W I’d found myself in Chicago a year earlier as
a refugee. Though I was young at the time, my experience of living in the center of the Bos- nian War had left me feeling much older. Liv- ing in Sarajevo, I had studied fashion and ma- jored in textile design, learned French, worked as a radio journalist, and survived the war. On February 5, 1994—only a month before we arrived in Chicago—my father was seriously injured in the Markale massacre when Serbs dropped mortars in the largest open market- place in Sarajevo, killing almost 70 people and injuring 200. I was on an assignment that day when the television aired graphic images of the dismembered body parts. When I found out my father was among the
critically wounded, we had only a day to pack our things and leave the country. One of my father’s legs had already been amputated by French military doctors at the NATO base in Sarajevo, and the other was severely damaged by the mortar. Doctors explained to me in French that my father had suffered a terrible infection, his condition was critical, and he may not survive. His only chance was to leave the country to receive proper medical treat- ment. U.S. President Bill Clinton had ordered an emergency humanitarian intervention, and we were airlifted first to the closest military base in Europe, then to the United States.
A new beginning Being a refugee means leaving home
simply to stay alive. Such dislocation is not intentional nor is it planned. It is not driven by a rational choice to start a new life, the pursuit of happiness, or the American dream. It is not driven by a desire to obtain wealth, become successful, or get an education. In my case, the choice to leave home in the midst of war was motivated only by the desire to save my father’s life.
18 LOYOLA UNIVERSITY CHICAGO
alking onto Loyola’s Lake Shore Campus for the first time in 1995, I remember turning to my friend Tom, a member of a nearby Episcopal church who had been helping my family adjust
to our new life in America, and saying, “I want to study here.” At the time I didn’t know much about the University besides the fact that it was close to where I lived. But the cam- pus was calming, and I knew this is where I belonged.
My mom was in shock, and she did not fully
understand what was happening. My younger sister, an engineering student, was the only one of us who spoke English and could com- municate on behalf of the family, but she was shy and wished to be left alone. My father was hospitalized, and his treatment would con- tinue for many years. None of us had wanted to leave home, but we agreed that our only hope was to stick together. Coming to Chicago meant feeling dis-
placed, estranged, alienated; it was like being asked to play a role in a movie without ever being given the script. In Sarajevo, I was a third-year college student double-majoring in sociology and journalism. I had experience as a journalist reporting on the war. I’d spoken French since I was 9 years old. In America, however, none of this mattered—it was as if my credentials did not count. That brings me back to the day I first stood
on Loyola’s Lake Shore Campus. Loyola repre- sented hope for a much needed break from our harsh reality, an escape from my past. Little did I know the University had a mission of social justice that matched my own, along with faculty eager to make a difference. Before I could enroll in a degree program, I
first had to study the English language. I took out a loan to pay for a semester of intensive language courses including speech and pronunciation, writing, and reading. We read newspaper articles and discussed local news. We recorded ourselves as we learned to pro- nounce words correctly. It all prepared me to take the standardized English language test, an essential requirement for foreign students who wish to apply to American universities. My first stop at Loyola was the sociology
department, where I inquired about the transfer process. There I met Anne Figert, who is now the department chair. After she walked
me through the procedures of transferring my courses from the University of Sarajevo, I was able to begin my coursework, but I soon real- ized I did not fully grasp the cultural and social complexity around me. I still didn’t have full confidence in my English skills. Then came the moment when it all finally clicked. I remember sitting in Professor Lauren
Langman’s class as he was talking about critical theory. As he described the Marxist concept of alienation, I was soaking in every word he said. I thought to myself, “Finally! This resonates.” I loved his class. He was my favorite professor, an exceptional social theory scholar, and a major source of support in nearly everything I have done profession- ally since I graduated. As refugees who were just settling into a
new life, my family lived on a tight budget. The four of us lived in a one-bedroom apart- ment relatively close to Loyola’s campus. Rather than going to the library, I did most of my studying on Granville beach, sitting on the
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