In 1991, Yugoslavia’s republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina (Bosnia) had a population of 4.3 million, composed of three main ethnic groups: Bosniaks (Bosnian Muslims), Serbs and Croats, along with a small number of Yugoslavs. In March, 1992, the government of Bosnia declared its independence from Yugoslavia.
The creation of an independent Bosnian nation that would have a Bosniak majority was opposed by Bosnia’s Serbs, and their paramilitary forces immediately began firing on the capital, Sarajevo. The artillery bombardment of the city by Bosnian Serb units of the Yugoslav army began soon thereafter. Throughout April, towns in eastern Bosnia and Herzegovina were attacked by a combination of paramilitary forces and Yugoslav army units.
Within six weeks a coordinated offensive by the Yugoslav army, paramilitary groups, and local Bosnian Serb forces brought roughly two-thirds of Bosnian territory under Serb control.
A childhood interrupted
I was only six years old when the civil war began in Bosnia. Before that, I’d had a carefree childhood. I’ll never forget the sound of the missile that hit the bridge, in my hometown, Brčko. It was the loudest and most terrifying thing I’d ever heard, shaking my bones and making my heart race. The next thing I remember is the sheer fear on my parents’ faces.
The Brčko bridge massacre was a massacre of approximately 100 civilians of Croat and Bosniak nationalities that took place during the morning of 30 April 1992. The bridge, a border crossing spanning the Sava river, was deliberately blown up by Bosnian Serb forces.
Not knowing what was coming next, we immediately jumped into our car, leaving everything we owned behind, and drove inland, to Brka, to stay with relatives, hoping to find safety. I didn’t realise it then, but that was the last time I would see my home. A return visit in 2017 revealed that our house was all but demolished, with shrapnel marks still visible on the walls.
During the subsequent civil war that lasted from 1992 to 1995, an estimated 100,000 people were killed, 70 per cent of whom were Bosniaks. For several years the constant sense of danger from the sound of missiles and the distant roar of airplanes in the sky, were a part of everyday life. But, despite the little food we had, mostly surviving on bread and potatoes, my parents, Sejdefa and Dzevdet, did everything they could to instil the value of education and give us a future, even when everything around us seemed uncertain. They homeschooled my brother Edin and me around the kitchen table, teaching us how to read the alphabet and do multiplication tables.
Sometimes we had to hide in bunkers when the missiles got too close. My parents made it a game – who could run the fastest? At the time, I was laughing and enjoying myself, not realising how traumatic the situation really was.
When the war ended in 1995 and with no employment opportunities, we escaped to Germany where we were granted asylum. I began primary school, which helped to bring some normalcy back. But I couldn’t speak German, so school felt foreign, and I often hid in the bathroom to escape the overwhelming confusion. At home, we were safe, we had food, and there was peace. But I was haunted by the sounds of the war, that constant anxiety of waiting for the next attack.
When our asylum expired in Germany in 1999 after four years, we received a refugee visa to come to Australia. We settled in Dandenong, Melbourne, where my dad’s friend and the Australian Government helped us restart our lives. When I started Year 7, I didn’t know any English, but at school I found many Bosnians and other refugees who, like me, were adjusting to a new life. Being part of a community with shared traditions made the transition easier and provided a safe space to grow.
Hungry for knowledge, I loved school and after graduation I received a scholarship to study medicine, at Melbourne University. Six years later, in 2010, I graduated and pursued a medical internship. What I really wanted was to become a surgeon. As a child, I’d been inspired by the medics in a nearby makeshift hospital who helped my family members that had been wounded in the war. Their selflessness and passion for saving lives deeply moved me.
Surgical training in Australia is long and demanding, with steep learning curves and countless challenges. As a woman in a male-dominated field, I had colleagues who suggested I should focus on specialties that were more ‘child-friendly’.
‘We find a way together’
But I never gave up. I always remembered my father’s words: “We find a way together”. His encouragement kept me going, and with perseverance and the support of my family, after 15 years of rigorous training, I became a general surgeon in 2021. This followed three more years of breast surgery fellowship, training at leading cancer centres, including Peter MacCallum Cancer Centre in Melbourne and Chris O’Brien Lifehouse in Sydney. Along the way, I also got married to my husband Martin and had my daughter, Sophia, whose childhood in Australia is a blessing and a stark contrast to the hardship of my own upbringing during the war.
However, the war instilled in me a deep understanding of struggle, shaping how I connect with breast cancer patients in my Melbourne private practice, where I provide general and breast surgery services and support regional communities through outreach programs like visits to the Bendigo Breast Clinic. Surgery, to me, is not just about skill but about empathy – seeing the person behind the diagnosis and being there for them in their most vulnerable moments, hoping to offer the same strength my parents gave me.
Winning the prestigious Junior Doctor of the Year Award at the Australian Medical Association Victoria Awards in 2022, I felt humbled, but also proud to share the moment with my family, especially my parents, who had to restart their lives multiple times. As a parent now, I’m deeply grateful for their sacrifices. They’re my inspiration.
Looking back, I realise the most important lesson I’ve learned is the power of growth and resilience, and how both take time to develop. I aim to pass this lesson on to the young doctors I now mentor.
For anyone feeling overwhelmed by life’s demands, my advice is to take a step back, focus on what truly matters, celebrate small wins, let go of distractions, and stay connected to your purpose. Growth takes time, and through challenges, those who persevere will ultimately find clarity, strength, fulfillment, and purpose.
