Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SATURDAY, March 19, 1994 TAG: 9403190101
SECTION: VIRGINIA PAGE: A-1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: CATHRYN McCUE STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
From time to time, he picked up the papers, searched through them and pulled out what he needed to tell his story.
A passport, a military form from the Bosnian Croatian army, a letter from the United Nations refugee commission, and a book of family photos taken what seems like a million miles away, a million years ago.
These torn and folded papers document the Kurdic family's journey from their home in war-torn Bosnia to the living room of a stranger's house in Roanoke, where they arrived this week.
Midhat gripped the papers as he spoke, his words rushing out in a rich cadence of Yugoslavian language. Neither he nor his wife, Monira, speaks English.
Their 9-year-old son, Harris (named after actor Richard Harris, whom they saw on television), can ask "What's your name?" and count to at least 40, as he demonstrated Thursday for a visitor.
His brother, Firdis, 8, is more shy, preferring to play with the chalk and chalkboard in the back bedroom.
Even as the two-year civil war in former Yugoslavia appears to be winding down, the Kurdics - the first Bosnian refugees to come to Roanoke - prepare to start life over again.
"It's just the luck of the draw," that they came to Roanoke, said Barbara Smith, director of Refugee and Immigration Services in Roanoke, under the auspices of the Catholic Church, which sponsors refugees in this country.
The Kurdics are staying with Donnie Marie Kaszuba in Roanoke for a few weeks before they get their own apartment. Kaszuba and her brother, Nicholas Spichek, learned Yugoslavian as children many years ago from their parents, who emigrated from Zagreb.
Kaszuba and Spichek did their best to interpret for their guests.
"It was good before the war, in Mostar," Monira said with Spichek's help. Mostar is a city not far from Sarajevo.
Monira had a job in a textile factory; her husband worked in an aluminum plant. They had a television, phonograph and an apartment.
Then came the war, a bloody campaign of "ethnic cleansing" by Christian Serbs against Muslims, like the Kurdics.
Monira took the children and left Bosnia for a refugee camp where she was to spend the next two years.
"They just locked up and took the kids and left with the clothes on their back," Spichek explained.
For a year and a half, Midhat fought in the Croatian army against Serbian aggression. Then the Croats began fighting the Muslims.
The Croatian army arrested Midhat and jailed him for 22 days. As the Kurdics describe this event, over and over, they cross their wrists to show that Midhat was handcuffed.
One day, he said, the soldiers opened fire on a group of about 500 prisoners. Those who were left alive were told to leave and never come back to Mostar.
Midhat fled to the refugee camp, where he finally rejoined his wife and children.
As he listened to the tale of his father's homeland ripped apart by religious persecution, Spichek shook his head. "If my daddy was living today, he'd turn over in . . . " His voice trailed off.
The United Nations granted Midhat and his family refugee status because he is Muslim and had been arrested by the army. He could not return to a Bosnia at war.
Midhat lists the countries that would have taken them: the United States, Denmark, Germany, the United Kingdom, France, Italy and Australia. They chose the United States.
"Because it's `dobro,' good," Spichek said. "Because all of the nationalities can live together, and that's good."
"Especially for the children," Kaszuba added.
The Kurdics' story comes out in jumbled bits and pieces, with Midhat's papers and the Roanokers' rusty Yugoslavian skills as guides.
Midhat was trying to describe how the bridge over Mostar's river had been bombed twice, but neither Kaszuba or Spichek understood. Then Midhat made a cultural breakthrough.
"Mississippi!" he shouted, and somehow, the story made sense.
After almost an hour of struggling to break the language barrier, everyone was tired. The Kurdics went into another room to have their picture taken. The bundle of papers was tucked under Midhat's arm.
Later, Monira looked at a National Geographic map of the former Yugoslavia. "Nemi," she says, and her husband echoed, "Nemi, nemi, nemi." Never again, no more, nothing. The country is gone.
The Kurdics do not know what has happened to their apartment or their belongings. Perhaps the building has been blown up - Midhat shrugs his shoulders.
Monira says there are no more parks in Mostar. They have been turned into graveyards.
She would like to go back, someday. Midhat said if he can find a good job, he'd like to stay here in the United States.
Donations of furniture, small appliances and clothes can be taken to Refugee and Immigration Services, 1106 Ninth St. S.E., Roanoke, or call 342-7561.
by CNB