Diary 48

Dear Diary,

Today I went to the Croatian Hall with Zlata and met a little boy named

Tony who lived a nightmare because he is Croatian. One night while he was

asleep, Serbian soldiers came into his home and shot him in his face; at

point-blank range. A Bosnian woman living in L.A. sponsored Tony’s trip

to the United States to have his jaw reconstructed. When we met him, he

had only a medal plate holding his jaw together.

When I saw Tony, I was grateful my family made it out of Peru before

we were harmed—or worse, killed. I thought of my three-year-old brother,

and pictured him standing in Tony’s place, telling this ghastly story. Like

the life of my family, Tony’s life has been permanently altered by the terror

of war. He was a survivor of ethnic cleansing; we survived a revolution that

turned into terrorism. Even though the Bosnian war was one of ethnicity

and religion, it was just as senseless as the terrorism that ransacked my

country. It forced many to leave behind their homes, and their lives.

Although the terrorist struggle in Peru started as a good cause, it turned

many people’s lives into a nightmare. Just walking by a parked car, you

couldn’t help wondering if there was a bomb hidden in its trunk. As you

passed, you wondered if it was going to explode in your face.

I remember my dad saying, “Everything will turn out OK. In the United

States, there are more opportunities, better jobs, and no terrorism.” When

my Dad said that I didn’t really understand what it meant. I was only ten. I

only thought about homework, food, TV, and going outside to play with my

friends.

I’d been to the U.S. before to visit family, but never thought I would

end up living there. Four weeks after my dad told us we were moving, my

grandmother called for us. My dad went to the American Embassy to take

care of the paperwork for our green cards. We would get our social security

numbers and green cards three months after our arrival in the States.

Three weeks before flying to the U.S., terrorists blew up the house next

to mine. The explosion woke everyone in the neighborhood. My eyes

snapped open as a wave of warm air hit my face. I got out of bed realizing

there was only smoke and bright light where my bedroom window once

was. I saw my mom running toward me screaming, but couldn’t hear her.

All I heard was the ringing in my head. She grabbed me, shaking the

ringing from my ear. I heard the turmoil in my neighborhood. She carried

me outside, my feet were bleeding from stepping on broken glass blown

from my window. The firemen told my father that out of twenty sticks of

dynamite, ten exploded. If all had ignited, my house would have exploded

also. I realized the magnitude of what was happening, and was glad to be

moving to the U.S.

My first day of school in the United States was very hard. I didn’t

understand any English words. Everything was so different. I had had some

English classes in Peru, but nothing like this. Everybody spoke so fast, their

words were hard to follow. Everything sounded like Rs and Ss. I couldn’t

talk, read, or write English. The third day of school, some Mexican guys

spoke to me. We talked, played, and they taught me English.

Like my first years in the U.S., Tony didn’t understand English. My

only way to communicate was to play with him. It lifted my spirit to see his

joy despite his tragic story. Though it hurt him to smile, he laughed anyway.

Though he couldn’t understand a word we were saying, he understood that

we felt his pain. We too knew what it felt like to live amid war.

When Zlata wrote about Bosnian children becoming the “soldiers” and

the soldiers becoming “children,” at first I didn’t get her meaning. After

hearing Tony’s story, I understood. In war the innocence of a child is lost,

and though the soldiers feel theirs is a worthy cause, they behave like

children when trying to achieve their goals. Knowing that a grown man

entered a child’s bedroom stealing his innocence, makes me sad. They stole

his smile. Tony wears the permanent scars of war on his face, just as I wear

the scars on my soul.

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