The Weight of Belonging

As I ride in a taxi, the driver starts a conversation. As always, I try to be polite, to listen. Maybe he’s had a hard day, maybe it comforts him to share his thoughts with a stranger. Therefore I nod, I smile — a classic people-pleaser.

Then, the conversation takes a turn that cuts deep.

He begins talking about Bosnians, about refugees… words laced with bitterness and hate.

“They don’t speak our language,” he says. “I can never forgive them.” “Cursed people.”

But what he doesn’t know is that every word strikes straight into my soul.

Because I am — that refugee, I tell him.

Aren’t we the same people? I ask.

He just stares silently into the rearview mirror.

I tell him: in Bosnia, they call me a girl from Novi Sad.

In Novi Sad, they call me a Bosnian.

Do you see the paradox?

And me… I’ve always been someone quietly wondering — where do I truly belong?

I have no childhood photos to show.

No picture of our home, of my family. Everything was burned.

The first baby steps, the first laugh, the dancing, the memories —

the moment my parents first walked into their home in Travnik, hearts full of dreams —

all vanished in the flames of war. In one night.

Bosnia was once a place that brought people together —regardless of religion, background, or tradition.

And maybe that’s why it hurts even more —

because when the war began, it tore apart the bonds between people who had once celebrated and grieved side by side.

My parents went through hell.

Friends betrayed them.

Family members were lost.

They were exiled from the country where they were born.

In Bosnia, people taped signs to our door that read “Serbs.”

In Serbia, they were greeted with “Refugees” and “Go back to where you came from.”

Strangers there. Strangers here. Strangers everywhere.

And only someone who has lost everything — like we did — can truly understand that feeling.

What that taxi driver doesn’t know is that my parents are my greatest heroes.

Despite everything, they built a new life from scratch.

With two small children, in a country where no one ever gave them anything — in fact, quite the opposite.

Everything we achieved, we earned the hard way. Because we were outsiders.

Today, when I look at them, their eyes are full of forgiveness.

Full of understanding.

They taught me that home isn’t a place or a building.

Home is where love lives.

They taught me that memories don’t live in things — they live in hugs.

They taught me never to judge people by where they come from, their religion, their names, or how much they have —

because no one should ever feel like a stranger.

They taught me that love isn’t something you say — it’s something you give.

And even though they had nothing — they gave me everything.

That’s why everything I do, and everything I will ever do — I dedicate to them.

To my inspiration.

To my heroes.

So the next time you feel the urge to speak like that grumpy taxi driver —

or even silently judge someone —

pause for a moment and think:

maybe the person in front of you has lost everything.

Read this story again.

Share it.

Talk about it.

Maybe — just maybe — you’ll understand a small part of what these people have been through.

And maybe, in their smile, you’ll see something extraordinary:

Not brokenness — but courage.

Not bitterness — but a heart overflowing with kindness. 

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Ni na nebu ni na zemlji

Dok se vozim taksijem, vozač započinje razgovor. Kao i uvek, trudim se da budem ljubazna, da saslušam. Možda ima težak dan, možda mu prija da podeli misli sa nekim koga ne poznaje. I tako, klimam glavom, pružam osmeh – klasičan people-pleaser.

A onda, razgovor skrene na temu koja me preseče iznutra. Počinje da priča o Bosancima, izbeglicama… rečenice pune gorčine i mržnje. “Ne znaju NAŠ JEZIK”, kaže. “Ne mogu im oprostiti.”  “Prokletnici.” A on ne zna da svaka ta reč pogadja direktno u dušu.

Jer ja sam – ta izbeglica, kažem mu. I zar mi nismo isti narod?-pitam ga, dok on nemo trepće u retrovizoru.

Govorim mu da mi u Bosni kažu da sam Novosađanka, u Novom Sadu da sam Bosanka. Vidite li paradoks? A ja…ja sam oduvek bila neko ko se tiho pita – gde ja pripadam?

Nemam slike iz detinjstva da pokažem.

Nemam fotografiju našeg doma, moje porodice. Sve je izgorelo. Ti prvi dečji koraci, prvi smeh, ples, uspomene, momenat kada su moji roditelji prvi put ušli u svoj dom u Travniku, sa srcem punim snova – sve je nestalo u plamenu rata.

Bosna je nekada bila zemlja koja je spajala ljude, bez obzira na veru, poreklo, običaje. I baš zato boli još više – jer kad je rat počeo, rascepilo je vezu među ljudima koji su nekada slavili i plakali zajedno.

Moji roditelji su prošli kroz pakao.

Prijatelji su ih izdali.

Porodica stradala.

Proterani iz zemlje u kojoj su rođeni.

U Bosni su im na vrata lepili natpise da su „Srbi“.

U Srbiji su ih dočekali sa „izbeglice“ i “vratite se odakle ste došli”.

Stranci tamo. Stranci ovde. Stranci svuda.

A to može da razume samo onaj ko je, baš kao i mi, ostao bez svega.

Ono što taj taksista ne zna – jeste da su moji roditelji moji najveći heroji.

Uprkos svemu, izgradili su novi život. Od nule. Sa dvoje male dece, u zemlji u kojoj im niko ništa nije poklonio. Naprotiv. Sve što smo postigli – postigli smo sami. Težim putem. Jer smo bili stranci.

I danas, kada ih pogledam, njihove oči su pune oproštaja.

Pune razumevanja.

Naučili su me da dom nije zgrada, ni grad. Dom je tamo gde se voli.

Naučili su me da uspomene ne žive u stvarima, već u zagrljajima.

Da ne treba da sudimo ljudima po tome odakle dolaze, veroispovesti, kako se zovu, koliko imaju – jer niko ne zaslužuje da se oseća kao stranac.

Naučili su me da ono što zovemo ljubav ne stane u reči.

Jer iako nisu imali ništa – dali su mi sve.

Zato, sve što radim, i sve što ću tek uraditi – posvećujem njima.

Mojoj inspiraciji. Mojim herojima.

Zato, kad sledeći put poželite da kažete nešto kao taj taksista – ili možda samo prećutno osudite – setite se da s druge strane možda sedi neko ko je sve izgubio.

Pročitajte ovu priču još jednom.

Podelite je.

Pričajte o tome.

Možda, samo možda – shvatićete delić onoga što su ovi ljudi prošli.

I možda ćete u njihovom osmehu prepoznati nešto izuzetno:

ne slomljenost, nego hrabrost.

Ne gorčinu, već ogromno, dobrotom ispunjeno srce.