"She's Not Naša": The Panic Attack at the Dinner Table

It is Sunday lunch. The soup is hot. The mood is good. The son, who is now 26 and has a good job at the logistics company, clears his throat.

"Mama, Babo," he says. "I met someone."

The mother's eyes light up. She puts down the spoon. "Mašallah, sine. Who is she? Čija je? (Whose is she?) Is she from Srebrenica? Krajina? Sarajevo?"

The son looks at the tablecloth. "Her name is Ashley."

Silence. The only sound is the father chewing bread. The mother looks like she just swallowed a lemon.

"Ešli?" she whispers. "Je li naša?" (Is she ours?)

"No, Mama. She's American."

And just like that, the tragedy begins.

To an American, this looks like prejudice. It isn't. It is panic.

When a Bosnian parent hears "Ashley" or "Jessica" or "Molly," they don't see a girlfriend. They see the end of their civilization.

They see a future where nobody speaks Bosnian in the house. They see grandchildren who call them "Grandma" instead of "Nana". They see a daughter-in-law who thinks Pita is just a "weird pie" and who doesn't understand why you have to take your shoes off at the door.

They survived the war to keep our culture alive. Now, they think Ashley from the suburbs is going to finish what the war started.