You might never have heard of Mostar, the city where I grew up in Bosnia-Hercegovina, but the first 14 years of my life probably weren’t all that different form yours. My friends wore T-shirts and jeans, watched 90210 and Baywatch, and listed to American music, like Billy Joel. I loved sports, especially soccer, and my brig dream was to go to college and study to be a coach and a professional athlete.

Mostar was the jewel of Bosnia and Hercegovina. Cradled in a valley between mountain ranges, it is split by the rushing water of the Neretva River. This clear, green river runs beneath our treasure: Stari Most (Old Bridge). Built by Suleiman the Magnificent in 1567, Stari Most was the symbol of Mostar’s spirit.

Both my parents’ families are considered “old” Mostar families. Although the city had 180,000 people, everyone knew us and we knew everyone. My brother and I knew each street, each shop and each soccer field like the back of our hands. My extended family of grandparents, aunts, uncles, countless cousins all lived within walking distance. We gathered frequently to share coffee, food, laughter and music; all of which was available in abundance.

My mother and father would spend weeks preparing for our yearly vacation to the Adriatic Sea. Our small car would be stuffed with everything we would need for three months. We would count the days until we could leave the city and head south, for the beach. There, we would meet up with our aunts, uncles and cousins and erect a tent village of sorts and spend the lazy summer months together swimming, fishing, dancing and singing.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, civil war came to Mostar. I remember that day very clearly. We were sent home from school early that day.

I had just gotten home when a truck carrying gasoline exploded at a nearby army station. Our windows were shattered, and pieces of glass flew everywhere. The adults, of course, had been talking about Bosnia’s bid to separate from Yugoslavia. Slovenia and Croatia had separated without too many issues, and they feared that Bosnia would not be as lucky.

After that day, there was no more school. At first I didn’t care too much about the war - I thought it was just politics, something that grown-ups dealt with. I thought it couldn’t impact me. Over the next few months food became scarce, the water was turned off, the electricity was more often off than on, and the Muslims of Mostar became targets.

The Muslims were expelled from the West side of the city and forced to confine themselves to the East side. This made it easier for the snipers and the enemy forces to control us and kill us. No one could leave the East side and no one carrying help was allowed to enter. When our neighbors, our family, our friends and our acquaintances begin to die, everybody, including me, got very scared.

We were under constant attack with mortar and artillery fire from the mountains that used to protect us. The Neretva became our only source of water, and we would risk our lives every day, trying to avoid sniper fire as we made a mad dash to the river. We survived because we had no choice. We turned parks into cemeteries, basements into playgrounds, grass fields into salad bars, and pigeons and rabbits into gourmet food.

We shared everything we had - from food and water to tears and laughter. Nothing makes best friends and forms bonds like war. Nothing makes you appreciate life like war. Nothing makes sure hate politics like war. We pulled together in the way that true adversity of the life or death type demands.

When Mostar first came under siege, we were so freaked out that we huddled in our dark basement all day, every day. There was no water, no electricity, no phone, no heat, nothing. Every resident of the ten apartments shared this cold, cramped space. Children grew bored, babies screamed, mothers cried and fathers did their best to protect their family. Every time we heard an explosion, we froze. The ground would shake and the walls would tremble.

Fear is a funny thing though. It cannot be sustained, the mind becomes numb and the spirit rebels against confinement. We were still scared, but no matter how afraid we were, we had to get on with life. Little by little, we started coming out from our hiding places, trying to live as normally as possible.

The war had been raging for almost two years. Two months after my 16th birthday, I was hanging out in front of my building, talking to six of my friends. On the days we felt safe enough to leave the basement, I was desperate for all the fresh air and sunshine I could get. My mother called me in to eat lunch. I hated to stop my socializing, but I reluctantly went upstairs. With food so scarce, there was no way I was going to miss a meal.

I don’t know how my parents did it, but even during the darkest times of the war, they managed to find food and lay a table properly. That day, as every day, my mother had spread our table with a white cloth. As I walked into the apartment, I could smell the soup and bread, and my stomach grumbled. I knew that the soup was made from the last of the meat from my pet rabbit, but hunger knows no loyalty or sentiment.

Washing my hands in the bathroom, I could hear my best friends whistling for me. I stuck my head out the window. They were below, shouting something up at me. I couldn’t hear them and thought I would just dash downstairs real quick. My mother’s back was turned, and she didn’t hear me slip out the same door I had just entered.

Once downstairs, I dashed around to the side of our building, ran quickly past the passageway that separated my building from my friends’ building. I hopped up onto a small concrete wall that stood in front of the building’s entrance and suddenly I was choking on thick, black smoke.

I didn’t hear the mortar before it fell several feet from me. I was totally disoriented and didn’t know what was going on. I took me a second to figure out that a shell had dropped right on top of us.

Dazed, I looked around to see if my friends were okay. All I could see were bits and pieces of bodies scattered on the ground around me. That’s when I realized that all six of them were dead.

My mother came running, crying hysterically, but I was in such total shock that I wasn’t even upset. I couldn’t believe any of this was actually happening. I thought I was having a nightmare. I even asked my mom, “Am I dreaming?”

I tried to get up, but for some reason my legs didn’t want to move. For a few minutes I didn’t feel any pain, so I didn’t realize how badly I was hurt. Moments later some people came to carry me to the hospital. My left arm and face were full of tiny pieces of shrapnel, and my legs were completely torn apart and bleeding. When they started to lift me, the pain hit. It felt like my legs were being ripped off.

The so-called hospital was actually in a basement. There were no real doctors to care for the sick and wounded. Young girls with no medical experience were assisting the few nurses that worked day and night.

My father, who was a nurse, helped set it up a makeshift facility in our neighborhood to try and help the people who were injured every day. When I got to the basement hospital, he came to see me right away. The first thing I asked him was if I’d be able to play soccer again. He told me, “Yeah, in a couple weeks.” Then I lost consciousness, fully trusting that my father, as always, was right.

We had no medicine of any kind, limited supplies, and too much demand. The nurses removed as much of the shrapnel as possible and bandaged me up. Infection took hold almost immediately. Twice a day they would use scissors to cut away my infected flesh before changing my dressings. It hurt so much, but somehow I was able to bear it- I was just concentrating on staying alive.

After about a week, the infection reached into the bone in my left ankle. At that point, the only choice to prevent gangrene and ultimately, death, was amputation. I was devastated. My first thought was that I would never be able to play soccer again, but I had no choice.

A kind and brave dentist performed the amputation. There was no anesthetic; perhaps they gave me a mild sedative. I remember falling asleep. When I awoke, the operation was in progress. I was strapped down securely, with a piece of black rubber in my mouth. I felt a burning in my leg, the pain searing every nerve in my body. I heard the saw as it moved back and forth. Then, mercifully, I passed out.

Afterward, I didn’t think again about not being able to play soccer. My family was alive, and I was lucky to still be alive as well. How could I feel sorry for myself? I was put into a room with other patients. I took this as a good sign. The wounded that could not be helped were typically kept in the hallway. If you were in a room, there was a good chance you would recover. I learned later that my parents were the only reason I was in a room. My father helped so many others, and my mother begged so eloquently for my life, I was allowed to fight my fight in a proper room.

A friend of mine gave me a cute blue teddy bear. In the weeks following the amputation, I would bite down on its ear when the nurses continued to clean my wounds by cutting away the flesh that continued to succumb to infection.

I had been in that basement hospital for almost two months when a British aid worker named Sally Becker arrived in an old ambulance. She’d been given a permission to take three kids out of Mostar for medical treatment. Sally was (and still is) a tall, thin woman with big dark eyes. She walked into my room and asked if I wanted to go with her.

I had just twenty minutes to decide. I didn’t want to leave my family, my friends, everything I knew. But during the last few weeks, I’d been getting sicker. I was running a high fever and hadn’t eaten in days.

I talked about it with my parents, and we knew that if I didn’t go I would die. I had nothing to pack. I was wearing a t-shirt and underwear, so they just put a sheet over me and carried me off.

My aunt went with me; my parents couldn't go. My father had been badly injured and was now a patient in the same hospital. My mother had to stay behind to care for him and my little brother. When I said goodbye to my parents, it happened so quickly that it didn’t hit me until a few hours later: I might never see them again.

After spending a few months in Frankfurt, Germany, getting the critical care I needed to live, I was eventually taken to a hospital in Cumberland, Maryland, where a group called Veterans for Peace raised money to bring me to America. Cumberland and its citizens embraced me. (See Page 11 of the organization’s Fall 1993 newsletter.)

Every group in town donated what I needed to live and what I needed to survive. The president of the hospital and my surgeons and nurses donated my medical care. Church groups provided housing, food and clothing. Everyone gave me what they could, and together it formed a quilt of support that kept me going in those early, difficult months.

At first it was scary being in the hospital in the United States. I didn’t know the doctors or nurses and I didn't speak any English. I did quickly learn how to say, “It hurts, don’t touch.” though. The most difficult part was being away from my family. For 16 years, my friends and my family were always there to support me. But now I was alone. There were times I wished I had died with my friends. But, I learned to take life on life’s terms.

Over the next few months, I had several operations a week. I stopped counting at 100! They worked tirelessly on my legs and did skin grafts all over my body. I would spend my time watching television and playing Nintendo 64’s Super Mario.

My favorite television shows were the sitcoms, especially the Cosby Show. Week after week, I watched hours of Bill and his fun family. I began to understand more and more of the dialogue and rely less and less on the closed captions. One day, I realized I could understand every word! I became fluent in English thanks to Bill Cosby and learned American culture at the same time. I never had an accent, and most people don’t realize that I’m a Bosnian unless I tell them.

A few months after my arrival at Cumberland Memorial Hospital some local folks arranged for me to leave the hospital for few hours and attend the town's Homecoming game. This was a major event in Cumberland, since the two local high schools competed for the title. Because I was still severely injured and had to be in a wheelchair, they decided to put me in the back of a pickup truck and drive me around the stadium while pulling a float with the Homecoming king and queen. I was desperate for a diversion and was happy to be out of the hospital, even if it was for a football game that I didn't really care too much about!

But something amazing happened that day. During half time, the band came onto the field! I was mesmerized. These kids put on a show like I have never seen before. It looked like a combination of camaraderie, hard work and music wrapped up into one. That very moment I decided that I was going to be part of the band. I didn't know how, and it seemed like a lofty goal for someone who was strapped in a wheelchair on a back of truck fighting for her life.

Eventually I was well enough to go to school, something I was desperate to do. It represented the beginning of a return to normal even though I started out in a wheelchair dragging my I.V. behind me. After going through months of physical therapy to learn to walk again, I began using my first prosthetic leg. My residual limb proved difficult to fit with a prosthetic, and walking was very difficult and very painful. But, I was so excited to be back in school. It didn’t take long to make new friends - everyone was really nice to me.

I immediately joined the band. The Band Director at the time decided to teach me how to play trumpet and read music because I truly didn't have any formal music education. (I had just mastered the English language!)

The following year, Mr. Larry T. Jackson came to Allegany High School. Under Mr. Jackson's direction, football games and fight songs became secondary to band competitions, the Hungarian Dance and other classics while we worked tirelessly to make the band number one. (I was honored to be present in 2009 at the Mr. Holland’s Opus Foundation honored Mr. Jackson!)

Since I was musically behind most of the band members, I would carry a big xylophone home and practice at night and weekends. Mr. Jackson didn't care that I was from Bosnia or what my past was. He held me to the same standards as every other student and he expected nothing but the best. That year we started ranking in the first few places during every band competition.

Because of my injuries, I was unable to march with the band on the field. As a result, I found my place in the pit and I only had to march during parades. During parades I played the cymbals, which was excellent because I was able to practice walking. I would step along with the other kids, in rhythm with our music.

Outside of the parades, I actually wasn't able to stand or walk for more than a few minutes at a time. Being in parades got my endorphins pumping with the loud music and the energy from my band mates and the crowds. With every song, my pain threshold became higher and marching became my own version of physical (and emotional) therapy. My muscles learned to walk properly and to this day if I get confused about walking with a new prosthetic I will close my eyes and imagine those blue pants, with a white stripe, and black shoes marching down the street to a familiar rhythm.

At first it was difficult to adjust to a normal life. There were so many things that kids in America seemed to take for granted, things that I used to take for granted too, like enough food to eat. I was appalled at the food that was thrown away in the cafeteria every day. I would imagine that food on my family’s table and wish I could pack it up and send it to them.

The most difficult part of the first two years in America was that I didn’t have any way of communicating with my family. Because of the war, they had no phone and no way of getting mail. I always hoped and prayed for their safety, but I didn’t even know if they were alive or dead for many months.

Finally, almost a year after arriving in Cumberland, I got a letter from a friend in Mostar whose brother snuck into the enemy territory to mail it to America. When I opened it, there was a note from my parents saying that they were okay. I was so excited I started screaming. I still couldn't write back to them, but a few months later, after the war started to calm down, we were able to write back and forth.

I was determined to reunite with my family. I began to wade through the red tape and bureaucracy needed to bring them to America. After another year and a half, all the approvals had been received. They were on their way to Baltimore Washington International Airport.

I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep for weeks before the big day. When I saw my mother, my father and my brother getting off the plane and walking towards me, I felt so grateful. Grateful that they had survived a hellish war, grateful that we were all together again and grateful that I could share with them, in Bosnian, everything that I had learned and everything I wanted them to learn!

After graduating from St. Francis University with a degree in psychology, I decided that it was time to leave Cumberland and take my place as an adult in America. I choose to relocate to the Gulf Coast of Florida and almost immediately got a job as a web analyst at an insurance brokerage. This experience eventually led to me launching my own website development company.

My hundreds of surgeries allowed me to play the occasional round of golf or set of tennis, but walking remained very difficult and painful for me. If I was able to play a few holes, I would need days to recover. I longed to return to the athletic life I led before my injury, but I was constantly challenged by my residual limb and imperfect prosthesis.

I would visit the Clearwater Marine Aquarium frequently. Watching their dolphins, sea turtles and other marine animals was fascinating for me and took my mind off my ongoing physical challenges. One day, a young dolphin, Winter, who had lost her tail in a crab trap, caught my eye. She swam like a shrimp and I identified with her. I watched her trainers fit her with a prosthetic tail. Once the tail was in place, Winter took off, swimming like a normal dolphin!

I watched this and thought “Wait a minute. If that company can make a tail for a dolphin, surely they can make a leg for me!”

I went home that very day and looked up Hanger Orthotics and Prosthetics, the company making Winter’s tail. I called them and made an appointment. Within 10 days I had a new prosthetic. It was comfortable, it fit my residual limb and, best of all, it let me play 18 holes, run through a game of tennis, ride my new bike and walk the mall to my heart’s content. For the first time in almost 16 years, I was actually pain free!

As my business continues to grow, I have begun giving back to the people and the country that took me in and helped me and my family build new lives. I am a certified amputee peer counselor and I welcome the opportunity to help recent amputees see that there is life after limb loss. They will walk again; they will hug their children again. All that it takes is determination to succeed and the will to overcome any obstacle.

I volunteer with Camp No Limits, an organization that provides camping experiences for amputee children. It was my pleasure to redesign their website, attend their camps and get to know many amazing children and counselors.

I volunteer at the Clearwater Marine Aquarium and have gotten to know Winter and her trainers better. I am still amazed at Winter’s attitude, her trainers’ commitment and Hanger’s ability to continue producing tails for her as she grows! The technology that Hanger has developed for Winter is being used on human amputees with great success.

I speak to church groups, school groups and business people whenever possible. I talk about my life, about the twists and turns that it has taken and about the human spirit’s ability to rebuild. With enough determination, any obstacle can be overcome, because small steps led to big leaps!