Berlin: A Childhood of Light and Shadow.

Chapter 2

We are all born into mystery, but some of us face its sharp edges earlier than others.

I have been asking myself why I am here since I was six years old, when I first realized we were floating in infinite space—and that my parents would not always be beside me. The moment that thought sank into my bones, I became aware of the mystery of existence. From then on, questions lived inside me. I remember looking at my parents and sobbing at the idea that either nothing—or everything—was forever.

As I grew, that sense of wonder and dread stayed close. It shaped the way I looked at the world, and later, the way I carried myself through war, displacement, and healing.

We all exist as points along the great timeline of life. You know when it begins, but you never get to know when it ends. Because of that, everything felt unbearably meaningful to me. Life was going to be lived one way or another, and the only certainty I had was that time would carry me forward, whether I wanted it to or not. We’re all destined for the same conclusion: we are born, we choose, we suffer, we win sometimes, we cry many times, we laugh sometimes—and then it is over. Life struck me as both beautiful and fragile.

We cling to truths to find our way through this world. But what were my truths? That question would take me years, and many hard lessons, to answer.

I was born in Brčko, in the beautiful country of Bosnia and Herzegovina. At the age of three, my family fled the civil war that erupted in 1992 out of ethnic tension between Bosnians and Serbs. Overnight, my life was altered. The certainty of life as it was once imagined disappeared. I would never know what it was like to grow up in the home my father built for us, nor to be cared for by my grandparents. We weren’t certain where we were going when we left, but staying was not an option.

Brcko, Bosnia - 1992.

One of the few photographs preserved from living in our house in Brčko. The war in Bosnia and its occupation started not long after this photo was taken.

My father came close to death in a concentration camp after being captured. By what I can only call divine intervention, a Serbian soldier inside the camp—an old friend of my father’s—recognized him and released him, sparing his life. Together we escaped as a family. We never looked back, because we couldn’t. “Forward” was the only direction left if we were going to survive.

After months of running from the worsening tragedy, we found refuge in Berlin, Germany, where we lived with refugee status. For the next seven years, I grew up in state-funded apartments on the east side of Berlin, speaking and thinking in German. Our last train stop was Lichtenberg, the place where my memory truly began to take shape. I had no memories of Bosnia—I was too young. In this new world, I became Aida Smajic, three years old, assimilated and playing my role well. I was fortunate to have my family, and in those years, that was enough.

Growing up in Berlin gave me many profound moments. I cannot recall much from the time we fled Bosnia until we arrived, but certain flashes remain. I remember hiding in a bathroom stall at a bus station, my mother pressing her finger to her lips as footsteps circled outside. I understood. Another memory is from Poland, where we stayed in a hotel with other refugees. My father taught me chess there, with the help of another man who also had a son my age. I remember the boy’s face but not his name. He followed me everywhere, eager to be my friend. I kept my distance, already building walls to protect myself from closeness. Even then, I sensed that letting people in meant losing them later. From early on, the things I loved were taken from me, and my way of coping was to avoid attachment.

And yet, I was a happy child. I loved sports. My sister and I filled our days with gymnastics, running, high jump, long jump, and table tennis.

One of the greatest influences of my childhood was my first-grade teacher, Frau Lanzke. She was extraordinary. I am certain that my belief in myself would have been profoundly different without her. As a child, I saw pain, wrongdoing, confusion, mistrust, and blame all around me. She gave me none of that. She saw my heart, though it already carried misfortune. She understood that my reserved nature was not defiance, but fear—fear of being ridiculed for not belonging. It was hard to feel accepted when my own country had not accepted me. It was here that the notion of being “the other” was born, and I could not escape it.

Frau Lanzke and I attended the second-grade induction celebration at the elementary school in Berlin, Germany.

Presenting in front of my classmates alongside Frau Lanzke.

I had many German friends, as well as many Bosnian friends. As kids, the relationships that I did have were souls who understood struggle from their own lives. We found refuge in our loneliness, but we never spoke of it. We went on being reckless little kids—playing catch, digging holes in the dirt, and stealing delicious fruits from nearby trees as we explored our new world. We were misfits, but we played by the rules. Days filled with scraped knees and elbows from running around the neighborhood were days we knew we had truly lived. The life we had was beautiful because we made it so in our minds, using our imagination and playing games to escape reality.

These were the best friends who lived in the same refugee housing with identical reasons for being there.

Outside of our walls, I ran into problems that made me feel shame for having an identity that did not belong with the country’s name. Not everyone was against us. Frau Lanzke believed in me. I think of her often, alongside the other brilliant teachers who came into my life—I owe them my life. They taught me the importance of hard work, learning, and striving despite the odds. They could try to tear me down, but a mind seeking knowledge was untamable. From first grade until fourth, when I left my second home, I continued to be a good student inside the classroom walls.

Not everyone was as welcoming. In second grade, while playing on the monkey bars at school, a boy from my class reminded me that I was supposedly abusing government resources by living as a refugee, as if I had willingly made that choice. We were so young, and yet what was ultimately a normal circumstance was twisted into an attack. I did not cry. I told him this was not my fault. I never fought back, because the truth was we were lucky to have this haven and I did not want to give him reason to think otherwise.

I became brutally aware of my situation again in third grade. After German reading class, we were given thirty minutes for recess. All the kids rushed outside to enjoy the expansive school grounds, which included paths for running, a wooded area, and a large backyard with a playground and ping-pong tables. Trauma did not end with the war; sometimes it lived in my head, in others’ commentary, and in my own reflection.

Here, playing outside with my friends, I faced the single most ruthless experience of my time in Berlin. Living among mentally unstable people in refugee housing, finding syringes on the floor, or even hearing a gunshot while climbing trees were manageable. But during one fateful day at recess, I was traumatized in a way I could not have anticipated.

It was my turn to play a game of hopscotch, a game we had chalked ourselves. Some German girls occupying the space refused to let us have our turn. Through diplomacy and fairness, we convinced them to let us play. The bell rang, recess was over, and we returned to class, sweaty and happy.

I sat in the back, my desk neighbor absent. Our teacher began speaking—not about the lesson, but about what had just happened outside. I realized she was talking about me. She lectured the class on how it was unacceptable to take something that did not belong to me, implying that my polite request to play had overstepped some invisible boundary. Time slowed. For forty minutes, I sat under her scrutiny as she flailed her arms, demonstrating what it felt like to not have a right to comfort. She sat atop my desk until the bell released me, leaving me humiliated, ostracized, and powerless. I was alone in shame, a child trying to fit into a world that celebrated homogeneity.

Saved by the bell, I ran home, tears weighing me down, leaving behind a trail of despair. My parents knew something terrible had happened. I refused to go to school for a week, too scared to face that altered reality. Eventually, I was summoned to the school principal a man of character, who heard my side and apologized on her behalf. He offered a space where I was heard and understood. While the teacher left a mark on my exterior, she unknowingly prepared me for the challenges ahead.

I went on to enjoy my childhood, relishing the diversity Berlin offered. Can you imagine the freedom I felt as a kid in that city? The trains took me all over Europe, and history, scenery, and adventure were at my fingertips. We never went hungry. My parents provided everything my sister and I needed, shielding us from scarcity and nurturing our ability to bloom.

My dad, mom and I sitting down and unwinding during of our many trips to this park in Berlin, Germany. I cannot recall the name of it, but know it housed a giant fountain that helped soothe many hot days in Berlin.

I remember trips to parks, international farmers markets, the zoo, bowling alleys, mandatory Döner stops, Christmas light shopping, and circus performances. We had a normal childhood, though my parents struggled more than they let us see. My mother once sobbed at the kitchen table over another move, from an apartment we didn’t have to share to one like a dormitory, with shared kitchen and bath. Her strength and grace were extraordinary, keeping us afloat while she bore her own burden. She loved us more than anything and made us believe we had the world.

At the Berlin Zoo our parents would often take us to. Behind me a flock of Penguins and I proudly sitting in front of them.

Running down the bridge at the Zoo making a connective memory together.

On top of regular school, my parents sent me to Bosnian school twice a week for two years. I resisted at first, but it preserved my ability to speak and write my native language fluently. The teachers were strict, calling on students to recite poetry without warning. The pressure ignited a discipline in me that stuck. My thoughts, actions, and interests had become German, but the Bosnian program kept my roots alive. One of the ways my parents lured me into going to the extracurricular Bosnian school was to tempt me with a Döner after it. I looked forward to that Döner more than anything.

I’m standing next to my favorite Döner kiosk with my dad not far from our home in Berlin. This is how my parents would bribe me with to attend Bosnian schooling on top of my regular school hours. They made the best Döner in town.

Growing up as a refugee in Germany was a blessing in disguise. At such a young age, I didn’t have time to dwell on identity or displacement. Minor cracks appeared, but I bounced back. Resilience was born, practiced, and developed in these experiences. Side-handed comments, conservative neighbors, unstable apartments—all of it contributed to growth.

I was an odd child, competitive and curious, moving between friend groups and interests freely. I delighted in winning, outsmarting, and defying the odds. Some friends bullied me, yet these moments shaped my cunning and courage. One of my greatest childhood achievements came days before we left for America. My sister and I joined a German table tennis club and trained tirelessly. Weeks later, we won our age division, claiming the championship trophy. It was a moment of unexpected glory, a shared triumph with my sister that I will never forget.

Singing German songs with my classmates to celebrate the start of the new school year.

Our childhood was not easy, but the love of our parents and the friendships we built made it rich. We were outsiders in a world built for others, yet we wove our own make-believe world, finding joy in the simple pleasures. Berlin gave me home, freedom, and a mindset of universal introspection. We were too free then to know the limits imposed by adults. I learned early how fragile attachment is and how cruel exclusion can feel.

On July 13th, 1999, we said goodbye to Germany. After seven years, our asylum status ran out, and my parents applied for the United States. I was ten, my sister twelve. I did not want to leave, but I was advised to stay quiet. Boarding the train, I held my Walkman, brown khaki pants with large pockets, and a striped shirt, staring out at a home I was leaving behind. America awaited—unknown and untested.

This photo was taken on July 13th, 1999. Our best friends Elvisa and Anisa wanted to send us off so they went to the train station with us as we departed to America.

Four months later, I spoke English fluently. I had always been a good student, and I knew I had to learn to survive. My world changed when I asked for guidance and strength. Life’s lessons came fast and sometimes darkly, but I realized I could choose a lighter, easier, and more joyful narrative. I lost myself for a while, but through suffering, reflection, and effort, I rediscovered myself.

We have intellect, suffering, and choice. Every day offers the opportunity to recreate ourselves. Life is short, and the choices we make accumulate. Pursue beauty, seek joy, and avoid what does not serve you. Life is a journey of conscious decisions, of learning from mistakes, of growing through hardship. Even when the world around us challenges us, the inner voice of reason guides us if we listen.

Time remains the constant in a life of change. My story, intimately known to me, is now ready to be shared—to help others process the past, move forward, and find a wondrous perspective on their own lives. Life is meant to be lived and enjoyed. And in sharing, perhaps others can see the light that I found, even in the shadows.

Looking back now, I know that my story is not only one of tragedy. It is also a story of resilience, of hope, and of love. It is the story of survival against the odds. It is the story of the questions that kept me awake at night, the tears that came uninvited, the laughter that surprised me, and the deep sense of wonder that has never left me.

The sharp edges of mystery cut into me early, but they also carved out a strength I would need for the journey ahead.