Vildana’s War Diary

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Vildana and Jasmin arrived to America in the spring of 1994, where I met them shortly after, through a mutual friend. They were married in Sarajevo, in September of 1993, in the midst of the siege. Only a couple months later, in December of 1993, Vildana was nearly killed in Sarajevo while crossing a bridge in downtown area with her friend Azra. She suffered life-threatening injuries and had more than forty shrapnel pieces in her left arm, face and abdomen.

This is her story–excerpts from her wartime diary.

1992 – Sarajevo, Bosnia

…I was born in one country, and it looks like I will die in another, while still living at the exact same place. The worst of all is—they want to kill my beloved city. The city that has such big heart and soul. What will the night bring? God only knows. It’s hard to be optimistic in these exhausting times, but I am stubbornly trying…

March 22, 1994 – Orange, California

Fate is a strange thing.

On December 14, 1993, I was wounded and nearly lost my life. Nothing out of ordinary for Sarajevo. I was walking across Drvenija bridge with Azra when a bomb exploded about four-five meters in front of us. What saved my life was destiny—I was about half a step “late” and the corner of the building saved me from certain death. In this attack, eight people were killed instantly, and fifteen were injured, two critically—I was one of them.

First, I saw a bright light. Then it felt as if I was floating somewhere. I can’t tell how long this feeling lasted, but, during that time, I wasn’t sure if I was already “up” or still “down”. Then, I opened my eyes. Azra laid there motionless. I knew she was gone and couldn’t bear looking at her. Maybe this was selfish, but it was an instinctive choice—I had to attend to myself first. I had to be strong.

I did not feel my arm at all. I bled from everywhere. I knew I had multiple wounds and God knows how many shrapnel pieces in my body.

A red car appeared from somewhere and several people helped load me in the back. I remember thinking that my blood would leave stains on the seats.

When we arrived at the hospital, somebody yelled: “Take this one! We can still help this one!” And they took me directly to the emergency operating room. I remember turning my head away from reporters who wanted to take pictures of me—I couldn’t have my parents see me like this.

When I woke up, Jasmin was there. He ran all the way from home to the hospital, didn’t stop once. I looked at him and read a million words in his eyes. I somehow knew I would not die, even though they said I had over forty pieces of shrapnel in my body,  one of which had gone through my liver and pancreas, and the next four days would be critical. I had massive internal bleeding and the incision was top to bottom on my stomach. I also suffered from lung decompression from the detonation. I didn’t ask any questions, although there were many to ask. I think it was, in a way, a survival “technique”—not to know any details. I went in and out of consciousness several times. My whole body was in bandages. I don’t know why, but I knew I would survive—it was not my time to go.

I fought hard, with Jasmin always by my side. I stayed in the hospital in the emergency department, since I could have better care there than in the rest of the hospital. I watched as they were bringing people in and out. There were a lot more taken out to the morgue than those leaving alive.

When they temporarily released me from the hospital, I went to my parents’ house. The support and help I got from Jasmin, mom and dad cannot be measured and explained in words—there isn’t enough paper in the world to fit everything in. I couldn’t do anything on my own. Couldn’t eat on my own, couldn’t hold anything in my hand, couldn’t dress, couldn’t get up…I went back to the hospital on January 3, for another surgery—to fix the exit wounds from shrapnel. They said they made my ear look better, too.

On February 5, 1994, a bomb fell into the crowd at Markale market and killed sixty-eight people. And then, I received a phone call that would change my life forever. Americans had organized an evacuation program of wounded civilians, and I became part of it.

On February 7, 1994, Jasmin and I left our beloved Sarajevo, to start a long journey. We flew from Sarajevo to the U.S. Army base in Germany—Landstuhl, on a huge cargo aircraft. We stayed there for six weeks, waiting for decision on our final destination. After Sarajevo, life here was a dream, even though there were more than a hundred of us there, all medical evacuees, some as young as five, others in their eighties. But, we ate well, visited many parts of southern Germany and American soldiers were so nice to us. We wished we could have shared those wonderful days with our friends and relatives.  

Then one day, the decision came. We were going to California. To the other side of the world.

We left on March 16, 1994 and flew to Washington, then continued on to Los Angeles. All in all, twenty-two hours. Twenty-two light years away from our parents and everyone we loved and knew.

We walked out of the plane and saw three ladies holding a sign with our last name. They drove us to what would be our temporary housing—somebody’s house. While we were driving, we looked at nice houses along the way, saw familiar signs we recognized from the movies. Everything was so neat and nice. When we arrived, we found out that my surgery was the next day. I couldn’t sleep the whole night.

March 25, 1994

Doctors said the surgery went beyond expected. After all, they did not have to do a complicated procedure of transplanting a sensory nerve from my leg to my arm—even without it, I will have function in my left hand, almost hundred percent. They released me from the hospital the next day and we were invited to a news conference on my surgery. An article about us appeared in Los Angeles Times and a short program was broadcast on the local news. We gave an interview to the “Independent”. I keep thinking I am dreaming—everything is happening way too quickly. I just want to sleep.

March 30, 1994

I am not a big fan of my own birthday. I am a whole year older in one day. So, this is my first birthday in America. In some way, it’s almost as any other one…I am having a glass of wine, listening to good music…but we are all alone here. My last birthday was in war-torn Sarajevo. We didn’t have anything, but all people I love were there. I wish I could talk to my mom and dad now. There is too much suffering happening to them now, at the end of their lives. But, I will one day see them. I know I will. I dream of being there just for a couple of days…

We finally met some Bosnian people. Djeno and Sanja invited us to come see movie “Romeo and Juliet in Sarajevo”, that their friend, Zoran Stevanovic, worked on. We had such a great time. All these people are like us, Sarajevans. We were all together, Serbs, Croats and Muslims, just like before the war. I would like to continue these friendships—these people, I feel, are so similar to us and it feels great to hang out with them. I hope we all become good friends.

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