Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, November 13, 1994 TAG: 9411140088
SECTION: VIRGINIA PAGE: D1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: SARAH HUNTLEY STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
All smiles, Monira Kurdic looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows at Roanoke Regional Airport. From time to time, she would beam at the supporters behind her and thump her chest to indicate her heart was racing.
Kurdic was waiting for her brothers, whom she hadn't seen in five years. Before warfare and intolerance swept across her native Bosnia, Kurdic unknowingly spent her last day with her family at a gathering in Mostar, a city about 74 miles south of Sarajevo.
"It was just a regular visit," said family friend and translator John Stupic. "They had no intention of parting for five years."
On Oct. 2, shortly after 2 p.m., the plane carrying Muradif, Salem and Tamara Kolenda landed. Kurdic's brothers and sister-in-law stepped off USAir Flight 1620 and walked into the lobby for the reunion of a lifetime.
Within seconds, Roanoke's newest residents were bombarded with silk flowers, chocolates and American flags. There was laughter. There were radiant grins, hugs and a flurry of kisses. But not a soul cried. They'd had enough tears.
Since the outbreak of violence and the Eastern Orthodox Serbs' bloody campaign of "ethnic cleansing," Muradif and Salem Kolenda, both Muslims, have been wanderers in search of safety, peace - and their families. Now they've joined Midhat and Monira Kurdic, who immigrated to Roanoke with their two sons seven months ago, and they plan to stay.
Five days after their arrival, the Bosnian newcomers sat in the living room of Salem and Tamara's new apartment in Valley View Village on Rutgers Street Northwest. The room's walls tell the story of their recent transition. A decorative plate with a couple dressed in native Yugoslav costumes hangs with two American flags balanced on it. Above the couch is a painting of white doves. The family smoked cigarettes and drank coffee as they spoke of painful experiences, including Muradif's five-month imprisonment in a Serbian concentration camp.
Muradif, 35, lived with his wife, Fatima, and three children in Foca, a mining town. It was a "typical, peaceful" place until the fall of communism, Muradif said, his Croatian words translated by friend John Stupic, who immigrated to the United States 33 years ago. Then local elections polarized the once-tolerant community. No longer neighbors, Foca's residents became Serbs, Croats and Bosnians.
In April of 1992, the ugly schism played itself out on Muradif's doorstep. Serbs came to his home early on Orthodox Easter morning and told Muradif, a civil guard who patrolled the border between the former Yugoslavia and Hungary, that they wanted to question him about the bombing of a Serbian home.
"He didn't know anything. It was an excuse," Stupic said. "Once you're arrested or brought in for questioning by the Serbs, they can put you wherever they want."
The soldiers took Muradif, not yet fully dressed, to the police station where they "interrogated" him, a ritual that included more beating than talking. Then they locked him in a large room with 60 or 70 other men. For five months, he left that room only for meals, when he and the others were led to a mess hall and served bread.
Hunger took its toll, Muradif said. He lost more than 90 pounds. Men around him, exhausted and malnourished, fainted. At first, they tried to exercise to keep up their strength, but soon there was little strength to keep up, he said.
Three times, Muradif was dragged into the hallway and pummeled by Serbian guards. As they belted him - four enraged soldiers on one starving prisoner - the guards called him a "dirty Muslim," Muradif said.
To pass the hours, he said, the prisoners counted the flow of people coming in and out of the mess hall. About 2,000 men "disappeared" while he was in the camp.
"Seventy or so would go in one direction," Stupic translated. "When the group came back, there'd only be 60. Pretty soon, they realized the guards were just plain executing people."
In that world of uncertainty, little news came in or out. The only information the prisoners received was from one sympathetic Serbian guard, Muradif said, "a good, neutral person who was caught up in it like everyone else." The night before international inspectors were scheduled to arrive, the guard told Muradif he and 34 of the other weakest prisoners would be transferred to Rozaj.
They were loaded onto a bus. The journey shouldn't have taken long. Rozaj is only about 90 miles from Foca, but the roads were in terrible shape, and the drive lasted all night. At daybreak, the driver pulled up to a bus stop in the middle of a Muslim enclave and set the prisoners free.
They were swarmed by curious onlookers and people eager to help, Muradif said. He smiled and chuckled as he remembered his first request - a cup of coffee. A concerned family served salami, cheese and bread. Though he limited his portions, Muradif's body, underfed for too long, didn't respond well. After a half-hour, cramping began, he said. It lasted two weeks.
Muradif lived for three months with a family in Rozaj, and then came news that gave him hope. Through the underground world of amateur radio operators and messengers, he learned that his wife and children - daughters Alma and Amra, 14 and 13, and his 9-year-old son, Almir - were alive in Turkey. He boarded a bus the next day.
For 18 days he searched for his family in Turkey. He heard they were in Macedonia, so he went there. Still no luck. Muradif returned to Kavakli, Turkey, where he lived in a refugee camp for six months, before returning to Macedonia to be reunited with his brother, Salem.
Muradif, Salem and Monira are only three children in a family of seven. The Kolendas hope they all will be together some day, but they won't return to Bosnia.
"America gave us the chance to live here," Salem said, through his translator. "We are very grateful, and we plan to stay."
Donations of furniture, bedding, towels, small appliances and clothing can be taken to Refugee and Immigration Services at 1106 Ninth St. S.E., or call 342-7561.
by CNB