreak of the civil war in Bosnia in 1992, mornings in the town of Mostar had been filled with the piercing sound of gunfire and grenades which zoomed through the air, a sound that continued to echo in my ears. I learned to read that chilling squeak and could predict how far or nearby they were going to hit. It was a warning signal I learned to appreciate even though I feared it at the same time.

But on this silent morning my family was fleeing war-devoured Bosnia. I thought to myself: How long will we stay away? God knows when life will bring me back to this place again. Will the house still be standing or will I find a ghost and a pile or rubble as I recall the laughs and happy moments created inside? A stray bullet had already found its way to the house. It had taken a small bite off one of its corners.

Whatever the house¹s destiny might be, I wanted to be on the safe side. I wanted to lock in my memory the picture of this precious nest where I had spent the happiest days of my childhood. As I stood in the middle of the yard surrounding the house, my eyes caressed once again the familiar silhouettes, while my mind inhaled even the smallest detail, like the texture of the facade. As I became more and more aware of the fact that this might be the last time I would see everything intact, I took nothing for granted.

Children started running around me, as they ran after each other. Their faces shone with joy. There was no worry on their minds. They were my cousins, and among them I saw myself too. I smiled at this sweet memory that my mind played for me. I knew that we would not grow up together, nor would my grandparents get to see three of their grandchildren blossom into young adults. All we have are memories of each other. From that day on, the pages of our photo albums would be cold and empty.

It was a whirlpool of emotions. I hated that we had to leave, but I also felt immense gratitude that we could flee a country that was falling apart and where the hope of a peaceful future was quickly fading. I was still alive and was being given the opportunity to go to a safe place. For many young, innocent lives, the photo albums had unfortunately closed forever. There was fear of uncertainty and fear of starting from scratch. We never complained, though, because we knew we were blessed with a second chance. Once we were safe in Sardinia, Italy, the war finally felt far away. It is strange what a difference a few miles can make. The thin border line separated peace from war. The knowledge that not far away people were dying was difficult to digest.

My family and friends tried to shield me from the graphic and devastating pictures that frequently appeared on television, and they rarely mentioned anything that would remind me of the war. But I kept thinking of the war because I wanted to keep the feeling of gratitude alive.

Five years after stepping onto the shores of Sardinia, my family, driven by the desire to get the best that life had to offer, left Italy for the United States. I never could have imagined, not even in my wildest childhood dreams, that life would have this in store for me. Suddenly the world felt so small and the once distant and remote America became my new home.

It took me nine years to come back to Mostar. That was much longer than anything I had imagined on that quiet morning. Mostar is surrounded by mountains and is cut in half by the azure, ice-cold and fast-flowing waters of the Neretva. As we approached, the whole city appeared in the distance. I truly did not know what to expect. The amazing panorama did not reveal any signs of war or destruction. My uncle, who drove the car, said, ³Here it is, lying in the same place where it was when you left. It withstood the worst of human nature and it has an amazing story of survival to tell.² His words sent chills through my body. I felt guilty for not having been there to experience the pain and devastation that the city had gone through. I felt like a traitor not worthy to walk its streets again and I felt no part of its miraculous survival.

As we descended the mountain, Mostar kept getting closer and closer. At that point I could clearly see that the signs of war are still there. Whether it is a completely destroyed house with just four walls standing, a big circular hole on the side of a building, or scratches on a façade as if some big monster had dug its curled claws and violently scraped off the tissue, they all tell a story of fierce fighting and serve as a testament to the war¹s mercilessness and cold cruelty.

A few block away stands another reminder of war. What used to be a beautiful park adorned with tall trees, flowers and fountains is now a cemetery. Soldiers and civilians had been laid to rest there during the war because the city cemetery could not accommodate the overwhelming number of victims. Children are not running, playing or giggling with happiness any more. Instead, the tired and emaciated faces of mothers and wives leaning over their childrens¹ or husbands¹ graves carry pain.

Graves are the physical reminder of war, unlike wounds on destroyed or damaged homes and buildings, which can be tended to with a little bit of cement and a few bricks. Nothing can wash away the names of the deceased because they are engraved in stone, in memory, and in the hearts of family members.

Many times I had wondered what it would be like to come back, but my return was much more than anything I could have imagined and expected. Aleksa Santic, a poet from Mostar, said that in one¹s native country the sun shines warmer and the bread tastes sweeter than anywhere else. I felt that. But with the economy damaged and unemployment high, it is difficult to put bread on the table. Young people face a future filled with uncertainty and look to foreign countries for a solution.

I feel safe knowing that I have a new home to come back to in America, a home where there are no limits to what I can achieve and where I can sleep at night without worrying if I will make it through the next day, the week, the month or the year.