Biba's Story

By Paige Gray

It took her years to recover from the nightmares.

When she would try to find sleep, she was instead haunted by visions of Serbian soldiers pounding at her door, ransacking her small apartment in Vogosca, a municipality of Sarajevo.

Nearly 14 years after leaving Bosnia and Herzegovina, Habiba Aksamima can sleep through the night in her Chicago home, but the memories remain a powerful, frightening reminder of the war and the atrocities Muslims in the country endured.

More than 30,000 Bosnians died during the war from 1992 to 1995, while countless others were relegated to the abuse of the Serbian militia.  As part of a bill that President Bill Clinton signed at that time, Bosnian and Herzegovinians were allowed to move to the United States as refugees.

Today, Biba, with a smiling face that belies her past, now approaches 70.   The intense, confusing time before she left Bosnia drifts hazily through her mind, with no clear beginning, middle or end, but evokes a definite, paralyzing fear.

 "Everyday [Serbian soldiers] they come and take something," Biba says in a voice reflecting both her anger and bewilderment.  "Take, take, take and go.  Anything they want, they take. 'Do you have money?  Do you have gold?'"

During this time, Biba and her husband lived in one unit of a six apartment complex.  The rest of the residences were

 occupied by Serbs. Often in their home, they were forced to go without water and electricity, sometimes for spans as long as eight months.  Biba says most days were spent inside.

"We don't go out because it wasn't safe."

Then, at night, the soldiers-different, menacing faces each time-would come knocking.

"He is so mean that I am so scared," Biba says, describing a typical raid. "He never open door, but like this with shoe," she explains, motioning a kick with her foot.

"He would take gold, gifts from husband, TV, beautiful things," she says, recalling a necklace that was taken from her.

While residents of Sarajevo and others parts of the country experienced similar accounts of terror throughout the war, there were times of eerie stillness adding even more to the tension and anxiety, says Thom Shanker, a foreign correspondent for The New York Times who covered the Bosnian War for the Chicago Tribune.

Some parts of the country were quiet and calm, he says, making the situation "nerve-wrecking" since you could never predict what the next day would bring.  But despite some moments of peace, "life was pretty awful for most civilians," Shanker says.

This awfulness nearly consumed Biba and her husband; he was facing death if he did not undergo a medical procedure for his prostate while she was overcome with worry for his life.

"I cry and I cry and I cry.  He is so sick, so sick," she says.  When the soldiers would come to plunder what they could, Biba would show the soldiers her ill husband, and disgusted by his bloodied, grave condition, they would leave.

Eventually, Biba and her husband were able to travel to Croatia in order for her husband to receive surgery; she insists they were not able to get any medical attention in Sarajevo hospitals.   

"The Serbian doctors all say no to him," she says.

Her husband had been hesitant to leave Vogosca because that was where their home was; he feared they wouldn't be able to find a house in another place.  But, finally it became clear that they must leave.  After a short time in Croatia following the surgery, Biba and her husband journeyed across miles and miles of land and ocean to a completely foreign community-Chicago-where a nephew lived and helped arrange the move.

So Biba and her husband, who passed away four years ago, started their lives over at the very time most people their age start to relax and retire.  Needless to say, the transition wore on Biba; she missed her homeland-the people, sights, smells and sounds she grew up with before the bad times.

"I was so sad.  I sit home and cry and cry and cry every day."

After a few weeks of adjusting to the move, Biba began attending classes at Truman College, located in the city's Uptown neighborhood, and eventually learned English.  Today, she lives in a senior citizen housing complex where she passes the time drinking coffee with friends. She discovered the thriving Bosnian community within the city, a population of approximately 50,000, according to Almijana Rudic of the Consulate General of Bosnia and Herzegovina.  Along with the official embassy in Washington, the Consulate works to represent and protect citizens living in the United States.

Bosnian and Herzegovinians have continually traveled to Chicago and other U.S. metropolitan areas since the turn of the last century for economic reasons and to try and "find a better future," Rudic says.

Muslims from Bosnia-Herzegovina like Biba have also found their religious freedom.  She regularly attends mosque at the Islamic Cultural Center in Northbrook, where she can practice the liberties that were for so long denied to her.  She no longer must hide or feel ashamed.

"I pray every day.  I can go to mosque every Sunday."

Beside her devoted religious participation, Biba engages in civic activities.  She is a member of the Bosnian and Herzegovinian American Community Center, a nonprofit located in Uptown, near Biba's apartment.

"She always has something to say," says Fadila Campara, the group's director.  A few years ago, Biba went with the agency to Springfield, where they met with Attorney General Lisa Madigan in hopes of more state funding for refugees.

For Biba, the nightmares and sleepless nights have ceased.  While the memories of her war-torn homeland will always define part of her being, she chooses to fill her American life with positive images and people.

"I love Oprah," Biba exclaims with a wide grin.  "She is so human, she helps many people and is so cute.  I think about her many times.  I want to hug her."